"Three that are part of the Living Triangle," Merlin said. "This one is a fourth, not part of the spell, but equally as powerful in its own right. It holds the astral spirit of my father, Gorlois. And if any of you were in the service of the Dark Ones, I have no doubt that Gorlois would have manifested himself and killed you on the spot. And even if I wanted to, there would have been nothing I could do to stop him."

 

Renaud stared at the ring and swallowed nervously. Billy reached across the table and picked up the switchblade knife. He pressed the release button and the blade snikked out. He held it up in front of Renaud.

 

"Still think I'm too young for one o' these?" he said with a grin.

 

 

 

Chapter

SEVEN

 

 

 

They stood in the darkness of the sewer underneath the street, the eerie silence broken only by the sounds of water dripping and lapping up against the channel walls.

 

"What happened to Billy and Jacqueline?" asked Kira.

 

"The cops showed up just as I was coming down," said Wyrdrune, "and Merlin moved the sewer access cover back into place."

 

"We've got to go back," said Kira.

 

"No," said Modred. "Merlin did that to buy us time. Both he and Jacqueline know what they're doing. If the police took them into custody, Merlin can get them out anytime he chooses. Right now, it's more important that we find Pascal."

 

"We'll never find anything in all this darkness," Wyrdrune said.

 

He raised his hands and his lips moved as he silently spoke a spell. A soft green aura appeared around his hands as he held them apart at about chest level, palms facing each other, fingers spread. Then the aura crackled and fine, jagged bolts of thaumaturgic energy shot out from his fingertips, meeting in the space between his hands and forming a spinning globe of greenish ball lightning about the size of a man's head. It lit up the area around them.

 

"There, that oughta do it," Wyrdrune said, putting down his hands.

 

Suddenly, the bright green ball of light began to pulsate rapidly. Its spinning action increased and it shot away from Wyrdrune, darting straight toward Kira.

 

She cried out in alarm and ducked. It passed inches over her head, struck the tunnel wall, bounced off, and came whooshing straight back at them like a miniature fighter plane on a strafing run.

 

"Look out!" yelled Kira.

 

They ducked and the ball passed just over their heads, took off away from them on a zigzagging course across the width of the tunnel, hung for a moment in midair, hovering like an angry bee, then came swooping back at them again. Kira and Wyrdrune each threwthemselves to one side, but Modred remained standing where he was. As the crackling ball came hurtling straight at his face, he held up his hand, palm out, and it came to a dead stop in the air, hovering in front of him, pulsating and spinning around, shooting off angry sparks. Slowly, Modred raised his other hand over the brightly glowing globe, as if he were palming a basketball. He brought his hand down over the ball and lowered it until it floated at chest level. Modred slowly moved his hands around it, like a potter smoothing clay, and the glow gradually became steady as the beaming globe ceased to pulsate and shoot off sparks.

 

Kira and Wyrdrune both stood up. Wyrdrune had a sheepish expression on his face.

 

"Sorry about that," he said.

 

Kira shook her head. "Tell me something, warlock," she said, "how on earth did you ever survive thaumaturgy school?"

 

"I . ..1 guess I got it wrong somehow," said Wyrdrune awkwardly.

 

"You merely rushed your spell," said Modred. "Magic requires patience. Here." He pushed his hands out away from him, like passing a basketball, and tossed the glowing ball to Wyrdrune.

 

"Hey!" Wyrdrune cried, quickly bringing up his hands and awkwardly hobbling the globe.

 

"Relax,"said Modred. "Control it."

 

Wyrdrune finally got it floating steadily, like a giant firefly, slightly above his head and several feet in front of him.

 

"That's better," Modred said.

 

"Try not to drop it in the water," Kira said wryly.

 

Wyrdrune grimaced at her.

 

"You see Pascal's body anywhere?" she said.

 

They looked around. They were standing on a stone walkway, slightly above the channel where the sewer water flowed through the tunnel.

 

"No sign of him," said Wyrdrune.

 

"He couldn't have gone far," said Kira. "Not with three bullets in his chest."

 

"Not necessarily," said Modred. "Unless any of the wounds were immediately fatal, there's a good chance that the Dark Ones could have kept him going. Do you see any sign of blood?"

 

"Bring the light down lower, warlock," Kira said. "And for God's sake, pay attention to what you're doing!"

 

"You thinkit's easy keeping ball lightning under control, you try it," Wyrdrune said. Slowly, he brought the glowing ball of electrical energy down to just above floor level.

 

"There," said Modred, pointing out the blood trail. "He's still alive and moving. Come on. He can't be very far ahead of us."

 

They moved off down the tunnel, the globe lighting the way for them. The sound of water dripping echoed through the tunnel.

 

"Damn, it stinks down here," said Wyrdrune.

 

"It's a sewer, what did you expect?" said Kira. "It still smells a damn sight better thanFulton Street ."

 

In the distance, they heard the chittering of rats.

 

Wyrdrune shuddered. "Damn," he said. "I knew there would be rats down here. Some of them are probably as big as a house."

 

"Hold it a minute," Modred said, as they came to a branching-off point. He bent down,then pointed to a tunnel to their left. "He went this way."

 

The globe of lightning moved around the corner and down the left-hand tunnel. They followed close behind.

 

"Watchyourselves ," said Modred. "If he knows we're following him, he might try to hide and jump us."

 

"With three bullets in his chest?" said Kira.

 

"You saw what happened at the club," said Modred. "If the necromancer's astral spirit takes possession of him, he won't even feel the pain. You could cut off both his legs and he'd keep on coming, even if he had to crawl."

 

"What could he do against the three of us?" asked Wyrdrune. "We have the power of the Living Triangle."

 

"Which might not avail us if he has the advantage of surprise," Modred replied. "Don't get cocky, son. Even a mage can die."

 

".I can't believe it," Kira said as they moved down the tunnel. "How the hell can he keep on going when he's losing so much blood?"

 

"The Dark Ones can keep him moving 'til he drops," said Modred. "But you're right. At this rate, he can't possibly last long."

 

They came to the end of the blood trail where another branching-off point occurred. The stone walkway continued on ahead of them, but there was no more blood sign. It stopped at the edge of the walkway. Across from them, on the other side of the channel, there was a smaller tunnel in the opposite wall, leading off into the darkness.

 

"He went into the water and down that opposite tunnel," Modred said.

 

"Great," said Wyrdrune. "We've lost him."

 

"Not yet we haven't," Modred said.

 

"You're not suggesting we go after him in there!" said Wyrdrune.

 

"What's the matter, warlock?" Kira said. "Afraid of getting your feet wet?"

 

She jumped down into the channel with a splash. The water came up to her thighs. She sloshed across toward the opposite tunnel. Modred went in after her.

 

"There's got to be about a zillion germs in there," said Wyrdrune with a disgusted grimace.

 

"Come on, warlock," Kira said. "Don't be such a baby. Get the lead out."

 

"Oh, jeez," said Wyrdrune. He went into the water. The bright green globe was hovering across the channel, at the entrance to the tunnel. "I'm probably getting infected by a dozen varieties of voracious bacteria," said Wyrdrune as he sloshed across with a pained expression on his face. "My goddamn balls will probably shrivel up and drop off."

 

"What makes you think you've got any?" Kira said with a grin. "Loosen up, for God's sake. A little dirty water isn't going to kill you."

 

"Try taking a dip in theHudson River ," Wyrdrune said.

 

"TheHudson 's been running clean for the past fifty years," said Kira.

 

"Good. Then you swim in it."

 

Kira rolled her eyes.

 

They stepped up into the branch tunnel entrance, which was slightly higher than the bottom of the channel. The water was only to their knees now. This tunnel was much smaller and narrower, with the roof only inches above their heads.

 

"If this keeps up, we'll soon be crawling through this muck," said Wyrdrune.

 

"Stop talking so much," Modred said softly. "Sound carries through these tunnels. Be still and listen."

 

They stood silently for a moment, listening intently. Some distance ahead of them down the tunnel, they could hear the dim sounds of splashing.

 

"It's him," said Modred. "Come on. Stay on your guard. And keep quiet. If we can hear him, it means that he can also hear us."

 

"Then we're not likely to sneak up on him, are we?" Wyrdrune said.

 

Modred merely glared at him.

 

"All right, I'll shut up," said Wyrdrune.

 

"You're almost as bad as your damned broom," said Modred.

 

Wyrdrune took a deep breath and exhaled heavily, but said nothing. They followed the sounds ahead of them, the glowing ball lighting their way.

 

I suppose he thinks Pascal can't see this light show moving down the tunnel behind him, Wyrdrune thought, though he kept it to himself. We could be blowing bugles down here, for all the good it's going to do him. He's not going to get away. He's dying, for God's sake, his last drops of blood mingling with the sewage. We'll probably come up on him floating facedown in this shit. And meanwhile, Jacqueline and Billy are probably having hot coffee down at the police station with Renaud. If I'd only waited a couple of seconds longer, he thought, I could be with them in a nice, cozy interrogation room or jail cell instead of wading through this garbage.

 

They came to the end of the tunnel. It was a short branch passageway, connecting two much larger tunnels. It opened out onto another wide channel, with another walkway on the opposite side. They could no longer hear the sounds of splashing, only of dripping and lapping water.

 

"He must have crossed here and come out on the other side," said Modred.

 

"Yeah, but then which way did he go?" asked Wyrdrune, glancing down both ends of the long tunnel.

 

"Well, we're not going to find out by standing here," said Kira. "Let's go, warlock. No more hanging behind.You first, this time." And she gave him a slight shove.

 

"Hey!" said Wyrdrune as he stumbled forward out of the branch tunnel, losing his balance.

 

His right foot went down into the channel . . . and kept on going. This channel was much deeper and the water was up to his chest. He fell forward and then went down into the water, over his head. The illuminating globe, no longer under his control, dropped down into the water and was extinguished in a hiss of steam. Wyrdrune came up in darkness, sputtering and spitting, the slimy water streaming from him.

 

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" he said. He spat repeatedly. "I think I swallowed some." He coughed and gagged. "God, I'm going to be sick!"

 

"Shut up!" said Modred.

 

"Drop dead!" Wyrdrune retorted hotly. "How you'd like to swallow a mouthful of filthy, stinking,disgusting —"

 

" Will you shut the hell up, damn you!"Modred said. "There's something wrong! Be still!"

 

The tone of his voice silenced Wyrdrune at once. He stood perfectly still in the chest-high water. And then he felt it.

 

"Oh, shit," he said hoarsely. "There's something in here with me!"

 

Modred quickly held up his hands and red fire crackled from his fingertips, forming into a flaming, bright red ball of energy that he tossed out ahead of him. It quickly rose up toward the roof of the tunnel, illuminating everything around them.

 

" Ho-ly shiiit!"cried Wyrdrune.

 

Right in front of him, water streaming from its slick brown-furred body as it rose up out of the channel, was a gigantic rat, the size of an elephant. It bared its fangs and snarled,its chittering sound magnified a hundred times into a deafening roar that filled the tunnel.

 

Wyrdrune plunged into the slimy water and started stroking like an Olympic swimmer going for the gold. As the gargantuan rodent lunged after him, Kira and Modred flung out their arms and searing bolts of thaumaturgic energy shot out from their fingertips, exploding as they struck the rat's huge body. It screamed with agony and turned toward them, gobs of saliva dripping from its fangs, but they continued the barrage. The beast bellowed as it became wreathed in an incandescent aura of thaumaturgic energy and began to burn. Clouds of steam rose up from the water as the deafening roar of its dying throes echoed through the tunnel and then it collapsed in upon itself and vanished in billowing clouds of steam and roiling water.

 

Modred teleported himself and Kira to the walkway on the opposite side of the channel.

 

"Wyrdrune!" he shouted.

 

There was no response.

 

"Warlock!"Kira cried, glancing at Modred with alarm."Warlock, where the hell are you?"

 

Wyrdrune rose up out of the sewage, water streaming from his hair. He was covered with filth and slime. He looked like a drowned cat.

 

"A rat as big as a house," he said. "Jesus, I had to say it, didn't I?"

 

Modred stretched his arms out toward him and Wyrdrune came floating up out of the channel, water streaming off him as he rose into the air. With his outstretched arms, Modred guided him over to the walkway where they stood and gently set him down.

 

"Thanks," Wyrdrune said sourly. "Why the hell didn't you do that in the first place?"

 

"Are you all right?" asked Kira with concern.

 

"Yeah, no thanks to you.Jesus, look at me!"

 

"Count your blessings, warlock," she said. "You came that close to being rat bait. "

 

"I warned you," Modred said. "Never underestimate the Dark Ones."

 

Wyrdrune shivered."God! I hate rats!"

 

Modred was looking at the floor of the walkway around them. "Over here," he said, pointing to a pool of water and a wet trail that led away from them, down the tunnel. "That's the way he went."

 

Modred and Kira quickly moved off in the direction that Pascal had taken, the flaming red ball moving ahead of them and Wyrdrune following miserably behind. About two hundred yards farther down the tunnel, they came upon Pascal.

 

He was lying stretched out on his stomach, his legs splayed out behind him, his fingers scrabbling at the walkway in front of him, as if he was trying to drag himself along, but he had nothing left. His expensive clothes were sopping wet and covered with blood and slime. He turned weakly and glanced at them, fear in his bulging eyes, his face white as a sheet. His lips were blue with cyanosis, his skin was stretched tight over his bones, his eyes were glazed and he looked as if he had been completely drained of blood.

 

"Leila!" he croaked weakly. "Leila, help me!"

 

"Where are they?" Modred asked him.

 

"Leila, please!"

 

"She's abandoned you to die," said Modred. "Don't be a fool, man. We can at least save your soul from being damned. Tell us where they are!"

 

"Leila . . ."

 

"Talk to me, Pascal!" said Modred. "Where are the Dark Ones?"

 

"Save . . . me. . . ."

 

"Pascal!"

 

He slumped down and lay still.

 

"It's too late," said Kira, looking down at him. "He's gone."

 

"Damnit!" Modred swore, turning away furiously.

 

"All for nothing," Wyrdrune said.

 

"No, not for nothing," Kira said. "At least we know he's dead. That's one less killer on the streets ofParis ." She glanced at Modred. "Could we have done that?" she asked.

 

Modred glanced at her with a frown. "Done what?"

 

"Saved his soul from being damned," she said. "I didn't know the runestones had that power."

 

"They don't," said Modred.

 

"But you said—"

 

"Souls neither go toParadise nor are they damned to Hell," said Modred. "They simply cease to exist."

 

"You lied?" she said. "You lied to a dying man?"

 

"No," said Modred. "I lied to a dead man. Look."

 

He pointed at the body. Kira turned to look at it and gasped. In death, Pascal had reverted to his true form. The corpse of an eighty-year-old man lay shriveled on the walkway at their feet.

 

"He died the moment he gave himself over to the Dark Ones," Modred said.

 

"He may have had no choice," said Kira quietly as she looked down at him. "You left him thinking that his soul would be forever damned. You didn't have to do that. No matter what he might have done, he was still a human being. You owed him at least that consideration."

 

"Grow up," said Modred. "I owed him nothing. Come on. Let's get the hell out of here."

 

He turned and started walking back down the tunnel.

 

Kira stared after him. "There was a time when I thought I loved him," she said softly.

 

Wyrdrune looked at her. "I thought so, too," he said quietly, so that only she could hear.

 

She shook her head. "God, he's so cold," she said. "It frightens me. In some ways, he's really no different from the Dark Ones."

 

"There's one very important difference," Wyrdrune said. "He's on our side."

 

 

 

Colette Dubois had the face of an angel and the body of a harlot. Her hair was long and fine and so blond that it was almost white. Her eyes were a striking dark blue, flecked with tiny bits of gold. Her face was heart-shaped, with a slightly pointed chin, a turned-up nose and a mouth that was shaped in a perpetual, full-lipped pout. Her complexion was flawless and, at twenty-three, she looked no more than seventeen. Her breasts were large and firm, slightly upturned, and her waist was so small that a man could almost encircle it with his hands. Her legs were long and shaped to sheer perfection. With that face and that body, she looked like a combination of innocent young girl and strumpet, the sort of fantasy most men only dream about. They stared at her everywhere she went. She attracted them the way a magnet draws iron filings. With her stunning looks and soft, vulnerable, breathy voice, she could easily have had any man she chose. Only she hated men.

 

She had learned to hate them early, when she was only fourteen and her father had seduced her. And it had been just that, a calculated, methodical seduction, progressing slowly in stages over a period of time, as soon as she had started to mature, which she had done quite early. The fatherly affection had gradually progressed from paternal hugs and kisses to caresses, then more intimate kisses, and finally to the act itself. It was, without a doubt, abuse and molestation, yet in another sense, it was not entirely one-sided. Right from the beginning, Colette had known exactly what was going on and, in her own manipulative way, she had encouraged it. Not because she liked it, but because it gave her a sense of power.

 

Unknown to her father, she had lost her virginity at the age of twelve, to a boy who was five years older. At the age of eleven, she had witnessed her older sister, who was fourteen, making love with her boyfriend in her bedroom when their parents were away. On previous occasions, she had heard the sounds they made from her own bedroom and curious to see what was going on, she had hidden in her sister's closet and observed the action undiscovered. An unusually precocious girl, she had known what they were doing, though she had no real understanding of the physical sensations and emotions that accompanied the act. What struck her most were the reactions of her sister's boyfriend. She had always thought of boys as being stronger and superior, but although it had been clear to her that they both obviously enjoyed what they were doing, it was equally as clear that her sister was the one in control. And afterward, at the climactic moment, her sister's boyfriend had seemed like a completely different person. He trembled and made small, whimpering noises and clung to her like a child clings to its mother. And her sister had held him and made soft, cooing sounds while he lay on top of her, breathing heavily, and he seemed so . . . weak. That, more than anything else, had fascinated her.

 

She found herself wondering if she could make a boy so weak and she soon had an opportunity to find out, with the very boy she had observed with her sister. In a very calculated way, acting as she had seen her sister act, she had seduced him and found that she could, indeed, make him as weak as her sister seemed to make him. And though the act itself was vaguely pleasurable to her, the idea of controlling him like that was absolutely intoxicating. And she wanted to do it again, with someone else, to see if she could reproduce that same feeling of control. And although she didn't know it, or could not have fully understood it if she did, Colette had been destined for that course from birth. There was something wrong with her. Deep down inside, something vital and important had been missing from the very start. She was a budding sociopath, with no sense of right or wrong and an overwhelming, pathological compulsion to control and manipulate others. And by the time her father noticed her in a new way and started acting out his own sick compulsions, Colette had already had at least a dozen lovers and the idea of controlling her father in the same way, the most powerful man in her life, was exhilarating to her. She had allowed him to fulfill his twisted needs and then she made him pay for it. By the time she was sixteen, he was her abject slave. She had utter contempt for him. A year later, ridden with guilt and remorse he could not bear, he committed suicide. And although she was not entirely responsible, Colette believed that it was she who drove him to it and that filled her with even more contempt for his weakness. And she transferred that contempt to every man she ever knew.

 

It might have been possible to feel sympathy or pity for Colette if it were not for the fact that she was an empty shell, utterly immoral and totally remorseless. The only pleasure that she got from life was from manipulating and controlling others. It was an all-encompassing, pathological need. She had an irresistible desire to make people jump through hoops, especially men, and she was driven to reduce them to pliable nonentities. For which she hated them. By the age of eighteen, she had stopped having sex with men. She no longer took any pleasure in it and experience had taught her that it wasn't necessary to achieve the desired effect. The implied promise of it was all that was required. For physical relationships, she much preferred the company of women. They were not as weak as men, but she manipulated them as well. It was the only thing that gave her any satisfaction.

 

She had a job dancing nude in a small saloon located in theLatin Quarter . It was not one of the fancier establishments, such as the Cafe Noir, with elaborate stage shows and chorus girls dancing in choreographed routines. Colette did not like sharing the stage with anyone. She wanted to have all the attention for herself, so she danced in a club that had several small stages set about the room, with chairs placed around them so that men could sit around the perimeter of the stage with their drinks and cigarettes and stare up at her as she danced, moving through a succession of seductive poses. They would give her tips and for a bit more money, she would give them a "table dance" away from the stage, in one of the darkened corners of the club. The whole thing was a sexual tease, with no real contact occurring between her and the patrons of the club. She might touch them slightly, with a stroking motion on the upper arm, a light caress upon the cheek or run her fingers through their hair, but they could not touch her and the club employed large bouncers to make sure no one got out of line. It was yet another way she could control them and she was paid for it, as well. But though she smiled at them and gave them smoldering looks as she performed, she felt nothing. And though the club had a strict policy against going out with customers, she often did just that, especially with men who had money to spend.

 

She got so that she could identify them almost immediately. It was easy. They were always the ones who tipped more generously, as if to show off, and often asked for the more expensive table dances, during which they could have the opportunity to tell her how much they wanted her. She would lead them on, telling them that she was not allowed to date the customers, but saying it in such a way that led them to believe that she could be talked into it.

 

She kept them coming back to the club, again and again, investing more of their time andmoney, until she was sure she had them well and truly hooked. Then she would finally consent to see them outside the club, but always in a public place, always "just for coffee," playing the cautious innocent who just happened to dance naked in a bar because it was the only way she could make enough money to help support her ailing mother. In truth, she had no idea of her mother's state of health or that of anybody in her family. She had not seen or spoken with them since her father's suicide, when she had confronted her mother with the reason for it and thoroughly burned all her bridges.

 

After the first few dates, she would have them so firmly in the palm of her hand that they would start telling her the most intimate details about their lives. They were almost always married and they almost always cheated on then-wives, which meant that they would probably cheat elsewhere, too, such as in their business, and little by little, leading them along, gradually allowing them slight liberties —a kiss here, a touch there, always with the implied promise that more would be eventually forthcoming—she made inroads into their private lives, like a cancer slowly spreading through a person's system. She would get them to spend money on her to show off how successful and powerful they were, reacting with a feigned childish delight to every gift and telling them they "shouldn't have," and she would get them to reveal more and more about themselves, to show her how honest and sensitive they were, until one day they would wake up and realize that she was in a position to totally destroy them. And then the game would begin in earnest.

 

Colette was not really interested in blackmail. She was interested in using what she learned to make them do things, like a chess master moving pieces on a board. She found it more difficult to do with women, who were not as easy to manipulate as men, but she enjoyed the challenge. At any given time, she had at least half a dozen people on the string, playing with them like a puppeteer. The more complex her machinations, the better she enjoyed it. She was always very careful in the selection of her pawns. It would not do to pick someone whom she could inadvertently push too far, someone who could strike back and hurt her. A true sociopath, the only pain that she was capable of feeling was her own. The only person she was capable of feeling sorry for was herself. It would have been easy to think of her as being evil, except that she quite literally did not know the difference between what was good and what was evil. She was, like most sociopaths, almost an alienbeing, able to mimic human behavior, but it was all a sham, a performance. She did what was expected of her in any given social situation, but she didn't really feel much. She could, however, feel fear.

 

She felt it as she was walking home one night after dancing at the club. She was tired and her feet hurt and she was anxious to get back to her apartment and slip into a nice, warm bath. It waslate, almost three o'clock in the morning, and the streets were practically deserted once she left theLatin Quarter . Her high heels made clip-clopping sounds on the pavement as she walked with a quick, purposeful stride.

 

Because she often had to leave the club at a late hour, she carried a small pistol in her purse and, like everything else that she had everdone, she had practiced with it diligently, like an automaton, until she knew just how to use it with optimum results. Because it was a small-caliber weapon, so that it could be easily concealed, she knew that it worked best up close, where she could go for a head shot. She had practiced drawing the pistol from her purse and firing it quickly so that she could make such a shot nine times out of ten and, because of that, she felt reasonably secure walking through the street at night. But on this night, she did not feel secure at all.

 

It had rained earlier that evening and the streets were slick and lambent, the moisture on them reflecting the glow of the streetlights. It was a cool night and a pleasant breeze was blowing. She was almost halfway home when she suddenly felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck and experienced the inexplicable sensation that she was being followed.

 

It was one of those instinctual, almost subliminal sensations. She hadn't seen or heard anything, but it was the sort of reaction people sometimes get when they have the sudden feeling that someone is staring at them from across a crowded room. They turn and, sure enough, someone is staring. Colette stopped suddenly and turned around, but she didn't see a thing in the street behind her. She stood perfectly still, her hand on her purse, gazing intently into the shadows. Was that a movement? She wasn't sure. She swallowed nervously and continued walking, slightly increasing her pace.

 

She felt it again.

 

She glanced over her shoulder and, this time, she was almost certain she had seen a movement, just a quick glimpse out of the corner of her eye. She started walking faster. And then she heard it.The unmistakable sound of footsteps, trying to match her own pace, but not quite succeeding. Clip-clip, clop-clop, clip-clip, clop-clop—just slightly out of synch. She quickly stopped and turned.

 

Nothing.

 

This time, she was certain that it wasn't only her imagination. She was definitely being followed.Stalked. Her stomach muscles tightened up. Don't run, she told herself. If you start to run, he'll know he's got you. He'll know he's in control.

 

Suddenly, it occurred to her that he might be intending to follow her all the way to her apartment, so that he would know where she lived. Perhaps it was one of the customers from the club, one of those sly voyeur types who would try to find out where she lived, so that he could watch her from concealment, perhaps slip cryptic notes under her door or send her gifts anonymously. He would try to find out her telephone number so that he could call her and say nothing when she answered. It was a form of manipulation and that was something she could understand. She had encountered those types once or twice before. They were generally small, cowardly little men trying to live out a fantasy of power. She knew how to handle them. On the other hand, it could be a mugger or a rapist. She knew how to handle those, as well. That was why she had the gun. Either way, she had no intention of allowing her stalker to find out where she lived.

 

She turned into the next alleyway and walked down it a little ways, then flattened herself with her back against the wall, so that she could easily see the entrance to the alley. She slipped her hand into her purse and took out the pistol. For a few moments, nothing happened. There was no sound of approaching footsteps, no sign of anyone following her.An then a huge dog came padding silently into the alley. It stopped a short way inside and growled. And as she watched it in the glow from the street lamp on the sidewalk, Colette suddenly realized that it was not a dog at all, but a large wolf. A wolf on the streets ofParis ! No, it was impossible. It had to be a dog. But she felt the cold fist of fear squeezing her insides. Her small pistol suddenly seemed terribly inadequate.

 

The animal could smell her. It bared its teeth in a snarl and growled again. Slowly, it moved farther into the alley, stalking her. She held up the gun and tried to keep her hand from shaking.

 

"Michel!"

 

The voice came from close by, just around the corner of the building.A woman's voice.

 

"Michel, where are you?"

 

The beast stopped where it was and turned its head, whimpering slightly. A woman was silhouetted in the light as she came to stand at the entrance to the alley.

 

"There you are!" she said. "Michel, what are you doing in there? What is it? Are you chasing cats again?"

 

Colette let out an audible sigh of relief. She put down the gun.

 

"Who's there?" the woman said.

 

The animal began to growl again.

 

"It's okay," Colette said, stepping out away from the wall. "I . . . I was afraid of your dog. I thought it was going to attack me."

 

The animal growled again. "It's all right, Michel," the woman said. "Sit."

 

The beast whined slightly and sat down in its haunches, its tongue lolling.

 

"I'm sorry if he frightened you," the woman said. "But he won't hurt anyone unless I tell him to."

 

"He must make you feel safe, walking the streets at night," Colette said. "What kind of dog is that?"

 

"He's not a dog," the woman said. "He's a wolf."

 

Colette had been just about to reach out to pet him, but she immediately backed away."A wolf!Really? You have a wolf for a pet?"

 

"No need to be afraid," the woman said. "He does anything I tell him." She smiled. "Sometimes he's almost human."

 

Colette was fascinated that this woman could actually have a trained wolf. To actually controla wild beast like that. . . .

 

"Did you raise him from a pup?" she said.

 

"Baby wolves are called cubs," the woman said. "But no, he was almost fully grown when I found him."

 

"Found him?" Colette said.

 

The woman laughed. "It's a long story," she said.

 

"I'd like to hear it," said Colette, looking at the woman.

 

She was really very beautiful.Even more beautiful than she was. She had long, flaming red hair, high cheekbones and copper-colored skin. Her eyes were gorgeous, a striking shade of metallic green. She wore a long darkcloak, open in the front, a black blouse, skin-tight black leather pants and high-heeled boots. Colette found herself powerfully attracted to her. Their eyes met and they gazed at each other silently for a long moment.

 

"Would you like to have a drink together?" Colette said. "My apartment isn't far from here. You can bring your wolf and tell me how you found him. What does he eat?"

 

"Anything I tell him to," the woman said with a smile. "Would you like to pet him?"

 

"Is it all right?"

 

"Go on. He won't hurt you."

 

Slowly, Colette stretched out her hand and stroked the beast's fur. It licked her hand.

 

"Hello, boy," she said. "You gave me quite a scare, but we're going to be friends, aren't we?" She glanced up at the woman. "My name's Colette."

 

"Mine's Leila."

 

 

 

Chapter

EIGHT

 

 

 

They had the routine down to a fine art. The first step was picking out their victim. That was the simplest part. Tourists were easy to spot. Sometimes, they went after tourists who traveled in pairs, or even in small groups of three and four, but the ones who were by themselves made the best marks. Suddenly, the unsuspecting tourist would find himself surrounded by a group of small, bedraggled children, shouting and cajoling, tugging at his clothes, grabbing at his hands and getting in his way as they begged for coins. One of them would thrust something at the unsuspecting victim, a folded up newspaper was most often used, and while the disoriented mark's attention was thus distracted, nimble fingers would dart underneath the paper and pluck out his wallet. The wallet would immediately be passed to one of the other children, usually the smallest or the swiftest runner, and by the time the victim realized that his pocket had been picked, the one with the wallet was long gone. The police could do nothing in a situation such as this and many tourists found their pockets lightened in this manner by the gangs of gypsy children, against which the authorities were practically helpless.

 

The old man who walked across the square with his gold-headed cane looked foreign and, better still, he looked prosperous. His clothes were well tailored and his coat looked expensive. The cane he carried didn't give them any pause. He did not look very threatening and most people would never think of striking out at a pathetic-looking bunch of children. They surged toward him, surrounding him, crying out and begging and tugging at his clothes. To be on the safe side, two of them fastened on to the hand holding the cane. Marcel, the oldest at fourteen, thrust a paper at him while Karl, an accomplished pickpocket at eleven, ducked beneath it as he made to grab his wallet. Then, suddenly, everything went wrong.

 

Karl felt a strong hand clamped around his wrist and Marcel stared as the old man's eyes fixed firmly upon his and began to glow with a green fire. He dropped the paper as he stiffened, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Karl tried to jerk away, but an instant later, he also felt the burning gaze upon him and, like Marcel, he stopped resisting. The chatter of the other children fell silent as they, too, fell under the spell and became silent, standing with slack jaws and unfocused stares, like a bunch of dirty little statues.

 

The old man smiled as he looked around at them. "Filthy littlebeggars, aren't you?" he said, his voice belying his aged appearance. "But you'll all do. Yes, I think you'll do quite nicely."

 

He turned and started walking toward a nearby alleyway. And, like baby ducks following their mother, the children all trooped after him. Inside the alley, the "old man" turned and faced them, only he was no longer an old man. He stood before them, dressed in a long, hooded black robe, his coppery-hued features framed by flame red hair. He held his arms out wide, as if to hug them, and the children all clustered together.

 

"Come," he said with a smile. "Come and meet your other playmates. We have new games to show you."

 

There was a brief flash of bright green light, and the alleyway was empty.

 

 

 

It was almost morning by the time they got back to the hotel. Their limo driver, who had fallenasleep waiting for them, stared at them with chagrin when he saw the state they were in, especially Wyrdrune, who was wet from head to toe from his immersion in the stinking sewer water. The reaction of the hotel staff was not much different, but since the Ritz was, after all, a world-class hotel and they were staying in one of its most expensive suites, after their initial shocked reaction, they immediately became solicitous, asking if they'd had some sort of accident and if there was anything they could do to be of help. Modred thanked them politely and explained that there had, indeed, been an unfortunate accident, that someone had left a sewer grating open and Wyrdrune had fallen through it, but miraculously escaped serious injury and they had gotten wet helping him out. It was, perhaps, an improbable-sounding story, but the hotel staff asked no questions. They merely inquired if a doctor was required or if they should call anyone to report the incident. Modred thanked them once again and declined, saying that after such a harrowing experience, all they wanted was to go upstairs andshower, have their clothes thrown out, then go to sleep. But the moment they walked through the door, they saw that they had company. Jacqueline and Billy had returned. Raven and Piccard were with them.

 

"Good God, what happened?" Jacqueline asked on seeing them.

 

"That can wait," said Modred, looking at the two strangers standing with her. He frowned slightly as he gazed at them. "Adepts," he said.

 

"These people are agents of the I.T.C.," Jacqueline said.

 

"I had surmised that," Modred said tensely, keeping his eyes on them. "Before we begin our explanations, perhaps you'd better give us yours."

 

"It's all right," said Merlin. "Allow me to present agents Raven and Piccard. Raven was once one of my students. They know everything."

 

"Do they, indeed?" said Modred softly. "I think that may have been a very serious mistake. I hope you can convince me otherwise, or there's a good chance that neither of them will leave this room alive."

 

"Your threats don't impress me, Morpheus," Piccard said. "It is Morpheus, is it not?"

 

"His name is Modred," Jacqueline said.

 

"Whatever he calls himself, we've been looking for him for a very long time," Piccard said.

 

"Well, it appears you've found me," Modred said. "What are you going to do about it?"

 

"Stop it!" said Raven. "You've both got your feathers ruffled like a pair of fighting roosters. We didn't come here for a confrontation or to place anyone under arrest."

 

"We didn't come here to be threatened, either," said Piccard.

 

"Enough," said Merlin. "Modred, these people can be trusted. The decision to tell them everything was mine. It's my responsibility."

 

"It was not your choice to make," said Modred. "You presume a great deal, Ambrosius. But then you always did."

 

"Talk, talk, talk," the broom said, shuffling into the room with its red nightcap perched atop its broomstick. "Doesn't anyone believe in sleeping anymore? Honestly, it's enough to make your bristles fall out. You're all making me crazy!" It stopped suddenly in front of Wyrdrune. "Gevalt! What happened to you? Just look at you! And that smell! Feh! You smell like a public toilet!"

 

"Close," said Kira.

 

"I'll never understand how the hell you can smell anything without a nose," said Wyrdrune.

 

"A stench like that, believe me, you don't need a nose to smell," the broom said. "And you two aren't much better," it said to Modred and Kira. "What on earth have you been doing? No, better yet, don't tell me, I'm sure it was disgusting. Look at you! What kind of way is this to entertain your guests? Go take your clothes off and get into a shower, for God's sake. I'm going to have to open ail die windows."

 

"In a minute, Broom," said Wyrdrune. "First we have to—"

 

"In a minute, nothing," said the broom, pushing him toward the bathroom with its spindly arms. "You get out of those stinking, sopping clothes right now before you catch your death of cold! I'll see if room service can send up some steaming chicken broth. Come on now, get."

 

"Broom, for cryin' out loud—"

 

"And don't give me any of your backtalk," said the broom, cutting him off. "You march right into that bathroom, Mister Wizard, and get out of those wet clothes. I promised your mother I'd take care of you, God rest her soul, and I'm not going to put up with any nonsense, so off you go."

 

The others couldn't help themselves. They burst out laughing as the broom shoved a protesting Wyrdrune into the bathroom and the tension broke.

 

"I've never seen anything like that in my entire life," said Raven. "It's positively charming! Is it your familiar?"

 

"No," said Modred, amused in spite ofhimself . "It's his."

 

"And it bosses him around like that?" Piccard said, grinning. "What sort of spell did he use to animate it?"

 

"That's part of the problem," Modred replied. "He doesn't remember. He couldn't reproduce it if he tried."

 

"Oh, dear," said Raven. "For a wizard, that's not very responsible, is it?"

 

"That's just the point," said Merlin. "He's not a wizard. He's only a warlock, as Kira is so fond of reminding him. He never stood for certification. He was kicked out of school before he could complete his studies."

 

"So that's why we've never been able to find any record of him," said Piccard. "We naturally assumed that it must have taken a wizard to spirit those gems out of a roomful of sorcerers. To think it was accomplished by a mere student!"

 

"Not quite a mere student," Merlin said. "Wyrdrune was the most talented natural adept I've taught since Al'Hassan. The problem in Wyrdrune's case has always been that he has no discipline. He was forever overrreaching himself, like an infant trying to walk before it's learned to crawl. The broom is a perfect example. I haven't the faintest idea what sort of spell he used, but knowing him, he undoubtedly attempted something very complicated and involved, with all sorts of strange embellishments and no real understanding of what in God's name he was doing. You see the result. He animated it to help his ailing mother around the house while he was away at school and it somehow became impressed with her personality. / can't even figure out how it manages to speak, much less reason, but its sophistication should give you some idea of Wyrdrune's natural abilities."

 

"And yet he was expelled from thaumaturgy school?" Piccard said. "What on earth did he do?"

 

"He burned down a concert hall inBoston ," Kira said.

 

"Seriously?" asked Raven.

 

"He didn't mean to," Merlin explained. "He was trying to earn some extra money and he took a part-time job as a special effects adept with a band that wasn't too particular about whether or not he was actually certified, especially since he was willing to work cheaply. He cast a fire spell for one of their effects and it got out of his control."

 

"As I recall, a fire was used as a diversion in the theft of the runestones," said Piccard.

 

"He tries to learn from his mistakes," said Kira wryly. "He's got the fire spell down pat now. It's his teleportation that's a little shaky."

 

Raven raised her eyebrows. "He's only a warlock and hecan teleport?" she said.

 

"Well, sort of," Kira replied. "He's like a shaky student pilot-adept. His takeoffs are okay, but his landings need a little work. To some extent, the runestones augment his natural power," she added, "as they do with me. Genetically, I suppose I have the talent to become an adept, but I've neverstudied, thaumaturgy. Still, I am capable of hurling bolts of thaumaturgic energy, but not just anytime I want. It's not really my doing. It's the runestone." She stripped off her black leather glove and opened her hand.

 

Raven and Piccard both came closer, to look at it. "Fascinating," said Piccard. "I have a thousand questions and I am not sure where to start."

 

"Why don't we begin by letting them get out of their wet clothes?" said Raven. "I'll call room service and order some more coffee."

 

A short while later, they were all sitting around the coffee table in the main room of the suite.Wyrdrune, all washed up, was wearing a terry cloth robe. Kira had changed into a cotton caftan and was sitting barefoot with her feet tucked under her on the couch. Modred had put on one of his silk brocade dressings gowns, a pair of slacks and slippers.

 

"For the sake of honesty," Piccard said, "perhaps we should begin by making sure we understand each other." He glanced at Modred. "I'm sure that neither of us is very comfortable with the prospect of working together. I cannot ignore the fact that you are a wanted criminal and I believe I speak for my partner, as well. There can be no clean slates between us, nor would you believe me if I suggested otherwise. However, due to the unique circumstances of the current situation, I believe that we must have a sort of truce.That, in and of itself, makes Raven and me lawbreakers, but it is a question of priorities. Merlin has convinced us that the Dark Ones pose a far greater threat than you do. I understand that you have given up your former, uh, 'occupation,' though that still does not absolve you of past crimes. However, that is a question that must, of necessity, be postponed indefinitely. We also understand that the nature of this situation is such that we cannot communicate what we have learned to our superiors. When it comes to that, I have to agree with Merlin. The knowledge of the Dark Ones' existence must be kept secret from the general public in order to prevent a widespread panic and we cannot vouch for the entire agency. So that leaves us all involved in a situation that, while it may be moral, is nevertheless clandestine and decidedly illegal. I suppose we shall have to live with that as best we can, but we will not be able to support you in your efforts to defeat the Dark Ones if there is not an element of trust between us. So I will tell you frankly that the moment you betray that trust, all bets are off. And the moment the threat of the Dark Ones is eliminated, I'm coming after you."

 

"A fine and noble little speech," said Modred with a wry smile. "All right, Piccard. I can accept those terms, so long as you understand that it must work both ways. The moment either you or Raven betray our trust, I'll be coming after you."

 

"Fine," said Raven with a grimace. "If we're all done flexing our muscles now, perhaps we can get down to the matter at hand."

 

Briefly, Modred told them about the events of that night, of how Pascal had fled down to the sewers and of how he died without revealing anything except the name of the Dark One whom he served, which was of little use to them at the moment. Then Raven told them about the latest murder, that of the prostitute who was found with her throat torn open, claw marks on her body and mutilated with the telltale thaumaturgic runes.

 

"For the time being," she finished, "we can run interference for Renaud. We can report that we are still pursuing our investigation, functioning in an advisory capacity to the police. That way, anyone else in the agency will be officially kept out of the case and it will remain in Renaud's jurisdiction, so long as we're in charge."

 

"What about Max Siegal?" Kira asked.

 

"He has already been released," said Raven. "Needless to say, he will be told that it was due to lack of hard evidence and to the fact that a similar crime was committed while he was in custody. The attorney that Jacqueline retained for him will make the customary outraged noises to the media, the police department will apologize profusely and there will be talk of a lawsuit for false arrest, but it will all be purely for show and the purpose of Siegal's exoneration in the public eye. Nothing will come of it."

 

Kira nodded. "That seems like the best way to handle it," she said.

 

"The question is,where do we go from here?" Piccard said. "One of the acolytes is dead, but another remains on the loose and there can be others still. For all we know, the Dark Ones could be amassing an entire army of acolytes to murder for them."

 

"That there will beothers, I have no doubt," said Modred, "but dozens, not hundreds or thousands. Not an entire army, by any means."

 

"What's to prevent them?" asked Piccard.

 

"The laws of thaumaturgic energy," said Wyrdrune. "The more people they have under their control, the more power they'd have to expend and the Dark Ones are trying to build up their power, not deplete it."

 

"But the more acolytes they have under their control, committing murders for them, the more life energy they can absorb," Piccard said. "Isn't that true?"

 

"To some extent, it is," said Modred. "However, to use a rather peculiar, though perhaps not entirely inappropriate analogy, that would be a lot like the process of investing. To use money as the analogy for thaumaturgic power, imagine that you invest funds in a small business in order to increase your capital. It takes a certain initial expenditure to infuse capital into that business so that you might recoup on your investment and make a profit. If the business then becomes very successful and you consistently bank the profits, eventually, you will accumulate a fortune. However, if instead of banking the profits, you decide to reinvest them back into the business in order to increase its size, or, more appropriately in this case, invest the profits in another business and continue to follow that practice, then eventually you will have a large number of businesses in operation, but in terms of the money that you have ready to hand, you won't be much better off than when you started."

 

"Only you would be worth a great deal more on paper," said Piccard. "To follow your analogy, wouldn't the Dark Ones benefit from such a situation? At some point, they could decide to stop reinvesting in new acolytes, at which time they could then draw on all of that potential profit, as you put it. And in the meantime, we'd be kept busy trying to track down a large number of killers."

 

"Except that isn't the way the Dark Ones think," said Merlin. "If they did, in fact, think that way, they would have had no objection to white magic. But they were greedy for the quick accumulation of power that necromancy gave them, instead of the steady, but considerably slower methods offered by white magic. They went to war rather than give up necromancy. And when they escaped from their confinement, instead of uniting together to fight the runestones, they scattered throughout the world, seeking sanctuary in the hope that others among them would be the first to fall while they built up their strength in safety. Remember how they used Al'Hassan. They will try to do the same thing here. They will function through a small number of acolytes, hoping to increase their power as quickly as possible so that they might then attempt the sort of spell that would bring about the deaths of large numbers of people all at once, thereby releasing a massive amount of life energy that they could absorb. And if that gave them the power to defeat the runestones, they could then absorb that energy as well and become preeminent among the others of their kind."

 

"But what's to stop them from leaving Paris and starting over someplace else now that they know you're on to them?" asked Raven.

 

"Absolutely nothing," Wyrdrune said. "Only they won't do that."

 

"Why not?sheasked.

 

"Because they're greedy," Wyrdrune replied. "To use Modred's terms, they have an investment to protect. They've used up thaumaturgic energy in order to possess their acolytes and keep them under control. If they left now, they'd lose whatever they had gained by starting-over someplace else. They'll cut and run only as a last resort."

 

"But you don't know that for sure," Piccard said.

 

"No, we don't," Wyrdrune admitted, "but they've followed the same pattern each time we've encountered them. They'll continue trying to accumulate as much power as they can in the hope that it will enable them to defeat us. Keep one thing in mind—we're more than just a threat to them. We're also the carrot on a stick. If they can kill us and destroy the runestones, it would give them an incredible amount of power, because then they'd be able to absorb the life energies of the Council of the White and after that, nothing on earth could stop them."

 

"And if they could manage to kill even one of us," Modred added, "it would effectively break the spell of the Living Triangle. Then the two survivors would be only as strong as the spirits of the individual runestones they possess, and that would make them far more vulnerable. The Dark Ones know we represent a threat to them, but their greed for power won't let them run. There is too much at stake. They'll play the game out to the very end."

 

"What happens if they win?" asked Raven.

 

For a moment, they all sat in silence until, finally, Merlin spoke. "Then it would usher in the Third Thaumaturgic Age," he said."The Dark Age.The Age of Necromancy."

 

"Only none of us would have to worry," Wyrdrune said, "because in that event, we wouldn't be alive to see it."

 

"Is the power of the runestones the only thing that can destroy the Dark Ones?" Raven asked.

 

"Fortunately, no," said Wyrdrune. "InLondon , Billy killed one with his knife. An immortal can be killed, but it has to be an immediately fatal wound. If the necromancer has the strength and the time to use a spell to healhimself , he can easily survive a wound that would kill an ordinary man."

 

"And immortals also have natural, regenerative powers that are far greater than any human's," Merlin said. "Which means that you cannot hope to incapacitate them, at least not for long.Trying to arrest them is simply out of the question. Any attempt to do so would result in death for the arresting officers and even if they could successfully be captured, there is no way that you could ever hope to hold them. You must remember, above all, that we are not dealing with a human enemy. The only way to stop them is to kill them."

 

"Well, at least they can be killed by conventional means. That's something hopeful, anyway," Piccard said.

 

"So far, they've struck at night," said Raven. "We can have theParis police covering the streets,working in teams. Renaud can head the task force. We can tell them that they're dealing with a dangerous psychopath and give them orders to shoot first and ask questions later, but that still presents some problems. They're not trained to shoot perpetrators on sight, thank God, but in this case, that could work against them. And there's always the possibility that innocent people might be killed."

 

"Innocent people are being killed," said Kira.

 

"But we can't have them killed by the police," said Piccard. "Raven's right. There has to be a hostile act before the police can shoot. There isn't any way around that. But without the advantage of surprise, a necromancer could easily get the advantage over them."

 

"Perhaps," said Merlin, "but we still have one thing working in our favor. It's not enough for the Dark Ones to simply send out their acolytes to kill. In order to acquire the life energy of a victim, they must be present to cast a spell that would allow them to absorb it. That's the reason for the mutilations, the thaumaturgic runes carved or burned into the victims' bodies. Originally, the process was part of an elaborate sacrificial ritual. Obviously, they have discarded most of the ritualistic aspects of the killings in order to save time, but it still takes at least a few moments toeffect the process. The victim cannot simply be killed outright. The runes must be carved into the body while the victim is still living and the spell must be cast. That could give the police the time they need if they happen upon a killing in progress."

 

"But what about the shapechanger?"Raven asked. "The acolyte they've turned into a werewolf? How can we brief the police about that without admitting that thaumaturgy is involved,which would immediately take it out of their jurisdiction?"

 

"Yes, I can see where that would be a problem," Merlin said, frowning.

 

"Why not tell them that evidence suggests the murders might be the work of some kind of satanic cult?" said Wyrdrune. "That would explain the runes, without admitting the possibility of necromancy, and it would also explain why there could be more than one killer. And since we already know that one of the victims had her throat torn out and there were claw marks on her body, the police could be told that at least one of the killers apparently has a trained attack dog that should be shot on sight."

 

"Yes, that could work," Piccard said, nodding, "but what do we tell them when the so-called attack dog reverts to mortal form after it's been killed?"

 

"Well, we can cross that bridge when we get to it," said Wyrdrune. "You could always 'belatedly realize' that thaumaturgy was involved after all, that one of the members of the cult was an advanced-level adept, perhaps their leader, but since he would be dead at that point, there would be no reason for the I.T.C. to officially step in to round up his non-adept followers. Would it be that difficult to arrange some sort of cover-up?"

 

"No, probably not," Piccard replied. He nodded. "It sounds workable. What do you think?" he asked his partner.

 

Raven nodded. "I think it's an excellent suggestion," she said. "We could say that we're investigating a satanic cult that does not actually use thaumaturgy, but only employs thaumaturgic trappings in its killings. But to be certain, we'd have to remain on the scene to assist in the investigation. And in the meantime, increased police presence on the streets at night would make it more difficult for the killers to claim their victims. It could force the Dark Ones out into the open. It's a good plan. We certainly don't have any better alternatives at the moment."

 

"Just remember that the Dark Ones need a few moments to work undisturbed in order to absorb the life energies of their victims," Wyrdrune said. "That's why the killings usually take place at night, in secluded places and dark corners. Tell the police to watch the alleys. They like dark places."

 

"Dark places," Modred said thoughtfully. "Like theParis sewers."

 

The others all looked at him intently.

 

"The sewers," Piccard said."Of course! They run throughout the entire city.A perfect way for the killers to move about unobserved."

 

"Pascal fled down into the sewers after Jacqueline shot him," Modred said. "At first, I thought he merely took the first convenient avenue of escape, but the more I think about it, the more it seems as if he was heading for a specific destination. When we finally came upon him, he was calling the name 'Leila' with his dying breath. Apparently, at least one of the Dark Ones here inParis is a female. And Pascal wasn't merely trying to escape. He wasn't simply running away from us. He was running to her."

 

"You think the Dark Ones are hiding in the sewer system?" Merlin said, frowning. "It hardly seems like a very hospitable place to seek shelter."

 

"He's right," said Raven. "They're basically old, decrepit tunnels with sewage running through them. They would certainly afford the killers a way of moving about the city unobserved, coming up through access shafts, but I can't imagine how anyone would actually stay down there for any length of time. Some derelicts, perhaps, who don't mind sleeping on the cold and damp stone walkways, but why would the Dark Ones want to establish a headquarters down there?"

 

"You don't think it's possible?" said Modred.

 

Raven shrugged. "Anything is possible, but of all the places in the city they could pick to hide in, why would they want to choose the sewers?"

 

"They've been underground for centuries," said Modred. "Wyrdrune's right. They have an affinity for dark places. InLos Angeles , one of the acolytes sought shelter in a hidden chamber excavated beneath a mission and the Dark Ones themselves hid in the service tunnels beneath an amusement park. InLondon , one of them had established his headquarters in the passageways of an ancient dungeon beneath a castle, inhabiting chambers connected by a maze of underground passageways—"

 

"A maze of underground passageways," Piccard said, interrupting him suddenly. "The Catacombs!"

 

"The Catacombs?" said Wyrdrune.

 

"A vast network of underground corridors and chambers beneath the city, dating back centuries," Piccard said. "They grew out of old, abandoned Roman quarries and were used during the Revolution as a storage place for those slain in the Reign of Terror and for bones disinterred from overcrowded cemeteries. Until recently, a small, mapped-out section of the Catacombs near the Place Denfert-Rochereau was used as a tourist attraction. They were closed when the city's engineers declared them unsafe and the entrance to them was sealed, but the corridors still exist beneath large sections of the city and its outskirts, most of them completely unexplored. No one has set foot in them for centuries."

 

Modred leaned forward, alertly. "Is it possible that access to them could be gained through the sewer system?" he asked Piccard.

 

"I shouldn't think so," Piccard replied. "The sewers only date back to the nineteenth century and, to my knowledge, they were never connected with the Catacombs. If the excavation for the sewer system ever revealed any of the passageways, they were long since eliminated by the construction of the sewer tunnels."

 

"Then it is possible the sewers could have been constructed in places where a portion of the Catacombs had been," said Modred. "Which would mean that some of the old corridors could run behind the sewer walls."

 

"Yes, I suppose it's possible," said Piccard.

 

"Is there any plan of the corridors underneath the city?" Wyrdrune asked.

 

Piccard shook his head. "There is a plan of the city's sewer system, but no plan of the Catacombs is known to exist. Quite probably, no such plan ever existed. I don't even know of any existing entrance to the Catacombs, since the one used for conducting guided tours was sealed years ago, and we could not get in through there in any case. There was extensive excavation and new construction in that district. I have no idea how we could even get down there, much less explore the hidden corridors."

 

"Through the sewers," Modred said. "There has to be a way to get into the Catacombs by way of one of the sewer tunnels. Pascal was trying to get back to his dark mistress. And that giant rat we encountered was meant not so much to kill us as to delay us, so that we could not follow Pascal to the access point from the sewers to the Catacombs!"

 

"But we don't know for certain that they're down there," Raven said.

 

"They're down there," Modred insisted. "It would be the perfect place for them. A hiding place sealed off from the city above it, with access to a system of tunnels through which they could gain access to any part ofParis . It fits. They could hide down there for years and never be discovered."

 

"But even if we could find the point where access to the Catacombs could be gained from the sewers, how could we ever hope to explore the Catacombs themselves?" Piccard asked. "It could take years."

 

"For you, perhaps," said Modred, "but not for us. Once we were down there, the runestones would show us the way. They would lead us to the Dark Ones."

 

"But what if you're wrong?" asked Raven. "What if they're not down there? You could get lost inside those corridors and never find your way out again."

 

"The runestones would lead us out," said Modred.

 

"Only what if the tunnels should collapse while you're down there?" asked Piccard. "The recent construction above the corridors could well have weakened them. No one has been in the Catacombs for years.For centuries. Your passage through them could well be enough to trigger off a cave-in. You would be buried alive."

 

"It's a chance we'll simply have to take," said Modred. "We're going to have to go back down into the sewers and find the place Pascal was heading for. Somewhere down there, there has to be an entrance to the Catacombs and we must find it."

 

Wyrdrune sighed. "I knew he was going to say that. I just got finished washing all that slime off me and now we're going back down there again. Broom gets to go out and enjoy theParis nightlife while I get to tour the sewers. Some fun this trip is turning out to be."

 

"You want us to go with you?" asked Piccard.

 

"No," said Modred. "There's no reason for you to take that risk. You'd be of more value coordinating the police task force with Renaud. The acolytes must be stopped before the Dark Ones can gain enough power to attempt a spell that would bring about mass murder. Get as many people on the streets as you can. Get a map of the city's sewer system, mark off all the access shafts and have patrols keeping an eye on them. Above all, you must stress to the members of the task force the possibility that at least one of the killers could be an adept and they must exercise extreme caution. Have them keep in touch with each other and with the task force headquarters at regular intervals. At the first report of anything suspicious, you must teleport to that location at once. And be prepared for anything."

 

"But what about you three?" askedRaven. "You'll be down there completely on your own. There's no way that we'll be able to keep in touch with you. Isn't there anything else that we can do to help?"

 

"Yeah," said Wyrdrune sourly. "You think you could come up with a few wet suits?"

 

 

 

Chapter

NINE

 

 

 

Colette awoke late in the day to a brand-new world, full of possibilities she had never dreamed of in her wildest imagination. She reached across the bed and touched the spot beside her where the sheets were slightly damp and rumpled and there was an indentation in the pillow, as if to reassure herself that it wasn't just a dream. Then she sat up in bed and saw Michel, curled up on the floor with his head on his forepaws. He raised his head and those feral, yellow eyes looked at her with a knowing gaze. He belonged to her now. And she belonged to him. They were kindred spirits.Predators. And together, they both belonged to Leila.

 

It had been the most incredible night of Colette's life. As usual, it had started off with her being in control. They arrived at her apartment and she helped Leila off with her cloak, then poured them both some wine from a freshly opened bottle of Reisling. They sat together on the couch, making small talk, all the while having a conversation with their eyes and bodies that had nothing to do with what was being said out loud. Colette had done most of the talking. Leila seemed fascinated when she found out what Colette did for a living and she wanted to know what it was like, how it felt to dance naked on a stage in front of men, what she did and how she orchestrated their reactions. She seemed to understand it all instinctively, the sense of power that it gave her, the assurance of being in control, and she wanted to hear all of the details. She asked her which moves the customers found sexiest and Colette wound up putting on some music, changing into one of her revealing dancing outfits and giving her a demonstration, slowly stripping down by stages in time to the music, all the while wondering what Leila looked like with her clothes off. The eye contact between them was electric.

 

Leila watched her with a smile as she demonstrated the moves she used up on the stage, clapping her hands and laughing with delight at her most blatant and effective poses, giggling throatily when Colette stood with her back to her, as she did with the male patrons at the club, and then bent over to look at her between her legs, slowly running her fingers up her calves and the inside of her thighs. She flirted with Leila the way she did with the patrons in the club, giving her smoldering "come hither" looks and gently running her fingers through her hair, with her erect nipples mere inches from her face. And when Colette took Leila's hand and guided it to the cleft between her breasts, Leila had not resisted, as Colette had known she wouldn't, and when she led her to the bedroom, Leila had followed silently, allowing her to take control, standing still, her eyes half shut while Colette slowly undressed her and eased her down onto the bed.

 

She had marveled at Leila's golden, copper-hued skin, at her silky, bright red hair, at the firm tautness of her lissome body, more beautiful even than her own, and at some point while they were making love, she suddenly became aware of the wolf standing at the foot of the bed, its forepaws up on the footboard, watching them intently with its unblinking yellow eyes.

 

Then, as Colette gasped with disbelief, the wolf sprang up onto the bed and suddenly it was a wolf no longer, but a beautiful, slim and muscular young boy with an expression just as feral as the beast's had been. And Colette, too stunned to react, watched as the two of them coupled with a shocking, fierce brutality, as if they were attacking one another, and then they turned to her and she discovered what it was like to be completely out of control. It was at the same time both terrifying and exciting. Throughout it all, Michel had not said a single word and when it was over, he climbed down out of the bed, curled up on the floor and Colette watched the transformation with a mixture of horror and fascination as he once more became a wolf and went to sleep. And she had felt Leila's lips softly brush her ear and heard her whisper, "He's yours, now. And you are mine."

 

And then Leila had gently turned Colette's face toward hers and kissed her deeply, her hand cupping the back of Colette's head, pressing her close, and Colette suddenly felt herself receding, as if she were falling, spinning crazily down into some bottomless abyss. She felt herself filled with Leila's presence, like cold fire seeping through her bones, forming burning ice crystals deep inside her mind.

 

Vivid images came flooding into her, filling her with sights, sounds and sensations unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. The tableau of Leila's life enveloped her, becoming part of her experience as if she had lived it all herself.

 

She stood dressed in flowing robes atop a Mayan pyramid, a heavy, feathered golden crown upon her head, gold rings with precious stones upon her fingers, enchanted amulets around her neck, a dark, obsidian dagger with a golden hilt clutched in her hand as she gazed down at the chanting multitudes below. And then her gaze shifted to the altar she stood over, with the sacrificial victim bound to heavy rings set deep into the stone, a sheen of sweat gleaming brightly on his body, muscles tense and knotted, eyes staring up at her in fear as she slowly brought the knife down and incised the sacred symbols deep into his flesh, intoning the ancient life-absorbing spell that would fill her with his power, then raising the obsidian dagger high in both hands and plunging it down into his heaving chest. . . .

 

Centuries of death and bloodletting passed before her, visions of incredible carnage and incalculable power. Spells of astral flight and transformation unfolded in her mind as she hurled her spirit out across vast distances and stalked the jungle in the form of a sleek jaguar, hunting and running down her prey, feeling the warm, sweet taste of blood coursing down her throat. She fell and fell, down through the eons, buffeted by the rushing winds of time, and as she cried out and felt her demon lover slip away from her, she felt rather than heard the whispered promise that all this would now be hers, an eternity of unimagined power, a limitless vista of fulfillment, hers for the taking, hers to share with Leila and to hold forever in the darkness of her soul. And she awoke alone to the harsh glare of daylight streaming through her bedroom window, the enticing smell of Leila on the rumpled sheets and the wolf staring up at her with its knowing, yellow eyes.

 

"Michel," she said, "comehere."

 

The wolf stood up on human legs and walked over to the bed, his lean and youthful body pale in the morning light, his boyish skin soft and almost hairless, his teeth flashing in a predatory grin, his eyes still with that knowing look.A look that knew no weakness.A look that recognized a fellow beast in human form.

 

She took his hand and pulled him down onto the bed.

 

 

 

"I still say the risk is now too great." The voice was deep and mellifluent. It spoke softly, but still reverberated slightly in the subterranean stone chamber. "The avatars are here and we have already lost one of our acolytes. What is the point in taking unnecessary chances? The time has come for us to move on."

 

"I will decide when thetimes comes for us to leave," said Leila. "Ifthat time should come."

 

"You have grown far too reckless, Leila."

 

"And you have grown far too cautious, Azreal. I have already found a replacement for Pascal, one who will not suffer from the pangs of conscience he was given to. One who will be even more bloodthirsty thanMichel. Colette will serve us well and bring us all the power we require to move on to the next stage of our plan."

 

"Perhaps," said the other necromancer, holding up his goblet for one of the young runaway girls to fill." But perhaps Azreal is right. We risk much by staying here."

 

"And we stand to lose even more by leaving, Balen," Leila replied. She stood and gestured at their surroundings. The underground-chamber of the Catacombs had been transformed with opulent furnishings and Persian carpets, with couches and cushions on the floor and ornately carved tables from which their ensorcelled street urchins served them. Burning braziers provided the illumination and filled the chamber with the scent of incense that masked the musty smell.

 

"Is this all you really want?" she said. "To hide down here among the bones, quaking in a hole like a pair of frightened rabbits, with your empty-eyed consorts to wait on you hand and foot and provide you with meaningless diversion?"

 

"And what of your diversions?"Azreal asked her. "After so many years of being imprisoned formless, nothing but spirits without substance, is it so wrong to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh? Pleasures for which you, I might add, seem to have an equal appetite."

 

"I do not ask that you practice self-denial," Leila said. "But everything I do is with an end in mind. Have we spent so many centuries entombed beneath the earth that it has become our natural habitat? That we are afraid to walk out in the sun, to claim the power that is ours by right of our superiority to these pathetic beings? Do you not hunger for something more than this?" She glanced around the chamber. "It galls me that we must live like this when we could have a palace for our own, with multitudes to serve us instead of these few wretched children."

 

"We must bide our time, Leila," Balen said. "We must wait until we have grown strong enough to insure that the runestones cannot defeat us."

 

"How long must we wait?" askedLeila. "You say wait. Azreal says move on. I say the time for us to act is now. The opportunity is here. The power of the runestones is within our grasp, if we are only bold enough to take it! And once the misbegotten spawn of Gorlois is slain and we have absorbed their energy, there will be nothing left to stop us! There are three of them and three of us! One triangle against another, the White against the Dark! And the initiative is ours to take!"

 

"Exactly," Balen said. "And the time is ours to choose, as well. We must take care to choose it wisely."

 

"And if we leave now," added Azreal, "it could be months or even years before they could find us once again. Our powers would grow even stronger, so that when we met them for the final conflict—"

 

"But what if we were not the ones to meet them for the final conflict?" Leila asked."What if some of the others found the courage that you lack and seized their power for themselves? No, I will not be cheated of it! I will not run when the power of the runestones could be ours!"

 

"It is a power that could mean our death," said Balen. "Some of the others have already fallen to them. I do not intend to join their number. Not after so many years of waiting for this chance."

 

"And yet if we don't take it, it is a chance that might not come again," said Leila. "You forget that I alone among us have already faced them and I survived to tell the tale. The avatars are not as fearsome as you think. They are not true immortals, but merely humans, descended from a bastard stock."

 

"Humans to whom the spirits of the Council of the White have become bonded," Balen said. "And that makes them much more than 'merely' human."

 

"Yet they can be destroyed," said Leila.

 

"As we can be destroyed," said Azreal. "I say that we should leave and make a new start elsewhere. Let the others try their luck against the runestones while we hoard and increase our power until we can meet them on more even terms."

 

"We are on even terms," said Leila. "We are on more than even terms already! We can use our acolytes to serve us while* their white magic prevents them from using others as we do. They care about the foolish humans, while their lives mean nothing to us. That can be used against them."

 

"When the time is right," said Balen.

 

"I say it is right now," Leila replied.

 

"And I say it is not," said Azreal.

 

She gave him a cold and steady stare. "Would you try your power against mine, Azreal?" she said softly. "Perhaps the both of you would care to test your strength against me. If more power is what you want, mine would more than double yours.If you have the strength to take it."

 

Azreal stared at her defiantly for a moment, then finally turned and looked away.

 

"Enough, Leila," Balen said. "This is not the way. If we fall to fighting amongst ourselves, we only serve the interests of our enemies. You are the strongest of the three of us. Neither Azreal nor I dispute that. But you are not yet strong enough to take on the runestones by yourself. The three of us together stand a far better chance. Azreal and I only want to be certain that we have a good chance of succeeding. We have waited for so long, what harm would it do to wait a little while longer?"

 

"The longer we remain here, and the longer we delay, the more we play into their hands," said Leila. "How long do you think it will take for them to realize where we are? And once they have deduced that, how long do you think it will take for them to find us? We have waited long enough. The time for us to strike is now, while the advantage is still ours."

 

"And if we fail?" said Balen.

 

"I have already escaped from them once, when they pursued Pascal," said Leila. "If need be, I can escape from them again. But I will not run without a fight, not when we have so much to gain."

 

"Then you have already decided to move on to the final stage," said Azreal. "What of our plan to gain an acolyte among the agents of the Bureau or the I.T.C.?"

 

"Pascal would have given us that opportunity," she replied, "but Pascal is dead and now that we know the avatars are here, we can afford to waste no time on that. If an opportunity arises, we will take it, but we must move quickly if we are to move at all."

 

"Then we had best discuss our plans," said Balen. "We must make certain that there is no room for error."

 

"There will be none," Leila said. "Our acolytes will set the plan in motion and we will channel the power that we gain through them into a spell that will release all the life energy we need. Remember that in order to draw on the full power of the Living Triangle, the avatars must be together to effect the spell. Separately, they can be much more easily defeated."

 

"Then they would be fools to attempt taking us on separately," said Azreal.

 

Leila smiled. "True, but they will have no choice," she said. "Remember that they care about the humans and they trust them. And it is the humans who will bring about their downfall."

 

 

 

Max Siegal's studio was crowded with well-wishers who had come to help him celebrate his release from jail. The crowd was liberally sprinkled with the inevitable party crashers, but Max didn't really mind. He was just glad to be out of jail. In spite of the reassurances of his attorneys, he had been convinced the case against him looked so bad that he would be brought to trial and found guilty. When Renaud came to tell him that all the charges had been dropped and he was being released, he had scarcely been able to believe it.

 

During the time that he had been in jail, the murderer of the Rue Morgue had struckagain, leaving no doubt that it was the work of the same man who had killed Joelle Muset and Gabrielle Longet. Renaud had apologized to him on behalf of the police department, asking him to try and understand how they could have drawn the conclusions that they did, given the circumstantial evidence. The detective had gone to great pains to convey the sincerity of his apology. Max had refrained from taking out his anger and frustration on the police inspector, expressing his outrage by displaying the famous Siegal temper. Instead, he simply shook hands with Renaud and told him there were no hard feelings.

 

The story was carried in all the papers and on TV, as well. All his friends had come to help him celebrate and they saw a new Max Siegal, a man who walked around with a glass of mineral water in his hand instead of brandy or a whiskey, a man who seemed much more relaxed. He had announced that he would never paint a nude again, but would devote his talents to impressionism, following in the steps of the old masters he admired.

 

"But Max," Francois Benet said, "what of your public? You have tried exploring new directions before with no success. The galleries always want the nudes. They are what you are famous for."

 

"At the moment, I am famous for having been a suspect in a sensational series of murders," Max replied to his old mentor. "And even though the charges have been dropped, there will always be that taint of suspicion, at least until the real killer has been found. That will cause all the galleries to raise their prices. Never fear, Francois. Right now, they will buy anything I paint."

 

"Hello, Max," said Jacqueline with a smile.

 

"Jacqueline!" said Max. "You came!" He threw his arms around her in a hug. "Francois," said Max, "allow me to introduce my very dearest friend, the one who stood by me throughout this entire ordeal and was instrumental in my release, Mademoiselle Jacqueline Monet."

 

"Charmed, mademoiselle," Francois said, bending over her hand and brushing it slightly with his lips. "I have heard much about you, but perhaps we can speak later. Right now, I'm sure that you and Max have a great deal to discuss."

 

He graciously excused himself.

 

"I thought you weren't going to come," said Max, holding her hands and gazing at her affectionately.

 

She smiled. "How could I not come?" she said. "I would have come to see you sooner, but I have been informally assisting the police in investigating this case and I simply couldn't get away."

 

"I know," said Max. "Renaud told me. He said that you were trying to convince him of my innocence right from the beginning."

 

"If he had only listened sooner—"

 

Max put his fingers up to her lips. "Let's not talk about that now," he said. "Renaud is a good man. He was only trying to do his job and the circumstantial evidence made things look very bad for me, indeed. It was my own fault. I never should have gone back to see Suzanne Muset. It was a stupid thing to do."

 

"Yes, but it was just like you to try and square things with her," said Jacqueline.

 

"And now I have to square them with you," said Max. "How can I ever repay you for all you've done?"

 

"Friends don't have to repay one another, Max," she said.

 

"Well, at least we can finally have a chance to spend some time together," Max said.

 

Jacqueline sighed. "I'm sorry, Max. I'm afraid I can't stay."

 

"What do you mean? Why can't you stay?"

 

"I only stopped in to see how you were doing. When this is over, then maybe we can spend some time together, but—"

 

"When this is over? I don't understand. The charges against me have been dropped. I thought that it was all . . . wait a minute. It's this murder case, isn't it? Renaud said something about you helping the police in their investigation. You mean to tell me that you're still involved?"

 

"Yes, Max, that's what it is. And we're getting close to the real killer. In fact, I really should be leaving."

 

"But why?" asked Max. "Haven't you already done enough? Jacqueline, this could be very dangerous. Whoever the killer is, he's a sadistic, brutal psychopath. Why should you risk getting involved? Let the police handle it."

 

She touched his cheek. "Max, if I'd done that from the start, you'd still be in jail."

 

He sighed. "I suppose you're right. But I can't help being worried."

 

"I can take care of myself, Max. Relax. I won't be in any danger. Renaud would never allow it. I'm simply assisting them with contacts and information, that's all. But you're right about the killer. And he must be stopped before he can claim anymore innocent victims. You understand that, don't you?"

 

Max nodded. "Yes, I understand. But it's been so long since I've had a chance to see you. We haven't even had a chance to talk."

 

"There will be time for that," she said. "But right now, I really have to leave. Go on. Your friends are waiting for you."

 

She leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss on the lips.

 

"Let me go with you," he said. "Maybe I can help."

 

"No, Max," she said. "This has to do with a part of my life that you really know nothing about. And believeme, you'd be better off not knowing. We have always understood that about each other, haven't we? You have your own life and I have mine. The time we spend together is for us, but the time we spend away from one another is a separate thing and there are a lot of reasons why it should remain that way. "

 

"You've never told me what those reasons are," he said.

 

"You've never insisted on hearing them before."

 

"Well, I'm insisting now."

 

"And I can't tell you."

 

"Can't? Or won't?"

 

"Both," she said. "We have always respected one another's privacy before, Max. Don't start becoming possessive now. It would never work. When this is over, we can talk and maybe I'll think about telling you my reasons, but not now. In the meantime, you have a party in your honor to attend. And I havework to do."

 

She kissed him again and left.

 

He stared after her for a long moment, torn between respecting her wishes and wanting to follow her, to insist that she come back and drop this crazy idea of assisting the police in their investigation. Suddenly, he had the inexplicable feeling that if he didn't go after her and bring her back, he might not be seeing her again.

 

"Max, darling!"A woman came up to him and put her arms around him, giving him a kiss. She started to say something to him, but he quickly disengaged himself and hurried toward the door. He bolted through it and started running down die stairs, but on the way down, he encountered Stefan Rienzi coming up.

 

Rienzi grabbed him as he tried to get by and spun him around on the landing, throwing him up against the wall. His eyes were wild.

 

"Where is she?" he shouted, holding Max by his shirt-front. "What have you done with her?"

 

At first, Max didn't recognize him. "What? Let me go! Who—"

 

"Murderer! What have you done with Suzanne?"

 

Recognition dawned. "Rienzi!"

 

Rienzi slammed him back against the wall. "You bastard! What have you done with her?"

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Max. "Let me go, I have to—"

 

Rienzi drove his fist hard into Max's stomach and Max doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. Rienzi hit him again, twice more, then shoved him down onto the floor of the landing. Max fell, fighting for breath. Rienzi reached into his jacket pocket, took out a small pistol and aimed it at Max.

 

"You and your rich friends!" he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "You think you can do anything you please! You even think you're above the law!"

 

"Rienzi, don't. . . ." Max gasped.

 

"Go on! Beg! Beg for your life like your victims must have begged for theirs! You lousy son of a bitch! You killed her, didn't you? The moment they let you out of jail, you went back to finish what you started!"

 

"Rienzi, please,listen to me. ... I didn't—"

 

"You're not going to get away with it this time!" shouted Rienzi. "I don't care how much money you and your rich friends have! It isn't going to save you! I don't care what happens to me, I—"

 

Upstairs, on the landing above them, a woman screamed. "He's got a gun!"

 

Someone behind her shouted, "Help! Call the police!"

 

Rienzi brought his hand up and left off a wild shot at the people on the floor above them, who had heard the commotion and come out to see what was going on. There was shouting and screaming and a rush to get back out of the way. Rienzi fired again.

 

"Get back!" he shouted. "Get back, all of you!"

 

Max struck out with his feet and knocked Rienzi down. As Rienzi fell, Max threw himself on top of him. They struggled for the gun. It went off once again, the shot striking the wall, and then the gun fell from Rienzi's grasp as he fought against the larger, heavier man, his desperation lending him strength. He rolled over on top of Max and got his hands around his throat. He started squeezing. There was the sound of footsteps coming quickly down the stairs, and then Francois and several other men were pulling Rienzi off him. Two of them held the struggling young writer while Francois punched him in the stomach, once, twice, three times. Rienzi sagged down and then Max found his voice and cried out, "Don't! Stop it! Leave him alone!"

 

Someone helped him to his feet and held him up, supporting him as he coughed and drew deep, rasping breaths, holding his throat where Rienzi had tried to choke him.

 

"Max!" said Francois. "Are you all right? What happened? Who is this man?"

 

"Somebody call the police!"

 

"They've already been called. They're on their way."

 

"Max. . . ."

 

"I'm all right," said Max, rubbing his throat. Rienzi was on the floor, holding his stomach as several of the men stood over him.

 

"Has anybody seen the gun?" asked Francois.

 

"It'sright here," said one of Max's young artist friends, handing him the weapon. "He dropped it."

 

"You shouldn't have touched it, "someone else said. "The fingerprints—"

 

"To hell with the fingerprints," said someone else. "We all saw what he did! He tried to kill Max!"

 

"Watch him! Don't let him get up!"

 

"Where the hell are the police?"

 

Max made his way over to where Rienzi sat slumped against the wall. The man was crying.

 

"Rienzi," Max said, crouching down beside him."Rienzi, listen to me. . . ."

 

He tried to take the writer's arm, but Rienzi shook him off. "Don't touch me! Murderer! I'll kill you for what you've done!I swear, I'll kill you!"

 

"You all heard that!" someone said. "You're all witnesses! You all heard what he said!"

 

"Be quiet!" said Max. "Rienzi, please,listen to me. Please. I didn't kill Joelle. And I didn't kill Gabrielle, either. I swear to God, I haven't killed anyone. I was in jail when the last murder occurred. I couldn't have done it. That's why the police released me."

 

"You paid them off!" Rienzi said. "You and your rich friends and your high-priced lawyers—"

 

"Nobody was paid off, Stefan," Max said, finally remembering the man's first name. "Please, let me explain. The night Joelle was killed, I was right here, in my studio, drunk. She was here, that's true. I was going to paint her, but she expected something else. She started coming on to me. I've had affairs with some of my models, I admit it, but I don't have sex with underage girls. I rejected her advances and we argued. Actually, we didn't even argue, she mainly shouted at me and I just sat there, waiting 'til she ran out of steam. And then she left and I got angry and smashed the painting over the easel and proceeded to get drunk. And the next morning, the police came to arrest me and that was the first I heard of Joelle's murder."

 

"You expect me to believe that?" said Rienzi bitterly.

 

"It's the truth," said Max. "So help me God."

 

"What about what happened with Suzanne? I was there! I saw you with the knife!"

 

"That was a stupid mistake," said Max. "After I was released on bail, I went back there because I wanted to explain what happened to Suzanne, but the moment she saw me, she became hysterical. She grabbed a knife from the kitchen. It was one of your own knives. She lunged at me and I managed to get the knife away from her and that's when you came in. Ask her if you don't believe me."

 

"I can't ask her!" said Rienzi. "She's gone! You came back and took her!"

 

"No," said Max. "No, I didn't. I swear it. When did you discover she was missing?"

 

"Sometime this evening," Rienzi said. "I was moving some of our things into our new apartment and when I came back, she was gone and I found this tacked to the door."

 

He took a slip of folded paper from his pocket. Several thaumaturgic runes were drawn upon it in what appeared to be blood. They were the same runes that had been carved into the bodies of the murder victims.

 

"You shouldn't have touched it," said Francois. "You should have left it where it was for the police to examine."

 

"What good would the police do? There's the killer!" He pointed at Max. "And they've released him twice!"

 

"I've been right here since this afternoon," said Max.

 

"You're lying!"

 

"He's not lying," said Francois. "Some of us were here with him, getting ready for the party. We had lunch together and Max has been here since shortly after noon."

 

"They're your friends," said Rienzi, though he seemed to be weakening in his conviction. "They're covering for you."

 

"Do you really think we'd all protect a murderer?" said Francois. "Do you really believe that the police would have released him and dropped all charges if they were not completely convinced of his innocence?"

 

"I . . . I don't know what to think," Rienzi said, looking confused.

 

At that moment, the police arrived. Two uniformed officers came up the stairs and stopped when they saw the group gathered on the landing.

 

"What's going on here?" one of them demanded.

 

"Nothing, Officer," said Max. "We were having a party and there's been a slight altercation, nothing serious."

 

"We've had a report of shooting at this address," said the other policeman.

 

"I'm afraid there's been a mistake," said Max. "There's been no shooting. Just a small argument, that's all."

 

Francois carefully positioned himself to cover the bullet hole in the wall.

 

"You know how it is," Max continued apologetically. "A few drinks, tempers flare, a couple of blows are exchanged. Really, that's all it was. It seems one of my guests became alarmed and called the police. Evidently, there was some exaggeration. I'm really very sorry about it."

 

The policemen glanced around at them with disgust. "We have better things to do than to waste our time with this sort of thing," one of them said. "We ought to cite you for creating a disturbance."

 

"Yes, you're absolutely right," said Max contritely. "It was all entirely my fault."

 

"Well, let's try to keep things under control, shall we?" said Officer Michaud. "We have better things to do than respond to false alarms."

 

"Of course," said Max. "Please accept my apologies. And thank you for being so understanding."

 

"Merely doing our job, monsieur," Michaud said, touching the visor of his cap. "Let's move it back inside and try to keep some order, shall we?"

 

"Certainly, Officer," said Max. "And thank you once again."

 

Michaud nodded and as they left, they all went back inside.

 

"We should have told them about that young woman's disappearance," said Francois.

 

"I didn't want to risk them finding out about the gun," Max said. "There was no reason for this man to be arrested. He was distraught and clearly not responsible."

 

Rienzi looked at Max with anguish.

 

"You stood up for me," he said. "And I was going to kill you."

 

"Forget it," Max said. "Come on, have a drink. It will help steady your nerves. We'll call Renaud and tell him what's happened, then you and I will go back to the Rue Morgue and search through the entire neighborhood."

 

"I'm coming with you," said Francois.

 

"Me, too," said one of the other artists.

 

"Count me in," said another.

 

Rienzi glanced around at them all. "I ... I don't know what to say," he said, his voice breaking. "-I almost made a terrible, terrible mistake."

 

"We all make mistakes," said Max, clapping the man on the shoulder. "I've made more than my share. We'll call Inspector Renaud and then we'll go look for Suzanne."

 

"We won't find her alive," Rienzi said in a hollow voice. "She's lying dead somewhere, I know it."

 

"We don't know that yet," said Max.

 

He stared at the piece of paper with the runes on it, being careful to handle it only by its edges, though he knew his fingerprints were already on it. That would probably mean trouble.

 

"Why would the killer have left this behind?" he asked. "Joelle was killed in her apartment.The same thing with Gabrielle. Why would he have taken Suzanne away when he could easily have killed her then and there?"

 

"Who knows what a maniac might do?" Francois said.

 

Max frowned."First Joelle, then Gabrielle, and now Suzanne.All in the Rue Morgue, all in the same building. Why?"

 

"You think perhaps the killer is someone who also lives there?" said Francois.

 

"No," said Rienzi, shaking his head. "That's not possible. The only other people who live there are two elderly women and the proprietor of the shop on the first floor. He's almost seventy years old and has to walk with aid of a cane."

 

"Perhaps it's someone in the neighborhood," Francois said. "We can ask around, surely one of the neighbors must have seen or heard something. They might not tell the police because they're afraid to get involved."

 

"I think we should go over there and have a look around," said one of the journalists, smelling a story.

 

"We should call the police first," said someone else.

 

"Charles, you call them," Max said. "Ask for Inspector Renaud. Tell him what's happened. I'm going over there."

 

"I don't think that would be wise, Max," Charles replied. "You've already had more than your share of trouble. Stay out of it. Leave this to the police."

 

"I can't, Charles," Max said, shaking his head. "I have a personal stake in this. Whoever this man is, I've spent time in jail because of him and I was almost shot. I've had enough. I can't simply stay here and do nothing."

 

"Don't be a fool, Max. Stay out of it. You're making a mistake."

 

"No, Charles," Max said grimly. He took out his handkerchief, wrapped the piece of paper in it and handed it to Charles. "The killer's the one who's made the mistake. He's out there somewhere and I'm going to find him if I have to search every single street and alleyway inParis ."

 

 

 

Chapter

TEN

 

 

 

Renaud hung up the phone and swore softly.

 

"What is it?" asked Piccard.

 

"Max Siegal again," he said in a weary voice. "The damn fool seems determined to get himself in trouble. That was Charles Martine, a prominent businessman and art collector who also happens to be a personal friend of the commissioner. He was calling from a party at Max Siegal's studio. Suzanne Muset, the first victim's older sister, has apparently been kidnapped from her apartment in the Rue Morgue. A piece of paper was left on the apartment door, covered with those same thaumaturgic runes written in blood. Her boyfriend, Stefan Rienzi, evidently believed that Siegal was responsible and went to his studio to confront him. It seems there was an altercation, but Siegal and his friends convinced him that he had nothing to do with it, only now they've gone back to the apartment to investigate and search the neighborhood for any sign of the missing girl. And Marline says they have a gun. He said they were in a surly mood and, worse yet, some journalists were with them. I'd better send some people over there before they get themselves in trouble."

 

"Didn't Jacqueline go over there?" asked Raven.

 

"Yes, but she hasn't returned," Renaud said. "I hope she had sense enough not to go with them." He sighed. "That's all we need now, a bunch of angry vigilantes roaming the streets, accompanied by reporters, no less. We'd better nip this in the bud right now, before somebody gets hurt. My men out there are edgy. All we need is for some innocent bystander to get shot and this whole thing will blow up in our faces."

 

"I think I'll commandeer a unit and get over there," Piccard said, getting up and putting down his container of coffee. "What's the address?"

 

Renaud gave it to him. "I'll have another unit meet you there," he said. "I'd appreciate if you could avoid placing any of them under arrest, but I want those people off the streets."

 

"I'll take care of it," Piccard said, leaving.

 

"Jacqueline struck me as having better sense than to get involved in something like that," Raven said.

 

"Frankly, I wouldn't put it past her," said Renaud. "She never has been one of our more law-abiding citizens," he added with a grimace. "This whole thing has me extremely nervous. I haven't slept in two days and I'm so keyed up, I'm not even tired."

 

He looked around at the command post they had set up for the task force. The room was a bustle of activity as communication clerks kept in constant touch with the officers of the task force on the street.

 

"Anytime you have civilians involved in something like this," he said, "the odds of something going wrong are dramatically increased. I wish there could have been some way to avoid it."

 

"I know how you must feel," said Raven, sipping her coffee. She, too, had gone without sleep for two days. "Unfortunately, there's really nothing we can do about it. I'm still trying to get used to the idea that we're faced with an inhuman enemy, immortal necromancers who are more powerful than any adept alive. And the worst thing about it is that we don't even know how many of them are out there."

 

"For me, the worst thing is the waiting," said Renaud. He drummed his fingers on the desk,then glanced at his watch. "They should be going down into the sewers about now. Do you have to do anything to get ready?"

 

Raven shook her head. "All I need to do is sit here and be receptive," she said. "I don't need to go into a trance or anything like that. It doesn't work that way. Merlin will simply contact me when he's ready."

 

"Police work by telepathy," said Renaud, shaking his head. "Wouldn't it have been simpler for him to just carry a radio set?"

 

Raven shook her head. "I doubt we'd be able to get a clear signal from down there," she said. "Besides, under the circumstances, the last thing we'd need is anyone monitoring our conversation. It's far safer this way. Besides, it isn't actually telepathy, but a form of astral projection."

 

"What's the difference?" Renaud asked.

 

"The principle is essentially the same," said Raven, "but it won't be mind-to-mind contact so much as spirit-to-spirit."

 

"Sounds very metaphysical," Renaud said.

 

"It is, actually. You've heard stories about people separated by great distances who suddenly had the inexplicable feeling that something traumatic had happened to a relative? A mother suddenly feels certain that something's happened to her son and then finds out the next day that he'd had an accident and was in the hospital. A daughter dreams that her father comes to say good-bye,then finds out the next day that he had died that night. That's a form of astral projection.

 

The theory is that it's an ability inherent in everyone, but especially so in people who possess thaumaturgic potential, or as we now know, people descended from the interbreeding of humans and Old Ones thousands of years ago. A very advanced adept has the capability to do it at will, but it requires a great deal of energy and concentration."

 

"So you mean he projects his spirit out of his body in order to contact someone else?" Renaud said.

 

Raven nodded. "Under normal circumstances, it's a spell-assisted process. The adept picks a safe and quiet place and concentrates, projecting his astral self outward—similar to meditation, only much more powerful and focused. He doesn't actually leave his body, although in rare instances that's possible—as Merlin did when his physical self died—but a portion of his consciousness is liberated to travel out along the astral plane. Have you ever had a dream where you felt that you were floating up above your body, looking down at yourself?"

 

"Yes, once or twice," Renaud admitted.

 

"You were subconsciously performing a mild form of astral projection in your sleep," said Raven. "It's not uncommon. That's a particular experience that a lot of people have, though they don't really understand it for what it is. It is, in a sense, your spiritual level of awareness flexing its muscles."

 

"I can grasp the concept," said Renaud, "but what I don't understand is how Merlin can manage to do this while his physical self is actually moving about beneath the streets ofParis with the others. If the process requires such a great deal of concentration, how can he function on both the spiritual level and the physical level, if I'm phrasing it properly, doing two different things at the same time."

 

"You mean like walking and chewing gum?" said Raven with a grin. "Actually, I'm being facetious. You're quite correct. Under ordinary circumstances, that would not be possible. An extremely powerful and talented .adept could split his awareness to a certain degree, such as functioning through his projected astral self while at the same time remaining aware of his or her own physical surroundings, but to split awareness on the level that we're talking about wouldn't be possible if it weren't for the fact that Merlin is, in a manner of speaking, two completely different people. He has his own discreet personality, but he is a spiritual entity sharing consciousness with another individual. Billy. And while Merlin can concentrate on projecting his spirit on the astral plane, Billy can actually take care of making their body function on the physical level. Or, to use my joking analogy, Merlin does the walking while Billy chews the gum."

 

Renaud shook his head. "It's simply mind-boggling," he said."Most of the time, I think of him as Merlin, even though when I look at him, I see a scrappy young teenager. And then Billy starts speaking and I have to completely readjust my frame of reference. It's confusing enough forme, I can't imagine what it must be like for them."

 

"I know what you mean," said Raven. "Merlin's personality is sostrong, you tend to forget that you're talking to a boy. Though in a sense, you're not. You're really talking to both of them. Just as when you're talking to Wyrdrune, Kira and Modred, you're also communicating with the spirits of the runestones, though they don't choose to express themselves the way that Merlin does. Perhaps they can't. I honestly don't know. It's a level of thaumaturgy I've never encountered before."

 

"This whole case is like nothing I've ever encountered before," said Renaud with a sigh. "The very idea of the Dark Ones frightens the hell out of me."

 

"It should," said Raven.

 

"What happens if the runestones can't defeat them?" Renaud asked.

 

"Don't even think about it," Raven said.

 

At that moment, Jacqueline returned. "Has there been any contact yet?" she said.

 

"Not yet," Renaud replied, "but your friend, Siegal, is becoming something of a headache. I should have kept him in jail, for his own good."

 

"What do you mean?" Jacqueline said with a frown. "I just came from there. He was having a party. I spoke to him."

 

"Yes, and apparently, right after you left, Stefan Rienzi showed up," said Renaud. He briefly told her about Martine's call. "And now it seems they've gone out there to see if they can find Suzanne," he finished. "And Martine said that at least one of them had a gun."

 

Jacqueline sighed. "Damn," she said. "I'd better get back over there."

 

"No, you stay right here, where I can keep an eye on you," Renaud said. "I've already dispatched a unit and Piccard is on his way there, as well. Let's not add to the confusion."

 

Raven suddenly sat up. "He's making contact," she said. "They're going down."

 

 

 

They had decided to wait till nightfall to go down into the sewers. Renaud had arranged for wet suits to be delivered to their suite, as well as some flashlights and weapons which he had unofficially obtained for them, so that they could save their thaumaturgic energies for when they really needed them. Modred preferred to carry his own spellwarded 10-mm semiautomatic in a shoulder rig, while Wyrdrune and Billy each had police-issue 9-mm semiautomatics with lightweight polymer frames and laser sights procured from the special tactical force. They all had spare magazines in belt pouches. Kira would carry a short, pump-action police riotgun with a pistol grip and lightweight stock, with the same small laser sight mounted on the barrel rib. Piccard had offered them the use of some machine pistols, but Modred had balked at using fully automatic weapons. The last thing they needed in the close confines of the sewers was bullets ricocheting all over the place.

 

"Be sure to let us know where you're going to come up," Renaud had said before he left to get back to the task force headquarters. "I'll have my officers out in force, watching every alleyway and sewer entrance. We wouldn't want to have any accidents."

 

"Ambrosius will remain in touch with Raven," said Modred. "Just make sure your people don't indulge in any heroics. Have them radio in for backup the moment anything happens. Tell them not to take any chances. We don't want any loss of life if we can help it."

 

"They've been fully briefed," Renaud had said. "They're edgy, because they're not quite sure what to expect, but they'll follow instructions. They've been told that we're going up against some sort of murder cult that may or may not involve adepts, so they won't do anything foolish. I'd still feel better if you'd let me send some men down with you."

 

"If we run into the Dark Ones, they'd only wind up getting in the way," said Wyrdrune. "It's more important to have them out patrolling the streets, so we can try to keep the Dark Ones from claiming any more victims and increasing their strength. If they're down there, we'll find them. And with any luck, we'll be able to finish it down there, and not up in the streets where people might get hurt."

 

"Good luck," Renaud had said.

 

"Thanks," Kira said."You, too."

 

They still had a few more hours before it grew dark, so they took the opportunity to catch some much-needed sleep. When they awoke, it was to discover that Sebastian Makepeace had arrived. Not wanting to disturb them, he had set his carpetbag down by the closet and had room service send up a tremendous meal to nourish his six-foot-six-inch, three-hundred-pound frame. There was enough food to feed four very hungry people and wine for at least half a dozen.

 

Flamboyantly dressed, as usual, in a loud, checkered coat, brown velvet trousers, gold-buckled shoes and silk shirt with a flowing Flemish neckcloth, his long white hair topped by a black beret set at a jaunty angle, he was sitting at the table, playing cards with four of the hotel's animated vacuum cleaners.

 

"Sebastian! Good. You made it just in time," Modred said.

 

"Ah, the sleepers awake!" Makepeace boomed,a large Jamaican cigar clamped between his teeth. The vacuum cleaners made whirring noises as they held their cards. "We're playing for attachments," Makepeace explained. "A modified form of strip poker, I suppose. You might say I'm taking the cleaners to the cleaners, though what I'm going to do with an assortment of brushes and carpet beaters is beyond me. I suppose I might be able to ransom them back to the hotel cleaning staff." He glanced around at the machines. "Or are you the hotel cleaning staff?"

 

"Same old Makepeace," said Wyrdrune wryly."World's biggest and weirdest fairy."

 

"And I'm pleased as punch to see you, too, Melvin," Makepeace said. He took the cigar out of his mouth and sniffed the air. "Do I detect a peculiar odor?" he said.

 

"Must be that rope you're smoking," Wyrdrune said sourly.

 

"No, it's a decidedly biological odor," Makepeace said, "faint, but rather pungent. And it seems to be coming from you." He frowned. "You didn't wet your bed, did you?"

 

"No, I didn't wet my bed," Wyrdrune replied in an irritated tone.

 

"He took a dip in the sewer," Kira said with a chuckle. "You should've used more soap."

 

"I used plenty of soap," Wyrdrune retorted, "but Sebastian's got a nose like a bloodhound."

 

"Please,"said Makepeace in an offended tone. "The physical senses of faeries are far superior to those of mere domestic animals."

 

"Apparently, so are their appetites," said Merlin, glancing at the remains of the meal.

 

"Greetings, Ambrosius," Makepeace said cheerfully. "You're looking well. Have you gone through puberty yet?"

 

'"Allo,yourself , you bloody great whale," Billy replied. "'Ave ya busted any chairs lately?"

 

"Only in a rather animated discussion in anEastVillage taproom, my boy," Makepeace said. "A minor disagreement over the virtues of domestic versus imported beer. The other party was foolish enough to maintain that the mineral water laughingly referred to as 'light beer' was superior to—"

 

"Gin," one of the vacuum cleaners said in a metallic voice, laying down its cards.

 

"What do you mean, gin, you infernal contraption?" Makepeace said. "We're playing poker!"

 

The vacuum cleaner whirred and clicked.

 

"Fullhouse."

 

"Full house, my Aunt Martha's buttocks!How do you get a full house with two threes, a deuce and a pair of jacks? You've got two pair!"

 

Click, whirr.

 

"Two pair."

 

"Straight flush," said Makepeace, laying down his cards. "That'll cost you your hose and your drape cleaning attachment. Oh, never mind, here, take it all back. You need it more than I do.Go on, game's over, go suck up a hairball or something."

 

The canisters picked up their attachments and clanked and whirred out of the room.

 

"I've been attempting to deduce what you're planning to do with all this rather bizarre paraphernalia," Makepeace said, pointing to the equipment laid out on the couch. "It's been something of a challenge.Wet suits, flashlights and firearms with laser sighting systems. You're either planning to assault a barge upon theSeine or you're going after some sort of mutant, killer snipe."

 

"We're going down into the sewers to confront the Dark Ones and their acolytes," said Modred. "And you've arrived just in time to come along."

 

"Into the sewers?" Makepeace said, aghast. "My dear boy, I'll have you know that these are three-hundred-dollar, crushed velvet trousers. I have absolutely no intention of ruining them by wading through French sewage, to say nothing of my silk socks and Cabretta leather shoes. Can't you convince them to come up and have it out like gentlemen in a somewhat more congenial location?"

 

"I'm afraid not," Wyrdrune said. "And we have only four wet suits, sized for us. Besides, there isn't enough rubber in all ofParis to make one up for you. Looks like you'll have to get your feet wet."

 

Makepeace pushed his chair back from the table and stood, indignantly drawing himself up to his full height, which was considerable. "Well, if you think I'm going to ruin my clothes by sloshing about like Jean Valjean through the Parisian plumbing, you're very much mistaken."

 

"We need your help, Sebastian," Modred said. "This is serious."

 

"Ruining a pair of five-hundred-dollar shoes is serious," said Makepeace. He sighed. "Oh, well, if I must go wading through rat-infested sewage, I suppose style must, of necessity, make some concessions to practicality." He threw his hands up in the air and said, "Voila!"

 

In an instant, his flamboyant clothes were gone and he stood attired from head to toe in a one-piece, black-trimmed, white rubber suit with a close-fitting hood and matching boots.

 

Wyrdrune snorted. "You look like a damn dirigible."

 

"Keep it up, Melvin," Makepeace said, "and I'll perform my impression of the Hindenburg disaster."

 

"That was a hydrogen-filled blimp, wasn't it?" said Wyrdrune, suiting up with the others. "I always had you figured for hot air. Anyway, try not to explode until we've taken care of the Dark Ones."

 

"How would like fire ants in your wet suit?" Makepeace said.

 

"That's the least of my worries," Wyrdrune said. "I'm still trying to figure out what they're going to think when we go through the lobby dressed this way."

 

"This hotel has catered to American tourists for centuries," said Modred. "By now, I doubt that anything would surprise them."

 

Half an hour later, they stood in the alley over the sewer entrance where Pascal had fled when he was shot. It was growing dark. Wyrdrune levitated the lid, moving it back out of the way to expose the ladder leading down.

 

"Are you ready?" Modred asked Billy.

 

"Right," said Billy. "Ole' Merlin's tellin' Raven that we're goin' in."

 

Wyrdrune grimaced. "I wish there was some other way of doing this," he said.

 

"There isn't," Kira said. "Go on.You first."

 

"Thanks," he said wryly, and started to lower himself down through the opening. He paused."Hey, Sebastian. Think you'll fit through here? We might have a problem if you get yourself stuck."

 

"I have no intention of crawling down a hole like some sort of woodchuck," Makepeace said indignantly. "I'll meet you down there."

 

He made a flourishing gesture with his arm and vanished, teleporting down below. Once they all reached the bottom, they snapped on their flashlights to conserve their thaumaturgic energy and checked their weapons.

 

"All right," said Modred. "We'll retrace the route we took before, when we were following Pascal. Let's keep together. If I'm not wrong, somewhere down here is an entrance to the Catacombs. If we get close, the runestones will let us know, but keep in mind that the Dark Ones will be able to sense our presence just as we'll be able to sense theirs, so there's not much chance of our gaining the advantage of surprise. Keep the talking down and stay alert. All right, let's go."

 

 

 

Piccard missed Max Siegal by only a few moments. The police unit Renaud had dispatched to the scene was already waiting for him by the time that he arrived in the second unit and they had secured the premises.

 

"Piccard, I.T.C.," he said, showing his I.D. to the officers on the scene. "What have we got here? Have you seen Siegal?"

 

"They've already been and gone," the uniformed officer told him. "We took a quick look upstairs in Rienzi's apartment. We couldn't tell much. There seems to have been a struggle on the premises, but there was no sign of blood. Merely a few pieces of furniture knocked over, several items broken, as if they'd been thrown . . . could have been a domestic argument for all we know."

 

"Did you question the neighbors?" asked Piccard.

 

"The neighbors are all elderly. No one saw or heard anything," the officer replied. He consulted his notepad. "Siegal and Rienzi, accompanied by several men, showed up about ten or fifteen minutes ago. There was a young woman with them. She had apparently been waiting at the apartment when they arrived. We have only a first name for her, Colette. According to the neighbors, who were briefly questioned by Siegal and his friends before they left, the young woman was a dancer who claimed to be a friend of the missing girl. She's described as being blond, leggy and extremely attractive. The neighbors said she was in a very agitated state over the disappearance of Suzanne Muset. Two of the people with Siegal and Rienzi identified themselves as reporters. One of them might have been with the Tribune. As I said, the neighbors weren't particularly helpful. We secured the scene and waited for you to arrive, as per Inspector Renaud's instructions. Other than that, I'm afraid we haven't got much."

 

"All right," Piccard said. "I'm going to go take a look upstairs. Which apartment is it?"

 

"Three-B," the officer said.

 

Piccard nodded. "I'll take charge of this," he said. "I want you and your partner to cruise the neighborhood and see if you can locate Siegal and the others. I want them detained. Use restraint, but if they resist, place them under arrests."

 

"On what charge?"

 

"Interfering with a homicide investigation," said Piccard. "There's reason to believe that at least one of them may have a gun, so exercise caution. I don't expect they'll give you any trouble, but you can never tell. If you find them, search them carefully, relieve them of any weapons they may have and call in. I want those people off the streets."

 

"Yes, sir.We'll get right on it."

 

As the officer and his partner got back into their unit and pulled away, Piccard went upstairs with the two policemen he had arrived with. When they got to the apartment, he told them to wait outside and went in by himself.

 

There was no sign of entry having been forced. He stood inside the entryway and looked around the small apartment. A lamp had been knocked over. The coffee table was at a peculiar angle, as if someone had knocked into it and shoved it aside. There were some broken bits and pieces on the floor, ceramics of some sort that had been thrown and shattered. The carpet was rumpled, but other than that, the officer was right. There was not much that could be ascertained by a quick glance at the scene. Piccard closed his eyes and concentrated, stretching out his hands, palms out. Almost at once, he staggered and threw his arm out to steady himself against the wall. The thaumaturgic trace emanations were so strong, he was overcome by dizziness and he shook his head to clear it. He had never encountered anything so powerful before. He quickly left the apartment.

 

"I want this place sealed," he said. "No one goes in without my personal authorization, is that clear?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"You stay here and see to it," he said to one of the officers. He turned to the second one. "You come with me."

 

They hurried back downstairs and to the patrol unit. Piccard picked up the handset and radioed in. He was patched through to Renaud.

 

"Piccard here," he said. "I'm at the scene on the Rue Morgue."

 

"Did you find Siegal and the others?" Renaud asked.

 

"No, we just missed them. They couldn't have gone far. I've sent one of the units out to cruise the neighborhood and look for them, with orders to detain them and call in the moment they are found. Do you know anything about a young woman named Colette, last name unknown, a dancer, apparently an acquaintance of Suzanne Muset?"

 

"No, the name means nothing to me," said Renaud. "Why?"

 

"It seems she was waiting at the apartment when Siegal and the others arrived. Apparently, she's with them now. They questioned the neighbors, then left. I'm not sure if it means anything or not. However, I took a look at the apartment and made a quick scan. Definite presence, stronger than anything I've ever encountered before. It almost made me black out. I'm still a little dizzy."

 

"What do you make of it?" Renaud asked.

 

"I can only guess," Piccard said, "but I'd say it seems highly probable that the victim was literally spirited away. I'm inclined to think that the disarray in the apartment was merely a blind. Given such power, she couldn't have had a chance to struggle or resist in any way. Has Raven had any contact yet?"

 

"Yes, she's in contact now," Renaud said, careful not to be specific over the police band. "Are you heading back in?"

 

"Not yet. I'm going to look around, see if I can pick up anything else. There's something bothering me about all this, something I can't quite put my finger on. We've had two murders and now an apparent kidnapping, all in the same building. There has to be a reason."

 

"Are there any sewer access points near you?" asked Renaud.

 

"Of course!"Piccard said. "I'll check."

 

"Get back to me as soon as you can," Renaud said.

 

"Right," said Piccard."Out."

 

He replaced the handset and got out of the unit. "Stay here," he told the officer. "Sound the horn if they call us back."

 

He walked around outside the building. There was a small antique shop on the first floor, run by the old man who lived above it. Another building abutted it on the left, but on the right there was a narrow alleyway. Piccard entered it. There was a side entrance to the antique shop. The door was bolted. Just beyond it was a metal dumpster. The alley ended in a cul de sac, with wooden crates stacked up against the back wall. He closed his eyes again and extended his awareness. Once more, the sensation hit him so strongly that his head reeled. Slowly, he walked down the alley until he came to the point where the emanations were the strongest. He looked down.

 

"Voila," he said softly. He was standing above a sewer access cover. It was open. As he bent down over it, something caught his eye. He reached out and picked up a torn scrap of white material. He hurried back to the patrol car.

 

"Give me your flashlight," he said to the officer. He radioed in again.

 

"Renaud?Piccard here.You were right. Definite trace emanations, leading directly to a sewer entrance in the alleywaybeside the building. The grate was open and I found a torn scrap of cloth caught on the opening of the access shaft. It looks like a piece of a woman's blouse. Tell Raven I'm going down."

 

"You want some backup?"

 

"No, I'm going in alone. I'm leaving the unit stationed outside, at the entrance to the alley. If you don't hear from me in half an hour, tell Raven to inform the others."

 

"Be careful, Piccard."

 

"I fully intend to be.Over and out."

 

He hung up the handset, instructed the officer to remain with his unit outside the alley and let no one in, under any circumstances. Then he took the flashlight, checked his sidearm, and went down into the access shaft.

 

As he got off the ladder, he snapped on the flashlight and played the beam around him. He was in one of the smaller tunnels running underneath the street, standing on a narrow concrete walkway that was buckled and veined with cracks. Sewage water ran sluggishly in the channel to his right and the tunnel wall opposite him had a large fissure running the length of it. It looked about ready to collapse. It had been years since any real maintenance was done on the ancient sewer tunnels and large sections of them were structurally unsound. If the city didn't find the money to start fixing up the tunnels, they were bound to start collapsing before long. He swallowed nervously and hoped the tunnel would not collapse while he was down there. The crack looked very wide and water was seeping through it.

 

Once again, he felt the powerful trace emanations of thaumaturgic energy, almost as if it were a trail left for him to follow. He didn't even have to concentrate very hard to sense it. It was all around him. The entire tunnel seemed to be throbbing with it. He momentarily debated going back up and calling in, having Raven direct the others to this section of the tunnel system, but he decided to look around a little more, just to be sure. He followed the damaged concrete walkway to a point about thirty or forty yards down, where a large branch pipe joined the tunnel. He followed the trace emanations inside. They seemed even stronger now.

 

He bent down low, crouching over with the roof of the pipe just above his head. Scummy water eddied around his calves. He shined the flashlight beam ahead of him. He could see the far end of the branch pipe, where it connected with another tunnel about twenty-five yards ahead. He moved along the pipe and stepped out into the other tunnel, into a sewer channel mat was about knee-deep. It was a junction point, where several branch tunnels met. He played his flashlight beam around the entire area. There was structural damage here, as well. A portion of the tunnel's ceiling had collapsed and there was rubble piled up in the channel. The wall beside him was veined with fissures. Water dripped. He recoiled with disgust as the slick brown bodies of several rats wriggled past him through the slime. And then he heard it.A soft whimpering.The sound of someone crying.

 

He moved the flashlight beam in the direction of the sound and saw a spot where a large section of the tunnel wall had collapsed, leaving a pile of debris sticking up out of the water and beyond it, a dark opening, like the entrance to a cave. And huddled inside that opening, curled up into a little ball, was a young girl.

 

"Suzanne?" he said.

 

Caught in the beam of the flashlight, she cowered before him, trembling, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. Her hands were held up to her mouth. Her clothes were torn and dirty and her hair was wet and limp. Her bare legs were streaked with filth. Rats scurried around her on the pile of rubble.

 

"Is your name Suzanne?" Piccard said, moving toward her and holding out his hand. "It's all right, don't be afraid. It's all right. I've come to help you."

 

She scuttled back, away from him, farther back into the darkness of opening in the collapsed wall. He splashed through the water, coming closer, shining the beam ahead of him.

 

"Don't run away!" he said. "No one's going to hurt you. You're safe now. It's all right.Come, let me take you out of here."

 

He started to climb up after her, shining his flashlight beam into the opening in the wall. He couldn't see her anymore, but he could still hear her quiet, frightened sobbing.

 

"Come out, mademoiselle," he said. "Come, it's all right. I only want to help you. I—"

 

He froze as his flashlight beam caught a pair of lambent, yellow eyes. He heard a deep, animal growl and suddenly something came hurtling out of the opening, straight at him. He cried out as the beast struck him in the chest, bearing him back down into the water, and he felt its teeth tearing at his throat. The flashlight spun away into the darkness.

 

 

 

They were somewhere beneath the Rue de Rivoli when their runestones started glowing dimly. The tunnels here were in a greater state of disrepair than in the other sections they had passed through and often they had to make their way around the debris of partially collapsed walls and ceilings.

 

"This whole thing looks like it could come down at any moment," Wyrdrune said nervously. "If we have to start firing shots down here, we're liable to start a cave-in."

 

"Have they had any contact from Piccard?" Modred asked Billy.

 

"No," said Billy. "It's over 'alf an 'our since 'e went down an' they 'aven't 'eard a thing. Renaud wants to know if 'e should send some men down after 'im."

 

"Tell him no," said Modred. "If something's happened to Piccard, the police won't be able to help him." He stopped, trying to read the faded signs marking the streets above the tunnels. "The Rue St. Roch," he said, barely making out the lettering. "You realize where we're heading, don't you? We're within blocks of where the first murders occurred, in the Rue Morgue."

 

Kira glanced at the runestone in her palm. It was glowing brighter. "We're getting close," she said. "Piccard must have gone down somewhere not far from here."

 

"The fool should have stayed out of it," said Modred, as they moved forward cautiously. "The entrance to the Catacombs has to be somewhere beneath the Rue Morgue."

 

"I trust it's drier in there," Makepeace said.

 

"You think they know we're coming?" Kira asked.

 

"I'm almost sure of it," said Modred. "But they haven't done anything yet. Why?"

 

"I'm not complaining," Wyrdrune replied uneasily.

 

"They must be planning something," Modred said. He glanced at Billy. "Renaud's had no word of Siegal and the others?"

 

"No sign of 'em," said Billy after a moment in which Merlin silently relayed the message. "They've got unitscruisin' the entire area. It's as if they've simply disappeared."

 

"Great," said Wyrdrune. "I've got a real bad feeling about this." The runestone in his forehead was glowing brightly. "Something's going to happen any time now. I just know it."

 

Modred stopped. "Through here," he said, pointing at a branch tunnel. "Can you feel it?"

 

Kira nodded. "It's getting very strong," she said.

 

They looked at the branch pipe. There was only room for them to go through one at a time.

 

"They could get us in there and bring the whole thing down over our heads," said Wyrdrune. He gazed down the length of the branch pipe. "How do you feel about just teleporting through to die other side?" he asked.

 

"We could,"said Modred, "but I'm not sure we ought to waste our energy when we're this close. That may be exactly what they want us to do."

 

"They're just waiting for us, aren't they?" Kira said. "They're not even going to try to run."

 

"They're going to make a fight of it," said Modred. "They want the life force of the runestones. They know that if they can destroy us, nothing on earth can stop them."

 

"Cheerful thought," said Makepeace, eyeing the branch pipe nervously. He swallowed hard. "Well, who goes first?"

 

"1 will," said Modred. He unholstered his pistol and racked the slide, chambering a round. He thumbed off the safety. "Watchyourselves ," he said.

 

"We still don't know how many of them there are," said Kira.

 

"Well, there's only one way we're going to find out," said Modred. He bent down and entered the pipe.

 

 

 

Chapter

ELEVEN

 

 

 

The two young prostitutes they had encountered on the comer of the Rue St. Roch and the Avenue de L'Opera said they had seen a man dressed in a dark cloak with a woman answering Suzanne's description. The woman seemed to be drunk, they'd said. The man was half walking, half carrying her, supporting her with her arm around his shoulders. They'd passed by, heading down the Rue Gaillon, and gone into a brownstone near the plaza.

 

Rienzi had grabbed one of them by the arm, insisting that they point the building out to them. Alarmed, the girl had tried to jerk away, but Rienzi would not let go.

 

"Show us!" he demanded. "Show us which building!"

 

"Please," Max said to them. "The girl's been kidnapped. Won't you please show us where they went?"

 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out some bills and handed them over.

 

"Just point out which building they went into, that's all we ask," he said.

 

"Perhaps we ought to summon the police," Francois said.

 

"But who knows what will happen to her by the time they arrive?" Colette said in an anguished voice. "Oh, I never should have let her stay there! I should have made her move in with me after what happened to her sister and poor Gabrielle."

 

Rienzi and the others believed that she had worked with Suzanne at the club. When they arrived back at the apartment, they had found Colette waiting for them, in a state of high anxiety. Suzanne had called her earlier, she said, sounding very frightened. She had stepped out for a few moments, to pick up some cigarettes, and she was certain that someone had followed her back home. After all that happened, with Stefan gone, she was afraid to be alone. Colette told them that she had said she would come over right away, only when she had arrived, there was no answer at the apartment. She had tried the door and found it open. She had seen the inside of the apartment, the lamp knocked over, things lying broken on the floor, the rug bunched up as if there had been a struggle. She had just been about to go call the police when the others had arrived.

 

They had questioned the neighbors, but no one had seen or heard anything. They had then gone out to search the streets, but they had no luck with anyone they met until they encountered the two young prostitutes. Their description of Suzanne and what she had been wearing left no doubt in Rienzi's mind. He insisted that it had to be her. After Max had paid them, they went down the block with them and pointed out the building they had seen the dark-cloaked man go into with Suzanne. "Perhaps Francois is right," said one of the others. "Maybe one of us should go call the police. The man who took her may be armed."

 

"We are armed, as well," Rienzi said, brandishing the gun that Max had given back to him. "We cannot take the chance of waiting. He may kill Suzanne."

 

And, as if on cue, they heard a frenzied scream come from an open window up above them.

 

"Up there, on the fourth floor!" Francois shouted, pointing at the window.

 

"You stay behind us," Max said to Colette, as they ran inside the building. With Rienzi in the lead, they took the stairs two and three at a time until they got to the fourth floor.

 

They heard the scream again.

 

"Down here!" Rienzi said, running down the corridor to his left. Colette stayed behind the rest of them. She knew exactly where they were going. They were heading towardher own apartment.

 

Several of the neighbors poked their heads out of their doors, but when they saw Rienzi rushing past with a gun held in his hand, they quickly shut their doors again and bolted them. Rienzi reached the door of Colette's apartment and kicked it in. They rushed inside.

 

It was dark.

 

"I can't see!"

 

"Someone get the lights!"

 

The door slammed shut behind them.

 

"Who closed the door?"

 

"Turn on the lights!"

 

Suddenly, torches blazed up on the walls around them.

 

Max and the others found themselves standing in the center of a large chamber with walls of solid rock. At regular intervals throughout the chamber, there were niches carved into the walls, stacked high with human bones. Rats scurried across the floor. Burning braziers placed around the edges of the chamber gave off a pungent, strong aroma of sickly sweet incense.

 

"What thehell. . . ?" said Max, looking all around him.

 

The others stood stunned, glancing around at their surroundings with incomprehension.

 

"What happened?" said one of the reporters. "Where the devil are we?"

 

"In the Catacombs, gentlemen," said Colette from behind them. They turned to see her standing with the two young prostitutes, smiling at them.

 

"What is this?" said Rienzi, pointing his pistol at Colette. "How did we get here? What have you done with Suzanne?"

 

"She's right here," said a woman's voice from the other side of the chamber. They turned and saw the Dark Ones standing behind them, dressed in long, black, hooded robes. Suzanne stood between Azreal and Balen, a vacant expression on her face. Her eyes looked glazed.

 

Rienzi started forward. "Suzanne!"

 

She did not respond.

 

He aimed his pistol at the three. "What have you done to her? Let her go!"

 

Leila swept her arm out and Rienzi cried out as the gun went flying from his grasp. They all found themselves suddenly rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle.

 

"I thought you would be bringing the police," Leila said to Colette.

 

"These men came first," Colette replied. "They found me waiting there. I had no choice. I had to bring them."

 

"No matter," Leila said. "They should do just as well." She frowned and shut her eyes briefly. "We shall soon be having company," she said after a moment. She glanced at Colette. "You and the others know what to do," she said. "Go now."

 

"They're getting closer, Leila," Azreal said nervously. "I can feel their presence."

 

"Calm yourself, Azreal," she said. "Things are still proceeding according to plan. This is only a minor inconvenience, one that is easily remedied."

 

She made a pass with her hand and Max and the others were suddenly attired in police uniforms. "You see?" she said.

 

"We're wasting time," said Balen.

 

"Patience," she said. "First we must bait our trap."

 

She stared hard at Max and the others and they felt an icy coldness seeping through them as she imposed her will on theirs. Max felt himself receding, falling away. He fought the sensation, but there was nothing he could do.Her will became his own as she possessed him. And, like the others, he knew what he had to do.

 

Officers Moreau and Bernajoux were slowly cruising down the street in their patrol car. Bernajoux, a lower-grade adept who studied thaumaturgy nights at the Sorbonne, was handling the driving chores, keeping the cruiser moving with his levitation and impulsion spell while Moreau flashed the searchlight into each dark alley that they passed.

 

"I still say there's more to this than we've been told," said Bernajoux as he guided the vehicle along. "There's been no word in the streets of any Satan cult."

 

"That doesn't mean there isn't one," Moreau said, peering into the alleys that they passed, shining the searchlight to illuminate the shadows.

 

"I'm telling you, Renaud's keeping something back from us," said Bernajoux. "The murder victims all had thaumaturgic runes carved into their bodies and now there are two agents of the I.T.C. working with the task force in a so-called advisory capacity. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

 

"It tells me that they think an adept might be involved, but there is as yet no proof," Moreau said. "What are you doing, searching for conspiracies?"

 

"I just don't like not knowing what we may be getting into," Bernajoux replied. The vehicle lurched slightly.

 

"Stop worrying so much and concentrate on your driving," Moreau said irritably.

 

"It just makes me nervous, thinking that we might be going up against a criminal adept," said Bernajoux. "We're simply not trained to handle that sort of thing."

 

"What's to handle?" said Moreau. "Our instructions were clear. If we see anything suspicious, we call in. And if we spot anyone trying to murder someone oh the street, we stop them, pure and simple. If they resist, then bullets will stop an adept as well as any other man. But I don't think we're looking for an adept at all. If people like that turn to crime, they don't turn to murder. Corporate crime is more their style. If you ask me, we're looking for some psychopath who's trying to make it look as if an adept or a Satan cult is responsible. It's probably someone who has it in for adepts for some strange reason.A serial killer who likes reading about himself in the newspapers and—wait. Stop the car!"

 

"You see something?"

 

"Back up, quickly! In that alley there. . . ."

 

Bernajoux reversed the vehicle. Moreau beamed the searchlight down into the alleyway. There were several figures back in the alley. They seemed to be bending over something.

 

"Hold it right there!" Moreau said over the loudspeaker.

 

"Should I call in?" asked Bernajoux, but Moreau was already getting out of the car."Moreau! Wait!"

 

Moreau had his weapon out in one hand, his flashlight in the other. He was entering the alleyway.

 

"God damn it," said Bernajoux. He quickly reached for the handset. "Unit thirty-one, calling HQ, Unit thirty-one, calling HQ, come in!"

 

As Moreau approached the figures, he saw that there were two of them. Young prostitutes, no more than teenagers. They were bending over a body. In the beam of his flashlight, he could see that it was the body of a man. His shirt had been torn open and one of the girls was holding a knife. He aimed his gun at them.

 

"Drop the knife! Don't move!"

 

" Come in, Unit thirty-one."

 

"Unit thirty-one here.We have an assault in progress at—"

 

Suddenly, Bernajoux heard Moreau fire two shots, and then he heard his partner scream.

 

" Merde!" Bernajoux was out of the car in a flash, drawing his weapon as he ran down the alley.

 

"Unit thirty-one,come in! Unit thirty-one, what is your location?"

 

Moreau was down. He was still screaming. In the darkness, Bernajoux could barely make out a figure crouching over him. Bernajoux grabbed the flashlight off his belt and snapped it on. A young girl looked up at him, illuminated in the flashlight's beam. The expression on her face was bestial. There was blood dripping from her snarling mouth. And she had fangs.

 

Bernajoux fired, but she threw herself to one side and he missed. He fired again, and then he saw the second one launchingherself at him, screaming as she leaped through the air, higher than it seemed any human could possibly jump. He caught a glimpse of dripping fangs and clawed fingers and he fired again as she came down on him. He was borne to the ground. He felt sharp claws sinking into his shoulders and he pressed the gun against her chest and fired three more times. She jerked against him and lay still. He rolled her off him, but then the second one was on him. He caught a brief glimpse of a gleaming knife blade and then he felt the heat of it sinking to the hilt into his chest. It rose again and fell, and rose again and fell, and the gun fell from Bernajoux's limp hand as the knife kept plunging down, again and again and again. . . .

 

 

 

The reports started coming in from all over the city. They were coming up out of the sewers in groups of two and three and four, bedraggled, filthy street urchins, falling on anyone who happened by. The dispatchers at the task force headquarters were jammed with incoming calls.Three people slain in the Boulevard St. Martin. Two more citizens murdered in the Rue Jacob. It was as if, suddenly, some inexplicable madness had struck the homeless runaways ofParis , all at the same time, turning them into rabid, homicidal beasts. The officers of Unit 23 shot down two of them near theQuaiD'Orsay . Their report seemed unbelievable. What they had described encounteringweren't children, but feral creatures that seemed only half human. Like werewolves, the stunned officers had said. And they were coming up out of the sewers and killing anyone who happened to get in their way. Two men killed in the Rue de Madrid. A woman slain in the Rue St. Antoine, three of the killers shot down by police in theChamps Elysees . And still the calls kept coming in.

 

"My God, how many of them are there?" said Renaud, unable to handle all the calls that were coming in. He got on the radio and issued orders to all units to shoot on sight and not to attempt arrest. "Tell them what's happening!" he shouted to Raven. "Tell them they're coming out all over the city! Get them back! We've got to do something!"

 

Raven sat with her eyes shut, her body rigid, her fingers clamped on the edge of the desk.

 

"Raven!"Renaud shouted. He took her by the shoulders and shook her. "Raven, for God's sake!"

 

She opened her eyes. "There's nothing to be done, Renaud," she said calmly. "It's all up to your men. It's a diversion."

 

"A diversion!People are dying out there!"

 

"The only chance we have now is for them to stop the Dark Ones," Raven said. "This is it. Brace yourself. Whatever happens, we'll know in the next few moments."

 

 

 

They stepped out of the branch pipe into the next tunnel. It was a junction point, where several other tunnels met in a large, circular area. In the beams of their flashlights, they could see that portions of the ceiling had collapsed and the walls were veined with fissures. Rubble lay piled up in the sewer channels and across from them, an entire section of the wall had fallen in, revealinga darkness beyond.

 

"This is it," said Modred. "That has to be the way into the Catacombs!"

 

As they slowly waded through the water toward the opposite side, Billy suddenly spoke up.

 

"It's Raven," he said. "She saysthere's acolytes comin' up all over the city, through the sewer grates. They're killin' everyone in sight. There's a bloody war goin' on up there!"

 

"They're trying to draw us off," said Modred.

 

"We've got to do something," Kira said.

 

"We are doing something!" Modred snapped back. "Can't you feel it? Can't you feel how close they are?"

 

"What the . . . Jesus Christ!" said Wyrdrune, springing back as something in the water floated up againsthim.

 

"What is it?" Kira said, spinning around.

 

There was a body floating in the water.

 

"It's Piccard," said Wyrdrune. "His throat's been torn out."

 

"Look out!" said Modred. He shined his light across the tunnel. Kira turned quickly, the red beam of her laser sight lancing out. A red dot appeared on the chest of one of the men moving toward them.

 

"Don't shoot!Police!"

 

Several uniformed officers were moving toward them.

 

"What the hell are you doing down here?" demanded Modred.

 

"We were sent down to assist," said Francois as they moved closer. "What's happened here?"

 

"It'sagent Piccard," said Wyrdrune. "He's dead."

 

"Dead?" said Francois, moving closer with the others."How?"

 

"His throat's been torn out," Makepeace said.

 

"You men had better get out of here, right now," said Modred.

 

"We came to help," said Max as they kept moving closer.

 

"There's nothing you can do," said Modred. "Get out of here!"

 

"Now just hold on a minute," said Francois. "We've got our orders. We were given specific instructions to—"

 

 

 

"Renaud!" said Raven. "Have you sent any men down into the sewers?"

 

"What?No, of course not. "

 

"You didn't send any men down after Piccard?" "No. Why, what's—"

 

" Merlin! Renaud gave no orders for anyone to go down into the sewers! Look—"

 

 

 

"— out!"shouted Billy. The laser sight put a red dot on Francois's shoulder and Billy fired. Francois fell back into the water as the others lunged forward.

 

Billy heard a growl behind him and turned just in time to see a huge black wolf come springing down at him from a mound of debris. He fired and missed as the beast struck him and they fell back into the water.

 

 

 

"I've lost contact!" Raven said.

 

Renaud had no time for her. He was at the switchboard, busy issuing orders as calls continued to come in from patrol units all over the city.

 

 

 

Modred brought his gun up, but Rienzi was too close. As Modred fired, he knocked his gun aside and bore him down into the water, fingers that had become claws reaching for his throat. They were shapechanging, their faces sprouting hair, their snarling mouths revealing fangs. Red laser beams crisscrossed the tunnel as Kira's shotgun roared and one of the men went down, but they had gotten too close and Max leaped upon her, driving her down beneath the water. Makepeace took a deep breath and exhaled, blowing two of the creatures backward with hurricane force. Wyrdrune got two shots off, wounding one of them before two more bore him down and he found himself thrashing in the scummy water, trying to dislodge the beasts as they forced his head under.

 

 

 

"Now,"said Leila with a smile.

 

 

 

"Raven," Jacqueline said, grabbing the sorceress's hand. "Raven, you've got to get me down there! Please!"

 

"I . . . I've lost contact. I don't know what's happening. . . ."

 

"They're in trouble, Raven! Concentrate! Get through to Merlin! Try!"

 

Raven stood up. "Take my hand," she said.

 

Renaud was oblivious to them as he shouted orders to the dispatchers, sending back-up units to sites where reports of assaults were coming in. Sirens screamed across the city as units converged on areas where the acolytes were spotted and the police were shooting them down as they charged in blood-crazed frenzy.

 

"Raven!" he shouted. "Raven, what the hell's happening down there?"

 

He turned.

 

"Raven?"

 

But Raven and Jacqueline had disappeared.

 

 

 

The wolf snapped at Billy's throat as they thrashed in the water,then squealed with pain as Billy drove his knife deep into its shoulder. It raked his chest with its claws,then leaped away, plunging through the water and leaping up onto the rubble. It jumped across to the walkway and ran with a limp into one of the branch pipes.

 

"Oh, no, you don't," snarled Billy, sloshing through the water after it.

 

"Billy, don't—" said Merlin's voice inside his mind.

 

"Lay off, old man!" shouted Billy." 'E's mine!"

 

"Billy, not now! Raven's trying to get through. . . ."

 

But Billy was already scrambling up onto the pile of rubble, leaping down onto the walkway and plunging through the branch pipe after Michel. Merlin, in astral contact with the sorceress, could do nothing to stop him as he sped down the tunnel, his short height allowing him to run full speed without having to bend over. He came out the other side in time to see Michel, in human form, splashing through the sewer channel. He made a flying dive and brought him down.

 

Michel, his naked skin slick with the slimy water, slipped out of his grasp and they fought in the knee-deep water, struggling for the knife. Michel was wounded in the shoulder, but he was larger and his desperate fury gave him strength.

 

As they struggled, his features started to transform. An animal growl rumbled up from deep in his throat and hair started sprouting from his face. His ears extended and developed furry tufts, claws sprouted from his fingers and his bared teeth lengthened into fangs. He drove a hairy knee into Billy's groin and twisted the knife out of his grasp as Billy grunted and doubled over with pain. With a snarl, he drove the knife with all his might at Billy's midsection . . . and suddenly there was a blinding flash of white light from the fire opal stone in Billy's ring and the knife blade glanced off solid steel.

 

Michel backed off, stunned, as the doubled-over, form of Billy was suddenly replaced by a large and powerful knight in full armor. Gorlois slowly straightened up, towering over him, and Michel stared fearfully at the dull green light that came from behind the slit in the steel helmet's visor.

 

"No. . . ." said Michel, shaking his head. "No, please . . . don't. . . ."

 

He threw the knife, but the blade struck the visor with a clang and glanced off. Michel turned and fled.

 

Gorlois slowly drew his broadsword as Michel splashed panic-stricken through the water. He drew back his arm and hurled the blade. It whistled through the air and struck the werewolf in the back, penetrating through his chest. Michel fell facedown into the water, the weight of the sword rolling him over to float on his back, the bloody sword point protruding from his chest like a small mast. In death, he slowly reverted back to human form, his sightless eyes staring up at the roof of the tunnel.

 

Modred drove his fist into Rienzi's face and he fell back into the water. Modred had lost both his flashlight and his weapon, as had Wyrdrune and Kira. Makepeace held out his arms, sweeping them outward in an arc, and a glowing arch appeared beneath the roof of the tunnel, illuminating the entire area. And then he saw them, standing in the huge fissure in the wall that led into the Catacombs. Three figures cloaked in dark robes.

 

"Modred, look out!" he shouted.

 

Leila hurled a powerful bolt of thaumaturgic energy and it struck Modred in the chest, picking him up and hurling him all the way across the tunnel. He struck the wall with tremendous force and collapsed onto the walkway. Pain exploded in his head and he teetered on the edge of consciousness.

 

"No! God damn it, no!"

 

The runestone in his chest blazed and he felt its revitalizing power coursing through him.

 

At the same moment, the emerald in Wyrdrune's forehead flashed and a beam of force shot out from it, striking the men holding him down and throwing them back into the water. Balen extended hisarms, fingers splayed wide apart, energy crackling around them. An amorphous red mass formed in the air and flew toward Wyrdrune like an airborne amoeba, undulating and expanding as it hurtled at him. It washed over him and Wyrdrune cried out as he was wreathed in a crackling crimson aura that lifted him up out of the water and held him struggling in midair as he screamed with pain, feeling the life force of the Dark One inundating him, trying to drain him of his soul. Makepeace inhaled deeply and the aura was sucked away from Wyrdrune, releasing him to fall with a splash into the water. Then Makepeace exhaled, blowing the undulating red cloud back toward the necromancers. Balen threw up his hand quickly and a spout of water shot up from the channel, extinguishing the pulsating cloud before it could reach him.

 

Kira thrashed beneath the water as Max held her down, his powerful hands squeezing her throat. She raised her hand up out of the water and the runestone flashed. A bright blue flash of energy exploded in Max's eyes and he cried out, releasing her and bringing his hands up to his face. She came up, coughing, gasping for breath, and was struck in the chest by a powerful beam of force as Azreal directed all his energy at her, throwing her back into the water.

 

As Modred struggled to his feet, Leila stretched her arms out to finish him off, but in that moment, Raven and Jacqueline appeared, standing on the walkway across the tunnel. Jacqueline held her gun out in both hands and fired four rapid shots at Balen. They struck him in the chest and threw him back into the darkness of the fissure. Raven held out her arms and sent a bolt of energy at Leila. It struck her and she staggered, then turned toward Raven with a snarl and hurled a ball of fire straight back at her. It struck the sorceress and burst, wreathing her in flame. Raven screamed and fell into the sewer channel. Clouds of steam billowed up as she struck the water.

 

"Kira!" Modred shouted. He tore open his wet suit and a crimson beam shot out from his gleaming ruby runestone, striking Kira's upraised palm. Another beam shot out from her sapphire runestone and lanced across the tunnel, striking the glowing emerald in Wyrdrune's forehead. A third beam blazed forth from the emerald runestone, shooting back to Modred and their energies were united in the Living Triangle as the flashing pyramid of power was formed, rising over them and filling the entire tunnel with a blinding light that strobed with crackling bolts of green and red and blue.

 

" No!" shouted Leila, springing to her feet and pushing Azreal forward as she scrambled back into the entrance to the Catacombs.

 

Azreal screamed as the energy of the Living Triangle enveloped him. His cloak burst into flame and his screams echoed through the tunnel as the flesh melted from his bones.

 

Throughout the city, the Dark Ones' acolytes dropped in their tracks as Leila desperately summoned up a final spell. Her form shifted and her features seemed to flow as she dropped down to all fours and became transformed into a sleek and sinewy jaguar. With a powerful leap, she took off running down the corridor as a rumbling echoed through the subterranean chamber and the ceiling of the tunnel behind her fell in. The walls crumbled, sealing the passageway behind her.

 

"Max!" said Jacqueline, splashing through the water toward him. "Max, are you all right?"

 

"Jacqueline?" he said.

 

"It's me, Max," she said. "It's all right. You're safe. It's over now."

 

"Jacqueline . . ." he said, groping for her blindly. "What happened? I can't see!"

 

There was a rumbling all around them.

 

"Look out!" shouted Wyrdrune. "It's all coming down!"

 

The walls and ceiling of the tunnel started to collapse. Debris rained down into the water around them as the ceiling buckled and fell in on them. Kira dragged Raven up out of the water and pulled her back toward the shelter of a branch pipe. Wyrdrune scrambled to Jacqueline's side and together, supporting Max between them, they hurried toward one of the connecting tunnels, Makepeace forming a protective shield of force around them. Modred covered his head with his hands as concrete rained down upon him, splashing into the sewer channel and filling the tunnel with a cloud of dust. Moments later, it was over. A large part of the ceiling had fallen in and several of the tunnel walls had collapsed completely, leaving them in darkness filled with swirling concrete dust.

 

"Kira!"Wyrdrune shouted.

 

"I'm all right," she called back from inside the branch pipe where she crouched over the sorceress. "But Raven's hurt. She's been badly burned. Where's Modred?"

 

"I'm right here," he said, struggling to push his way out of a pile of debris. His arms and face were cut and bleeding, and his chest was burned and blistered where Leila's bolt of energy had struck. Parts of the rubber wet suit had melted into his skin. He groaned with pain and stumbled to his feet. He shut his eyes and drew a ragged breath, but he could already feel the runestone healing him.

 

"Hold on," Makepeace called out to them. "I'll give us some light."

 

He held out his hands, fingers spread wide, and tiny, sparkling particles formed in the air, floated out into the center of the tunnel and hovered like a swarm of multicolored fireflies, illuminating the area around them. Rienzi and several of the men who'd come with Max stood around, dazed, not knowing what had happened or how they'd got there.

 

Modred limped through the turbid water to where the others were. He paused by the bullet-riddled body of Balen, lying crumpled and broken beneath a mound of concrete and collapsed steel beams. The body of the necromancer was rapidly decomposing, turning to dust right before his eyes. Nothing remained of Azreal.

 

"Did we get them all?" asked Wyrdrune.

 

Modred gazed at the debris sealing off the entrance to the Catacombs. "No," he said. "The third one got away. Perhaps she was buried in the cave-in."

 

"Where's Billy?" Wyrdrune asked.

 

"He went after the werewolf," Kira said. "Down that pipe over there . . ." She turned and her voice trailed off as she saw that the entrance to the pipe was buried behind a pile of fallen debris. "Oh, no . . ."she said.

 

Suddenly, the mound of rubble burst outward with tremendous force and an armored knight stepped out into the tunnel. He straightened up and Rienzi's jaw dropped open as he saw the huge figure standing only several feet away from him. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, but the knight was gone and Billy stood in his place!

 

"Gor'blimey, what a mess," he said, looking around. "D'wewin ?"

 

 

 

Sergeant Legault stood inside an alleyway with three other officers, staring down at the bodies of Colette and three scruffy teenagers, two boys and a girl. Behind them, paramedics were busy patching up a young man while two other officers were trying to calm his hysterical girlfriend. The young man's nose was broken and his eyes were puffed and swollen. His lip was cut and his ear was bleeding. He had been badly beaten and his shirt had been torn open. The blood from the wounds in his chest and stomach had soaked his clothes and left sticky red trails on his skin.

 

The two young people had left a nearby nightclub and were walking back to their apartment when they were suddenly set upon by four inhuman-looking creatureswho came leaping at them out of the shadows and dragged them back into the alley. A passing unit had responded to their frenzied screams and as the officers rushed into thealley, the attackers had turned from their intended victims and launched themselves at the policemen, who had emptied their weapons into them.

 

"I don't understand," one of the officers said to Legault as he stared down at the bodies. "They weren't human! They were . . . monsters! I saw with my own eyes!"

 

As the paramedics placed the wounded young man on a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance, helping his girlfriend in after him, the officer speaking with Legault shook his head in utter bafflement.

 

"We did not shoot children!" he insisted. "You must believe me, Sergeant!"

 

"I believe you," said Legault.

 

"It's a nightmare. You should have seen them. They were not like this. They were. . . ." His voice trailed off.

 

Legault merely nodded.

 

"It was necromancy, wasn't it?" one of the other officers said. "It had to be. There's no other explanation."

 

Legault said nothing.

 

"The media is going to have a field day with this," the third officer said."Some kind of satanic murder cult, transformed by necromancy, suddenly coming up out of the sewers and attacking everyone in sight. And who knows how many more of them might be hiding down there?"

 

"I don't think that there are anymore," Legault said. "And if there were, then they have probably reverted back to normal, like the others we have captured."

 

"What I don't understand is why," the first policeman said. "Why did they do it? What was the point? There had to be a reason!"

 

"When you're dealing with insanity," Legault said, "there's not always a reason.At least not one that we could understand. In any case, it makes no difference. It's out of our hands now. The I.T.C. will be wrapping up the case." He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. "And if you ask me, they're more than welcome to it. I've had enough for one night.And for many, many sleepless nights to come." He turned and started walking slowly back to the patrol car.

 

 

 

Epilogue

 

 

 

It was morning and they all sat in their hotel suite with Renaud, waiting for the limousine that would take them to the airport. Their bags were packed and sitting by the door and, though they hadn't had a chance to see very much ofParis except what lay beneath the city streets, they were all anxious to get home.

 

"I've spoken with the doctors at the hospital," Renaud said, "and they assure me that Raven will recover. Her burns were quite severe, but with the aid of rest and thaumaturgic treatments, she should be fit enough to return to duty within six to eight months.

 

"I'm relieved to hear that," Kira said. "For a while there, I wasn't sure she'd make it."

 

"She's strong and she's a fighter," said Renaud. "She'll make it."

 

"What about Max Siegal and the others?" Wyrdrune asked.

 

"Three of them did not survive," Renaud said. "We found their bodies buried in the collapsed tunnel. The street above it buckled for almost a block and the entire area has had to be closed off until repairs can beeffected If nothing else, at least this will ensure that the city finally gets around to repairing the dilapidated sewer system. It's been long overdue. As for the Catacombs, they're sealed off once again. If there are any other entrances, they will be discovered in the process of the inspection for the repair work and they will be sealed off, as well. I expect we may find some more bodies down there before we're through. As for Siegal, Rienzi and the others who survived, well, they were very lucky. The ones you wounded in your struggle will recover. None of them remember anything about what happened. And perhaps that's all for the best."

 

"What about Max's eyes?" asked Kira withconcern. "Will he be able to see again?"

 

"Eventually," Renaud said. "But it will take some time. Fortunately, the damage wasn't permanent. The doctors say that his vision will return over a period of months, slowly and in stages: First, he will be able to perceive some light, then shadowy images, and in time, with treatment, his vision should be restored to normal. But it will be a long time before he will be able to paint again."

 

"I'm sorry," Kira said with a rueful grimace. "I wish it didn't have to happen."

 

"Ironically, he doesn't really seem to mind that much," Renaud said. "I've spoken with Jacqueline. She's remaining with him, to take care of him until his vision is restored. She said that once he found out that the damage wasn't permanent, he was, obviously, enormously relieved, but he believes that he can benefit from the experience. He says that it will give him time to think, to look inward. He says that he can see colors in his mind and he will paint in mental images, without the aid of brash or canvas. And, in the meantime, he said that this experience—which will officially be described as an accident—will increase the value of his work, not that he needs to worry about money. And it will also give him more time to spend with Jacqueline, which seems to be the most important thing to him right now."

 

"I'm sure it's important to Jacqueline, as well," said Modred. "Perhaps more important than she knows right now, but she will find that out soon enough. She's done more than her share. Her life could use a change."

 

"I agree," said Renaud. "Let us just hope it is a change for the better, away from her previous activities. I would be extremely happy never to have to hear her name again in my official capacity."

 

"So how is the official disposition of the case going to read?" asked Wyrdrune.

 

"Due to Raven's condition, Sergeant Legault and I will be assisting in the preparation of the I.T.C. report," Renaud replied. "As a matter of fact, I should be getting back to headquarters to meet with the agents who've been assigned to the disposition of the case. There is no way, regrettably, to avoid the mention of necromancy. Too many people have died in too unmistakable a manner and the media will be hounding us for details. But officially, the report will read that the killings were perpetrated by a satanic murder cult which hid under the streets ofParis and met somewhere in the Catacombs. The renegade adept who organized and led them has not been found and it is presumed that he perished in the cave-in. Perhaps we will eventually discover a body that is suitably unidentifiable and, by process of elimination, we will establish that it must have been the missing adept. Of the Dark Ones there will, of course, be no official mention. Only Legault and I have knowledge of that information and we will keep it to ourselves. And there will be no mention ofyourselves , either. The battle beneath the streets ofParis took place between the cult and agents Raven and Piccard. Raven was seriously injured and Piccard lost his life in the line of duty. You were never involved."

 

"We appreciate that," said Wyrdrune.

 

"And I will appreciate being kept informed of how I can get in touch with you again.Strictly unofficially, of course. I doubt that I shall ever sleep easily after all this. Please don't misunderstand, but nothing would please me more than to never have to contact you again."

 

"I quite understand," said Modred. "But even if we do not have to return toParis , there may come a time when we may have to contact you, either for information or to have someone vouch for us."

 

"You may count on my full cooperation, to the best extent of my ability," Renaud said. "What worries me the most is that missingnecromancer. What if she didn't perish in the cave-in?"

 

"Then, undoubtedly, our paths will cross again," said Modred."If not in France, then somewhere else. If she survived, I strongly doubt she will remain inParis . She will flee somewhere else, to gather new acolytes around her, perhaps to seek out others of her kind. And, sooner or later, we will meet Leila again."

 

"I do not envy you your task," Renaud said. "Well, I'd best be getting back." He stood and offered his hand to each of them. As he took Modred's hand, he smiled wryly."Who would have thought that I would ever be shaking hands with Morpheus himself, and wishing him a bon voyage?"

 

Modred smiled. "Morpheus is dead," he said. "And Modred gratefully accepts your hand in friendship."

 

The phone rang and Makepeace picked it up. "The limo has arrived," he said.

 

Kira sighed. "I always wondered if I'd ever get toParis ," she said. "Somehow, this was not what I expected. I didn't even get to see theEiffelTower ."

 

"Believe me, you didn't miss much," said the broom, coming into the room carrying a pile of boxes in its arms."A bunch of girders and an elevator.Big deal. But at least the view wasn't half bad."

 

"Good God, Broom, what is all that stuff?" asked Wyrdrune.

 

"I just bought a few things," said the broom.

 

"What things?" Kira glanced at the labels on the boxes. "Broom, these are all designer originals!"

 

"Designer originals!" said Wyrdrune. "That stuff must have cost a fortune! Who are they for?"

 

"They're for me," the broom said. "For you? " said Wyrdrune with disbelief. "But Broom, you don't wear clothes!"

 

" No? So I'll hang them in the closet and look at them every now and then," the broom said defensively. "What was I supposed to do, come back fromParis without a thing to wear?"

 

Kira giggled.

 

Wyrdrune put his hand up to his eyes and groaned. "I don't believe it," he said. "We come toParis and the broom sees all the sights and goes on a shopping spree while we wind up in the sewer."

 

"So what can I tell you?" the broom said, with a shrug. "C'est la vie boychik. C'est la vie. "

 

 

 

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