He felt the irresistible, overpowering desire for her flow through him once again and he threw his arms around her, pulling her close, kissing her passionately.

 

"God help me," he said. "Oh, Leila, what have you done tome?"

 

"Not a fraction of what I'm going to do, my love," she said softly, kissing him deeply and pushing him down upon the couch.

 

 

 

Chapter

FOUR

 

 

 

Michel Fremont had accumulated more stored-up hatred in his seventeen years than most people experience in an entire lifetime. He had grown up in a sick, abusive atmosphere, with an emotionally deadened mother who sold her body on the streets to support her drug habit and a father who was a sadistic alcoholic. He had never experienced affection. He had never known what it meant to feel wanted. He knew only anger and resentment because that was all he ever got and he gave it back in spades.

 

When Michel's father came staggering home after the bars had closed, the shouting and the screaming would commence, with his father demanding money and his mother refusing to give him any, afraid that she wouldn't have enough to pay the rent and buy her drugs—never mind the food, of which there was never enough. His father would start beating her and she would put up token resistance, suffering the treatment long enough to make him think that he had pummeled her into submission, whereupon she would part with a portion of the money she had earned, hoarding the rest in various hiding places around the house. Michel's father would then pocket the money and start looking for Michel, to thrash him for good measure before he went to sleep.

 

Michel would hide, under a bed, inside a closet, behind a chair, and occasionally his father would fail to find him before he passed out on the couch, or on the bed, or often on the floor, and for at least one night, Michel would escape a beating. But it was a very small apartment and there were few places to hide. More often than not, Michel was pulled out from his place of sanctuary and "taught a lesson." Violence was the only lesson he had ever learned and he had learned it very well.

 

At school, he was surly and rebellious, indifferent to his lessons and meaner than a junkyard dog. All the other children were mortally afraid of him and, as he grew older, a good number of his teachers learned to fear him, too. They were secretly relieved when one day he failed to show up for school and never came back again. No one even bothered to report him for being truant. Nor did he bother to go back home. His father had beat him once too often and Michel had waited until he passed out on the floor, then he had stuck a knife between his ribs and stopped his snoring permanently. He had then gone to finish off his mother, but she had already saved him the trouble. He found her dead in her bedroom, of an overdose.

 

Michel never felt the least bitOf remorse. For a while, he was afraid that the police would catch him, but it never came to that. It was not the sort of crime that received a great deal of priority. A prostitute dead of an overdose and a convicted felon stabbed to death. Perhaps one of her Johns had done it. Perhaps she had killed him and then drugged herself into oblivion. Either way, nobody much cared. They were the sort of people who would not be missed. The neighbors had said something about a boy, and he was listed as being missing, but there were more runaways living on the streets ofParis than the police could ever hope to find and so they didn't bother looking very hard. Michel was simply another casualty of a squalid family life.

 

He survived by stealing. He tried picking pockets, as many of the young street urchins did, but he found it far easier simply to select vulnerable victims, knock them down, kick them until they stopped straggling and then relieve them of their valuables. He had soon organized a small street gang of young hellions, keeping them in line with his father's time-honored methods. He taught them how to gang up on their targets, how to hit and run so they were never caught. The young runaway girls who gravitated to his gang were taught his mother's old profession, with a twist. They enticed the customers with their youth, luring them with promises of cheap, illicit sex to a place where the boys could stomp them into the ground and take their money. Occasionally, some of these girls would strike out on their own, finding it more profitable to actually deliver the goods and keep all the money for themselves. To keep that from happening too often, Michel made a habit of knocking them around every now and then, just as his father had done with his mother, until they coughed up some money. Most of them soon found it prudent to have some money on them to surrender, just in case Michel demanded an accounting. He was cold and vicious, without an ounce of compassion in his twisted soul, and he was afraid of nothing.

 

Until he met the Dark Ones.

 

The two old gentlemen were shuffling down the street, walking arm in arm. They looked like a couple of old queens, out for an evening's promenade. They were well dressed, which meant they probably had money. They should have known better than to be out at night in such a neighborhood, but perhaps they were out cruising, looking for some young flesh to fulfill their twisted appetites. Perhaps they thought that being together would provide them with some measure of protection. Well, thought Michel, the old fools would soon find out how wrong they were.

 

He beckoned his young headbreakers forward, silently directing three of them to cut around the block and get ahead of the two old men. Then, after giving them several moments to get into position, he gave the signal to the other three and they quickly began to close the distance. The two old men heard the sound of boot heels behind them and fearfully glanced over their shoulders, quickening their pace, but Michel and his young friends were already only yards behind them and closing fast. Then, suddenly, three more street punks stepped out of an alleyway ahead of them and the two old men found themselves boxed in. Like a well-trained assault unit, Michel and his gang, four boys and two tough-as-nails teenaged girls, hit the old men from both sides, forcing them into the alleyway where they could throw them to the ground and kick them into submission and that's where things started going wrong.

 

Suddenly, inexplicably, there was no sign of the two old men. One moment, they were shoving them into the alleyway, the next, they were simply gone. And they were no longer in the alley.

 

Stunned, Michel and his friends looked around them at the torches blazing on the rock walls, at the smoking braziers and the bones piled up in niches all around them.

 

"What the hell?" Michel said, gazing all around him wildly, looking for someone to pulverize.

 

"What happened?" one of the girls cried in a frightened voice. "Where are we?"

 

Involuntarily, they started to huddle together in a tight little group around Michel.

 

"Get away from me!" he said, shoving them away.

 

"Adepts!"one of the other boys said. "Those two old geezers must've been adepts! We tried to mug a pair of sorcerers! Oh, Christ, we've had it now!"

 

"Shut up!" Michel said.

 

"Michel, I'm frightened!" the second girl wailed.

 

Michel gave her a stinging slap across the face. "Shut up, I said! I'll give you something to be frightened of!"

 

"What is this place?" one of the other boys said.

 

"The Catacombs," another boy replied, his voice trembling slightly. "They must've sent us to the Catacombs. You could get lost in here forever! We'll never find our way out! We're dead!"

 

Michel grabbed him by the throat. "Shut up! We'll find our way out. Somebody found their way in, didn't they? Someone had to light these torches. We'll find 'em and make 'em show us the way out!"

 

" Michel! Look!"one of the girls said, pointing.

 

Two hooded, black-robed figures stood at the far end of the chamber, watching them.

 

"Get 'em!" snarled Michel, running at the figures.

 

Purely out of instinct, three of the boys went with him, but the others hesitated. One of the hooded figures casually raised an arm and Michel and the three boys suddenly foundthemselves being hurled back fifteen feet across the chamber. One of the girls screamed, the other threw her hands up to her mouth, speechless with fear. The boys who had hesitated began to back away slowly, their eyes wide. Two of the boys who had charged the robed figures lay stunned on the floor of the chamber. The third pulled himself up to his hands and knees, but prudently chose to remain right where he was. Things had escalated far beyond the point where any of them were willing to go on with this. Any of them except Michel, who immediately jumped to his feet and, with a scream of rage, launched himself at the necromancers, knife in hand.

 

The necromancer calmly raised his arm once more, palm out facingMichel, and it was as if Michel had run into a stone wall. He bounced hard off something that wasn't even there, ran at it again, only to encounter the same invisible obstruction. Snarling, he rained blows and kicks upon the unseen wall.

 

"Magnificent, isn't he, Azreal?" one of the necromancers said, his resonant, deep voice filling the chamber.

 

"A wild little beast," the other said."Such rage and such intensity!Such deliciously delightful evil!"

 

"Yes, I think he will do very nicely."

 

Furious, Michel spun around to face his friends. " Come on!"he screamed at them. "Don't just fucking stand there! We can all smash through together!"

 

But his friends weren't having any of it. In his rage, Michel wasn't thinking beyond the fact that there was an obstacle of some sort between him and his quarry. All he wanted was to break through, but his companions all realized by now that they were facing sorcerers and they wanted no part of it. They turned and fled toward the tunnel they had seen behind them, but suddenly, it simply wasn't there. There was no exit from the chamber.The were completely enclosed by solid walls of rock.

 

They panicked. They ran to where the tunnel had been scant moments earlier, pressing their hands against the wall, refusing to believe it wasn't there. One of the girls backed away from the wall, whimpering, and tripped, falling into a heap of bones. She screamed hysterically as rats scampered away from the pile.

 

Michel spun around again and started stabbing repeatedly at the invisible obstruction. It gave way before his blade and sprang right back. He screamed with frustration and threw himself against it and suddenly he plunged through. He fell hard to the stone floor of the chamber. He could no longer hear the screams of his friends. He turned and looked back through the invisible wall, watching them scramble madly around the chamber, seeking an avenue of escape which wasn't there. It was like watching some sort of surrealistic silent movie. He saw their mouths opening and closing, but he couldn't hear a sound. He turned and looked up at the two necromancers, who stood motionless before him, and his face twisted into a grimace of bestial rage. He bent and picked up his knife.

 

"Listen to me, Michel Fremont," said one of them, pulling back his hood. Michel found himself staring not at an old man, but at a strikingly handsome young face framed by flaming red hair that cascaded down onto his shoulders." You have a great deal of potential. We can help you to realize it."

 

"Realize this!" Michel said, and hurled the knife unerringly toward the necromancer.

 

The necromancer didn't move, but the knife came to a dead stop, hanging in midair only inches from his chest. He stared at it and it dropped to the floor.

 

"He truly is an animal," the other necromancer said.

 

"Then let him become one," his companion replied. He gestured at Michel.

 

Michel screamed in pain and doubled over as a searing heat suddenly washed over him. He sank to the floor, wreathed in a pulsating blue aura. He thrashed and clawed at himself, tearing off his clothes. It felt as if thousands upon thousands of microscopic insects were crawling all over him, biting and stinging furiously. Blood gushed from his gums as his teeth sprouted into fangs. His hands became twisted and gnarled, throbbing with agony as they metamorphosed into paws. His back felt as if it were breaking as it arched high, his spine writhing like a snake beneath his skin. His eyes changed color, becoming a bright, glowing, golden yellow. His jaw began to stretch as his lower face extended into a snarling, drooling snout. Black fur sprouted from his face and body and his screams became a bestial howling.

 

Behind the invisible wall, his friends stood huddled together, frozen with terror as they watched Michel being transformed into a huge and powerful wolf, only much larger than any normal wolf could ever be. It snapped its jaws and pawed at the ground, shaking its huge head back and forth, filling the underground chamber with the echo of its gruesome howls. And then, as the creature that had been Michel came toward them, they realized that the invisible wall was gone and the monster was moving with a slow, deliberate, stalking gait, its yellow eyes fixed upon them hungrily. They broke and ran, screaming, but there was nowhere for them to run.

 

The beast leaped and brought down one of the girls. She screamed hysterically as its right forepaw swept across her chest, tearing away her blouse, and then twin yellow beams stabbed down from the creature's eyes, burning strange and grotesque symbols into her young breasts. Her piercing screams filled the chamber as smoke curled up from her charred skin and then the creature brought its massive head down, snapping its powerful jaws at her throat, and blood gushed up in a fountain as her screams ended in a horrendous gurgle.

 

The two necromancers stood utterly motionless, their eyes closed as if in ecstasy, their chests swelling slightly as they absorbed the power of her life force. And then the creature snarled and leaped again.

 

 

 

They had no difficulty getting into the apartment. Wyrdrune had been about to cast a spell to release the lock, but Kira told him not to bother. She merely reached inside her jacket pocket and removed a slim little case of stainless steel tools, which she used to pick the lock open. It took her no more than a few seconds.

 

"Well, now what's the fun of that?" said Wyrdrune.

 

"It isn't about fun, it's about being quietly efficient," Kira said. "Anyway, knowing you, you'd have overdone it and blown open the entire door and half the wall, besides."

 

"I appreciate the vote of confidence," said Wyrdrune sourly.

 

They went in and shut the door behind them. There were only the four of them. Jacqueline had stayed behind at the hotel to make her calls to Max Siegal's lawyer and to her own attorney. They walked slowly around the apartment; two bedrooms, a small sitting room, a bathroom and a kitchenette.

 

The furniture was old and conformed to no particular style. There was a cheap, imitation Persian rug on the floor, stained and bunched up in several places. An old sofa with a garish floral print stood against the wall. It was spattered with blood, as was the wall behind it. Opposite it, a small television set had stood on a badly scratched coffee table, but the table had been knocked over and the television set lay broken on the floor. A battered end table beside the sofa had been knocked over, as well. The ashtray on it had been overflowing with cigarette butts, which were strewn across the floor, the filter tips stained with bright red lipstick. The surface of the end table was covered with cigarette burns. There were a dozen or more potted plants badly in need of watering placed around the sitting room in little groups, many of them knocked over, and a fake fireplace with a nonfunctional grate in which a stuffed dog with one eye missing had been placed on a ratty old cushion, a cherished toy from childhood, amusingly displayed.

 

Two posters hung on the wall above the sofa, one a framed advertisement for the Cafe Noir, done in a poor imitation of Lautrec's style, the other a photographic print of the skyline ofManhattan , with "New York" boldly lettered in white across it. TheNew York poster was hanging crookedly and there was a large smudge on the wall beside it, with a chip in the plaster. Beneath it, a broken clay pot lay on the carpet, the plant and soil spilling out of it. It seemed as if the victim had hurled die pot at the killer in a vain attempt at self-defense. A battered, cloth upholstered reading chair stood in one corner, the standing lamp beside it leaning at a crazy angle against the wall. The mantelpiece was cluttered with all sorts of bric-a-brac; framed photographs, a few miniature figurines of unicorns and dragons, some of which had been knocked over and broken, a hair brush, an open pack of cigarettes, a brandy snifter containing matchbooks from various restaurants and night spots.

 

The kitchen was a mess. There was hardly anything in the refrigerator.One moldy container of strawberry yogurt. One withered head of lettuce.An open bottle of white wine. Several left-over cartons of Chinese take-out.And not much else. Unwashed cups and dishes were stacked in the sink. The countertop was sprinkled with spilled coffee grounds. There were shattered fragments of cups and dishes on the floor, as well as a few pots and pans. The kitchen chairs had been knocked over and the table had been shoved aside. Part of the struggle had taken place in here. The garbage stank.

 

In the bathroom, there was a veritable explosion of cosmetics, underthings and toiletries. Lipsticks, eye shadows, blushers, eyeliners, makeup base, panties hanging on the shower rod and spigots, cold cream, moisturizers, acne medications, lacy bras in black and various pastel shades, perfumes, curling sets, blow dryers, shampoos, crème rinses and conditioners, silky slips, oil treatments, depilatory foams, sanitary napkins, nail polish in almost every imaginable shade, dirty towels, mascara, bunched-up stockings ... it looked as if someone had thrown a hand grenade in there and closed the door to contain the holocaust. However, this was apparently the result of the normal housekeeping or rather the lack of it, not the struggle with the killer. The bedrooms were not much neater. Clothes left wherever they were dropped.High-heeled shoes spilling out of the closets. Modred stopped in the doorway of the second bedroom, where two of the girls had slept.

 

"They were here," he said, looking all around the room.

 

Kira glanced at Wyrdrune. The emerald runestone was nearly hidden by his hair, but she could see a faint, telltale green glow. She glanced down at her palm to see that her sapphire runestone was also glowing dimly.

 

"They stood right here, in this bedroom," Modred said, entering the room briefly,then going back out into the sitting room. There was a large, dark stain in the center of the carpet. He glanced back toward the bedroom. "They stood right there and watched through the open doorway while he killed her, then they absorbed her life energy."

 

"You said they, " said Merlin.

 

Modred looked at him and frowned. "Yes, I did, didn't I?"

 

"Don't any of you move," said a voice from behind them. "Turn around, slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them."

 

They did as the voice instructed. Standing behind them, in the open doorway of the apartment, was a slim, dark-haired young man holding a small semiautomatic pistol. He looked nervous and his hand was shaking slightly.

 

"You heard them say that in the movies, didn't you?" said Modred, smiling in a friendly manner.

 

"Just stay right where you are," the young man said. He moistened his lips. "Who are you people? What are you doing in here?"

 

"Stefan Rienzi?" Modred said.

 

"How do you know my name? Are you with the police? I'd like to see some identification."

 

"We're not with the police, Mr. Rienzi," Modred said, "but we are investigating the murder."

 

"Are you with the I.T.C.?"

 

"No," said Modred. "It's a rather complicated situation, Mr. Rienzi, and I'm afraid I haven't the time to explain it to you."

 

"I think I'd better call the police," Rienzi said.

 

The gun suddenly flew out of Rienzi's grasp and sailed across the room, landing in Billy's outstretched hand. "Never did like these damned things," said Merlin, handing the pistol to Modred. Rienzi bolted, but Wyrdrune gestured at the apartment door and it slammed shut. Rienzi grasped the doorknob and twisted it frantically, but the door refused to open. He turned around, his back against the door, staring at them fearfully.

 

"Who are you?" he said. "What do you want?"

 

"Calm yourself, Mr. Rienzi," Wyrdrune said. "We mean you no harm."

 

Modred glanced at the small-caliber pistol. It was of fairly recent manufacture, very small and made from inexpensive polymers and alloy. It had no knock-down power and was not a terribly threatening weapon unless one hit a vital spot. In the hands of someone who could hit that vital spot consistently, it would certainly do the job, although Rienzi was probably not that sort of man. Modred, on the other hand, was.

 

"In the future, before you point a weapon at someone, you might want to take the safety off," he said. He released the magazine, thumbed the bullets out onto the floor, checked to see that there was no round left in the chamber, reinserted the magazine and tossed the pistol back to Rienzi.

 

"I demand to know who you are and what you're doing here," Rienzi said, summoning up his courage and looking straight at him.

 

Modred held his gaze. "But we were never here," he said.

 

Rienzi blinked several times, but did not look away. He couldn't.

 

"You . . . you were never here," he said, his gaze becoming unfocused.

 

"You have never seen us," Modred said, staring at him intensely.

 

"I have never seen you," said Rienzi, his tone mechanical.

 

"If anyone asks, you couldn't possibly describe us, because you never saw us. There was no one here."

 

"Stefan!" A young woman's voice came from out in the corridor. She sounded alarmed. The doorknob rattled. "Stefan, are you all right? Is anybody there? What's happening?"

 

"There is no one here," he said mechanically.

 

"Stefan, I've called the police, they're on their way!"

 

"That must be Suzanne," said Kira. "You think she saw us?"

 

"I doubt it," Modred said. "Otherwise, she would not have asked if anyone was here. They must have heard us out in the corridor or moving around in here. In any case, if the police are on their way, I don't think we should remain. I think we've discovered all there is to learn here."

 

"Stefan! Stefan, I hear voices!"

 

"There is no one here," said Rienzi.

 

"Stefan, let me in!"

 

Modred glanced at Billy. "Ambrosius, will you do the honors?"

 

"My pleasure," Merlin said. He mumbled a quick spell under his breath and quickly brought his arms up over his head. They all disappeared, leaving Rienzi standing alone in the apartment.

 

"Stefan! Stefan, why won't you answer? What's wrong? Stefan?"

 

Rienzi blinked several times,then turned the doorknob. It opened easily and Suzanne came rushing in. She had a large carving knife in her hand. She looked around, clearly frightened, but there wasn't anybody there.

 

"Stefan! I was frightened half out of my mind! I thought perhaps he had come back! Why didn't you answer me?"

 

"I told you there was no one here," he said calmly.

 

"But I heard voices."

 

"It must have been only your imagination."

 

"But I heard them, I tell you! Why was the door locked?"

 

"It wasn't. It was open."

 

"But I tried it!" she protested. "It was locked from the inside!"

 

"Nonsense.You're merely overwrought. As you can clearly see, there's no one here. Come, you shouldn't be in here. It's too much of a strain for you. We will be moving you soon. I will collect everything you need. Coming back in here will only upset you."

 

"I've called the police."

 

"Then we shall have to apologize to them for having wasted their time. I will explain to them. Under the circumstances, I'm sure they'll understand. Now come on, let's finish packing. The sooner you're out of here, the better off you'll be."

 

He gently turned her around and led her out of the apartment. He turned back to shut the door and his gaze fell on the bullets lying on the floor. He frowned and stared at them for a moment, then quickly went back inside, picked them up and put them in his pocket. Then he left the apartment and shut the door behind him.

 

 

 

They reappeared back inside their suite at the Ritz, giving Jacqueline a start. She had been on her way out of the bedroom, where she had changed, and had been about to call for room service when they all suddenly appeared out of nowhere right in front of her. She almost ran right into Wyrdrune. Startled, she cried out. Anotherstep, and she would have been standing right on the spot where he'd materialized.

 

"That was a little close for comfort," she said.

 

"Yes, let's try to keep the middle of the room clear," said Modred, "just to avoid any potential accidents."

 

"That was a neat trick you did back there with Rienzi," Wyrdrune said. "You'll have to show me how it's done sometime. I didn't even hear you speak a spell of compulsion."

 

"That's because I didn't use one," Modred said. "And, regrettably, it's not the sort of trick that one can teach."

 

"Then what did you do?" asked Kira.

 

"He simply overwhelmed Rienzi's will with his own," said Merlin.

 

"How?" asked Wyrdrune, frowning.

 

"As I said, it's not the sort of trick that one can teach," said Modred. "I simply willed him to believe what I wanted him to believe. It isn't a technique so much as a talent. I discovered that I could do it about a thousand years ago and I've gotten somewhat better at it since. It takes a good deal of concentration. It doesn't work with everyone, but it's come in handy on occasion. I can't really explain it."

 

"It's an ability inherited from the Old Ones," Merlin said.

 

"You mean you can do it, too?" asked Wyrdrune.

 

"I could at one time," Merlin replied. "However, I've discovered that my inborn abilities are considerably diminished in Billy's body. As Modred said, it's a latent talent, one that develops with time, and it doesn't work with everyone, though I've found that it works fairly dependably with animals."

 

"I imagine it's where the myth about vampires bending people to their will came from," Modred said. "People descended from the Old Ones inherited many of their talents, such as extrasensory perception and, in certain rare cases, even telepathy, but I've noticed that those abilities tend to diminish with each succeeding generation unless both parents possessed the talent, in which case the child may have it stronger."

 

"You know, it's entirely possible that you may have it, too," said Merlin. "You may have acquired it through the spirits of the runestones."

 

"It's possible," said Modred. "I find it easier to do now that the runestone is a part of me. But it's not enough merely to inherit the talent. One must practice to develop it."

 

"I wonder if it would work on Broom,"mused Wyrdrune. "Maybe if I really concentrated. . . ."

 

"To really concentrate, you first have to have a mind," the broom said, coming in from the back bedroom. "But I'm telling you right now, if you start staring at me and coming on like Dracula, I'll laugh so hard I'll plotz. Anyway, I've got all your things laid out. Is there anything else you want I should do or can I go back to watching television programs I can't even understand?"

 

"You won't have to suffer the frustration of watching French TV, Broom," Jacqueline said. "You're going out tonight."

 

"I'm going out?" the broom said. "Me?"

 

"Yes, it has all been arranged through the hotel," Jacqueline said. "I've engaged a guide who speaks English to take you out tonight and show you some of theParis nightlife. He should be arriving any moment."

 

"I'm going out? " the broom said. "I'm actually going out? Oy vey, I can't believe it! I'm actually going to get to do something for a change?"

 

There was a knock at the door and Jacqueline went to answer it. She opened it to admit a very handsome and urbane-looking young man, dressed in the height of fashion. He took one look at Jacqueline and smiled broadly.

 

"Ah, c'est magnifique! Delightful! My name is Pierre Bouchet. I am the tour guide you engaged. Mademoiselle is ready to go out?" he said.

 

"No, not me," Jacqueline said, in French. She turned and pointed at the broom.

 

The tour guide's jaw dropped and his eyebrows shot up. " That?"he said. He stared at her with disbelief. "Mademoiselle is joking!"

 

"Mademoiselle is not joking," said Jacqueline, still in French.

 

"But ... but mademoiselle . . . you cannot be serious! You mean you wish me to take that . . . that . . ."

 

"That broom," Jacqueline said.

 

"But I will be a laughingstock, mademoiselle! You cannot seriously expect me to escort a ... a broom to the finest nightclubs and restaurants ofParis !"

 

"You will be paid three times your usual rate," Jacqueline said, "with a substantial bonus if the broom has a good time. You will treat it no differently than you would a wealthy socialite. You will be courteous and polite, and as attentive as if you were escorting me, is that understood?"

 

The man sighed with resignation. "Oui,mademoiselle.If that is your wish. "

 

"That is my wish," Jacqueline said. "I might add that the broom is this gentleman's cherished familiar," she said, indicating Wyrdrune, "and he is most solicitous of its welfare. It had served his departed mother faithfully while he was completing his thaumaturgical training and it is the only thing he has left to remind him of her. He would take it very badly if it were treated with anything less than the utmost respect."

 

"Ah, oui, mademoiselle, I understand," the guide said, glancing at Wyrdrune nervously. "Please explain to the gentleman that I will take very special care of it. I would never wish to offend an adept under any circumstances."

 

"Good. See that you do not," Jacqueline said. She turned and switched to English. "Well, Broom, all the arrangements have been made. You'll be in capable hands. Go out and enjoyParis ."

 

"I can hardly believe it," said the broom. "Where are we going to go? Where shall we start?"

 

"I was thinking that perhaps we could start with a late dinner, perhaps, or a light snack at . . ." The guide's voice trailed off. He swallowed nervously and cleared his throat, glancing at Jacqueline. "Excuse me, mademoiselle,but. . . does it eat?"

 

"No," Jacqueline said, "but you could dine and I'm sure that Broom would appreciate the atmosphere of a fine restaurant, just the same."

 

"If you say so, mademoiselle," Bouchet said dubiously. With some trepidation, he offered the broom his arm and they left together, the broom sweeping down the hall with him.

 

"Don't stay out too late!" Wyrdrune called after it, then turned and shook his head. "What am I saying?"

 

"Perhaps we should go out, as well," said Modred. "I think I'd like to make some inquiries at the Cafe Noir."

 

 

 

Chapter

FIVE

 

 

 

The Cafe Noir was located in the basement of a brownstone on the Rue de Seine, in the district of St.-Germain-des-Pres. Unlike many of the chic, touristy nightclubs that surrounded it, its entrance was nondescript, with only a small sign over the stairway spelling out the club's name in blue neon letters. Inside, however, it was a different story. The moment they came through the heavy black lacquered front door, they were assailed by a throbbing wall of sound that filled the large, dimly lit, basement nightclub. They paid the cover charge and entered the large room, which was packed with people. The decor was black, befitting the establishment's name. The floors, the walls, the ceiling, the banquettes, the chairs and tables, all were black with silver accents. The bar ran the length of the entire room along the left side of the club, with a long stage behind it. Scantily clad chorus girls danced onstage, not merely doing the bump and grind of strippers, but moving in precise, skillfully choreographed routines. The main stage was at the far end of the club, where another group of chorus girls dressed in flashy, revealing costumes was performing an elaborate dance number. The stage had several levels, consisting of scenery and dance platforms, rivaling anything seen inLas Vegas orMonte Carlo , with miniature waterfalls and flashing lighting effects orchestrated by the club adept. Crackling globes of ball lightning spun in arabesques around the dancing girls, discharging bolts of energy into the air in precise time to the music. Paragriffins with glittering, metallic wings darted among the artificial trees set up on the stage and swooped down over the patrons, whistling like skyrockets as they came gliding overhead. Some of the girls danced with enchanted instruments that played themselves and sang. It was a spectacular show.

 

An attractive waitress in a scanty black costume led them to a table and took their orders as the dance number reached its climax, with the miniature waterfalls flowing in a riot of glowing colors and the globes of ball lightning splitting up into smaller globes, circling around and around, discharging jagged bolts of energy that sparkled in the darkness as the number reached its dramatic conclusion. Then all the lights went out and the audience burst into applause as the voice of the announcer came on over the public address system, speaking first in French, then in English.

 

"Le Danse Noir,ladies and gentlemen!Let's hear it for the girls!"

 

He paused to allow the applause to die down,then the lights slowly came up over the stage again, revealing that the set had been changed. The multilevel stage had now become & stylized graveyard, illuminated in dark violet as a smoky mist undulated along its floor.On the various platforms of the stage stood tombstones, crosses and stone monuments of saints and angels. The full moon rose high and dark clouds scudded across the cyclorama. Bats cried out as they winged their way across the stage. Dirgelike organ music filled the air, slow, majestic and foreboding.

 

"Mesdameset messieurs ,ladies and gentlemen," said the announcer, "Prepare to be astounded! None of what you are about to see is an illusion! It is all absolutely, one hundred percent real! Le Cafe Noir, in an exclusive engagement, is now proud to present for your entertainment pleasure one of the world's most gifted thespian adepts, the one, the only, the incomparable . . . Jacques Pascal!"

 

There was a dramatic stab of organ music, a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder as a jagged bolt shot down from the ceiling and struck one of the graves, sending up a shower of earth and rock. Stiffly, like a vampire rising from the grave, Jacques Pascal rose straight up from a lying position, wrapped in a flowing black cape, hands crossed against his chest. The public applauded.

 

Wyrdrune grimaced. "Cheap theatrics," he said."Nothing a first-year student couldn't do."

 

The music changed tempo, with a rapid, steady, staccato dance beat underlying the organ music as Pascal stepped forward, spread his cape dramatically and bowed. Wyrdrune frowned at the strange familiarity of the music,then he realized what it was.

 

" 'Danse Macabre,'" he said, naming the piece. "Only they've jazzed it up so much it's barely recognizable. Saint-Saens must be spinning in his grave, if you'll excuse the pun."

 

"Never mind the music," Modred said, leaning forward intently. "Don't you feel it?"

 

Even as he spoke, Wyrdrune became aware of a sudden, burning sensation in his forehead. Kira gasped and clutched her hand. She opened her palm. Her sapphire runestone was glowing brightly. Wyrdrune quickly slipped a headband on over his forehead, covering the stone before anyone could notice its telltale glow from beneath his hair. Modred's rune-stone was invisible beneath his shirt, but they both knew that the ruby was glowing just as brightly. Kira reached into the pocket of her leather jacket and took out a thin, black leather glove. She put it on, hiding the runestone's glow.

 

"They're here!" she said.

 

"It's him," said Wyrdrune."Pascal! He's the Dark One!"

 

"No," said Modred, as Jacques Pascal began his act.

 

"But the feeling is so strong!" said Kira. "Are you sure?"

 

"I sense the presence," Modred said. "But the Dark One is not here."

 

"What do you mean?" asked Jacqueline.

 

"I don't know," said Modred, frowning. "I feel the presence, but it isn't the same somehow. As if the Dark One ishere, and yet not here. There is a sense of distance, somehow. . . ."

 

"Astral possession," Merlin said. They all turned to look at Billy, who was sitting watching the stage intently. The fire opal stone in his ring was gleaming brightly. "Pascal is not the Dark One, but one of the Dark Ones is working through him."

 

"You mean like you possess Billy?" Kira said.

 

"Not exactly," Merlin said. "Billy and I share consciousness. We share the same body. But the man up on the stage is not the repository of the Dark One's spirit.Only of the power."

 

"You mean the necromancer is controlling him, from somewhere else?" said Wyrdrune.

 

"Undoubtedly," Merlin replied. "It is an old spell, one that only the most powerful mages are capable of casting. Their physical selves can remain elsewhere, partly conscious, aware of everything that is going on around them, but they can send a portion of their consciousness, like a remote part of themselves, to control another person. They can then use that person as their agent, while they remain in safety, where they cannot be harmed."

 

"That would explain the feeling of the presence being here and yet not here," said Modred. "Pascal is acting as the vehicle for the necromancer's power. I didn't know that they could do that."

 

"It takes an enormous amount of energy and concentration," Merlin said. "This necromancer must be a very strong one."

 

"But why?" asked Wyrdrune. "Why expend so much energy just to stage a magic act?"

 

"I don't know," said Merlin. "Perhaps it was part of their bargain with the acolyte, the price the Dark One had to pay to obtain his cooperation. Or perhaps because it amuses the necromancer and provides a focus for his concentration, much like a musician might do finger exercises to strengthen his technique. It will be interesting to watch what this man does. It will help us to judge the necromancer's power."

 

"You think the Dark One knows we're here?" asked Wyrdrune.

 

"It's possible, but astral possession takes a great deal of focused concentration," Merlin said. "The Dark One may not be able to sense the power of the runestones at a distance while working the spell."

 

"But you don't know for sure?" said Kira.

 

"No. I don't know for sure," Merlin replied. "In either case, we'll find out soon enough."

 

Jacques Pascal had started his act. As the music increased in tempo, he began to make dramatic passes with his hands and skeletons rose from the graves and began to dance upon the stage. Pascal choreographed their movements with expansive gestures, weaving among the dancing bones, bringing more of them out of the graves until the entire stage was filled with them, ^whirling about and dancing with a wild, jerky abandon. Several more skeletons drifted in from offstage, dragging a girl, one of the dancers, dressed in a long, filmy white nightgown. She cried out and straggled against them, but she couldn't get away. They brought her up to Pascal and he made several passes in front of her face. She went into a trance. As the skeletons danced around them, he slowly levitated her.

 

As she rose, a wind plucked at her gauzy nightdress, blowing her hair so that it streamed out behind her. She rose higher and higher,then began to turn, whirling around faster and faster. Her nightgown burst into blue flame and burned away from her, leaving her naked, yet unharmed. She turned in the air until she was horizontal, supported only by Pascal's magic powers. A stone altar rose up out of the stage and slowly, she descended to it as Pascal moved to stand behind the altar, guiding her down while the skeletons increased the frenzy of their dance. A long, gleaming knife appeared in Pascal's hand and he held it over her, making passes with it over her nude body.

 

"You don't think he's really going to . . ." Kira's voice trailed off.

 

"It's only an act," Wyrdrune said. "I hope."

 

Pascal plunged the knife down. The girl screamed and there was a blinding white flash and a puff of smoke and she was gone, vanished into thin air. A white dove fluttered up from the altar where she had lain. The audience applauded.

 

Suddenly, a group of dancers dressed as peasants came running out from the wings, carrying torches and weapons. Some of them had swords and clubs, others had pitchforks. They joined in the dance, fighting with the animated skeletons. A club swung and a skeleton's bones flew apart, only to reassemble once again and continue fighting, but the peasants kept on striking at the skeletons until bones were spinning through the air all over the stage, reassembling themselves into various strange configurations, flying apart again and coming back together to form new and more surreal shapes. And then a priest came out onto the stage and started sprinkling holy water. The bones began to smoke. The peasants retreated behind the priest as he continued to dash holy water all around him and the skeletons dissolved away until there were none left standing. Then it was only the priest, with the peasants behind him, facing Jacques Pascal. He held up a cross. Pascal shied away from it, holding his cloak up to protect his face, then he turned and twin beams of bright green thaumaturgic energy shot out from his eyes, striking the stone statues on the monuments. They began to move.

 

Slowly, ponderously, they came down off their pedestals and started moving toward the priest. The peasants shrieked and fled the stage. The priest dashed holy water on the statues and they began to smoke as well, but they kept on coming at him, surrounding him until he was hidden from view. Their massive limbs rose and fell and the priest could be heard screaming. Then, one by one, the stone statues began to crack and crumble. They all collapsed into a heap of shattered stone and the priest's arm could be seen rising from the pile, fingers twitching spasmodically. Pascal walked over to the pile, grasped the twitching hand and pulled, but instead of the priest, the girl who had been the sacrificial victimcame flying up from the pile of rock. She sailed up into the air and slowly floated down to stand beside Pascal. He wrapped his cloak around her, hiding her from view, and when he opened up his cloak again, she had disappeared. As the music reached its crescendo and the first gray light of dawn showed against the cyclorama, Pascal spread his cloak wide and its bottom edges burst into green flame, rapidly burning upward as Pascal seemed to melt and flow into another shape. He ran forward toward the edge of the stage, leaped up into the air and turned into a giant bat with leathery wings. He flew out over the audience, shrieking loudly, and when he had reached the middle of the room, there was a bright green flash and he was gone. The audience erupted into wild applause.

 

"The incomparable Jacques Pascal, ladies and gentlemen!" cried the announcer.

 

There was another flash of bright green light, accompanied by a puff of smoke, and Pascal was standing center stage, taking his bows. He gestured to the wings and the sacrificial victim, the priest and the peasant dancers came out to take their bows with him.

 

"It's gone now," Modred said.

 

Wyrdrune and Kira could feel it, as well. The sensation of the Dark One's presence was no longer there. Kira took off her leather glove and looked at her palm. The stone was still glowing, but only dimly now, reacting to the presence of Pascal, the acolyte, one who'd been touched by the power of the Dark Ones.

 

"What did you make of it, Ambrosius?" Modred asked, turning to Billy.

 

"Taken individually, there was nothing terribly demanding about any of those spells," said Merlin. "Except for the shapechanging,which might have been real or merely an illusion. But when you take all of them together, many of them cast simultaneously at a distance through the medium of astral possession, which in itself requires considerable energy, it was really quite impressive.A display of thaumaturgical ability and control worthy of an archmage."

 

"That good, huh?"Wyrdrune said glumly,

 

"Much more than merely good," said Merlin. "With a display like that, Pascal cannot avoid attracting the attention of the B.O.T. If he's a registered adept, they'll want to know how he suddenly came by the abilities of a full-fledged archmage. There are only four registered archmages in the entire world and he isn't one of them. The Bureau will be extremely curious about that, as will the I.T.C."

 

"And you think that was the purpose?" Wyrdrune said.

 

"The general public will not realize the true significance of what they have just seen," said Merlin, "but a member of the Bureau or the I.T.C. would be sufficiently advanced to recognize the full extent of the abilities Pascal has demonstrated. They'll check their files and find out one of two things; either that Pascal is a registered adept who has demonstrated powers far beyond his level, or that he isn't registered at all, in which case they'll be even more curious about him. Either way, they'll want to bring him in for questioning."

 

"And it would be a way for the Dark Ones to get close to someone in the Bureau or the I.T.C.,",saidModred. "If they could gain control of people in the Bureau or the I.T.C, it would give them a great deal more power. And at the same time, make things that much more difficult for us. The rune-stones are the single greatest threat to their existence. It would be to their obvious advantage to use the Bureau and the I.T.C. against us."

 

"Then we'll have to make certain that they don't get that opportunity," said Wyrdrune. "But taking out Pascal won't solve our problem. The Dark Ones can easily get themselves another acolyte, if they haven't got others already, and by moving against Pascal, we'd only be announcing our presence to them."

 

"Assuming they don't already know we're here," said Kira.

 

"So what's the answer?" asked Jacqueline.

 

"It seems there are no easy answers," Modred said. "It will be hard enough trying to defeat the Dark Ones without the Bureau or the I.T.C. getting in the way. Yet if we follow Pascal and prevent him from claiming yet another victim, the necromancers will be alerted to our presence and Max Siegal will remain in jail."

 

"But we can't stand by and do nothing while Pascal kills someone else," said Wyrdrune.

 

"We may not have a choice," Modred said.

 

"No," said Wyrdrune, shaking his head. "We can't. We've got to stop him, even if it means alerting the Dark Ones to our presence."

 

Modred nodded. "I suppose you're right. But it does reduce our options."

 

"What's the name of that cop who's in charge of Siegal's case?" asked Wyrdrune.

 

"Armand Renaud," Jacqueline said.

 

"Maybe we can talk to him," said Wyrdrune. "The police have resources we don't have access to. Blood helped us in Whitechapel and Rebecca Farrell made things a lot easier for us inL.A. If we could convince Renaud to speak with them, we might be able to get him to cooperate with us."

 

"It's worth a try," said Kira.

 

"Perhaps," said Modred, "but it still doesn't solve our immediate problem. What do we do about Pascal?"

 

"We can't let him kill again," said Wyrdrune.

 

"Then there's only one way we're going to stop him," Modred said. "And there's only one of us who can get close to him without the Dark Ones sensing the power of the rune-stones."

 

He looked pointedly at Jacqueline.

 

 

 

Renaud stood in the alleyway, looking down at the corpse lying at his feet. He reached into his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and lit it. He noticed that his hand was steady. His mind was ina turmoil , but his emotions were under control. He had seen a great deal of violence in his years on the police force, and he had never grown immune to its effects. He always experienced the feelings of outrage, the anger and the sense of loss, but it had lost its ability to shock. His stomach no longer contracted, not even at a sight as grisly as this, and he no longer felt physically sick. His reactions to it were those of a moral man affronted by the animal nature of the baser members of his species, but these were essentially cerebral reactions, under control.Cold and logical.

 

He still remembered what it had been like when he had seen his first murder victim. No police officer ever forgot. The first one was always the worst. The sight of all the blood, the spectacle of a ruined human being, had a visceral, elemental effect upon the soul. The body reacted with revulsion, the stomach heaved, nausea became overwhelming, as if the physical act of vomiting could somehow regurgitate the horrible reality, expel it from the gut. No officer could ever predict how he would react until the first time he confronted it. Some became ill and vomited upon the spot. Others became numb with shock, staring helplessly with frozen fascination at the dead body of a fellow human being. Still others couldn't face it, recoiling from the sight, weeping uncontrollably. Invariably, they all became embarrassed by their reactions, but there wasn't a single experienced cop anywhere in the worldwho would ever hold that against them, who wouldn't understand. No matter how tough any of them thought they were, nobody was that tough.

 

Occasionally, though it happened rarely, they would run across a cop who would confront the sight of his first murder victim and not react at all. Then, if that cop had never before been in situations where he had been exposed to such things, if he had never been a soldier or experienced some kind of street violence in his youth, if it was the first time he had ever witnessed such a thing and it still failed to move him, his fellow officers would always be uneasy around him from then on. It would mean that something inside of him was missing, something very important. And it didn't matter that at some point in their experience, they all became accustomed to seeing death. It was something that they had in common with people like doctors and morticians. Eventually, they all developeda certain callousness, an ability to look at the ravaged remains of what had once been a human being without breaking down emotionally, because if they did not develop that ability, they could never continue doing what they did. Yet there was always that precious memory of the first time, precious because it was something they could cling to that reassured them of their ownhumanity, that kept them from thinking that they had become unfeeling brutes, no matter how accustomed to it they became. They could take refuge in the fact that they had learned to handle it only because they'd seen it so many times before, but that the first time, it had really gotten to them. That memory was precious to them because it was what made them different from the animals that were capable of doing such things.

 

Renaud thought about that now especially, because the first officer on the scene had been a rookie and this had been his first dead body.His first murder victim. It was a hell of a way to lose your police virginity, he thought. The corpse was that of a pretty young prostitute. Her short skirt was hiked up, revealing her thighs, and there were long, bloody scratches on her legs. Her bare arms were wet with her own blood.So much blood. Her throat had been torn out and her wide, sightless eyes stared up at the sky. Her blouse had been torn open to her waist and the area around her breasts and abdomen was mutilated with the same bloody symbols that Renaud had seen on the bodies of Joelle Muset and Gabrielle Longet.The same peculiar thaumaturgic runes that Jacqueline Monet had drawn for him on a paper napkin in the cafe across the street from the police station.

 

"The same as in the other killings," said Legault, standing beside him. "Only the symbols appear to have been burned in. Siegal couldn't have done this one."

 

"Obviously not," Renaud said. "Only in the other victims, the throats were not torn out."

 

"True," said Legault. "Still, there are the markings. . . ."

 

"Yes," said Renaud, "there are the markings." He glanced back to where the first officer on the scene stood leaning against the wall a short distance down the alleyway, which had been roped off. "Let's go have a talk with him," he said.

 

"First one?" said Legault.

 

Renaud nodded. "Can't you tell?"

 

"You can always tell," Legault said.

 

They approached the young officer, who immediately straightened up when he saw them coming and made an effort to compose himself.

 

"I'm sorry, sir," he said sheepishly. "I . . . I'm afraid I became ill." He looked away from them. "I couldn't help it. I just . . . didn't know. . . ."

 

"It's all right," Renaud said understandingly. "We've all been through it, every one of us. The first time was just the same for me. It's nothing to be ashamed of. The first time you must confront the body of a murder victim or the first time you have to kill someone in the line of duty—let's hope you will be spared that—it always hits you right in the gut. There's no way you can be prepared for it, no matter how many times you think about it. It's never like what you think it will be."

 

The young officer nodded. "No. It was nothing like what I expected. It ... it just hit me, before I could do anything about it."

 

"You'll get over it," Renaud said. "And the next time, it won't affect you quite as badly.And the time after that, less still. But there will always be the feelings, even if you do learn how to control them. And thank God for that. What's your name?"

 

"Officer Jean Cassel."

 

"What have you got for me, Officer Cassel?"

 

"We responded to the call shortly after midnight," he said. "It was an anonymous report to the station of a woman screaming. We found the victim as you see her. She couldn't have been dead for long. I ... I became ill when I saw her. My partner told me to wait down here and secure the area, then went to question the neighbors. That's all I know. I'm sorry I couldn't have done better, but. . ."his voice trailed off.

 

"That's quite all right, I understand," Renaud said. "Where is your partner?"

 

Casselturned. "Here she comes now," he said.

 

Renaud and Legault saw a young uniformed policewoman moving purposefully toward them. She wasn't much older than her partner.

 

"Inspector," she said with a curt nod at Renaud. "Sergeant," she added, greeting Legault.

 

Renaud knew her and struggled to recall her name. "Officer DuFay, isn't it?"

 

"Yes, sir."She glanced at her partner and drew them off to one side. "It's his first time," she said.

 

"Yes, I know," Renaud replied.

 

"He's embarrassed, especially because of me," she said. "Being a woman, I mean.His breaking down like that and my remaining in control. He's a good cop, but he's new and, well . . ."

 

"Yes," said Renaud, "I understand. Don't try to make him talk about it now. Just leave it be. Afterward, when you've gone off duty, go have a few drinks together. That often makes it easier."

 

She nodded. "I wasn't much better my first time," she said. "I couldn't stop crying." She sighed. "It gets easier, but it never goes away completely, does it?"

 

"No, it never does. Did you come up with anything?"

 

"Not really," she said. "A number of people heard the victim screaming, but no one will admit to having seen anything. At least a few of them called the police. That's something, I suppose."

 

"Yes, at least that's something," said Renaud, knowing that there were others who had heard the victim's screams and done nothing whatsoever,except perhaps to pull their windows down.

 

"The medical examiner says she couldn't have been dead more than half an hour or so," Officer DuFay continued, checking her notepad. "She was still warm when we found her. The victim's name was Catherine Tourney. She was a prostitute. We don't know much more about her at this point. I assume she had a record of arrests, but there's been no time to check yet. The motive was apparently not robbery; we found her purse near the body and there were about a hundred and fifty francs still in it and some change. No jewelry was taken, though what she's wearing can't be worth much. We found no murder weapon. At first, I thought some animal must have attacked her, because of the scratches on her legs and the way her throat's been torn out.A rabid dog, perhaps. But then there are those marks burned into her chest and stomach. . . ." She hesitated."Similar to that case that you were working on, Inspector."

 

Renaud grimaced. Word of the mutilations might not have leaked out to the press yet, but it had obviously gotten around the department.Which meant that it was soon bound to get out to the press.

 

"Yes," said Renaud without elaborating.

 

"Didn't you have a suspect in custody?" she said.

 

"Yes," he said again. "Have your written report ready for me first thing in the morning." He turned to Legault. "I want the Bureau called in on this one right away. Have them check for thaumaturgical trace emanations. Tell them I have reason to suspect the possibility of necromancy. If they find anything, they can decide whether or not to bring in the I.T.C. And I want a warrant issued immediately for Jacqueline Monet, wanted for questioning as a material witness."

 

"What about Max Siegal?" askedLegault.

 

Renaud pursed his lips. "I'm not taking any chances. Let his lawyers spring him. We have only circumstantial evidence against him and after this, they may be able to get him released, but that's a decision I'd rather not make. He could still be guilty. Except for the mutilations, the murders are not similar. There could be several killers. Monet knows much more than she's told me. I intend to find out what else she knows. See to it that she's found and brought in at once."

 

He turned and started to walk away.

 

"Where are you going?" said Legault.

 

"I'm going to have a drink.Most likely, more than one. And then I intend to make several telephone calls," Renaud said."One to Scotland Yard and one to the Los Angeles Police Department."

 

 

 

Jacqueline sat in the small dressing room of Jacques Pascal, watching as he sat before a mirror, removing his stage makeup. He had changed into a green and purple paisley silk robe and ascot scarf. Jacqueline did not have any trouble getting in to see him. Even if she weren't confident that the waiter she'd sent the note with would tell Pascal that she was extremely attractive, she had known that the expensive bottle of champagne would do the trick. And it had.

 

He had greeted her warmly and charmingly, thanked her effusively for the champagne and insisted that she share it with him. They made small talk while he removed his stage makeup and Jacqueline proceeded to come on like a starstruck woman on the make.

 

"I've never seen anything like it," she said in an excited voice. "You were simply wonderful!"

 

"I'm pleased that you enjoyed the show," Pascal said, wiping off his face with a towel.

 

"It was positively thrilling!" Jacqueline gushed. "And it was so much more than just the sort of tricks that most adepts perform on the stage. There were so many things happening at once! And there was so much style to it, such an exciting element of ... of sensuality. When you wrapped your cape around that girl and she disappeared, it was as if ... as if she'd been absorbed by you! And when you shapechanged at the end ... it was incredible! It was the most brilliant illusion I've ever seen!"

 

He glanced at her. "What makes you think that it was an illusion?" he said.

 

"You mean it wasn't? " she said, making her eyes wide.

 

"What do you think?" he said with a smile.

 

"I honestly don't know what to think!" she said. "I was simply overwhelmed by it! I decided I just had to meet you."

 

"And now that you've met me?"

 

"Well, I'm certainly not disappointed," Jacqueline said with a sultry smile.

 

"I'm so glad," said Jacques. "And did your friends enjoy the show as much as you did?"

 

"Oh, I came alone," Jacqueline said.

 

"A woman as attractive as you are?" said Jacques, raising his eyebrows.

 

"Well, at the moment, I'm sort of between relationships," she said.

 

"Indeed? Well, in that case, if it's not too late for you, I know a quiet place not far from here. Perhaps you'd care to join me for a drink?"

 

"I'd love to," Jacqueline said.

 

"I'll call a cab," said Pascal.

 

"Oh, no, let's walk," Jacqueline said. "It's such a lovely night."

 

"All right," Pascal said, removing his robe and putting on his jacket.

 

Jacqueline tried to hide her anxiety as they left the club together and started walking down the Rue de Seine, heading away from the Boulevard Saint-Germain and moving toward the river. She felt the comfortable weight of the 10-mm semiautomatic in the shoulder holster underneath her jacket, but she felt safer knowing that the others were following somewhere close behind. But not too close. The display that Pascal had put on back at the club had required a considerable expenditure of energy on the part of the Dark One who had possessed him and it was possible that the necromancer had not been able to detect the presence of the runestones close at hand. But she had little doubt that the necromancer would not resist the opportunity to feed on her life energy and that was what all of them were counting on. She tried to keep up a steady stream of idle conversation, peppered with sexual innuendo, to keep Pascal distracted. She wondered how long it would take for him to make his move. She did not have to wonder long.

 

They were walking arm in arm and no sooner had they left the bright lights of the St. Germain entertainment district than Pascal gave her arm a sudden, powerful jerk, spinning her around in front of him and shoving her hard into a dark alleyway. She stumbled, quickly reaching for the automatic at the same time, fell forward and rolled onto her side, using her body to hide the pistol from him. She held it close to her waist, on the side facing away from him, ready to bring it up in an instant. He started moving toward her quickly and she saw his features shift, changing into something hideous and bestial. Something bright gleamed in his hand. She brought the automatic up and fired three rapid shots into his chest. He jerked and was thrown backward by the impact of the bullets and she heard the sound of running footsteps. At the same time, she felt something, a presence close behind her and she rolled over, facing back into the alley, bringing up her gun. For a moment, she couldn't see anything but the darkness in the alley, and then her eyes discerned a deeper darkness, a vague form as black as pitch, dimly outlined by a faintly glowing aura, and it was moving toward her rapidly. She fired.

 

The muzzle flash lit up the alley as she emptied the entire clip into the dark shape that was rushing at her, but the bullets seemed to go right through it. And then, suddenly, it stopped and she saw the outline of a shadowy arm flung out and a bolt of bright green thaumaturgic energy lanced out over her head and, behind her, she heard Modred yell, "Look out!"

 

She heard the energy bolt explode against the building wall behind her, filling the alleyway with smoke and flying chips of brick and mortar, and she scuttled back out of the way, but before the others could strike back, the shadowy form seemed to fold in upon itself and disappear. But before it vanished, Jacqueline felt a searing blast of hatred and fury wash over her mind and she cried out, bringing her hands up to her head. In another moment, Modred was kneeling at her side while Wyrdrune, Kira and Billy stood grouped around her alertly, searching the alleyway for any signs of movement.

 

"Are you all right?" asked Modred anxiously.

 

Jacqueline nodded, still overcome by the shock of the experience and the speed with which it happened. They heard the sound of a police siren approaching.

 

"Damn!" said Wyrdrune. "We weren't fast enough. He got away."

 

"Shegot away," Jacqueline said.

 

"She?" said Kira.

 

"It was a female," said Jacqueline, still holding her head. It was throbbing with pain. "Just before she disappeared, I felt her ... in my mind. . . ." She shook her head. "I've never felt anything like that before. Such rage . . . such utter loathing. . . . God, it was awful!"

 

"What happened to Pascal?" said Wyrdrune. "We heard shooting. . . ."

 

"I shot him," Jacqueline said. "He had a knife. I think I killed him."

 

"Then where is he?" Wyrdrune asked, looking all around.

 

"Over 'ere," said Billy.

 

Modred helped Jacqueline up to her feet and they all went to join Billy, who stood a short distance away, farther down the alley. He held up his arm and blue fire crackled around his outstretched fingers, illuminating the area around them.

 

"Look," said Merlin.

 

The blue glow showed a dark trail of blood leading farther back into the alley. They followed it to an open manhole cover.

 

"He's gone down into the sewers," Merlin said.

 

"With all the blood he's losing, he can't last much longer," Wyrdrune said.

 

"I intend to make sure," said Modred. He started to lower himself down through the opening. "Come on."

 

"Down there?" said Wyrdrune. But Modred had already disappeared down the metal ladder.

 

Kira started climbing down after Modred. Wyrdrune made a grimace of distaste as he watched her disappear down the ladder.

 

"The sewers," Wyrdrune said. "There's ratsdown there. I hate rats."

 

"Let's go, warlock!" Kira called up to him. "Get down here!"

 

Wyrdrune sighed with resignation. "Let's hear it for the glamor ofParis ," he said, and started down the ladder after them.

 

"Hold it right there!" a voice cried out behind them.

 

Billy and Jacqueline turned to see several policemen standing at the entrance to the alley, their weapons drawn.

 

"Hold on to my arm," said Merlin. "I'll get us out of here."

 

"No," said Jacqueline. "We need to buy them time. Close the manhole cover."

 

Billy stared down at the heavy iron cover. It rose up slightly and floated over the opening, then dropped down into place with a scraping, chinking sound.

 

They were hit by the strong beam of a searchlight mounted on one of the police vehicles.

 

"Come out of there, slowly, with your hands up over your heads! Don't try anything or we'll shoot!"

 

Slowly, they raised their hands up and clasped them atop their heads, then started walking toward the entrance to the alley.

 

 

 

Chapter

SIX

 

 

 

Inspector Renaud entered the interrogation room together with Sergeant Legault. "Leave us," he said to the two other officers in the room and they silently walked out. Billy and Jacqueline were seated at the table, their hands cuffed in front of them. Legault leaned back against the door while Renaud came around in front of them. He took out a package of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it.

 

"Mademoiselle Monet," he said. "It seems that every time we meet, there has been a murder recently committed." He glanced at Billy. "Your young friend was not carrying any identification. Might I inquire as to his name?"

 

Jacqueline glanced at Billy. "He wants to know your name," she said.

 

"Slade," he replied. "Billy Slade."

 

"You're British," said Renaud, switching to English.

 

'"Gor, perceptive, ain't 'e?" Billy said to Jacqueline.

 

Renaud grimaced wryly. "How old are you?"

 

"Fourteen."

 

Renaud reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out Billy's knife. He pressed the release button and the blade sprang out. "You're a bit young to be playing around with one of these, aren't you?"

 

"I dunno. 'Ow old d'ya 'ave to be?"

 

Renaud shook his head. He closed the knife and put it down on the table.

 

"Where are your parents?"

 

"Dead."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

Billy shrugged.

 

"Who is your legal guardian?" Renaud said.

 

"Don't 'ave one," Billy said. "I can take care of meself."

 

"I'm sure you can," Renaud said, "but a minor needs a legal guardian in order to be issued a passport. How did you get intoFrance ?"

 

"On an airplane," said Billy.

 

Renaud tried to stare him down, without success. "What is your relationship with Mademoiselle Monet?" ."We're not 'avin' a relationship," said Billy. "We're just good friends, y'know."

 

Renaud took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Young man, I advise you not to try my patience. This is a very serious matter. I'll get back to you in a moment. In the meantime, I strongly suggest that you reconsider your flippant attitude.Legault. . . . "

 

Legault took out Jacqueline's pistol and placed it on the table in front of her. The magazine had been removed.

 

Jacqueline said nothing.

 

"A ten-millimeter semiautomatic, spellwarded against detection," Renaud said."The signature weapon of a certain gentleman known as Morpheus. Or perhaps Morpheus is not a gentleman at all, eh? Perhaps Morpheus is actually a woman."

 

"You think I'm Morpheus?" said Jacqueline. She gave a small snort. "You can't be serious."

 

"Can't I? It has long been rumored that you have connections with this individual and now we find this gun in your possession, exactly the sort of weapon that Morpheus is known to use. We've already examined it for fingerprints and yours were on it," said Renaud. "It has been fired. A trail of blood was discovered in the alley, leading to a sewer entrance. It would appear as if someone was shot in that alleyway and then the body was thrown down into the sewers. It was undoubtedly washed away, but before long, it's bound to reach one of the outlet points and be discovered. And then, mademoiselle, we will have you on a charge of murder. In the meantime, we have more than enough to hold you."

 

"If I'm being charged, then I have a right to call my attorney," said Jacqueline.

 

"As you wish," Renaud said. "But before you exercise your right to legal counsel, I thought mat we might have a little talk. You have the right to refuse to respond to what I have to say, but you might find it interesting, just the same. Earlier tonight, the body of a young prostitute was discovered in an alley off the Rue Saint Honore. She appeared to have been attacked by some sort of animal. There were claw marks on her body and her throat had been torn out. But her breasts and abdomen were mutilated in the same fashion as in the murders of Joelle Muset and Gabrielle Longet. The same thaumaturgic runes were carved into the flesh."

 

"I warned you that would happen," said Jacqueline. "And since Max Siegal was in police custody, he obviously could not have done it. You should have listened to me in the first place."

 

"Yes, perhaps I should have," said Renaud. "It might interest you to know that a short while ago, I placed a call to Chief Inspector Michael Blood of Scotland Yard. He would not answer any of my questions until he became satisfied that I was who I said I was, and even then, he was extremely guarded. He did not tell me a great deal, other than the fact that you and your associates, whom he was careful not to name, were instrumental in solving a series of grisly murders in Whitechapel and that Scotland Yard owed you a great debt of gratitude. He vouched for you unequivocally and urged me to give you my complete cooperation. He hinted at some sort of criminal conspiracy that was international in scope. When I asked him if necromancy was involved and if the I.T.C. was pursuing the investigation, he told me that he was unable to discuss the matter further, due to security considerations. He suggested mat I should take my lead from you. I asked him if you were some sort of government agent or an operative of the I.T.C. and once again, he said that he was not at liberty to tell me, but urged me to cooperate with you to the fullest extent of my authority, and even beyond, if necessary. It was altogether a fascinating conversation, redolent of mystery and intrigue.

 

"After I got off the phone with him," Renaud continued, "I called the Los Angeles Police Department and spoke with Captain Rebecca Farrell, with equally fascinating results. Once again, I had to wait until she had verified my identity, and then I was told that you had been of invaluable assistance to theLos Angeles police in clearing up a series of brutal murders in which the same pattern I described to her had appeared. Captain Farrell was just as cryptic as Chief Inspector Blood, but she also vouched for you unequivocally and urged me to give you my complete cooperation. It was interesting to note that both of them were very careful not to volunteer any names or information, responding only to the facts I gave them, leaving me with the impression that I'd become involved in some sort of highly classified investigation. In all my years of police work, I have never encountered anything quite like this situation."

 

He glanced from Billy to Jacqueline.

 

"I find it difficult to believe that you are connected with any government agency or with the I.T.C.," he said, "and yet somehow you seem to have obtained the cooperation and the unqualified endorsement of senior officials in both Scotland Yard and the Los Angeles Police Department. How could someone like you manage such a thing? The possibility of bribery occurred to me, but that would seem unlikely. And then it occurred to me that you are a witch, a student of the thaumaturgic arts, and Inspector Blood and Captain Farrell might have been thaumaturgically coerced, through the means of a compulsion spell."

 

"If that was the case," Jacqueline said, "then aren't you worried that I could do the same to you?"

 

"That possibility occurred to me," Renaud admitted. "Which is why Sergeant Legault has orders to shoot you if you so much as mumble or make a sudden gesture toward me."

 

Jacqueline glanced over her shoulder and saw that Legault was holding a pistol at his side.

 

"If that was my intention," she said with a smile, "then I could easily have done it when we were alone in that cafe together. Why didn't I do it then?"

 

"I don't know," said Renaud, frowning. "There is altogether too much that I don't know and that disturbs me very much. I do not like being disturbed. You may call your attorney, if you wish, but we have more than enough grounds to keep youboth in custody until I have some answers. And if I cannot compel you to speak, then perhaps a team of interrogators from the I.T.C. can."

 

"You've called in the I.T.C.?" Jacqueline said.

 

"The Bureau has. They detected trace emanations at the murder scene. I'm expecting the I.T.C. agents at any moment," said Renaud. "You can speak with me or you can speak with them, but I think that you will find it easier to speak with me. I understand that their methods of interrogating uncooperative suspects can be quite unpleasant and severe."

 

"I wish you hadn't brought in the Bureau," said Jacqueline.

 

"Under the circumstances, I didn't have much choice," Renaud said. "Now what is it to be?"

 

But before they could reply, there was a knock at the door of the interrogation room. Legault opened it to admit two people, a man and a woman. The man was in his late thirties or early forties, of medium build, clean-shaven, with light brown hair worn in the sorcerer's style, down to his shoulders, dark eyes and angular features. He was expensively dressed in a conservative, dark blue neo-Edwardian suit. The woman looked about the same age. She was a big, large-breasted, Rubenesque woman with long, thick, wavy black hair. She was wearing the traditional robes of a sorceress, made of black velvet with intricate gold and silver embroidery, and she wore a profusion of rings and bracelets. Her face was round and cherubic, with a small nose, a wide, sensual mouth and a high forehead.

 

"Agent Raven, I.T.C.," she said, showing her credentials and giving her magename in French, with an American accent. "And this is my partner, Agent Piccard."

 

The man, evidently, did not choose to use a magename, following the practice of many of the younger sorcerers, who did not adhere to the traditional forms, though most of them still wore their hair long.

 

"These are the suspects?" she said, glancing at Jacqueline and Billy.

 

"'Allo, Kimberly," said Billy. "Still makin' your own clothes, eh? You always did like a bit o' flash, but then it suits you."

 

Her eyes widened and she came around to stand in front of the table where Billy and Jacqueline sat. She stared at Billy intently. "Who are you?" she said in English. "How do you know me? And how did you know my truename?"

 

"I always remember my students," Merlin said in his own voice. "You've hardly changed at all, Kim. However, I can hardly blame you for not recognizing me. You might say that I've become a completely different person."

 

Her eyes grew wider still and her mouth fell open. Piccard was beside her instantly. His lips moved silently and he brought his right hand up in a magical gesture.

 

"Tell your partner not to bother with his spell of compulsion," Merlin said. "I'm afraid that it won't work on me."

 

"No, it can't be!" said Raven, shaking her head.

 

"Don't you recognize my voice?" said Merlin.

 

Raven shook her head. "You sound just like. . . . But that's impossible. He's dead," she said.

 

Renaud and Legault both watched them, frowning, becoming more and more confused.

 

"Remember when we discussed astral projection in class?" said Merlin. "You asked if it was possible for something to happen to the sorcerer's body while in a state of astral projection, so that his physical self would die, while his astral self survived. You wanted to know if that couldn't be the explanation for ghosts. I said that it could, indeed, but that it was also possible for a disembodied astral spirit to settle in another person's body, which could also account for cases of possession or for people's belief in the idea of reincarnation. Well, ironically, that was exactly what happened to me and young Billy, here."

 

"It's a trick," Piccard said to his partner. "He is a natural. He's taking information from your mind. Concentrate. Shut him out."

 

"What the devil is going on here?" asked Renaud.

 

"Use your common sense, Piccard," said Merlin. "Do you really think it's possible for someone as young as I appear to be to possess enough skill to resist your spell or see into another's thoughts? Even given phenomenal natural ability, it would take years of study and training to fully develop such talents. If you had been one of my own students, you would have known to disregard deceptive appearances and use your sensitivity to guide you."

 

Piccard moistened his lips. He put his hands up to his head, fingertips pressing lightly against the temples, and shut his eyes. Furrows appeared between his eyebrows as he concentrated.

 

"What's going on?" Renaud said anxiously. "Will someone please tell me what's happening here?"

 

Piccard put his hands down and swallowed hard. "We are in the presence of an extremely powerful adept," he said. "It hardly seems possible, but I know of only one mage who could have such power. The late Merlin Ambrosius."

 

"Bravo, Piccard," said Merlin. "Full marks."

 

"Just a moment," said Renaud. "Are you seriously suggesting that this boy is the legendary Merlin Ambrosius, reincarnated?"

 

"Not reincarnated, Renaud," said Merlin. "At the moment of my death, I flung my astral spirit from my body, so that only my physical self died. My spirit survived, floating free, until it was drawn to young Billy Slade and settled into him. You see, Billy is descended from me by way of a De Dannan witch named Nimue, from the time of Camelot. Our life energies are spiritually compatible, even if our personalities sometimes are not."

 

"And you expect me to believe this nonsense?" said Renaud.

 

"What would you require as proof?" asked Merlin. And as he spoke, Billy reached up with his right hand and stretched his collar. "Gettin' a bit warm in 'ere," he said. With his left hand, he held up the handcuffs. "These yours?" he said.

 

Legault immediately brought up his pistol, but without even turning around, Merlin made itcome flying out of his grasp. Legault cried out with alarm as it sailed across the room and landed in Billy's outstretched hand. As he held it up, the magazine detached itself and floated free. One by one, the bullets sprang out of the clip and came down to stand in a neat little row on the table in front of him.

 

"Jacqueline, luv, 'ave ya got a fag?" said Billy.

 

Jacqueline, her hands suddenly free, handed him a pack of cigarettes. As Billy shook one out and lit it with a jet of flame from his thumb, Legault cried out once again. He was suddenly handcuffed with the same bracelets that Jacqueline had been restrained with seconds earlier.

 

"Y'see, Inspector," Billy said, "we've been cooperatin' with you all along. We could 'ave easily popped off anytime we wanted to. Like this, see?"

 

Billy took Jacqueline's hand and snapped his fingers. They both suddenly vanished. A moment later, they came walking through the door of the interrogation room, past an astonished Legault.

 

'"Scuse me," said Billy, coming back to the table with Jacqueline and sitting down. "Canwe 'ave done with the tricks now and get down to business?"

 

"Professor," said Raven, "it really is you!"

 

"I think perhaps I'd better sit down," Renaud said shakily.

 

Legault stood by the door, his hands still cuffed in front of him. He cleared his throat uneasily.

 

"Oh. Sorry," Merlin said, and the cuffs sprang apart and fell to the floor. Sheepishly, Legault bent down to pick them up.

 

"This is incredible," said Raven. "Why have you been arrested? Does anyone else know you're still alive?"

 

"And why are you with this woman?" asked Piccard-. "I recognize her now." He turned to his partner. "Her name is Jacqueline Monet. She is a notorious criminal."

 

"Yes, of course," said Raven. "I thought she looked familiar. What is this all about, Renaud?"

 

"In all honesty, I have no idea, mademoiselle," Renaud said, shaking his head with resignation. 'T was intending to hold them on suspicion of murder until I could find out more, but now ... I must admit that I am totally confused."

 

"Perhaps I can enlighten you," said Merlin, "but it is a long and rather complicated story. But before I begin, let me give you all fair warning. If, at the end, I am not absolutely convinced that I can depend upon your full cooperation and discretion in this matter, then Jacqueline and I will disappear and no one present in this room will have any memory of ever having seen us."

 

Renaud glanced at Raven. "He could actually do that?"

 

Ravennodded, her expression very serious. "Easily," she said. "He may be in the body of a boy, but if he wanted to, he could blast us all into oblivion in the blink of an eye."

 

"Comforting thought," Renaud said wryly. "If I've said anything to offend you, Professor Ambrosius—"

 

"Merlin will do."

 

"Uh, yes," said Renaud uneasily. "Well. . . Merlin . . . pleaseaccept my apologies."

 

"And mine, too," Legault added hastily.

 

"No need to apologize," said Merlin. "You were only trying to do your duty.However, first things first. Max Siegal is completely innocent. There is no. reason for you to hold him any longer."

 

"I will see to his release immediately," said Renaud.

 

"After we have had our conversation will be soon enough," said Merlin. "In the meantime, let me first answer your questions." He turned to Raven. "As to why we have been arrested, Inspector Renaud was fully justified in his suspicions. There has been a murder, or rather, a shooting in self-defense. As to whether or not the perpetrator actually died, we do not yet know that. As to whether or not anyone else knows about what's happened to me, it is a closely guarded secret. A small and very select group of people know, among them Chief Inspector Michael Blood of Scotland Yard; Captain Rebecca Farrell of the Los Angeles police force; Ben Slater, a Los Angeles reporter; and Dr. Sebastian Makepeace, of New York University. Two others who also knew are dead now.I.T.C. agents Faye Morgan and Thanatos."

 

"The ones who disappeared," Piccard said. "You were responsible for that?"

 

"No, don't be absurd," said Merlin. "They both died in the line of duty, slain by necromancers."

 

"Necromancers!"Raven said. "Then the rumors are true! There is some sort of conspiracy of necromancers!"

 

"Yes," said Merlin, "only it's far worse than you think. However, I'm getting ahead of myself. There are still many things you do not know. Such as the fact, for example, that the I.T.C. agent you knew as Faye Morgan was, in reality, a two-thousand-year-old sorceress named Morgan Le Fay."

 

Raven stared at Merlin with disbelief. "The Morgan Le Fay?" she said.

 

"The very same," said Merlin."My very first pupil."

 

"But how could anyone possibly survive for two thousand years?" Renaud asked in astonishment. "Had she been in an enchanted sleep, like you?"

 

"No," said Merlin, "she was awake for all those years. She survived for so long for the same reason that I would have survived, had she not placed a spell upon me, partially suspending my life functions. We are both immortal.As is one other who knows about me, the last survivor of the days of Camelot.Arthur's son, Modred."

 

They stared at him, stunned. "Modred is still alive?" said Raven. "But according to history, he and Arthur killed each other!"

 

"If he had been mortal, as Arthur was, then he surely would have died," said Merlin."But although everyone believed him dead, he recovered from his wounds and he is still very much alive and presently inParis .And also on your 'most wanted' list. You know him as Morpheus."

 

"The professional assassin?" said Piccard.

 

"He was a hired assassin," Merlin said, "but he is no longer. I make no apologies for Modred, nor do I excuse his behavior or what he has done with his life. Perhaps I am to blame for that. Nor does Modred himself make any excuses for how he has lived his life. When you realize that he is a powerful adept in his own right, and has had over two thousand years in which to amass his resources and perfect his craft, then perhaps you'll understand why the I.T.C. has never been able to apprehend him. And even if you did, you would never be able to hold him. The only way you could stop Modred would be to kill him. An immortal can be killed, if the wound is immediately fatal, but after you have heard me out, I think you will agree that no matter what he has done in the past, Modred must now remain alive. And free."

 

"If I might interrupt a moment," said Piccard, somewhat dazed at all these revelations, "you keep mentioning immortality. How is that humanly possible?"

 

"It is not humanly possible," Merlin replied. "It is possible only because neither Morganna nor Modred were ever completely human. They were born half-breeds, as was I."

 

"Wait a moment," said Renaud. "You mean to tell us that there are actually inhuman creatures among us? Members of some alien race?"

 

"Not alien," said Jacqueline. "They were here long before we were. And they look a great deal like us. But they are not human."

 

"They were called the Old Ones," Merlin said."An immortal race of magic users that dates back to the dawn of time. When primitive humans first appeared, they were already far more evolved than they were, with a well-developed civilization of their own. The myths of Atlantis and the lost continent of Mu are derived from them. They subjugated primitive humans and used them in their thaumaturgic rituals, killing them to obtain their life energy to empower their spells.Necromancy, in its earliest form. It is far older than the white magic that we practice now. The bloody rites of the ancient Egyptians, the sacrifices of the Aztecs, the Mayans and the Druids; the ritual killings of the Cult of Kali; all had their beginnings in the necromantic rites of the Old Ones. They became part of human folklore and mythology, the inspiration for the gods of the Greeks and Romans, the source of creation myths and the basis for the legends of vampires, shapechangers and other supernatural beings. The Arabic tribes knew them as the Djinn. The Native American tribes called them Kachina and gave them other names, such as Gitchee Manitou. And the Celts called them, simply, the Old Ones."

 

"What happened to them?" Raven asked. "If they're still alive, why don't we know about them?"

 

"Because very few of them have survived," said Merlin. "At some time before recorded history began, there was a cataclysmic war between them, on the scale of one of your world wars. It came about when humans started to evolve and many of the Old Ones ceased to look upon them as animals, but as intelligent beings like themselves. Many of them came to feel that it was wrong to take human life for its thaumaturgic potential and they began to practice a new and more humane form of magic, one that did not kill the source of the spell's energy, but allowed for recovery. That was the beginning of white magic, so named for the Council of the White, the ruling body of the Old Ones, comprised of the most powerful sorcerers among them. But there remained among them those who did not share their concern for the developing humans, who did not wish to surrender the power that could be gained more quickly and easily through necromancy. These were called the Dark Ones and they rebelled against the authority of the Council of the White, which led to a devastating war. Its memory survives in human legends as the Ragnarok, the Gotterdamerung—the Twilight of the Gods."

 

They were all utterly still, hanging on Merlin's every word with awestruck expressions on their faces. For the first time, they were hearing the explanation to myths and questions that had puzzled humanity for centuries.

 

"In the end," said Merlin, "the Council of the White defeated the Dark Ones and there were only a few survivors left. The war had completely decimated the immortals. But the surviving Dark Ones still would not surrender to the Council's will, so they were entombed alive in a subterranean chamber deep beneath theEuphratesValley . And to insure that the Dark Ones would remain imprisoned for all time, the surviving members of the Council gave up their lives to empower the greatest spell they ever cast.The spell of the Living Triangle.

 

 

 

'Three stones, three keys to lock the spell,

Three jewels to guard the Gates of Hell.

Three to bind them, three in one,

Three to hide them from the sun.

Three to hold them, three to keep,

Three to watch the sleepless sleep.'

 

 

 

And with the casting of the spell," continued Merlin, "they infused their life energies into three enchanted runestones— a ruby, a sapphire and an emerald. All save one of them. And that sole survivor of the Council placed the runestones in a small chest over the Dark Ones' tomb, as keys to lock the spell that would prevent them from escaping. That last member of the Council was my father, Gorlois. Like many of the Old Ones before him, he took a human for a wife.My mother. Morganna was also his daughter, by another human female. And throughout the years, those humans who possessed unusual abilities, such as extrasensory perception, and those who are capable of magic use today, such asyourselves , owe their talents to having had an Old One for an ancestor. But over the years, the strain became diluted until immortality was no longer passed on. And for thousands of years, the runestones kept the Dark Ones prisoner in their secret tomb. Until recently, when the runestones were discovered and removed."

 

"The Annendale Expedition!" said Piccard. "The dig sponsored by the American corporation and Shiek Rashid Al'Hassan!"

 

"Precisely," Merlin said. "And once again, I am partially to blame. When I awoke and brought back the discipline of thaumaturgy, the spread of magic throughout the world roused the Dark Ones from their slumber. They reached out against the power of the runestones, and though they could not escape, they drew upon the life energy released by the evil acts of mortal men and slowly, they grew stronger. And when Al'Hassan, who was the first of my students to achieve the rank of archmage, discovered the thaumaturgical trace emanations stemming from the site of their tomb, he co-sponsored an archeothaumaturgic dig, hoping to unearth ancient magical artifacts from prehistoric times. Instead, he became possessed by the power of the Dark Ones and they brought him to their hidden chamber. He removed the chest containing the runestones, thereby taking the key out of the lock and making it possible for the Dark Ones to escape as soon as they had grown strong enough. And for that to happen, Al'Hassan needed to cast a spell that would bring about the release of a tremendous amount of life energy, channeled directly to the Dark Ones."

 

"The cataclysms that occurred several years ago!" said Raven."The tidal wave inBuenos Aires ! The rain of fire inMoscow !The blackout and mass hysteria inNew York and the earthquakes inPeking ,Hawaii and theUnitedSemiticRepublics !"

 

"Exactly," Merlin said. "It was Al'Hassan's spell to release the Dark Ones. And he succeeded. We tried to stop him. Morganna died in the attempt, slain by Al'Hassan. I died when I lost my battle to contain the Dark Ones and my body fell into their pit as they came streaming forth. Yet even as the Dark Ones were being freed, the power of the Living Triangle struck back through its avatars, killing many of the Dark Ones. But an undetermined number of them managed to make good their escape, and now they are loose upon the world. And the power of the Living Triangle, working through the runestones, is the only thing on earth that is capable of stopping them."

 

"I recall a case involving three enchanted runestones," Raven said. "Faye ... or Morgan . . . was assigned to that case. They were stolen from aNew York gallery by two young thieves, but the charges were mysteriously dropped."

 

"That's right," said Piccard. "And we've been trying to locate those two thieves ever since, to bring them in for questioning. Their names were—"

 

"Wyrdrune and Kira," Merlin said. "You will recall that I spoke of the avatars of the spell of the Living Triangle. They have become those avatars. The runestones chose them."

 

"They chose them?" said Renaud. "Inanimate gems?"

 

"They are not inanimate," said Merlin. "They are the repositories of the astral spirits of the Council of the White. And they each have bonded themselves to the three avatars. "

 

"Then who is the third?" asked Piccard.

 

"Modred, of course," said Merlin. "Each of them is descended from Gorlois, the last surviving member of the Council.Modred because he was Morganna's son.Wyrdrune and Kira because they are descended from her sisters, Elaine and Morgause. Wyrdrune was one of my pupils.A somewhat undisciplined young warlock who, when the power of the three runestones is combined, has powers even greater than mine. Kira is not an adept at all, yet under the combined presence of the runestones, she too can exercise incalculable power. And as for Modred, he is the strongest of the three. He was the one who defeated Al'Hassan."

 

Merlin turned to face Renaud. "Perhaps now you'll understand why Chief Inspector Blood and Captain Farrell were not entirely forthcoming with you. If knowledge of this became public, there would be mass hysteria. Every adept would be under suspicion of being an inhuman necromancer. The public would panic and strike out against magic users in their fear. And that would only serve to increase the Dark Ones' power. In Whitechapel, we tracked down one of the Dark Ones and destroyed him before he could come into his full power. InLos Angeles , we found two more and it was in the battle we had with them that your fellow agent, Thanatos, was killed. And now we have tracked several more toParis . Tonight, Jacqueline encountered one of their acolytes, a man named Jacques Pascal, a human who had been possessed by them and sent out to kill, so that they could absorb the life energies of his victims. It was undoubtedly Pascal who was responsible for the murders of Joelle Muset and Gabrielle Longet. But this new murder you've told us about clearly indicates that the Dark Ones have at least one other acolyte, possibly more. And the manner of the murder would suggest that they have made a shapechanger. Or what you would call a werewolf."

 

" Mon Dieu!"said Renaud."A werewolf! Such a thing is possible?"

 

"For the Dark Ones, almost anything is possible," said Merlin.

 

"Why on earth didn't you come to us?" asked Raven. "How could you keep such a thing secret from the I.T.C.? We could have helped you!"

 

"And you could have hindered us, as well," said Jacqueline. "How could you expect to go up against the Dark Ones when you could never even manage to apprehend someone like me, who is only a witch? Besides, Modred never trusted you. Al'Hassan, one of the directors of your own board, was in the service of the Dark Ones!"

 

"Those are not the only reasons," Merlin said. "I hope you will excuse Jacqueline's natural antipathy toward the I.T.C., but the fact remains that there is no way the agency could be mobilized to help us against the Dark Ones. Your bureaucracy has become large and unwieldy. There would be no way to insure that the information would not leak out to the public. We cannot work against the Dark Ones through organizations, only through trusted individuals. People like Michael Blood, Rebecca Farrell, Ben Slater and Sebastian Makepeace.And now you."

 

Raven nodded. "I see," she said. "You're right, of course. I can't dispute your logic. To alert the entire agency would entail far too great an element of risk. And if the Dark Ones are everything you say they are, it's possible that they could have already infiltrated us.Which would mean that we can't even trust our own people. I'm almost afraid to ask this question, but how do you know you can trust us? Isn't it possible that one or more of us could be in the power of the Dark Ones?"

 

Merlin smiled. "You're underestimating your old teacher, my dear," he said. "I know each of my students better than even their parents know them. If I had reason not to trust you, I'd see it in your thoughts. As for the possibility of your being in the service of the Dark Ones, if that were the case, then the stone set in this ring would have been glowing with a brightness that would almost blind you."

 

They all stared at the ring on Billy's hand.

 

"You mean that is a runestone?" said Piccard. "I thought you said that there were only three of them?"