The Wizard of Rue Morgue

 

The Wizard of4th Street - 04

 

Simon Hawke

 

 

 

Prologue

 

 

 

By day, Jacques Pascal scuttled through the darkness of theParis sewers with nothing but rats and water bugs for company. He paddled through the tunnels in an old boat left over from the days when guides had taken tourists on short excursions beneath the city streets. The complex network of sewer tunnels was like an underground city beneath the streets ofParis . That they had once been a tourist attraction was something of a mystery. They were only sewers, after all, and there was not that much to see, but the public curiosity about theParis sewers began centuries ago with the publication of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. The image of Hugo's romantic fugitive, Jean Valjean, sloshing through the slimy tunnels had captured the imagination of the public and after that, the sewers beneath theParis streets became the setting for all sorts of strange and nefarious goings-on, at least in fiction.

 

In the days prior to the Collapse, guides had taken tourists on short fifteen-minute boat rides through the principal tunnels, beginning on the Left Bank at Pont de l'Alma, explaining to the visitors how the sewage was chemically treated for use as fertilizer in the fields outside the city. They had pointed out the telephone lines and the old system of pneumatic tubes once used for sending letters acrossParis . They had shown tourists how the streets above were clearly labeled in the tunnels and how the branch pipes were all numbered, corresponding to the buildings above. They had often pointed out the ones leading to some of the more famous establishments ofParis . Now, no one came down to the sewers anymore.At least, no one in their right mind.

 

TheParis sewers had long since ceased being a tourist attraction. Sewage was no longer treated chemically. At the outlet points, it passed through thaumaturgic treatment plants, where it was magically processed. But under the streets, the dark and musty sewers stank and no one remembered who Jean Valjean was anymore. No one came down to see where he had fled from the relentless policeman who pursued him. Only the desperate and the crazed ever ventured down into the sewers now and Jacques Pascal was both.

 

By night, he crept through the back alleyways and side streets ofMontmartre , searching through the garbage, sustaining himself on scraps thrown out from restaurants and nightclubs, dressing himself in rags. He wore battered, lace-up army boots; threadbare woolen pants and sweater; a moth-eaten coat he had fished out of a trash bin and regardless of the weather, he kept his face swaddled in a frayed and dirty muffler, his long gray hair sticking out from beneath a shapeless old fedora. He looked like an old, decrepit derelict, which was exactly what he was.

 

Once, many years ago, Jacques Pascal had been a featured performer in the nightclubs whose garbage he now picked through in the dead of night. He had been a handsome young man, tall, muscular and graceful, and he had set many a chorus girl's heart to fluttering with his acrobatic feats and carnival stunts. But after trained adepts had started entering the entertainment business, Jacques foundhimself unable to compete. His acrobatics, his fire-eating stunts, his feats of strength and miraculous escapes seemed trivial compared to the illusions that adepts could conjure up. No one cared about the skill involved and no one was impressed that he could do those things without the aid of magic. What could be done with the aid of magic was a great deal more spectacular. Jacques Pascal's career was ruined.

 

Having no other skills, he was reduced to working menial jobs, performing unskilled labor and competing in an already overburdened job market with much younger men and women. He had never saved up any money, so he fell farther and farther behind, eventually losing his apartment and most of his possessions. He wound up on the street, one of the city's homeless, and with no regular address, he was unable to find work. His pride had succumbed to mortal wounds and his spirit had been bludgeoned to the ground. Somewhere deep inside, the essential part of Jacques Pascal expired. He became one of the walking dead. He did not survive so much as he merely managed to exist.

 

The sewers were his home now, his place of sanctuary. He had found little nooks and crannies here and there where he could curl up and sleep and if occasionally he did encounter another lost soul like himself down in the tunnels, they usually fled from him, being just as frightened as he was. His reason had not fledentirely, it had simply become thoroughly numbed. He was filthy, scrofulous,tubercular and the moisture of the sewers had seeped into his arthritic, eighty-year-old bones. He was old and sick and his mind had long since retreated from the horrible reality that his existence had become. Life had been reduced to a hopeless and deadening routine, scraping through the city's garbage by night, like an emaciated alley cat, and shambling through the sewer tunnels by day, ceaselessly exploring his underground domain. And nothing ever happened to change this soul-deadening routine until the day he discovered the new tunnel.

 

It was not, actually, a new tunnel at all, but an extremely old one that had been exposed when one of the old sewer walls collapsed. Taking one of the crude torches he used to light his way along the dark tunnels, he climbed through into the passageway that had been exposed. It was verynarrow, with just enough room for him to pass if he stooped slightly, which had long since become his normal posture. Like a hunchback, he shuffled down the musty corridor until it opened out into a larger chamber, with several other tunnels branching off from it. Strewn all around this chamber were ancient bones, dark brown with age, some simply scattered,others stacked in piles, some laid out in bizarre arrangements.

 

He had found an old tunnel that led into the ancient Catacombs, originally formed out of Roman quarries dating back to ancient times. Over the years, the Catacombs had been expanded; scooped out to provide building materials for the city and a place to dump the bones of millions of dead bodies transported from overcrowded cemeteries and graveyards such as Les Innocents, which had given way to urban development. During the Reign of Terror, the bodies of those claimed by the guillotine were brought down into the Catacombs by cartloads, which saved the time and expense of proper burial. Like the sewers, the corridors of the Catacombs honeycombed the ground beneath the city. No one alive had ever explored them fully. They were like a vast underground maze, a dark and foreboding final resting place for millions of dead souls. It would be easy to become lost in them forever.

 

Jacques Pascal did not think about any of those things as he shuffled through the subterranean corridors, the light from his torch throwing garish shadows on the rock walls and mounds of ancient bones. He did not think to mark his way, nor did it occur to him that he might never find his way back to the more familiar sewer tunnels once again. Something drew him onward through the dark and ancient passageways. It was like walking through the halls of Hades, exploring the city of the dead. After he had walked for what seemed like hours, he perceived a dim light at the end of a long corridor ahead of him. He quickened his step, moving toward it like a moth attracted to a flame.

 

He came out into a large, rectangular chamber hollowed out from solid rock. Here, there were niches carved into the walls, some containing piled-up skulls, others holding entire skeletons propped up like grisly statues. The light came from burning braziers placed around the perimeter of the chamber. Spiderwebs covered the ancient skeletons like transparent shrouds and rats nosed among the heaped-up bones. The air was thick with a peculiar smell, a cloying, pungent odor that came from the burning braziers, filling the chamber with a smoky mist.

 

"Come in, Jacques," said a deep, mellifluent voice. "We have been waiting for you."

 

He spun around with a startled gasp.

 

At the far end of the chamber, standing on a rock ledge slightlyraised above the floor, were three black-robed, hooded figures that had not been there a moment earlier. It was as if they had simply appeared suddenly out of nowhere. The torch fell from his hand and he started to back away, but one of the hooded figures raised an arm and Jacques found that he could not take another step.

 

"Come closer, Jacques," the hooded figure said, beckoning. "Don't be afraid."

 

The old man was terrified, but he slowly started moving toward the hooded figures. He couldn't help himself. His heart hammered within his chest like a wild thing trying to escape, to claw its way out of his rib cage.

 

"Who . . . who are you?" he stammered fearfully.

 

"We are your life, Jacques Pascal," the hooded figure said. "We are your life and resurrection."

 

He stood before them, uncomprehending, trembling as he gazed up at their shadowed features. The one who spoke stepped closer to him and brought his hands up to pull back his hood. Jacques caught his breath. Long, flame red hair cascaded to his shoulders. It framed perfect, finely chiseled features. The youthfully smooth skin was of a slightly golden hue. The eyes that gazed at him were a bright, metallic green that seemed to glow with an inner light. The other two reached up and pulled their hoods back. One was a young man, as handsome as the first, and the other was a stunningly beautiful young woman, both with the same red hair and copper-hued skin. They looked like angels, but there was something frightening about them, something palpably malevolent.

 

"How . . . how do you know my name?" said Jacques hoarsely.

 

"We know everything about you, Jacques Pascal," the first one said. He reached out and Jacques flinched as the young man put his hands upon his shoulders. "We know how you have suffered. We know how unjustly life has treated you. We sensed you groping in the darkness and we have summoned you to us so that we could make amends."

 

Pascal looked around him wildly, seeking some means of escape. The thought crossed his mind that he had died back in the sewer tunnels and he was now in Hell, confronting demons. His mind recoiled from theidea, he did not want to accept it. It wasn't possible. He couldn't be dead. He did not remember dying. Surely, one would remember such a thing. Unless, perhaps, he had died in his sleep and it was his spirit that had come here, to remain beneath the earth, wandering tormented through the stygian corridors forever. No, he thought, no, it simply couldn't be. After all the misery that his life had encompassed, surely he was entitled to an afterlife inParadise . Surely, he had not been such a sinner that he was now doomed to suffer in Hell for all eternity. But then, the hooded figure had spoken of redemption.Of life. He clung to that thought desperately. Perhaps this was no more than a dream. But the reality of his surroundings seemed unmistakable and the hands grasping his shoulders were strong and solid.

 

"What do you want with me?" cried Jacques, cringing fearfully. "Please, let me go! I meant no harm! I have done nothing!"

 

"There is no need to be afraid," the man said gently, still holding Pascal by his shoulders. "We are going to give you a great gift, Jacques. You are about to be reborn. Look at me, Jacques. Look into my eyes."

 

Jacques could not resist. As he met that intense, emerald green gaze, he began to tremble violently. He couldn't breathe. Those unsettling eyes seemed to glow brighter and the grip upon his shoulders tightened. He felt a strange, burning sensation as those awful eyes glowed brighter still and the whites around them disappeared entirely.Suddenly, two brilliant beams of green light shot forth from them and struck Jacques in the eyes, penetrating deep into his brain. He screamed as thaumaturgic fire exploded in his mind. He tore loose from the man's grasp and fell to the floor, writhing in agony and clutching his head with both hands. He was suffused with an incandescent, burning pain unlike anything he'd ever felt before. His flesh felt as if it were melting away from his bones.

 

He tore away the muffler covering the lower part of his face and gasped for air. He brought his hands up to his face. . . .and suddenly the pain was gone. He touched his face in amazement and wonder. It felt very different. He could hardly believe it. His face was smooth.Unlined. His scraggly beard was gone, as if it had been burned away. Slowly, he got up to his feet and found that he could stand up straight. His skin tingled. He could feel the blood coursing strongly through his veins and the dull, arthritic ache in his bones was gone.

 

"What . . . what have you done to me?" he said, and he was startled at the sound of his own voice. It was no longer hoarse. It sounded young and strong.

 

"We have given you back that which was lost," the man said. "Behold."

 

He made a pass with his hand and a full-length, gilt-framed mirror suddenly appeared in front of Jacques. He stared at his reflection with utter disbelief.

 

The years had magically dropped away from him. He was no longer an eighty-year-old man, but the same Jacques Pascal who had appeared in the nightclubs ofMontmartre , young and strong and vibrant. His hair was no longer limp and gray, but black and lustrous. His jawline was firm, his teeth were no longer rotted, but sparkling white and even. He stared with disbelief at his youthful features, touching his face, feeling the power in his muscular arms and chest. He ran his hands over the rock hard abdominal muscles beneath his sweater. He had been magically given back his youth.

 

"I must be dreaming! How is this possible?" he said with awe.

 

"For us, anything is possible," the black-robed sorcerer said.

 

"No, it cannot be," said Jacques. "Not even sorcery can do this!"

 

"Oh, but it can, Jacques," said the woman, coming close to him and lightly touching his cheek. "Can you deny the evidence of your senses?"

 

She gently stroked his cheek and ran her hand around behind his neck, pulling his face close to her. She kissed him lightly on the lips. He felt her tongue slip into his mouth and suddenly he was kissing her hungrily, feeling the supple body underneath her robe as she pressed against him. He hadn't touched a woman in years. He felt a desperate longing building up within him, but she broke away from him, laughing. He looked up at her two companions and blushed with embarrassment.

 

"There will be time enough for that," she said, touching his cheek again. "That was but a hint of the pleasures you will be able to enjoy again.Merely a taste to whet your appetite. But you will have appetites for other things, as well."

 

Pascal was dazed and overwhelmed by what had happened to him. He couldn't think straight. Conflicting emotions raged within him, fear, confusion, joy and an overpowering desire for the incredible creature that stood before him.

 

"I. . . I don't understand," he said.

 

"You will," she said with a cunning smile. "You have lived for years in darkness and it has sheltered you. Now you will truly learn its power."

 

She put her lips to his once more and he clutched her to him, eagerly opening his mouth to receive her tongue. Instead, she exhaled into him. Her hot, burning breath hissed down his throat like a jet of steam, spreading through his entire body. He tried to break away, but she held him tightly, breathing her fire into him. She let him go suddenly and he staggered back, clutching at his chest and staring at her wildly.

 

And then the change began.

 

 

 

Chapter

ONE

 

 

 

Max Siegal hurled his paintbrush across the dingy, unkempt garret that was his studio on theLeft Bank , near the old church of St.-Germain-des-Pres.

 

"God damn it, you moved again!" he shouted at his model, in French that was only slightly tinged with an American accent.

 

Joelle sighed and pouted at him, making a sad little girl face. "But Max, I'm tired!" she said plaintively. "I've been holding this pose for hours! Can't we rest now? I'm cold! Look at me! I have goose pimples all over!" She smiled and tossed her long, ash blond hair. "Why don't you bring some of that cognac over here to warm me up?"

 

She was completely nude and reclining on a sofa covered in black velvet. It was not, by any means, an uncomfortable position and the pose that Max had carefully arranged her in, while deliberately intended to be erotic, was not very difficult to hold. It was simply that Joelle was young and not very patient. The thrill of being asked to pose for the celebrated artist had worn a bit thin and Joelle was fidgeting impatiently. She had heard that Siegal often had torrid, passionate affairs with his models, but now she was starting to think that he was interested only in her body.

 

Siegal rolled his eyes up in exasperation and ran a hand through his thick, dark, curly hair. He poured her a small snifter of cognac. "How do you expect me to paint you if you won't sit still?" he snapped at her in frustration. "You're squirming about like a dog with fleas!"

 

"Why don't you come over here and squirm about with me?" she suggested coyly, arching her back and stretching out her lovely legs.

 

Siegal sighed as he handed her the snifter. "For God's sake, Joelle, I've got paintbrushes older than you are."

 

"You don't find me attractive?" she said, shifting around on the sofa, putting her legs up and swirling the cognac around in the snifter. She dipped a fingertip into the amber liquid and gently sucked it while gazing at him with a smoldering look.

 

"I find you very attractive, Joelle," he said, wearily. "That's why I wanted to paint you. You're a beautiful girl, but I didn't pay you to come here and have sex with me, for God's sake. In fact, I don't know why I'm paying you at all," he added in a surly tone. "As an artist's model, you're an absolute disaster!"

 

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?" she said, slowly moistening her lips with her tongue and taking a small sip from the snifter.

 

He made a low sound in his throat, halfway between a moan and a growl. It was just impossible. Lately, every time he found a model who possessed all the right physical qualities, a certain look he wanted to capture on canvas, the moment he got her to the studio, all she wanted was to make love with him. It was probablyhis own fault for having unrealistic expectations. He had thought that Joelle had a lovely, waiflike innocence about her, but it seemed there was no such thing as an innocent young girl inParis . Even at sixteen, Joelle was already fully aware of her own lush sexuality.

 

"Max," she said softly, "what's the matter? Don't you want me?"

 

"Yes, Joelle, I want you," he said in a tired voice. "I want you to put your clothes on and go home. This isn't going to work. It's pointless."

 

"But Max—"

 

"Get dressed, Joelle," he said impatiently. He reached for his wallet. "I'll pay you for your time, though Lord knows, you've wasted mine."

 

She stared at him and he saw the anger flare up in her eyes. He knew what was coming and he braced himself for it with an air of resignation. The brandy snifter shattered as she hurled it to the floor and launched into a torrent of scathing verbal abuse, questioning his masculinity, his talent, calling him a tired old man . . . he'd heard it all before. He simply sat there quietly, waiting for her to run out of steam and make her dramatic exit. He had been through variations of this scene many times before and it no longer angered or even surprised him very much. It just left him feeling sullen and depressed.

 

Tomorrow, she would undoubtedly tell all her friends that the great "See-gal," as they pronounced his name in Paris, had asked her to pose for him and that the moment she got to his studio, the passion between them had been so overwhelming that they had made love with wild abandon all through the night and he had raised her to new heights of ecstasy. And the next time he asked someone to pose for him, chances were he'd run into the same damn problem. There was a time when he had thoroughly enjoyed it, but he was weary of it now. It happened over and over again, with monotonous regularity, and for the thousandth time, he wondered why he bothered painting nudes. Doing landscapes or bowls of fruit would have been infinitely less aggravating.

 

Unfortunately, he had already tried that, but there was simply no demand for him to do that sort of work. They wanted Siegal to paint women, preferably naked women or girls in various states of deshabille. He could sell a painting of a cafe street scene for a few hundred thousand francs because, after all, it was a "See-gal," but the nudes were what brought the big prices at the galleries. Such was his legend, the handsome, muscular, passionate and temperamental Italian Jew from Brooklyn who spoke French as well as any native-born Parisian, who could drink and swear and brawl with the best of them, and who could do amazing things with light and color on canvas, producing images of women that conveyed such a powerful, stimulating sensuality that he had become one of the most famous painters in a city that had produced such immortal talents as Picasso, Dali and Chagall.

 

It was a pathetic joke. Siegal knew perfectly well that he wasn't on the same level with such people. He knew what real talent was and he also knew he didn't have it. He was merely competent. He would sometimes gaze for hours on end at a Van Gogh and be moved to tears, knowing he could never hope to produce such work. He had never even planned to become a painter. He had come toParis to study thaumaturgy at the Sorbonne, but despite all his efforts, it had not taken him long to realize the dismal truth. He simply had no talent for magic.

 

He could never be a wizard. At best, he could perhaps achieve the status of a lower-grade adept, learning a few simple and relatively undemanding spells such as levitation and impulsion, enabling him to get a license as a public transportation adept so he could pilot a barge down theSeine or operate a cab or bus. As for becoming a sorcerer, which had been his dream, it was simply out of the question. The only magic he was capable of performing was the illusion of making women look like wanton angels when he painted them. And it was a cheap trick, at that.

 

He winced as Joelle slammed the door behind her. He took a slug of cognac from the bottle and examined the aborted painting on the easel with disgust. He picked up the canvas and looked at it for a moment, then swore and smashed it down over the easel in a sudden fit of temper, tearing a gaping hole in it. He left it that way, impaled on the easel, picked up the bottle and settled down on the couch for yet another night of solitary drinking.

 

It had all come about by accident. He had always been able to draw, but he had never seriously pursued it beyond making caricatures of people for his own amusement. He started painting only after he had come toParis , becauseParis was awash in artists and many students liked to fancythemselves painters. It was a good way to meet attractive women. One day, while he was out walking with a date, they happened upon an artist painting a young woman at a sidewalk cafe.

 

There was a crowd of people watching. The painter was none other then Francois Benet, then the current rage of theParis art world. Max had heard of him and seen some of his work. He thought the man was overrated. As they stopped to watch him paint, Max's date had teasingly asked him what Benet was doing wrong. Without thinking, because he was preoccupied with watching the man work, Max told her. Benet had overheard him.

 

He suggested wryly that if the young man thought he could do better, perhaps he should take the brush himself and show them all how it should be done. With an amused look, the painter handed him the brush and palette. Max stepped up to the easel, pursed his lips and closely examined what the artist had been doing, then carefully selected a few tubes of paint, made subtle changes in the pigment mixtures that Benet was using, and quietly began to paint. The artist moved up close behind him, watching intently over his shoulder as he worked. After a few moments, Max heard Benet swear softly and say, "Yes . . . yes . . . of course, exactly!"

 

He continued painting while Benet watchedWith growing enthusiasm. Soon the people in the crowd were asking who the young painter was. And that was how it started.

 

It wasn't long before the paintings of Max Siegal were appearing in theParis art galleries, commanding prices Max wouldn't have dreamed possible. It was Benet who had started him on painting nudes and Max soon became famous for it.

 

Inevitably, women started coming to him, wanting him to paint them, and he soon had more models than he knew what to do with.

 

It all went to his head. He started frequenting chic night spots, drinking to excess and making a reputation for himself as a wild carouser. He became romantically involved with women who had posed for him, many of whom had lovers or even husbands, which led to the inevitable public confrontations, brawls, and lawsuits. The newspapers loved him because he was flamboyant copy and before long, his escapades were being exaggerated or even fabricated outright. He would come home to find naked women in his studio. People he didn't even know claimed intimacy with him. It all became too much for him and he started drinking even more. He was out of control and well on the way to self-destruction. And then he met Jacqueline.

 

They met at a party hosted by a wealthy collector who had bought many of Max's paintings, along with many nearly priceless works by the old masters. Max had been the center of attention, as usual, with all the women in the room fawning over him while the men smoldered with resentment. All the womenexcept one.

 

He had noticed her immediately, a woman in her late thirties or early forties, with shoulder-length dark hair prematurely streaked with gray. She had been dressed in a neo-Edwardian black suit andboots, she chain-smoked unfiltered French cigarettes and spoke in a husky, whiskey baritone. There was something about her, quite aside from her strikingbeauty, that Max had found incredibly compelling. There wasa certain knowingness about her, an utterly implacable self-assurance that was evident in her slightest gesture and expression. He was fascinated by the character in her face and he decided that he had to paint her. Only she had refused.

 

Her refusal had astonished him. He was besieged by women who wanted him to paint them and here was one not in the least bit interested. He kept after her, pressing his card on her, but it was no use. She wouldn't change her mind. This only made him want to paint her that much more. Eventually, the ebb and flow of the party took him away from her and he did not see her again that evening. He asked everyone who she was, but no one seemed to know her. And then, the next day, it was discovered that several of his host's most valuable paintings had disappeared. When Max found out about it, he was mildly insulted that none of his own paintings were among those that had been stolen. The police came to question him, not that he was a suspect, but they were anxious to learn who had been present at the party. They showed him several photographs. One of those they showed him was Jacqueline's.

 

He had not even known her name at that point and when the police had seen him hesitate on seeing her photograph, they asked him if he recognized her as someone he'd seen at the party. Without really knowing why, he told them no. As an artist, he said, he merely found her face quite fascinating. He asked them who she was. Her full name, they told Max, was Jacqueline Marie-Lisette de Charboneau Monet.

 

They told him that she was a witch, a talented adept with an extensive dossier at most of the police agencies ofEurope , as well as at the Bureau of Thaumaturgy and the I.T.C., the International Thaumaturgical Commission. She had been arrested scores of times, under suspicion for crimes ranging from fraud to grand larceny, but she had never been convicted. She was, they told him, one ofEurope 's most successful and accomplished thieves, and it was rumored that she had a link with a man known only by the name of Morpheus, a deadly international assassin.

 

Max had been astounded. He had heard that such people existed, but he had never actually met anyone like that before. The police were certain that Jacqueline was responsible for the theft of the paintings, but they had only circumstantial evidence, merely the fact of her presence at the party. There was no proof. They thanked him for his assistance and departed, leaving Max wondering if he would ever run into her again. Then several days later, he came home to find her waiting in his studio.

 

If he still wanted to paint her, she had told him, she would be willing to sit for him, but only under several conditions. She would not pose nude and the painting would be only of her face. Furthermore, he was not to tell anyone that she had ever sat for him and he was to sell the painting to her the moment it was finished. It was not to be displayed. It was to be a present for a friend and he could name his price. Amused more than irritated by these demands, he had named a truly outrageous figure, even for an original Max Siegal. She had readily agreed to it.

 

It had been the beginning of what became a very close and intimate friendship. It was a relationship unlike any that Max had ever had before. They eventually became lovers, but it was months before that happened and when they finally did become physically intimate with each other, it was not the sort of grand, yet ephemeral passion that Max had experienced so many times before. They went to bed as friends, as a logical extension of their warm and affectionate feelings for each other. They loved each other, but they were not in love, a subtle distinction that, perhaps, only the French could fully appreciate.

 

Jacqueline loved someone else, but Max understood that it was an unrequited passion and he soon came to suspect who that other person might be, though they never spoke of him by name. As for Max, he was thoroughly burned out on passion. It had brought him nothing but pain, problems and frustration. He told her that if he had slept with even half the women who claimed that they'd been intimate with him, he would have been hospitalized long ago for sheer exhaustion. Jacqueline had laughed and told him that if she had committed only half the crimes she was accused of, she would be one of the richest women in the world. He always found an ease with her that he could not find with anybody else. He hadn't heard from her in months and he missed her terribly. He seemed more in control of things when Jacqueline was around.

 

As he drank morosely, he mused about what his life had become since that fateful day when he had met his mentor Francois Benet. He had become a famous man, a flamboyant personality often written about in the gossip columns. He knew that thousands of struggling artists in the city would kill to be in his position, and yet he could find little pleasure in the pinnacle of success he had achieved. Despite his popularity, he felt that he was only second-rate. He felt that he was stagnating, that his work was becoming derivative of itself, and for all his frenzied social life, he was a lonely man. It seemed to him that everything in his life had become repetitive and somehow automatic. He desperately longed for something different, something new.

 

He was wealthy now, but he continued to live simply, in a garret like a starving artist, spending his money on entertainment and assisting other artists less fortunate thanhimself . Conscience money, he called it. He had financed several galleries and restaurants, merely to help his friends and taking no profit for himself. His famous temper was still with him and he was arrested fairly regularly for brawling in one night spot or another; it was practically expected of him and theParis police generally regarded his escapades with nothing more than mild amusement. They always treated him with courtesy. They were courteous when they came to see him the next morning, but they were not at all amused.

 

He had passed out on the sofa, fully dressed, and he awoke with a hangover, startled out of sleep by the relentless pounding on the door. He had no idea what time it was and his head felt as if it were being squeezed slowly in a vise. Each knock on the door was like a hammer blow directly to his skull. He swore and lurched up off the sofa, then swore again as he struck his shin on the coffee table.

 

"All right! All right! I'm coming!"he shouted, pressing his hands up to his temples at the pain caused by the sound of his own voice.

 

He opened the door to admit two police officers dressed in civilian clothing.

 

"Police, Monsieur Siegal," one of the men said, giving his name the French pronunciation and showing him his badge and identification. "We would like to ask you a few questions, please."

 

Max groaned. "What is it now?" he said in a surly tone. "Whom did I assault this time?"

 

The two men exchanged glances."May we come in, monsieur?"

 

"Yes, yes, come in, come in," Max said, standing aside to let them enter. "Pardon the mess, but I was drunk last night."

 

They glanced at one another once again.

 

"You have been drinking heavily, monsieur?"

 

"Of course, I have been drinking heavily. I'm always drinking heavily. Don't you read the newspapers? What is it you want? If you're going to place me under arrest, get on with it, but kindly do it quietly. My head is simply killing me."

 

Another exchange of glances.

 

"Monsieur Siegal," said the other man, "are you familiar with a young woman by the name of Joelle Muset?"

 

"Joelle?" said Max. He grunted."Ah, lovely Joelle. I should have known she would be trouble."

 

Another meaningful exchange of glances."We understand that she was here last night," the first policeman said. "To model for one of your paintings."

 

"Yes, yes, she was here," said Max, slumping back down onto the sofa and putting his head in his hands. "The whole thing was a mistake," he said." It was never meant to happen. I should have known that it would lead to trouble, the silly little bitch.

 

She had probably told the police he had assaulted her, to get even with him for not succumbing to her nubile charms. He'd been through this sort of thing before. There would be reporters and an investigation, possibly a trial; it would get very tiresome now, tiresome and sticky—

 

"Marcel. . ." said one of the policemen. "Have a look at this."

 

Max looked up. They were both standing by the easel, looking at the painting of Joelle that he'd smashed over the easel in a fit of pique.

 

"What happened here, monsieur?" the one named Marcel said, pointing to the ruined painting, on which Joelle's face was still clearly visible. The easel impaled her image right through the chest. "You had an argument last night?A fight, no?The famous Siegal temper? She was, perhaps, not quite as obliging as you'd hoped?"

 

Max could see where this was leading, but he was simply too hung over to deal with it. He sighed. "Look, why don't you just arrest me and get it over with?" he said with resignation. "I simply can't take this now. Let my lawyer handle it. I haven't got the stomach for it anymore."

 

There was a brief moment of silence as the two policemen looked at one another, and then the one named Marcel said, "Monsieur Siegal, it is my duty to inform you that I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Joelle Muset."

 

Max's head jerked up. "What? Wait a minute—"

 

"Please come along quietly, monsieur."

 

"Wait! What the hell are you talking about?" He leaped up from the couch and swayed unsteadily, fighting a sudden surge of dizziness and nausea. "Joelle's been murdered?"

 

"Come along, monsieur—"

 

The policeman reached for his arm, but Max shook him off furiously. "Let go of me, damn you! I'm trying to tell you—"

 

It was the wrong response. He suddenly found himself thrown to the floor and handcuffed. Stunned, he tried to protest as they hauled him back up to his feet and quickly patted him down.

 

"Wait a minute! Wait! This is all wrong! There's been some sort of mistake!"

 

"Tell it to the inspector, monsieur," Marcel said. "Please come along peaceably. Resisting will only make it worse for you."

 

Stunned, Max allowed himself to be half marched, half carried outside. The bottom had dropped out of his stomach. He felt sick and he couldn't think clearly. This can't be happening, he thought, but it was happening and through the fog of his hangover, he suddenly realized that what he'd said to them made things look very bad, indeed. She'd been at

 

hisstudio, modeling nude, and the painting ... the painting! God, the way he'd smashed it down over the easel, they must think . . . they did think it! They thought he'd gotten drunk and killed her. And there was no way he could account for his whereabouts last night. He had been drunk, at home.Alone. As they escorted him to the waiting police car, he realized that there was no way he could prove his innocence.

 

"I didn't kill her," he said as they got into the car.

 

In a daze, he kept saying it over and over again as they drove down to police headquarters.

 

 

 

Chapter

TWO

 

 

 

Inspector Armand Renaud was having his morning coffee and croissant when Legault came bursting into his office without knocking, saying, "You'll never guess who's outside, asking for you."

 

Renaud sighed and put down his croissant. It seemed he couldn't even have his morning coffee without being interrupted. "All right, who?" he said wearily.

 

"Jacqueline Monet," Legault said.

 

Renaud stared at him. "You're joking. TheJacqueline Monet?"

 

"The very same."

 

"And she wants to speak with me?"

 

"She asked for you by name. She won't say what it's about."

 

Renaud quickly brushed the stray croissant crumbs off his desk with his crumpled-up paper napkin, then pushed his hair back with his fingertips and straightened his tie. He looked up to see Legault grinning at him.

 

"What are you grinning at? Send her in."

 

Still grinning, Legault left and a moment later, she came through the door. She was even more beautiful in the flesh than she was in her photographs. Jacqueline Monet was in her late forties. Her exact age was subject to some question, but she had the figure of a woman in her twenties. With a face and body like that, she could easily have landed a spot in the chorus of anyMontmartre nightclub. Her legs were long and her waist was girlishly trim. She wore a well-tailored neo-Edwardian suit of dark crimson brocade, with white lace at the throat and cuffs. In her high-heeled boots, she was justunder six feet tall and her long, thick, gray-streaked hair was a rich mahogany color. She wore it loose, down past her shoulders. He got to his feet as she came up to his desk.

 

"Mademoiselle Monet," he said, offering his hand. "I am Inspector Armand Renaud. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

 

She took his hand in a strong grip. "I seem to have interrupted your morning coffee, Inspector," she said in a deep and sexy voice. "I would like to speak with you in private concerning a matter of some importance. There is a small cafe across the street. Perhaps I could buy you an espresso?"

 

"Allow me the pleasure of buying you one," said Renaud. He picked up his jacket."After you, mademoiselle."

 

Every eye in the station house followed them as they went outside and down the stairs. There wasn't a police officer in all ofFrance who did not know who Jacqueline Monet was and the idea of her strolling casually into a police station as if she owned the place was typical of the brazen effrontery for which she had become famous. Infamous, perhaps, would have been a better word. In any other country exceptFrance , the sight of a notorious criminal walking into a police station with such an air of impunity would have elicited reactions of outrage and anger, but inFrance , and especially inParis , the police had a somewhat different attitude when it came to certain types of criminals.

 

Those who committed violent crimes, such as rape or murder, armed robbery or assault, were hated just as much by the gendarmes as they would have been in any other city, but master thieves, especially those who never had injured anyone and carried on their trade with a flamboyant sense of style, could often command a certain admiration from the gendarmes who sought to catch them in the act. When it came to someone like Jacqueline Monet, it became a fascinating game between the criminal and the police, with mutual respect on both sides. It was not unlike the relationship between a big game hunter and his quarry. The hunter would stalk his prey relentlessly, but if it was a clever beast and managed to escape, the hunter was not angry. Rather, he felt respect and evenan affection for the creature that had managed to elude him and he would look forward to stalking it another time. So it was with Jacqueline Monet and the Paris police.

 

Renaud accompanied her across the street to the cafe. The waiter greeted him by name and they took a small table in the corner. Renaud ordered two espressos and a couple of croissants. He tried to keep from looking anxious. The two of them had never met before. Jacqueline Monet's activities were generally considered the province of the French Bureau of Thaumaturgy and the I.T.C., though the police were often involved, as well. Renaud wondered what was on her mind.

 

He did not have to wonder long. She came right to the point. She took the newspaper she was carrying under her arm and spread it out before him. "Would you be so kind as to tell me what this is all about, Inspector?" she asked, pointing to the headline.

 

He glanced at the article. He had already seen it. It concerned the arrest of Max Siegal for the murder of Joelle Muset.

 

"I should think that it was self-explanatory," he said. "You have some interest in this matter, mademoiselle? Some information that is pertinent to the case?"

 

"Max Siegal is a close personal friend of mine," she said.

 

"Ah. I see."

 

"And he is not a killer."

 

She took out a cigarette and Renaud lit it for her. "With all due respect, mademoiselle," he said, "the evidence indicates otherwise.Unless you have some information that would prove him innocent?"

 

"If I had such information, he would not be in custody right now," she said. "But I would stake my life upon his innocence."

 

Renaud shrugged. "Such loyalty is very commendable, mademoiselle, but of course you realize that I would require something a bit more tangible than just your word."

 

"I'm not a fool, Renaud. The newspaper says you are in charge of the case. I tell you that you have arrested the wrong man. If what you really want is justice, then I have certain connections that might be of help in your investigation. I could pursue avenues of inquiry that would be closed to the police. In helping Max, I would be helping you to catch the real killer."

 

"A most intriguing offer," said Renaud, "but you see,I believe that we already have the real killer."

 

"What evidence have you got against him?"

 

"Well, this is all somewhat irregular, mademoiselle," he said, "I am not in the habit of discussing police business with outsiders, especially criminals." He smiled."Correction, 'suspected criminals.' However, since I am interested in seeing justice served and you have been kind enough to join me for breakfast, then speaking strictly off the record, I can tell you what I have already said to his attorney. It does not look very good for your friend. He engaged young Joelle Muset to model for him in the nude. Her friends have testified to this and there is no question but that she was in his studio on the night that she was murdered. He admitted it. The arresting officers found the canvas that Siegal was working on that night. It was unfinished, yet it was a painting of Mademoiselle Muset. Her face is clearly identifiable and the pose that she was in was quite, shall we say, provocative?"

 

"All of Max's nudes are highly provocative," said Jacqueline. "That in itself proves nothing."

 

"Perhaps," said Renaud, "but the painting was discovered impaled upon its easel. Siegal evidently smashed it over the easel in one of his famous fits of temper. He is known for being violent on occasion."

 

"That still doesn't mean he killed her," said Jacqueline.

 

"Perhaps not, but it does indicate that there was some sort of violent argument," Renaud replied. "And aside from his famous temper, Max Siegal is also known for his romantic liaisons with many of his models and he has been accused of assault before. It would appear as though he had tried to pursue a sexual liaison with Mademoiselle Muset, but, she protested and one thing unfortunately led to another. Siegal admitted to being very drunk that night. And some of the things he said to his arresting officers clearly indicate his guilt."

 

"What sort of things?"

 

"He referred to the deceased as 'a little bitch' and said he knew that something like this would happen, that he should have known she would be trouble. While being interrogated, he asked to be arrested and to call his lawyer. He confessed that he could not take it anymore. That he hadn't the stomach fork."

 

"But did he actually confess to having killed her?"

 

"Well, not in so many words," Renaud said. "By the time he realized what was happening, he had apparently regained enough of his sobriety to start denying it, but then they always do, don'tthey ? And he resisted arrest, as well. Would an innocent man do that?"

 

"Max would," Jacqueline said wryly. "How was the girl killed?"

 

Renaud pursed his lips. "She was murdered in a particularly violent manner, mademoiselle," he said. "Her body was discovered in the apartment that she shared with two other young women in the Rue Morgue, just off the Rue St. Roch. One of them is her sister. They found the body when they came home from work at the Cafe Noir, where they are employed as dancers. She couldn't have been dead more than an hour or two. Siegal must have followed her home from his studio, gained entrance, found her alone and then attacked her. She was found nude, with her body badly mutilated."

 

"Was there any blood on him when he was arrested?" Jacqueline said.

 

"No, but then he would have had ample time to wash it off," Renaud said.

 

"Was any bloody clothing found in his studio?"

 

"No, but then he could have easily disposed of it. We are still searching the vicinity of—"

 

"What sort of weapon was used?"

 

"Apparently a knife of some sort," said Renaud.

 

"Apparently?You mean you don't know for sure? Did you find the murder weapon?"

 

"No, but as I said, we are still searching—"

 

"So then you have no evidence tying Max in with the crime other than the purely circumstantial fact that the victim modeled for him on the night that she was killed and he destroyed the painting?"

 

Renaud patiently took a deep breath. "There is the sheer violence of the assault," he said, "and your friend's well-known propensity for violence. There is the fact that he was drunk and cannot account for his whereabouts on that night. He says that he was home alone, but there is no one who can corroborate that supposed fact. There is the fact that he destroyed the painting in an obvious fit of rage, the fact that he had once studied thaumaturgy at the Sorbonne—"

 

"Wait a moment," said Jacqueline, frowning. "What does thaumaturgy have to do with it?"

 

"Well, the symbols that had been carved into the body of the victim were—"

 

Jacqueline suddenly leaned forward and grabbed his hand across the table. "What symbols!" she said. "You said nothing about any symbols carved into the body!"

 

Renaud was a bit taken aback by her intense reaction. "I mentioned that the corpse was badly mutilated," he said. "Thecondition of the victim's body left little doubt but that the assault was perversely sexual in nature. She was slashed repeatedly and she had certain markings carved into her breasts and abdomen that were identified as runes, the sort of symbols that might be used in some sort of thaumaturgic ritual."

 

"Give me a pen," Jacqueline said, her voice tense.

 

Puzzled, Renaud reached into his pocket and handed her a pen. She started to draw on one of the napkins.

 

"Did they look anything like this?" she said.

 

Renaud watched as she drew several obscene-looking symbols on the napkin: He frowned. "Yes, as a matter of fact, they looked exactly like . . ." His voice trailed off and he glanced up at her with new interest. "How did you know this? There was nothing about that in the papers."

 

"Listen to me, Renaud," she said urgently. "Max Siegal didn't kill that girl. He once studied thaumaturgy, that's true, but he never got very far in his studies. He had no talent for it. You can verify that for yourself if you contact theCollegeofThaumaturgy at the Sorbonne. These symbols are runes used in a very advanced thaumaturgic ritual, the kind that isn't taught in thaumaturgy schools. The killer was no ordinary adept and this was no ordinary murder. This girl was a victim of necromancy."

 

"Necromancy!How do you know this?" said Renaud. "And how did you know about the runes?"

 

"There was a series of murders inCalifornia about a year ago in which the same pattern of runes appeared," she said. "Call theLos Angeles police department. Ask for Captain Rebecca Farrell and tell her how the girl was killed. Then call Scotland Yard and ask for Chief Inspector Michael Blood. Ask him about the so-called Ripper murders that occurred in Whitechapel about two years ago. And tell him about the murder of Joelle Muset."

 

Renaud started quickly making notes. "May I ask what this is all about, mademoiselle?" he said. "How are you involved in this?"

 

"Never mind that for now," she said. "First I want you to be absolutely certain that I'm telling you the truth. We'll discuss it further after you've verified the information."

 

"You may rest assured that I will do so, mademoiselle," he said. He glanced at her, puzzled. It occurred to him that she might have been involved in the crime somehow. "I assume that you will stand Max Siegal's bail?" he said, watching her for a reaction.

 

"No," she said. "Right now, jail is the best possible place for him."

 

"You believe that he is in some danger?" said Renaud.

 

"No, I don't think so, but I believe that this is only the beginning. There will be other killings of this sort, Renaud, I'm certain of it, and if Max is in jail when they occur, then you'll know he couldn't possibly have been responsible."

 

"You seem to know more about this than you're telling me, mademoiselle," Renaud said. "I really think it would be best if you—"

 

"I know you are suspicious of me, Renaud," she said, "and under the circumstances, I can hardly blame you. But you will soon think differently. I'll speak to you again after you've made those calls. Right now, I have to make some calls of my own. If I'm right, then what's happening here is too much for the police to handlealone. "

 

"If what you're saying is true," Renaud said, "then it is my duty to call in the I.T.C."

 

She got up. "Do whatever you think you must," she said. "But at least speak to Blood and Farrell first, so you can satisfy yourself that I am telling you the truth. Then use your own best judgment. I can't tell you what to do. But I promise you that Max Siegal is completely innocent of this crime. I fear that this is only the beginning. It seems there is a necromancer loose inParis ."

 

 

 

He cried out as the sword bit deeply, cutting through his armor and slicing into his shoulder. He dropped his own sword, unable to hold on to it, and sank to his knees, raising his shield in a vain effort to ward off the punishing blows that kept raining down on him as Uthur smashed away relentlessly, chopping at his shield with repeated, powerful, two-handed strokes. He felt his strength draining away with his blood and he knew that he was finished. Merlin had cloaked Uthur in warding spells and with the fury of hisattack, there was no opportunity to summon up an enchantment powerful enough to break through Uthur's magical protection. With a sinking feeling, he realized that he was going to die.

 

That it should end like this, that after all these years, he should die at the hands of a mere mortal, aided by the spells of his own abandoned son. ... He thought briefly of his wife, Igraine, who would now be at Uthur's mercy, his to seize as chattel, his to use in whatever way he pleased. He thought of his three daughters, Elaine, Morganna and Morgause, whose fate would also be in Uther's hands, and he was filled with unutterable grief. He collapsed beneath the savage onslaught, his shield reduced to a battered lump of shapeless metal, and with the next stroke, his arm went numb and he could hold on to it no longer. There was one chanceremaining, only one, but he did not know if he had the time or strength to take it. He concentrated with all the power left in him as Uther raised his sword for the killing stroke. His vision blurred and he felt the world receding from him as Uther screamed and brought the sword down at his head—

 

Billy Slade cried out and awoke, bathed in a cold sweat, his bedclothes twisted around him. He felt hands upon him and he struggled against their grip.

 

"It's all right, Billy, it's all right," said Modred, bending over him and holding on to his shoulders. "It was only a nightmare."

 

Billy stared at him wildly, then relaxed and sank back down onto the bed, shutting his eyes and breathing heavily.

 

"Gor, what a bloody awful dream . . ." he said in a thick cockney accent. He opened his eyes once more.

 

Kira and Wyrdrune were standing by his bed, looking down at him anxiously.

 

"I went an' woke everybody up again, didn't I?" he said. "I'm sorry. What time is it?"

 

"About four in the morning," Modred said.

 

"Bloody 'ell," said Billy wearily.

 

"Was it the same dream again?" asked Wyrdrune.

 

Billy nodded. "Yeah," he said in a tired voice. "Uther bloody Pendragon was cuttin' me to pieces, smashin' away at me with 'is sword. 'E was just about to finish me off when I woke up."

 

His facial expression suddenly changed, becoming grim, and when he spoke again, he sounded like a completely different person.

 

"It's Gorlois," he said. "He's doing it all for my benefit, blast him. He's making me experience his death, having me relive it over and over again because I was the one who helped bring it about."

 

The adult voice sounded incongruous coming from the slightly built fourteen-year-old. Billy sat up and ran his hands through his unusually styled hair, cut short at the sides and crested at the center, flowing down to the middle of his back like a horse's mane. But it wasn't Billy who was speaking. It was the entity that possessed him, the spirit of his ancestor, the archmage Merlin Ambrosius, court wizard to King Arthur Pendragon and father of the second thaumaturgic age.

 

"I simply can't get through to him," said Merlin. "He's there, he's part of us, but he's unreachable.Except when he takes over our dreams in order to torment us."

 

Billy looked at his hand, at the unusual ring he wore, a gleaming, fire opal in a heavy silver setting. The band of the ancient ring was engraved with tiny, intricate runes. The ring had once belonged to Gorlois, the last of the Old Ones, the sole surviving member of the Council of the White. He had given it to his daughter, and MorganLe Fay had worn it throughout her life, never realizing that it was the source of much of her power, the repository of her inhuman father's spirit. She, in turn, had given it to the sorcerer named Thanatos when they had married and he, too, had been unaware of its true nature until the moment when they had their confrontation with the Dark Ones and the spirit of Gorlois had manifested itself, taking him over to do battle with the necromancers. That struggle had cost Thanatos his life and when Billy Slade approached his body, the ring had fallen from his

 

finger. Billy had picked it up and put it in his pocket. He did not remember putting the ring on, but now he couldn't get it off. Gorlois was now a part of him, as much as Merlin was. He was possessed by the spirits of two powerful arch-mages, the father and the son. And they hated one another.

 

"I wish the pair of 'em would just bugger off and leave me the 'ell alone," said Billy in his normal voice. "It was bad enough just 'avin Merlin muckin' about inside me 'ead, but now I've got 'is bleedin' dad to put up with. Between the two of 'em, I'm gonna lose me fuckin' mind!"

 

Kira sat down on the bed beside him. "I know, Billy. I know. I wish there was something we could do."

 

She took his hand in hers and he felt the hardness of the sapphire runestone embedded in her palm. Wyrdrune stood looking down at him with a worried expression, his long, curly blond hair falling over his face, partially obscuring the emerald runestone embedded in his forehead. Modred looked down at him with concern. His silk pajama shirt was open and the ruby runestone in his muscular chest gleamed darkly.

 

"I wonder if it's ever gonna stop," said Billy, wearily. "What does 'e want from me, anyway?I 'aven't done anything to 'im."

 

"It isn't you he's angry with, Billy," said Modred. "It's Merlin. Unfortunately, Merlin is a part of you. And Gorlois is still an unknown factor. There's really no way of knowing what he means to do with you.Or how Merlin will respond to it. Thanatos wore the ring for years and was never consciously aware of Gorlois. Morganna, too, although we don't know to what extent she was influenced by the ring."

 

"I've rubbed me finger raw tryin' to get the damn thing off," said Billy, "but it's just no use. No matter what I do, it simply won't come off."

 

"Do you people know what time it is?"

 

A broom came sweeping into the room on its straw bristles, a red nightcap perched atop its wooden handle. It looked like an ordinary, old-fashioned straw broom, except that it had two spindly, rubbery arms with three fingers on each hand.

 

"It's four o'clock in the morning, for crying out loud!" it said. "Gevalt! What does a person need to do to get some sleep around here? It's not enough I have to work and scrub and cook all day, but then I have to put up with all this cafe-klatching like a bunch of yentas in the middle of the night?"

 

Years ago, Wyrdrune had animated the broom to help his mother around the house while he was away at school. Now that his mother was gone, he had inherited the broom. Unfortunately, after years spent with his mother, the broom had taken on her personality. It stood with its arms on its hips— or at least on the spot where its hips might have been if it had hips—and though it had no mouth or anything even vaguely resembling a face, it spoke to them in an irritated, matronly tone.

 

"Doesn't anybody around here keep normal hours anymore? What is it with you people?"

 

"Billy had another nightmare," Kira said.

 

"Again?" said the broom, its tone softening."Aw, poor bubeleh. I told you, you should drink some warm milk with honey before you go to bed at night."

 

"Thanks, but I'd sooner 'ave the bleedin' nightmares," Billy said, sourly.

 

"Well, then don't blame me if you won't take my advice," the broom said in a huffy tone."Kids today! You talk and talk and talk, but will they ever listen?"

 

"Put on some coffee, Broom," said Wyrdrune.

 

"Sure, why not?" the broom said. "Just because no one else is sleeping, who am I to get a little rest?"

 

"Broom . . ."

 

"All right, all right, already, I'll put on some coffee. But you should have something to eat. Coffee on an empty stomach, you'll give yourselfa heartburn . How about some nice French toast with cinnamon and maple syrup?"

 

"No thanks," said Billy. "I'll just 'ave a beer."

 

"A beer?A beer? Four o'clock in the morning and he wants a beer? Oy vey! You'll have a nice hot chocolate and a little French toast to stick to your ribs. Honestly, drinking beer at your age! I never heard of such a thing!"

 

"Awright, awright," said Billy, reaching for his cigarettes on the nightstand. "Christ, give it a bleedin' rest, Broom, willya?"

 

"Now there's gratitude for you," the broom said. It waved its spindly arms as Billy lit up the cigarette. "Feh! And now you're going tostink the whole place up with cigarette smoke! You shouldn't be smoking at yourage, you'll stunt your growth."

 

"I'll stunt yer bloody—"

 

"Billy . . ." Wyrdrune said. Billy fell silent, scowling. "Coffee and some hot chocolate and French toast will be just fine, Broom. Thank you very much."

 

The broomsniffed, a peculiar thing to do since it had no nose, and waddled back out into the kitchen. Billy got out of bed and pulled his pants on over his undershorts. He went over to the sliding glass doors and opened them, stepping out onto the balcony of their apartment overlookingCentral Park West. The others came up behind him. They stood for a moment in silence, looking out over the city.

 

"You okay, Billy?" Kira asked.

 

"Yeah, I guess so," Billy said, drawing deeply on his cigarette. Then he took it from his mouth, frowned at it, and flicked it over the side. "I don't know how he can stand smoking those damn things," said Merlin. He patted his pockets,then waggled his fingers and a moment later, a curved briar pipe and leather tobacco pouch came floating out onto the balcony. He plucked them out of the air and started filling the pipe.

 

By now, they had grown accustomed to the rapid changes in personality from Billy to Merlin and back again. Billy spoke with a thick cockney accent; Merlin spoke in a Celtic accent that sounded like a cross between Irish and Welsh. Billy smoked cigarettes; Merlin smoked a pipe and each detested the other's habit. Billy could not do magic; Merlin could.

 

"It's a hard thing for the lad," said Merlin, "being possessed on one hand and bound to a living runestone on the other. I feel partly responsible."

 

"You're entirely responsible," said Modred.

 

Merlin grunted and snapped his fingers. A flame jetted from his thumb and he puffed his pipe alight. He habitually smoked his own sorcerous blend of tobacco, with its ever-changing aroma. As he took his first puff, it smelled like toasted almonds, but an instant later, it had changed, giving off the smell of roasted chestnuts.

 

"I wish I could make it easier for him, somehow," he said. "I had never planned on any of this. After I died, I felt my spirit being inexorably drawn to Billy, but it wasn't until I took possession that I realized it was because he was descended from me. The same thing must have drawn the ring to him, as well." He glanced at the fire opal ring. "Gorlois must have used a spell much like the one the Council of the White cast when they fused their spirits with the runestones. His spirit fled his body and entered the ring the moment Uther killed him. I wanted my revenge on him for deserting my mother and now he's come back to haunt me. It's as if fate is punishing me for having misused my powers. And through no fault of his own, Billy's been caught up in it. So here we are, one not-so-happy family, trapped within one body. Strange how fate always has a way of screwing you."

 

Wyrdrune smiled. "You're starting to sound a bit like Billy," he said.

 

"Yes, there is something rather infectious about his personality," said Merlin wryly. "It's starting to rub off on me, much the way your mother's personality rubbed off on Broom. But if I start speaking with a cockney accent, slap me."

 

Modred chuckled. "There was a time, Ambrosius, when I would have dearly loved to do that."

 

"Yes, I know," said Merlin, blowing out a vanilla-scented smoke ring. "It's a funny thing. We've never talked much about the old days."

 

"The glorious days of Camelot, you mean?" said Modred sarcastically. "I thought that was something of a sore subject with you."

 

"It is, in many ways," Merlin admitted. "But you and I are the only ones left from that old time. Actually, since I'm dead, I suppose I don't really count. That leaves you as Camelot's last survivor."

 

Wyrdrune and Kira listened silently, with interest. Merlin almost never spoke about those days and even after two thousand years, Modred still felt bitter about his past.

 

"When I was released from Morganna's spell," said Merlin, "I had only a vague idea how much time had actually passed. While I slept, I had only the dimmest perceptions of the world around me. I knew there had been wars, some truly terrible, and that mankind was accomplishing great things, things we never would have dreamed of in our day. Yet I sensed these things but dimly, as if trying to see through a thick fog. And then I awoke at the height of the Collapse, to see that all of mankind's efforts had led only to another dark age. Over two thousand years had passed and I awoke in the twenty-third century to find the world no better off than when I went to sleep. And I saw that there was still a need for me, a need for magic in the world. I can't begin to tell you how that made me feel. At Camelot, I had failed because I neglected to take into account the frailties of human nature. But here was a chance to start anew. I felt invigorated, imbued with a new sense of purpose.

 

He looked out over the lights of the city. It was a warm night and the city glowed beneath them like the dying embers of a giant campfire.

 

"I accomplished all of that," he said. "I brought back the light. But I brought the darkness back, as well. As the magic I taught spread throughout the world, the Dark Ones sensed it and began to stir. And now they're loose upon the world. I sometimes wonder if it wouldn't have been better if I hadn't come back at all."

 

He glanced at Modred. "But you . . . you actually lived through all of it. You saw it all more clearly than I ever could. If anyone can judge me, Modred, it is you, who have suffered more than anybody else because of what I've done."

 

"That almost sounds like an apology, Ambrosius," Modred said. "That's hardly like you." He sighed. "I'm not sure how to answer you. A long time ago, I might have judged you, but there seems little purpose in it now. You've always had a monstrous ego, but the truth is you didn't orchestrate events so much as you were merely a part of them."

 

"Perhaps," said Merlin, "but I can't help feeling that the fault is mine."

 

"If the fault lies anywhere," said Modred, "then I suppose it lies with Gorlois. It all began with him. But can we really blame him? He was the last of his kind. Here and there, sprinkled throughout the world, were people like you and me, half-breeds, descended from the mating of an Old One and a human, but there was no way he could know them and with each succeeding generation, the strain became more and more diluted. You and I were born immortal, or at least with a lifespan impossible to measure in strictly human terms. Wyrdrune and Kira, descended from my mother's sisters, but removed by many generations, will probably live out a life-span much closer to the human norm. Gorlois was the last of the Old Ones. He knew his race was dying with him. And in a way, I think I can understand exactly how he must have felt."

 

"Do you?" Merlin said. "Then perhaps you can explain it to me. If you truly love a woman, as he claimed to love my mother, then how can you desert her?"

 

Modred lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply, gazing off into the distance. Somewhere in the night, a siren screamed.

 

"Sometimes, your love is the very thing that drives you away," he said. He paused a moment. "I couldn't imagine living with a woman, loving her, and watching her wither and grow old while I remained the same. What love could stand a test like that? They say there's something fulfilling in growing old together, but for one person to grow old while the other remains youthful and eternally unchanged, no, there's a horror in that, a grotesque inequity that has to be impossible to bear. Year by year, you watch her grow away from you, dying by stages right before your eyes. I don't think that I could stand that. I'm not saying that Gorlois was right in doing what he did, but I think that I can understand it.

 

"As for your choosing to shoulder the burden of responsibility for everything that's come about merely because you wanted revenge," he continued, "I frankly think that's ludicrous.You might have convinced my father that he was an instrument of fate, but Arthur was always Uther's son and he had his father's lust for power. Guinevere had somewhat simpler lusts, though they were just as strong. And as for Lancelot, he was a mere child. Arthur might as well have put the two of them in bed together and tucked them in. I fail to see your role in that."

 

"Lancelot and Guinevere fell in love because I made Arthur a king first and a husband second," Merlin said. "But Arthur loved them both. Was that so difficult to understand?"

 

"No, not difficult to understand at all," said Modred. "But it wasn't their affair that bothered me so much as the grotesque hypocrisy surrounding it.Arthur and his high-flown code of chivalry. The Round Table was inviolate. We all knew that Lance and Guinevere were having at each other like a pair of randy goats, but so long as no one spoke about it, it wasn't really happening, because Arthur wanted all of us to live up to some ideal standard that was impossible for any normal human being to meet."

 

"Except for Galahad, perhaps," said Merlin.

 

"True," admitted Modred with a nod, "but Galahad was hardly normal, with his profound spiritual obsessions. To him, Arthur was a god. And Galahad wanted so desperately to believe in the vision Arthur painted. I envied him the touching simplicity of his faith, but I could never share it, even if I wanted to. I saw Arthur as he was, a man so obsessed with his own self-righteousness that he denied anything that seemed to threaten it. He was never able to really look me in the face. His eyes would always slide away from mine. He spoke to me when he had to, but we never really talked. I was a living reminder of his sin and he could not accept that."

 

"He was torn with guilt," said Merlin.

 

"Perhaps," said Modred, "but only because he did not live up to his own image of himself. Arthur, who was so pure of heart and spirit that only he could draw Excalibur from the stone—never mind that it was only because you had cast a spell on it so that no one else could do it—that paragon of chivalry and virtue had slept with his half sister and produced a bastard. He could not deny me, but he could not accept me, either. He certainly couldn't love me. And but for my mother poisoning my mind against him, I might have loved him. I really think I wanted to, despite everything Morganna did. But Arthur didn't want my love and so I gave him hate instead. He found that easier to live with. It fit in with his perverse sense of morality. In the end, I think he really wanted me to kill him, although he did his best to make sure that I died with him. That would have tied it all up neatly, I suppose."

 

"It was a sad thing," said Merlin."A tragedy of human frailty and emotions."

 

Modred shook his head. "No, Ambrosius, the sad thing is that we all believed that we were caught up in some grand and tragic drama, and because all of us believed it, it came to be perceived that way. The fact is there was nothing grand about it.Nothing unique. Things like that happen all the time. We are all prisoners of our emotions in the end, which is why I've tried so hard to stifle mine. "

 

"You seem to have succeeded," Merlin said.

 

"No, not really," Modred said wryly. "It only seems that way because I've had two thousand years of practice. I've often been accused of being cold and I've been called a cynic and to some extent, I must admit that's true. Oscar Wilde once told me that a cynic was someone who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. I told him that the term cynic was rather imprecise. I preferred being called a 'post-romantic' He found that quite amusing. But he was wrong in one respect. A cynic does know the value of at least one thing—truth. The reason he becomes a cynic is because he sees so little of it."

 

"I wonder if anyone ever really sees the truth?" said Merlin.

 

Modred smiled."Strange that you should say that, of all people. One of the more amusing aspects of the legend that our story has become is the myth that you were somehow living backward through time, that the future was your past and the past your future, so that you already knew everything to come. Unfortunately, you didn't know any better than the rest of us. You merely thought you did."

 

"Nevertheless, it was I who gave Arthur the power," Merlin said.

 

"You merely gave him the opportunity," Modred replied. "He took the power for himself and seized it in a death grip. You were not the one who made him a king first and a husband second. Arthur did that all by himself. He set himself above the rest of us. Like you, he was obsessed with the idea of his sense of purpose. If he'd been more attentive to Guinevere, perhaps she wouldn't have turned to Lancelot. But it might have happened anyway. No one can predict such things. But by acting as he did, Arthur only made it easier. You were not the one who failed to take human frailty into account, Ambrosius. Arthur was. He created a code of conduct for us all that was totally inflexible. It did not allow for human fallibility. And it had no room for forgiveness. The ironic thing about it was that he was just as much a victim as Lancelot and Guinevere were. He could not forgive himself."

 

"And what about you?" said Merlin. "Have you room within you for forgiveness?"

 

"Whom should I forgive?" said Modred. "Arthur? He's been dead for over two thousand years.My mother? I forgave her long ago, but she was unable to forgive herself and now she's gone, as well.You? What is there to forgive, Ambrosius? In spite of what you may think, you've never really done anything to me. My mother always blamed you because you helped Uther satisfy his lust for Igraine and then kill Gorlois. But she forgave you in the end, perhaps because she finally realized that what she had done was really no different from what you did. You were both motivated by revenge and you both paid the price. Both of you were victims. And if Gorlois is listening, perhaps he'll understand that he's become a victim, too. There is an old saying: 'When you embark upon revenge, you must first construct two coffins.'One for your intended victim and one for yourself, as well. Revenge is like a chain reaction. There is no end to it. And sooner or later, it always comes full circle. It always comes back to you. Forgive yourself, Ambrosius.Because no one else can make things right by giving you forgiveness. Not even Gorlois. He must forgive himself as well. Because whenever revenge is the motivating factor, there will always be other victims. Like Morganna. Like myself, perhaps, though I don't truly feel myself to be a victim. Like Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot. And, finally, like Billy."

 

"Modred, look," said Kira.

 

She pointed at the ring on Billy's hand. The fire opal runestone was glowing softly.

 

The broom came out onto the balcony. "Breakfast is ready and there's a call for you," it said to Modred."Person to person, fromParis,France , no less. I guess they don't believe in sleeping, either."

 

"Broom, has it ever occurred to you that you don't need to sleep?" said Merlin.

 

"Oh, sure, I should just do housework around the clock, right?" said the broom. "I should stay up all night and catch the roaches when they all come out. Maybe I should take the opportunity of all the peace and quiet to scrub the kitchen floor? Or you want maybe I should give the whole apartment a brand new coat of paint? Baking, maybe? I should stay up all night and bake that tasteless Irish soda bread you like so much? Or maybe I can—"

 

"Never mind, Broom," Merlin said wearily. "If you want to sleep,then by all means sleep, however it is you manage to do it."

 

"With you people staying up until all hours and phone calls fromParis in the middle of the night, I don't manage to do it," said the broom. "If you wanted to be useful, you'd make with the hocus-pocus and give me a soundproof broom closet. Maybe then I'll get some rest! Now are you coming in to breakfast or youwant to wait until the toast gets cold and the maple syrup sets up?"

 

"We're coming in to breakfast, Broom," said Modred, coming back out onto the balcony. "And then we've got to pack. We're going toParis ."

 

"What, now?" the broom said."In the middle of the night?"

 

"That was Jacqueline," said Modred. "There's been a murder in the Rue Morgue. And the victim had necromantic runes carved into her body. The same pattern we've seen before, in Whitechapel andLos Angeles ."

 

"The Dark Ones," Wyrdrune said.

 

"It begins again," said Merlin.

 

 

 

Chapter

THREE

 

 

 

Suzanne Muset was in no mood to go to work. Fortunately, her employer at the Cafe Noir was an understanding man. He had read about the murder in the papers and before Suzanne had even asked, he told her to take as much time off as she felt was necessary and said that if there was anything that he could do, she had only to ask. He even offered to help with the funeral expenses. Suzanne's roommate, Gabrielle, had offered to remain with her, but Suzanne had insisted that she would be all right. After all, they both had bills to pay and she could not depend on their employer's charity. It was kind of him, but it simply wasn't right. She needed to return to work herself, but not just yet. She needed some time alone.

 

It had not been easy for Gabrielle, either. They had both found Joelle's body together. She would never forget that terrible sight. Joelle lying nude in a pool of her own blood, her young, innocent body horribly mutilated. They had both become hysterical and if it wasn't for Mr. Rienzi, who lived across the hall, Suzanne didn't know what they would have done. He had responded to their terrified screams and he immediately took control. He quickly ushered them both out of the room, into his apartment, and he had done his best to try to calm them down, talking to them and giving them strong brandy, before he summoned the police. He would not allow them to go back into their apartment, insisting that they stay overnight with him. He even gave them his bedroom while he slept on the couch.

 

Suzanne would be forever grateful to him. It was ironic. Until that night, they had never really known each other. They had said polite hellos when they passed each other in the hallway or met in the market, but they had never really talked. All she knew about Stefan Rienzi was that he was a struggling writer who lived by himself and kept late hours. He was working on a book. He was not a bad-looking man at all and she guessed that he was in his thirties, but he seemed very self-contained and shy. He was soft-spoken and hesitant in his manner and she and Gabrielle had often joked about him. Gabrielle had flirted with him outrageously and it always seemed to embarrass him. They wondered if perhaps he didn't like girls. He had seemed like one of those gray little men who went through life making as little noise as possible, taking pains to remain inconspicuous, like a mouse hiding in its hole. But after the night of Joelle's murder, Suzanne's opinion of Stefan Rienzi changed completely.

 

He had taken complete control of the situation, hovering over them while the policemen asked their questions, making sure they were all right. He had simply taken care of everything. After the body was removed and the police had gone away, he stayed up with them, trying to give them comfort. And when they finally dropped off to sleep, utterly exhausted and drained by their ordeal, he had gone out to an all-night market and bought groceries and toilet articles for the two of them. He knew that the apartment would be sealed for at least another day or two until the forensics investigators could complete their work. He had even offered to move out temporarily, so that they could use his apartment in privacy.

 

Gabrielle, always the more decisive of the two, had insisted that they couldn't put himout, that he had already done more than enough. Suzanne couldn't bear the thought of going back totheir own apartment, not even for a moment. Gabrielle took it upon herself to find other lodgings for them. One of the girls at work knew of an inexpensive apartment for rent in the building where she lived and Gabrielle had gone to make the arrangements. Stefan offered to help them move as soon as the new apartment was ready. Suzanne felt guilty that she wasn't doing her part, but after the initial shock of Joelle's death wore off, she had simply become numb.

 

She blamed herself. She should have kept more careful watch over her sister. Joelle had always been too impulsive, too impatient,too anxious to grow up. She had wanted to be just like her older sister, a dancer in a chorus line, but Suzanne wanted something better for Joelle than dancing naked in a nightclub. Since their parents died when Joelle was only nine, Suzanne had raised her, but as Joelle got older, she grew more difficult. She became more willful and independent. Much like me, Suzanne thought. She had her own circle of friends and she had started going out with older men and there had been nothing that Suzanne could do to stop it. She had to work and she could not watch her all the time. And now she was dead.

 

At least they had caught the brute that did it. Max Siegal, the famous painter. Suzanne trembled when she thought of him. Why? Why had he done it?A man who could have any woman that he wished. He must have gone insane. No sane man could have done what he had done. When Joelle had told her that Siegal had asked her to model for him, Suzanne had been against it, but she had known that if she had forbidden her, Joelle would have done it just the same. Besides, Max Siegal was a very famous and well-respected man. He often came to the club and her boss had told her that most of the stories about Max Siegal were wildly exaggerated. He was an artist, temperamental and a bit eccentric, but he was not the sort of man to take undue advantage. He said that if Joelle posed for him, it could lead to bigger things, perhaps even a contract with a modeling agency. Maybe that was why her boss was going out of his way to try to help her now. He felt guilty for reassuring her about Max Siegal. But how could he have known? How could anyone have known? What could have possessed the man to do such an awful thing?

 

There was a knock at the door and she got up to answer it, thinking it was Stefan returning from the store. She opened it and came face-to-face with Max Siegal.

 

"Suzanne Muset?" he said.

 

She gasped and brought her hand up to her mouth, involuntarily taking two steps backward."Oh, my God! It's you!"

 

"Please, I need to speak with you,",said Max, coming into the apartment. "I just came to tell you how sorry I am about—"

 

"What are you doing here?" she cried. "How did you get out of jail?"

 

"Suzanne, let me explain. I didn't—"

 

She screamed. "Get out! Get out of here! Murderer! You killed my sister!"

 

"Please, you don't understand, I didn't—"

 

She screamed hysterically and ran into the kitchen, looking for a knife, something with which to defend herself. He followed her. She yanked open a drawer and pulled out a large carving knife, holding it before her.

 

"Get away from me! Get away!"

 

Max held up his hands. "Take it easy," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I understand how you must feel, but—"

 

Suzanne screamed and lunged at him with the knife. He caught her hand and they struggled, Suzanne screaming hysterically and kicking at him, but he managed to wrest the knife out of her grasp and shove her away. And then Stefan wasmere suddenly, spinning Max around and punching him. The knife fell from Max's hand as he tried to defend himself,

 

butStefan kept hitting him and Max had no choice but to fight back. His size was an advantage. He blocked the slightly built writer's blow and struck him in the mouth, then again in the stomach, winding him. He hit him once more in the face, dropping him to the floor.

 

Suzanne scrambled for the knife, grabbing it and crouching protectively over Stefan. "Get out!" she screamed, sobbing. "Murderer! Get out!"

 

Max backed away helplessly. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping the blood from his mouth. "I didn't mean. . . I'm sorry. . . ."

 

"GET OUT!"

 

He turned and ran out of the apartment. Suzanne dropped the knife and bent down over Stefan, sobbing. He groaned.

 

"Oh, Stefan, Stefan," she sobbed, kissing him. "Stefan, darling, are you all right?"

 

"Call the police," said Stefan.

 

 

 

To Merlin, the flight toParis seemed much longer than it was because of the in-flight movie. While the plane winged its way silently across theAtlantic Ocean without benefit of engines, levitated and impelled by the sorcerer-pilots in the cockpit, the passengers were treated to a showing of the recent film, Ambrosius! Produced by Ron Rydell, who had made a fortune with his lurid series of Necromancer films, Ambrosius!was supposed to be Rydell's first effort at serious, big-budget moviemaking, based upon the life of "The Father of the Second Thaumaturgic Age, the Legendary Archmage, Merlin Ambrosius!" For Merlin, watching it was an excruciatingly painful experience.

 

The title role was played by that hammy, golden-throated British actor, Burton Clive, who never delivered a line so much as he declaimed it. He played Merlin in a broad, Shakespearian manner, all expressive eyebrows and elaborate gestures, with his eyes bulging and his nostrils flaring and his theatrical voice dramatically rising up and down the scale. It was like watching a man on the verge of an epileptic fit. Sex symbol Jessica Blaine simpered her way through the part of Guinevere, dressed in outrageously revealing costumes and heaving her bosoms with every breathy line. Lancelot was portrayed by action movie star Reese Richards, who took every opportunity to bare his chest and flexed even through the love scenes. The fact that the real Lancelot was rather homely and built like a fireplug didn't seem to matter in the least. Arthur was underplayed by veteran character actor Cleeve McCain, who mumbled all his lines and whose facial expressions seemed limited to a tic at the corner of his mouth and a squint. And MorganLe Fay was played by Rydell's new discovery, a fashion model named Heather Hyatt, who was decked out for the occasion in skin-tight black leather and spike-heeled boots. And as if all that weren't bad enough, they'd-made the film a musical, with the action stopping every fifteen minutes or so for someone to turn to the camera and break into song about "the shining glory, Camelot," or "the dreadful passion of our love."

 

Merlin suffered through the first half hour of the film, then decided to magically bum up the print in the projector, but Billy, who was enjoying the movie, prevented him and the two of them sat there, squirming, arguing like two movie critics trapped in the same body, much to the amusement of Modred and the others and the irritation of the nearby passengers.

 

"If he calls that ridiculous talking owl 'my faithful Archimedes' one more time, I'm going to blast that screen into oblivion!" said Merlin.

 

"You won't, either," Billy said. "I like the owl."

 

"I'm not surprised," said Merlin. "He's giving a better performance than anyone else in this disaster."

 

"'Ey, come on, it's not so bad," said Billy.

 

"Not so bad? It's a bloody horror!"

 

"It works for me," said Billy.

 

"That electronic cacophony you call music works for you," said Merlin. "You have the taste of a barbarian bogtrotter. I'm going to sue Rydell for defamation of character!"

 

"Now 'ow the 'ell can you sue someone when yer dead, eh?"

 

"He's got you there," said Modred, chuckling.

 

"I fail to see what you find so amusing," Merlin grumbled. "Look at the moron they've got playing you!"

 

The part of Modred had been reduced to a minor supporting role, played by the popular rock star, David Stone, complete with feathered, dyed blond hair and earring.

 

"I'll admit the earring is a bit much," said Modred, "but he does bring a certain feral energy to the part that's not entirely out of character, though personally, I could never hit such high notes. If I tried to sing like that, I'd hurt myself."

 

"I suppose you think it's funny," Merlin said.

 

"No more so than all the other books and films they've based upon us," Modred said. "At least Clive is merely overacting. Hyatt's playing my mother like some sort of lesbian stormtrooper. I particularly liked the bondage seduction scene where I was conceived. Under the circumstances, I'm amazed that Arthur could even get it up with her."

 

"That's disgusting," Merlin said.

 

"Oh, I don't know, I found it erotic, in a kinky sort of way," said Kira.

 

"You're all degenerates," said Merlin.

 

"Oh, sod off," said Billy.

 

The movie ended with the climactic confrontation between Arthur and Modred, in which both died, and in the final scene, the offscreen voice of Burton Clive talked his way through a song in the manner of stage actors who cannot really sing, intoning portentously about how "one day the magic will return, when souls cry out and cities burn" while the camera slowly zoomed in on a majestic tree growing up out of a rock promontory.

 

"I give it one and a half stars," said Wyrdrune.

 

"I hear they're already talking about a sequel," Kira said with a smirk. "Ambrosius 2 — The Second Coming."

 

"Perhaps they should call it Ambrosius, Out Of His Tree, " said Modred.

 

"That's it!" said Merlin. "I've had enough. I'm going to sleep. Wake me when we get toParis ."

 

Jacqueline met them when they landed at the Charles De Gaulle airport. As usual, they traveled light, with only one small suitcase for each of them. With Modred's vast resources, built up over the centuries, they could easily buy anything they needed and Modred always insisted on staying in the very best hotels. He had booked rooms for them at Le Ritz, on the Place Vendome, a luxury hotel dating back to the nineteenth century. In the pre-Collapse days, royalty and the cream of the upper crust had stayed at the Ritz, which boasted accommodations and service so refined that the word "ritzy" had become part of the language. The hotel was actually two town houses joined together, with courtyards and gardens on the grounds. The rooms were elegantly furnished with antique, bronze-trimmed chests, marble baths and crystal chandeliers. The lobby boasted Louis XVI antiques and tapestries. The hotel had undergone some damage during the street riots of the Collapse, but it had been extensively refurbished and as much of the original decor and furnishings as possible had been painstakingly restored.

 

They were delivered to the front entrance by a chauffeured limo. Jacqueline brought them up-to-date en route. They were conducted to their rooms and while they unpacked, Jacqueline telephoned Inspector Renaud, to see if he'd made any progress with his inquiries. Unfortunately, he hadn't. Even worse, there had been a second murder and Max had been arrested once again, this time to be held without bail.

 

"What do you mean, he's been arrested again?" Jacqueline said while the others listened. "I thought he was in jail all this time!"

 

"Regrettably, mademoiselle, Max Siegal has many friends," Renaud replied wryly. "A collection was apparently taken up to meet his bail and he was released shortly after we last spoke. And he promptly committed another murder."

 

"No," said Jacqueline. "That's impossible. There must be some mistake."

 

"I am afraid not, mademoiselle," Renaud told her. "He returned to the scene of the crime and killed again."

 

"I don't believe it," Jacqueline said. "What proof do you have?"

 

"After he was released from jail," said Renaud, his tone very curt and official, "he made his way back to the Rue Morgue. He went back to the apartment where Joelle Muset had stayed with her sister, Suzanne, and her roommate, Gabrielle Longet. He found the apartment vacant, but the two girls were staying temporarily with a neighbor in the apartment across the hall. He apparently discovered that fact and forced his way in. We have witnesses this time. Stefan Rienzi, who was renting the apartment, came home to find Siegal assaulting Suzanne Muset with a knife. They fought and Rienzi managed to get the knife away from him, but he was injured in the struggle, sustaining a slight concussion and a broken nose. Suzanne Muset called the police, but by the time they arrived, Siegal had fled. A warrant was immediately issued for his arrest. However, before he could be apprehended, he returned to finish the job, while Rienzi was getting treatment at the hospital. Suzanne had accompanied Rienzi to the hospital, but Siegal found her roommate, Gabrielle Longet, alone at the apartment and he killed her. The method of the murder was identical to that of Joelle Muset.'"

 

"I simply can't believe it," Jacqueline said, stunned. "There must be some other explanation."

 

"I am afraid not, mademoiselle," Renaud said stiffly. "After our discussion, I was tempted to give your friend the benefit of the doubt, but now that is no longer possible. Another innocent girl has died and the newspapers are blaming us for releasing Siegal from custody. This time, he will remain in jail, where he belongs, until his trial and execution."

 

"Listen to me, Renaud," Jacqueline said, "I know you think that Max is guilty, but I assure you, he did not commit those murders, no matter what it looks like. You have to make those calls—"

 

"I am sorry, mademoiselle," Renaud cut her off, "but I have already listened to you long enough. I will not be a party to some scheme to get a demented killer back on the streets ofParis once again. Good day to you."

 

He hung up the phone.

 

Jacqueline stared at the dead receiver in her hand,then slowly replaced it in its cradle. "I can't believe it," she said."The fool. Why did he go back there?"

 

"What happened?" Wyrdrune asked.

 

She told them what Renaud had said.

 

"Jacqueline," said Modred gently, "pleasedon't take offense, but are you quite certain about this?"

 

She stared at him. "What are you saying? You think Max did it?"

 

"I don't know Max Siegal," Modred said. "I know only his work and what you've told me about him."

 

"And my word isn't good enough for you, is that it?" she said.

 

"No, that's not it at all. You should know better than that," said Modred. "But you yourself said that you hadn't seen Max Siegal in some time. It's possible that he might have had some sort of mental breakdown and—"

 

"Max Siegal is as sane as you and I," she said. "He's not a killer.And what about the runes?"

 

"There is that," said Kira. "You're sure they were the same?"

 

"I drew them for Renaud myself and he said they were identical to the marks found on the first victim's body," said Jacqueline. "Max couldn't possibly have known about them."

 

Modred nodded. "That's true," he said. "It seems Max Siegal made the mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.Twice."

 

"I can't understand it," Jacqueline said. "Why on earth would he go back there? And threatening the girl with aknife, that simply doesn't sound like Max. He's temperamental, true, and he's been in fights before, but he's never hurt a woman. He isn't like that."

 

"If Max Siegal's innocent, then his only chance to prove it is to remain in jail," Modred said. "He will be arraigned, but it will be a long time until his trial. If what we suspect is true, then the killer will surely strike again before then."

 

"So Max's only chance to gain his freedom is for someone else to die," Jacqueline said.

 

"It would seem so," said Modred, "at least for the moment. But even if the killer doesn't strike again—and if we're right, that's an extremely unlikely possibility—then there's still the fact that the evidence they have against Siegal is still purely circumstantial.Powerfully circumstantial, perhaps, but nevertheless not conclusive."

 

"I have to go and see him," Jacqueline said.

 

"-They probably will not admit you," Modred said. "Let's not rush into anything. Do you know who his attorney is?"

 

"No," she said, "but I can easily find out."

 

"Do that. If he's reasonably competent, then perhaps we can work with him. If not, we'll get someone else to represent him."

 

"I'll get August Chautrand," Jacqueline said. "He's always represented me. He's the best criminal lawyer inFrance ."

 

"Good. Give him a call. In the meantime, what can you tell me about this Inspector Renaud?"

 

"Not very much," Jacqueline said. "I've only met him once.Polite.Charming. He seemed like a reasonable man, but now he simply refuses to listen."

 

"Has he called in the I.T.C. or anyone from the French Bureau of Thaumaturgy?" Modred asked.

 

"I don't know," she said. "When we last spoke, he said that if what I told him was true, it was his duty to call in the I.T.C, but now it seems he's satisfied that no magic was involved."

 

"He may be determined to make the case himself, without having the I.T.C. or the Bureautake it away from him," said Wyrdrune. "In that event, he's going to wind up looking very foolish when the Dark Ones kill again."

 

"No, not the Dark Ones," Modred said."At least, not personally. It would appear as if they're working through an acolyte. That would be their normal pattern. Send someone else out to do their killing and feed off the life energy released until they've accumulated sufficient power for mass slaughter. Until then, they will conserve their energies."

 

"You think there may be more than one?" said Kira.

 

"I hope there's only one," said Modred, "but there may well be more. At this point, there's simply no way of knowing, so we might as well assume the worst. Have any of you had any reaction from your runestones?"

 

Kira shook her head. "Not me."

 

"Me, neither," Wyrdrune said.

 

"Nor I," said Modred. "That means they can't be very close. Or their power isn't great enough yet, which would work in our favor. "

 

"Have we landed yet?" said Merlin, as Billy yawned. "Where are we? Are we in our hotel already?"

 

"Good morning," Kira said.

 

"I thought I told you to wake me when we landed," Merlin said.

 

"What for?" said Billy. "So you could just start in bein' a bloody pain again?"

 

"Now you listen here, you young guttersnipe—"

 

"Not now, Ambrosius," Modred said. "It can wait. There have been new developments. We have to formulate a plan of action."

 

"What do you want me to do?" asked Merlin.

 

'"Ow's about keepin' quiet?" Billy said sourly.

 

"For the moment, nothing," Modred said. "I have to think. In a city likeParis , the Dark Ones could be almost anywhere. For the time being, I don't think we can expect any cooperation from the police."

 

"Maybe we should call Blood and have him get in touch with Renaud," said Wyrdrune.

 

"Let's hold off on that for now," said Modred. "If Renaud becomes convinced that necromancy is involved, as he inevitably will be, then we already know the first thing he's going to do is call in the I.T.C. and they're not liable to be very cooperative. There's also the fact that I'm wanted by them."

 

"But they don't know you're Morpheus," said Kira. "They don't even know what Morpheus looks like."

 

"Just the same, I'd rather not have them underfoot," said Modred. "Their sorcerer agents are very competent, but their bureaucracy gives them tunnel vision. The longer we have to operate unimpeded, the better our chances are."

 

"So what's our first move?" asked Wyrdrune.

 

"Well, since it doesn't seem as if we can expect any cooperation from the local authorities, we'll need more help," Modred said. "I'm going to call Makepeace and have him fly out as soon as possible. Then I'd like to have a look at the scene of the murders. There would have to be some thaumaturgic trace emanations on the site, even if they're very faint. Perhaps we can pick up something."

 

"That might be risky," Kira said.

 

Modred shrugged. "At the moment, we have nothing else to go on."

 

There was a sudden commotion in the hall outside their room. Wyrdrune went to the door and opened it. The broom was out in the hall, wrestling with a maid. They were both shouting at each other, Broom in English, the maid in a torrent of rapid French.

 

"Broom!What the hell are you doing?" Wyrdrune said. "Let go of that woman!"

 

"Melet go of her? She keeps grabbing me! Will someone for God's sake tell this person I'm not part of the cleaning equipment?" said the broom, appealing to them for help. "This crazy woman's stuck me in the closet four times already and each time I manage to get out, she yells and shoves me right back in again!"

 

"Pardon, madame," said Modred to the maid in flawless French, "but I believe that broom belongs to us."

 

The maid stared at him wide-eyed."To you, monsieur?"

 

"Yes. It does not belong to the hotel. As you can see, it is a rather special broom. Could we have it, please?"

 

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but I thought it was one of the new cleaning tools. We have recently had our vacuum cleaners animated, you see, and I thought this was some sort of new attachment. . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked from the broom to Modred, embarrassment plain on her face.

 

"A completely understandable mistake," said Modred. "Please think nothing of it. You see, my friend here is an adept and the broom is his familiar."

 

"Ah! Mon Dieu!" she said. "I did not know! You won't tell the management, monsieur? I will get in trouble!"

 

"We won't say another word about it," Modred said. "But perhaps you would be so kind as to inform the staff about our broom, in order to avoid any further misunderstandings of this nature."

 

"Yes, of course, monsieur! And please accept my apologies." She curtsied to him, then, after hesitating uncertainly, she curtsied to the broom, as well.

 

"What's she doing now?" the broom said suspiciously.

 

"Just say, merci, Broom."

 

"Mercy," said the broom.

 

"Oui, merci,"said the maid, and hurried off down the hall.

 

"Crazy woman," said the broom. "Couldn't she tell I wasn't just any broom, for God's sake?"

 

"Apparently not," said Modred. "It seems they have animated cleaning appliances in this hotel. She thought you were some sort of vacuum cleaner attachment."

 

"Vacuum cleaner attachment!"said the broom with disbelief. "They have animated vacuum cleaners?"

 

"Apparently so," said Modred.

 

"Feh!"the broom said. "What's this world coming to, I ask you? You mean to tell me I'm going to have to put up with some talking canister coming in here to- make up the room? Gevalt! I never heard of such a thing! You just tell them to keep out of here, that's all.Animated vacuum cleaners, my tuchis!"

 

"Just stay in the room and you'll be fine, Broom," Wyrdrune said with a chuckle. "Watch some TV or something."

 

"Oh, swell," the broom said. "I finally get a trip toParis and he says stay in the room and watch TV! I could have done that at home! Besides, I don't speak a word of French. How am I supposed to understand the programs?"

 

"Maybe we can get a bilingual vacuum cleaner in here to interpret for you," Wyrdrune said with a grin.

 

"No, thank you very much," the broom said with a sniff. "Never mind me. You just go on about your business. I'll find some way to occupy my time. After all, it's onlyParis . TheEiffelTower is just a bunch of girders, the Champs-Elysees is just a street,the Louvre is only a museum. We've got museums back home inNew York . It doesn't matter. I'll be fine. I'll find something to do. Don't worry about me."

 

Wyrdrune rolled his eyes. "Mother," he said, "you've got a lot to answer for."

 

Modred chuckled. "Don't worry, Broom. We'll find something for you to do. Perhaps we'll hire a guide to take you on a tour. Would you like that?"

 

"You don't have to go to any trouble on my account," the broom said.

 

"It's no trouble at all."

 

"No, that's all right. I'll just stay here. I'll do some knitting. You just go have a good time. Never mind about me, I'll be fine."

 

"Broom . . ." said Wyrdrune. "Stop it."

 

"Well, all right, if you insist, I'll go on a tour. But you're sure it won't be too expensive?Maybe just a little tour?"

 

"We'll work something out," said Modred. "In the meantime, I suggest we have some dinner. The cuisine in this hotel is excellent. We are inParis , after all. Then, afterward, we'll take a short trip to the Rue Morgue."

 

"You've done very well, Jacques," the Dark One said."Very well, indeed. I see that we were right to choose you."

 

Jacques sat on the couch in the luxurious apartment, staring at the floor. "She was so young, so pretty. . . ."

 

"And so strong," she said, coming up to stand before him. "The young ones are fresh," she said. "Their life energy is the most vibrant. Their blood courses powerfully through their veins."

 

"Blood," said Jacques, still staring at the floor. "There was so much blood. . . ."

 

"You will grow used to it," she said, dropping her hand to rest on the back of his neck. "It was not so hard, was it? The second one was easier than the first. And the third one will be easier still. And after awhile, it will trouble you no longer. You will even learn to take pleasure in the kill."

 

"I did take pleasure in it, God help me," said Jacques. He stared at his hands. "I keep washing my hands, but I can still feel the blood upon them." He shivered. "It frightens me. I know it's wrong, terribly wrong, and yet, I find myself enjoying it.The way I enjoy making love with you. I cannot think straight, I cannot eat, I cannot sleep. I keep thinking about those poor young girls. I did not want to do it, but I couldn't help myself. . . ."

 

She sat down on the couch, next to him, and put her arm around him. "Would you rather go back to the way you were?" she said. "Is that what you want? To be old and decrepit once again, diseased and lice-ridden, crawling through the sewer tunnels like a rat? Is that what you want?"

 

"No," he said with a shudder. "But perhaps I would be better off."

 

"Better off in the filthy, stinking sewers than in this beautiful apartment?" she said. "Better off dying down there like some vermin-ridden animal instead of living like a handsome young gentleman of means? This is only the beginning, Jacques. You can have your old life back again and more. You will be better than you ever were before, better than you could have dreamed! We are not ungrateful. We reward those who are loyal to us. Tonight you will be back upon the stage once more. You will be the star of theParis entertainment world! You will be wealthy, sought after and admired. Isn't that what you really want?"

 

"Yes. No. I don't know," said Jacques. "I don't know what I want anymore."

 

"You still want me, Jacques, don't you?" she said, pulling him close and kissing his cheek, lightly flicking his earlobe with her tongue.