 
THE FINAL CONVERGING: AN IMMORTAL HEART ASUNDER

By

GEORGE STRAATMAN

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 George Straatman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Smashwords Titles by George Straatman

THE CONVERGING

THE CONVERGING: MARK OF THE DEMON

THE CONVERGING: CLOSURES IN BLOOD

JOURNEY THROUGH THE LAND OF SHADES

ABJECTION ALONG THE ROAD TO APOTHEOSIS (JOURNEY BOOK 2)

CIRCLE OF THE WITCH

THE CHAINS OF CAPITULATION (JOURNEY BOOK 3)

ALL TITLES AVAILABE ABLE IN PRINT THROUGH AMAZON.COM

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Steve Efondo of Sefdesign for his work in providing the stunning cover effects for this novel and artist/illustrator Sky Zhao who drew the amazing base sketch for _Eternal Love in Death_. I would also like to thank Leonard Clark and Marcelle de Haan for providing the critical extra pairs of eyes for this project. I dedicate this novel to Elizabeth Simpson and Cynara Saravic...the light and dark daughters who have kept my creative fires burning all these years.

Chapter One

What is the nature of the pernicious force that tears the immortal heart asunder?

Does it find its source in the disillusionment that accompanies its ever-receding proximity to the innocence of birth?

Perhaps it is best attributed to the gradual, but steady erosion of its humanity...driven by obduracy, apathy or bitterness...and all other dark emotions that conspire to vitiate the immortal spirit.

Or does it come with the dismaying realization that everything that once defined it...that it has cherished and held sacred...has gone to dust, leaving it displaced and lost, like a drifting ship on an endless ocean...invisible and forgotten?

Whatever the cause, the immortal heart is torn asunder with the terrible discovery that the once-coveted commodity of eternal life is, in fact, an unending curse. What follows is one such soul's moment of terrible insight.

1

The first thing that struck her was the palpable thickness in the air as she raced through the darkened corridors...taking random turns as she went. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the sounds of close pursuit...gaining with every passing second. She ran through corridors of marble and alabaster, beneath high vaulted ceilings. As she fled, she would occasionally glance upward and see that night had fallen over the world beyond this mysterious place. Luminous slivers of silver moonlight tumbled through the regularly-spaced skylights, casting the long hallways in shades of deep blue and argent.

Down one dimly lit hall after the next, she fled in the face of her unseen pursuers and though her flight was motivated by an exigent need to escape, she did not flee in blind terror. Eternally composed by nature, she had managed to stave off the grasping claws of open panic even though she found herself in a strange and ominous place...pursued by unseen predators.

_'How did I come to be here...is this a dream?'_ she wondered as she nimbly negotiated a tight corner that led to a spiral staircase. She could produce no answer to either question and in the end, both queries were irrelevant. Only staying ahead of those who chased her mattered. _'At least until I reach the end.'_

She began to ascend the staircase, moving effortlessly up the twisting stairs two risers at a time. The marble was cool beneath her bare feet as was the air, which seemed to rush through her long blond hair as if she was fleeing along the length of a wind-swept tunnel.

A howl, primal and rife with an insatiable hunger, tore the silence, echoing up along what now appeared to be a vertical shaft. That hunger spoke of a desperation that bordered on lunacy...a powerful compulsion to rend and tear and ravage.

_'But are you fleeing from this unseen predator...or running towards something...specific?'_ The question materialized in her conscious thoughts of its own accord, but again she could produce no meaningful answer. Other sounds resonated up from below...a discordant babble of raw emotions that ranged from exuberant exclamations of joy to piteous wails of sorrow and pain. Intermingled with these strident cries there came the furtive slithering that reminded her of something reptilian moving quickly in the shadows. That unsettling whisper was accompanied by a shambling sound that seemed to pique a long forgotten memory...one that was not necessarily pleasant and which inspired her to quicken her pace.

Finally, she reached the top of the spiral staircase and paused briefly to catch her breath. She chanced a brief glance over the wood capped, wrought iron railing and was shocked to find that the spiral vanished into infinity. Yet as she gazed down...wide-eyed and bemused...a thick red mist began to coalesce somewhere far beneath her present position. It began to rise in a twisting, roiling column that reminded her of pain and malice. There was a dull refulgent quality to this converging cloud that struck the woman as vaguely sinister. _'You can't allow yourself to get caught in that thing. You have to reach the end before you're engulfed. Move!'_

With no small exertion of will, she tore herself away from the menacing spectacle and resumed her flight, ascending until she found herself standing at the head of a long hallway that stretched into the distance. A central runner carpet...blood red with gold piping...had been laid in the middle of the wide hallway, while along both walls, open doorways spilled muted yellow light into the purple gloom. Before setting off, she glanced up to find that the world beyond this incredible edifice had changed...shifted to another location...if such a thing was possible. Snow blew across the thick glass of the skylights in sheets, but the howl of the raging wind was a muffled thing that reached her ears like a barely perceptible whisper heard from a great distance.

A maniacal cackle of laughter ripped out of the gloom from somewhere beneath her...fraught with expectant glee. In her moment of distraction, she had unwittingly permitted her pursuer to gain ground. Cursing her foolishness, she began to sprint down the corridor, driven by a renewed sense of exigency.

The doorways along each wall were offset and as she passed each, her gaze was involuntarily drawn to the carnival house scenes being played out within the starkly lit rooms. Discordant, flickering images accosted her frazzled senses then; snatches and broken fragments of conversation which impacted upon her memories with the force of psychic artillery shells.

"This is the hall of memory...where the defining moments of your life are laid out in chronological order. You have been brought here to traverse the arc of your life and discover the final destination that you must reach...should you wish for your life to be granted lasting meaning," a ubiquitous voice declared suddenly, drawing a startled cry from the running woman.

In the first room on her left, she caught a flashing glimpse of a young man sitting on a bench beside a beautiful teenage girl, who appeared distraught and on the verge of tears.

"Until I can make something of myself, I'll never feel worthy of you. This is my one chance," the solemn-faced boy told the girl, who abruptly covered her eyes. Then she was past the doorway, though the brief sliver of memory had roused an acute pain in her heart.

The first doorway on her right showed a slightly older version of the same girl...a young woman now...folding clothes into a litter of cardboard boxes. Her lovely face was wooden and her eyes were red-rimmed and as she folded the final article of clothing into the last box, a single horrible thought repeated incessantly in her grief-stricken mind, _'I'm completely alone.'_

Again, this alien thought descended upon her with an inexplicable intensity...a poignant intimacy that she could not fathom. _'This is the hall of memories,'_ the disembodied voice had declared gravely and perhaps that was true, but despite the emotions they stirred within her...they were not her memories.

Yet, as she raced along the impossibly long corridor, she experienced a constant stream of intensely emotional vignettes that struck her as eerily familiar, though she was absolutely certain that the angelic blond woman, who dominated each, was a total stranger.

Further along, she came to a door through which wafted a disturbing red mist, very much like the cloud that had risen in the stairwell. She shook her head in negation, even as she drew parallel with the opening. In a voice made tremulous with terror, she moaned, "I don't want to see this...don't want to remember this, please!"

Despite this vehement entreaty, she found that she was unable to glance away because this was a place of recollection that simply would not be denied by acute terror or prevailing delusion. She was here by design and had been brought to this fantastical place for a very specific purpose and she would not be afforded the luxury of avoidance.

A woman stood at the center of this particular room, surrounded by a corona of vermillion light. Hers was a beauty of stunning proportions, though there was an imperious slant to both her cheekbones and her eyes that lent the statuesque woman a sinister and cruel aspect. Of all the memories, this was the most intense...the most visceral...because this terrifying creature had played a pivotal role in _her_ life.

"Ah, now you begin to see," the ubiquitous voice boomed again, drawing a confused frown from the fleeing woman.

Moving beyond this door, she heard the raven-haired beauty laugh and call out, "You and I are one...bound by the dagger and emotional bonds that can never be torn asunder."

Through the doorway on her right, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the flash of a dagger, followed by an incisive flare of argent agony in her chest. That pain relented to a state that could only be described as transcendent. Every sensation seemed infinitely sharper and every sense augmented to a preternatural acuity that no normal human could ever hope to experience. Along this next segment of the hallway, the rooms flew by at a frenetic blur, yet despite this dizzying burst of speed, each room's revelation flashed through her thoughts with astounding clarity. While she experienced this disconcerting rush of memories...often shockingly graphic and disturbingly violent...both she and the woman whose memories she was sharing felt an odd sense of disassociation.

_'It's almost as if she had lived this segment of her life vicariously,'_ the fleeing woman marveled. There followed another flash of the blade and that sense of being once-removed abruptly vanished...like the fall of an invisible hammer.

With this enhanced perception she sped by a progression of rooms, suffused by a new sense of exigency as if this mysterious woman was desperately seeking something...cherished...and in grave and imminent danger. Many of these images were disjointed fragments that nonetheless left her feeling as if a calamity of apocalyptic proportion had been averted...by the scantest of margins. Against impossible odds this woman...with whom she shared an intense, but undefined affinity...had persevered and emerged into a period of pure contentment for the first time in her troubled and often tragic existence.

Through the next series of doorways there came the languid flow of sepia-colored remembrances...very much like those that filled most normal lives. The beautiful blond felt the sharp sting of death and the pervasive gnaw of loneliness and through it all she endured with an admirable dignity and grace that spoke of a rare and genuine nobility of spirit.

A piercing howl tore her from the reverie into which she had fallen and as she glanced back over her shoulder, the fleeing woman was horrified to discover that her pursuers had closed the distance. Her nostrils flared in response to the acrid, cloying stench of sulfur that now belched from the cloud in noxious waves. Several creatures exploded out of the roiling mass, scrabbling along the carpeted corridor at astonishing speeds despite their hunched and distorted postures. Their elongated limbs reminded the woman of wooden spindles and were covered by black and red leathery flesh teeming with repulsive masses of suppurating boils that constantly erupted, spewing clouds of thick yellow pus. They ran hunched over like sick twisted things that had been stricken by some form of wasting disease and yet they moved with an uncanny ease and agility that spoke of a dark and terrible vitality. Most disturbing of all were their bulging yellow eyes that were bisected by jagged red slashes and the curving incisors that were clearly conceived for the rending of flesh and the pulverizing of bone. They emitted a high, mewling sound as they came on...so piercing and loud that it forced the woman to cover her ears as she ran.

Slowly, inexorably...these abominations were gaining upon her and she understood that her suffering would be horrible beyond words if they were to catch her before she reached the end of this corridor. Though there was no logical reason to assume that she would find safe haven at the end of the corridor, the woman embraced the notion as an unassailable article of faith.

"Your life is not all that stands to be lost, should you not reach the end of this corridor. In truth, it is the least consequential thing at stake in this black drama in which you have become embroiled!" the bombastic voice informed her urgently.

Gritting her teeth and thrusting the horrors from her mind, she turned her face forward and began to pump her arms and legs like an Olympic sprinter. Ahead of her, still discouragingly distant, two arched doors had materialized at the end of the corridor. They stood twice the height of an average man and were embellished with delicate gold filigree insets. The runner knew instinctively that...whatever it was she had been brought here to see...it was found on the other side of these imposing wooden doors.

A massive tremor shook the entire structure then, reverberating through both the stone and the runner's viscera with frightening power. She was abruptly pitched to the carpeted floor, but rose on unsteady legs as a series of powerful aftershocks assailed the building with a cannonading rumble. She glanced up anxiously to see that huge cracks had opened in the walls and ceiling of this surreal structure. The concussive force of the upheaval shattered skylights all along the length of the corridor, sending jagged shards of glass raining down, while cold air and sheets of snow followed in their wake.

"What's happening?" She cried even as she resumed her frantic sprint for the doors.

"The beast that rules over this place has begun to stir. When it comes awake this place will be obliterated and the crucial lesson contained within will be lost... _to you_. You must reach the end before that happens...in the name of all you love...run!" the keeper of the Byzantine Dreamscape implored and the runner complied without hesitation.

Behind her, the feral, hungry howls of her pursuers had changed to cries of abject terror and negation. Glancing over her shoulders, she discerned the source of their fear. The structure behind her was crumbling like a sand castle before the incoming tide. She experienced a surge of elation as two of the shambling horrors were swallowed up when the floor beneath their feet disintegrated in a cloud of white dust. Beyond the walls, she caught a brief glimpse of rugged black mountains over which argent bolts of lightning flashed through heavy curtain of snow...painting the world in shades of the apocalypse.

Correctly deducing that her time was short, the woman unleashed one final apprehension-fuelled burst for the uncertain sanctuary of the room beyond the beckoning doors. As she raced by the final open doorways, she noticed that all of the rooms were steeped in darkness. As if divining her thoughts, the keeper explained, "Herein are the events that will shape the future...a future that has yet to be determined. In truth, their precise shape is unimportant, as all paths lead to the ending beyond these doors."

This esoteric rambling meant very little to the fleeing woman, but there was no mistaking the sincere urgency with which it had been given. Still, she found herself suddenly fearful of the abstract intimation of whatever terrible destiny that might be concealed behind these doors. In a flash of crystalline prescience, it occurred to the suddenly hesitant woman that to pass through them would be to commit to something from which there would be no turning away.

As though gleaning her sudden ambivalence, the roiling cloud spoke for the first time, its high, insectile voice grating and desperate. "It lies! Everything you see is a deliberate distortion intended to deceive you...meant to entice you along a false path. You must not open those doors...let yourself go and consign yourself to the void!"

Beneath the grotesque resonance, she could discern a vague familiarity to the voice...as if she had heard if a thousand times before, though she could conjure neither a face nor a name to go with that disconcerting certainty. It suddenly occurred to her that she had missed something critically important in the detail of this macabre scenario in which she now found herself...and with this disconcerting realization came the unnerving certainty that she was being...misled.

As if in response to this unsettling insight, another titanic upheaval rocked the entire structure and suddenly the ground beneath her feet was riddled with cracks and began to crumble away to the void...a ribbon of molten fire far below her. Panic seized her then and she surged forward while the entire world appeared to disintegrate around her.

The ground gave way directly beneath her feet, but she managed to launch herself into the air. Reaching out, she pulled the large pewter handles in one miraculous, fluid motion. There was one horrible instant when it seemed inevitable that she would simply plummet into the void, but then the massive doors swung inward, carrying her over the threshold. She was unceremoniously thrown to the carpet some ten feet from the door sill, landing in a tangled sprawl of limbs. She twisted around and gazed, bleary-eyed and dazed, back through the open doorway, a soundless cry of shock escaping her twisted lips as she was afforded her final glimpse of the maelstrom through which she had made her desperate run. The roiling, malevolent cloud was gone. In its place was a churning mass of bodies, all caught in a wild gyre that turned and twisted them like rag dolls. These unfortunate figures were all quite human and as their eyes found hers...so achingly familiar...every eye seemed to convey the same message of bitter resignation and profound sorrow.

As the doors swung shut with an ear-shattering plaintive whine of rusted hinges, a single word issued from the dying world beyond, fraught with unimaginable despair...Elizabeth!

2

The massive doors slammed shut with an emphatic bang, effectively cutting off the harrowing sounds of the world beyond struggling through its death throes. She closed her eyes and drew several long, deliberate breaths to regain her equilibrium. When she felt that she was prepared to confront whatever new and macabre situation into which she'd been thrust, she opened her eyes and surveyed her new environment. Gazing about, she was both perplexed and disappointed by what she saw. The room itself was circular and rose in geometrically precise steps to form a dome, the pinnacle of which resembled a fisheye lens as if designed so that a deity might observe the room's interior from on high.

Standing on legs that trembled unsteadily, the woman was disconcerted to discover that she was now completely naked, her golden skin glowing beneath the harsh glare of intense white light that had no discernible source. Now her honey-blond hair hung in a thick cable between her full breasts and she could feel the whisper of a gentle breeze caress every recess of her exposed flesh. Feeling both abashed and vulnerable, she pressed herself against the wall and surveyed the room.

"What is this place and why have I been brought here?" She cried in a voice made shrill with exasperation. "And where are my clothes?"

"This is the Chamber of Augury. Its purpose is to reveal your one possible future or more precisely...the ideal culmination of the possible futures which now lie open to you." The mysterious speaker's tone became sly. "As for why you are naked...as you entered this world, so too shall you leave. Open your eyes to what stands before you!"

And so she did...actually looking closely at the room's Spartan contents for the first time. She shook her head again...that sense of puzzlement and disappointment returning. After her harrowing flight and the apocalyptic disintegration of the dreamscape over which she had fled, it was only natural to assume that this chamber would hold some wondrous epiphany or perhaps some great and terrible adversary to be overcome in one final epic battle for the ages. Instead, she found herself faced with something that...while intriguing...was nonetheless decidedly anticlimactic. If there was some arcane meaning to be had in this odd display, it simply eluded her.

"Open your eyes, woman!" The ubiquitous voice insisted, displaying impatience for the first time. "See what stands before you and consider its meaning within the context of all you witnessed on the path that carried you here...to this frozen moment of culmination."

She muttered in frustration, but complied, considering the enigmatic display as the final piece of a complex puzzle. The center portion of the circular chamber had been cordoned off by a series red velvet intertwined ropes, which were affixed to a series of brass stanchions, very much like the antiquated barriers that one would expect to see in an old fashion bank...or museum. The latter was a more appropriate reference, considering what was held within the cordoned off enclosure.

_'I've seen this particular piece before...or one very much like it,'_ she mused as her intense gaze swept over the sculpture of two beautiful women which dominated the center of the chamber. Abruptly, a celestial spotlight blazed into life, its harsh white glare bringing every subtle detail of the piece into vivid focus.

The enhanced clarity seemed to jar her memory and the image of Auguste Rodin's _Eternal Idol_ resolved in her mind's eye.

The piece of art before her exuded a powerful sense of eroticism and had captured the two women in a pose that made the observer feel like a voyeur intruding upon the most intimate of moments. The two kneeling women faced each other, their exquisite bodies captured in breathtaking postures of feminine splendor. The woman facing her leaned back on her haunches, with her one slender arm hanging limply at her side, while the other slumped forward with her face nestled in the crook of the other woman's long neck and her left hand laid along the facing woman's curving hip.

Beyond the compelling sensuality of the sculpture, the woman could sense an intense intimacy born of a nuanced passion that these two women must certainly have shared. She began to circle the sculpture, attempting to examine it from every angle...every perspective...for some clue as to what it was intended to represent. On the opposite side from her original perspective, she saw that each woman's other hand clutched the other's hip with white-knuckled intensity and the piece of art suddenly assumed as element of epic tragedy. She was not witnessing two lovers basking in the after-glow of wild passion as she had first imagined. Instead, she was gazing upon two women who had been eternally captured in the shared intimacy of death...the entrancing art of mutual immolation.

She could feel tears pooling at the corners of her eyes as she made her way back to her original position and studied the face of the first beauty, mesmerized by the eyes that seemed to stare into infinity and beyond. The corners of her full mouth were turned up in what might have been a smile of contentment as if she had found the peace she had sought in this desperate act.

"Everything beautiful must eventually perish, crumble to dust and be scoured from the world by the remorseless winds of time. For all of our beauty, you and I will be no different." These words, delivered with such serenity and acceptance, washed over her like a warm breeze, but after a brief moment, she recognized the voice and uttered a gasp of dawning horror, even as a single drop of blood blossomed on the sculptures left breast and another on the back of the sculpted figure facing away from her.

"She's me...that woman is me...the woman in the rooms, whose life I watched flash by...it was me, wasn't it?" She demanded on the verge of hysteria now. To her consternation, the narrator of this nightmare had gone stubbornly silent, but her affirmation came as rivulets of crimson began to run down the two figures in steady streams and collect on the floor in shockingly vivid pools.

She screamed as an acute pain lanced her heart and she gazed down to find a silver dagger protruding from her full left breast. As her knees folded slowly and she collapsed onto her side, one final question followed her into the darkness...who was the other woman with whom she had shared her dramatic final moment?

3

Elizabeth came awake with a start and a small gasp as she pressed her right palm to her left breast in an involuntary reaction to the last moments of her nightmare. _'But was it a nightmare...or something else...something more sinister?'_

She drew a ragged breath and sat up, her full breasts rising and falling as the midnight blue satin sheets pooled in her lap. Immortals did not dream...at least, not in the sense that humans did with their random and often nonsensical spattering of cobbled images plucked from the subconscious mind with no apparent rhyme or reason. On the rare occasions an immortal did dream, it was always in a very specific, though sometimes abstract context...fraught with purpose.

_'And very often those dreams are presages to imminent trouble,'_ she reminded herself and shivered, despite the sultry warmth of the summer night. The last time she had experienced a dream that intense...so terrifyingly lucid...had been over fifty years ago, when she had been plagued by a series of vivid nightmares in which David had been in danger...his life threatened by flames. The mere recollection of those ominous dreams and the period of horrible darkness it had spawned, threatened to unleash a torrent of painful memories and so she pushed them from her thoughts with considerable effort. Like her beloved son, Nathaniel, she thought about David only rarely...bringing out the memory of the life they had shared sparingly...as if she feared that they would lose their luster if she was to summon them forth too frequently.

Instead, she turned her attention to the perplexing dream she had just experienced, trying to unravel the abstruse message it had been intended to convey. Throwing back the covers, she rose and maneuvered her way through the darkness of her bedroom, aided by her preternatural night vision...just another of the many advantages of being immortal.

_'A demon, Elizabeth...but of course, that's a label that offends your delicate sensibilities,'_ a familiar voice chastised her disdainfully. Like the others, this particular voice belonged to another memory she would rather not entertain, but for entirely different reasons.

"I was never a demon...not in the true sense of the concept!" She whispered in a dulcet tone that was a trifle defensive. Technically, that was true. When she had been turned that long ago night in Semelar, something unforeseen and unprecedented had disrupted the ritual. Hard as it was for Elizabeth to credit, she had been a soul of pure and unassailable virtue and the dark ritual had merely imprisoned Elizabeth in her own transmogrified flesh. She had watched helplessly as the entity that had usurped her body committed unspeakable acts of evil...a vicarious witness to crimes that...somehow...had left her soul unscarred. This pathetic state of existence might have continued indefinitely had Cynara not committed the monumental error of underestimating the power of her love for Nathaniel...her long suffering son.

It was impossible for her to reflect on that dreadful night in Chevru without rousing a snake pit of intensely painful emotions and memories that she had labored so long and hard to repress. To save Nathaniel and reclaim her body and soul, she had been forced to face Cynara in deadly confrontation that she had been wholly unsuited to win. Elizabeth frowned, still perplexed more than a half century later, when she recalled how Cynara had willingly given up her life so that she could live. As a consequence of that incomprehensible act of self-sacrifice, Elizabeth had become history's first true immortal. Elizabeth was neither a demon nor an angel, but rather an unprecedented entity...occupying the spaces between these eternally adversarial extremes.

That envied state had not proven to be without its intense and troublesome complications. Loathed as an abomination by both heaven and hell, Elizabeth had been hunted by disparate groups of zealots...all intent on seeing her obliterated. Again, only a totally unexpected intervention had spared her from annihilation. During that bleak and frightening period, she had been incessantly plagued by two recurring nightmares that reminded her very much of the one from which she had just emerged. There had been an aspect of augury to both of those dreams...her intervention in the suicide of Karnalla Mansley and the imminent death of her beloved David at the hands of a fire demon. She had badly misconstrued the former...a misinterpretation that had led to the rebirth of Cynara Saravic...but fortunately had been able to prevent the second...if only by the narrowest of margins.

After she had emerged from the apocalyptic nightmare in Seattle, Elizabeth had entered a period of tranquility that had proven to be the happiest of her life. Living with David in the solitude of Cynara's villa, she had finally found the life of contentment and quiet intimacy that she had always craved. She had endured the forced separation from Nathaniel stoically, deriving a measure of comfort from the knowledge that he would be free to live out the remainder of his life without fear of reprisals from Cynara's former masters. For three decades, Elizabeth had basked in a life that was as close to perfect as the flawed world would permit.

And then had come the inevitable moments of parting...the uncoupling of the moorings that had tethered her to the mortal life she had once lived. First David had died and some twelve years later, she had watched in isolated grief while her beloved son...the beautiful stranger, whom she had known only fleetingly, had been lowered into the cold embrace of the ground.

The recollection fell upon her with its full and terrible weight then, flailing her with the poignant clarity of the memory and she could feel tears pooling at the corners of her limpid blue eyes. Unlike mortals, whose memories dimmed with the passage of time...like old sepia photographs...an immortal's memories were preserved in all of their perfect glory. This could be a blessing or a curse. Remembrance of his death would be eternally painful...never fading with the passage of time, but so too, the sweetness of the few moments they had shared would never lose their ability to send her spirit soaring.

After Nathaniel's death, she had tottered on the edge of the abyss...confronted by a hollow life, devoid of any meaningful purpose. His ghost had appeared to her then and implored her to set out on the path of light...in search of the world's inherent beauty and her own inner peace. Over the course of the five years immediately following Nath's death, Elizabeth had traversed the globe, searching for that one special requiem. And oh what wonders she had witnessed...the last vestiges of natural beauty, still clinging tenaciously to life in the face of the inexorable march of technology and the sheer, overwhelming vitality of mankind. After years of living this nomadic existence...a beautiful vagabond who allowed the wind to blow her where it would...she had begun to yearn for permanence and a sense of place.

_'Life leads us in never ending circles,'_ she thought wistfully as she threw back the covers and slid out of bed with her customary languid grace...like a great golden cat. _'When I was a young woman, all that I dreamt of was a stable, comfortable life...a tranquil environment where I could thrive and find genuine contentment. After nearly sixty years of fluctuating between euphoric highs and sinking lows, I've come to cherish exactly the same thing.'_

Elizabeth shuddered then and hugged her bare shoulders, despite the sultriness of the Grecian night. It had been her personal experience that a life of quiet solitude was the one dispensation that the world seemed the most reluctant to grant. Despite her unprecedented nature...or perhaps because of it...Elizabeth was no exception.

Eventually, she had sated that wanderlust and had turned her efforts to the search for a home where she could begin what she had come to regard as her life of serene exile. During the course of her travels, Elizabeth had encountered both men and women who had been attracted to her poise and exceptional beauty, but she had gently, but firmly rebuffed their overtures...knowing that entanglements...however attractive...could prove deadly to anyone unfortunate enough to become a fixture in her world. Though she refused to surrender to paranoia, Elizabeth was always watchful for the narrow-eyed gaze of speculative scrutiny or the glance that lingered longer than even her beauty would justify. The miracle in Seattle had granted her a reprieve, but she would be foolish to think that she had been forgotten. Alexandria's clever ruse had given her a new chance at life and she was determined not to squander that gift by being...conspicuous.

In the second half of the twenty-first century, privacy was a rare and precious commodity and scrutiny was an omnipresent aspect of modern life. It became her obsession to find a place that was as far from the prying eye as could be found and her search eventually led her to Greece and the ancient, tiny fishing village of Petalidi on the Messenian Gulf. From the first instant that Elizabeth had strolled through the ancient streets, she had been mesmerized by the antiquated village, falling in love with the old world charm of the sun-baked buildings and cobbled streets that had existed since the days of Alexander and the glory of Greece's golden age. She recalled the sense of surrealism that she had experienced as she'd strolled down the streets and made her way to the picturesque harbor. Somehow, Petalidi had held the invasive march of technology at bay and one could still feel the odd, disorienting sensation of having stepped back in time as they wandered through the narrow streets.

She could hear the clamorous din of a thousand generations' worth of voices as she sat in the shade of the harbor walls and watched the gentle surf break over sands that were the purest white. It required only one visit to this idyllic requiem to decide that it would be in Petalidi that she would write the next chapter of her immortal life...quietly witnessing the slow march of time with only her cherished memories and her shadow for company.

In the hills, just five kilometers north of the village, Elizabeth had discovered a small villa that had been allowed to fall into disrepair. Its relative solitude and breath-taking view of the gulf were simply magnificent and she had fallen in love with the property as quickly as she had come to love the nearby village. She had devoted the next two years of her life to the task of making both the villa and the town her home. The first had been a comparatively simple matter, given the extent of her fortune, while the second had proven somewhat more...delicate. Even more than a half century after the cataclysmic events of Seattle, anonymity remained one of Elizabeth's primary concerns...and greatest fears, if she was being entirely candid. It became necessary to strike a delicate balance with the villagers, who quickly became aware of the striking blond beauty, who had come to live near their remote coastal paradise. Understanding that she would only pique their curiosity further if she remained aloof, Elizabeth had immersed herself in local life and while the people embraced her, she made it clear that she was a woman who placed an immeasurable value on her privacy...a desire which, to her eternal relief, they had come to respect.

On the few occasions when a tourists might inquire about the mysterious beauty who lived in the secluded villa, their inquiries would be met with a stony silence that made it exceedingly evident that such questions were unwelcome by the villagers.

Over the next decade, Elizabeth Simpson...now Lizbet Asari...lived the quintessential life of contented solitude. Alone with her precious memories and her beloved books, she would fill the empty spaces with long walks along the beach or hikes in the rolling hills that surrounded the village. If she missed intimacy and human interaction, she managed to keep that longing carefully compartmentalized...even from herself.

When the villagers spoke to each other of the woman, whom they had come to call their _golden goddess_ (a moniker that would have evoked a particularly bitter memory for Elizabeth), it was in terms of sadness and quiet pity. That such an exquisite creature would deliberately cloister herself in the old villa was simply incomprehensible and her mysterious life soon assumed the element of a classic romantic tragedy.

Yet, when Elizabeth floated through the narrow streets of Petalidi, she seemed to exude only radiant beauty and inner peace...as if there was nothing lacking in her life of isolation...a life that on the surface at least, seemed so sterile.

_'All of this aspect of noble tragedy is so...unnecessary, not to mention very theatrical, isn't it, darling Elizabeth?'_ the familiar voice snorted with undisguised contempt. Somehow, that bitter-sweet familiar voice had become the voice of her internal critic...her self-conceived vociferous detractor, who was merciless in her castigation of Elizabeth's every flaw, however small or incidental. _'You've relegated yourself to a state of self-imposed exile from life because of your prized possession...that exquisite face of yours. Is that really what this grand exercise in self-sacrifice all boils down to...an inability to repress your vanity?'_

"It's just not that simple!" Elizabeth grumbled and her voice held an uncharacteristic plaintive edge that only the memory of Cynara Saravic could evoke.

_'Oh but it is!'_ The voice persisted, seemingly unrelenting in its desire to foment turmoil in Elizabeth's otherwise placid mind. _'From my jaded perspective, it couldn't be any simpler actually. Change your appearance and begin a new life, free of any realistic concern that your past will come back to haunt you...that is all that's required. You would rather make this grand sacrifice than make the one accommodation that would give you the opportunity to start living again...to enjoy this gift you've been granted. This isn't an act of nobility, Elizabeth...whatever you might think. It's just pathetic exercise in vanity.'_

Elizabeth drew a deep, tremulous breath and strode to the end of her bedroom. Barefoot and dressed only in a jade green satin slip, she threw open the French doors and plunged out onto the balcony that overlooked the Messenian Gulf. She leaned on the ornately scrolled railing and peered out over the shimmering waters of the gulf that resembled a rolling field of black satin beneath the full moon. The white sands of the beach had assumed a beguiling iridescent quality that seemed somehow tailored to grave philosophical musings that always seemed to come only in the depth of a sleepless night such as this one was proving to be.

Sighing, Elizabeth turned that same argent light of introspection on what she regarded as her fundamentally satisfying life.

There was an irrefutable measure of truth in the contention that she could change her life of self-imposed isolation by altering her outward physical appearance...just as Cynara had done by donning the countenance of Karnalla Mansley. This done, she would be free to take up a new life without fear that she would be remembered.

_'And yet you continue to wallow here...why?'_ she inquired and as she examined her reasons, she produced two justifications that were, in essence, flip sides of the same sad coin. She held up her right hand with the palm facing her and with a rudimentary exertion of will, her palm transformed into a mirror that reflected her blue-eyed visage in all of its splendor. It was more than simple vanity that made her reluctant to relinquish the face she had worn when last she was mortal. This face was her only tangible link to her past life and identity...everything that she had ever held precious...and lost. To give up this face was akin to turning her back on her very life...renouncing Elizabeth Simpson and everything that woman had been. She had eschewed her name, her home and every association with what little family was left to her...all to insure that they could remain safe. This face was the last thing that David had gazed upon and the last image that Nathaniel had carried with him through his life after he had thought she was dead. She vowed that she would never willingly surrender, convinced that to do so would constitute an unconscionable betrayal of the two men she had loved so dearly.

_'All right, perhaps not vanity then...but something even worse...cowardice!'_ Cynara's voice intoned pointedly. _'If you really want to indulge in this soul-searching exercise, then dispense with the facile bullshit and confront the truth. You're hiding in this beautiful, gilded cage because you're afraid to live again.'_

Elizabeth grimaced, but could conjure no meaningful denial because her internal tormentor had cut directly to the heart of her greatest fear. The very thought of going out into the world with the intention of re-immersing herself in everyday life and all of its trappings...an enduring love, a family and friends to populate her life...filled her with an atavistic dread. Even if she could ignore her every misgiving and commit herself to another living being with all of the passion with which she had loved David...there was no escaping the salient reality that would govern any relationship that she would enter. Two terrible moments of reckoning would inevitably come...like inexorable shadows that would fall across the brightest of lives. She would remain young...immune to the merciless ravages of time...while her newfound love would wither and inevitably, inexorably fade.

Eventually, she would find herself back at that precise and ineffably terrible juncture she'd experienced in that Boston graveyard twelve years ago...with everything she cherished gone to the cold embrace of the earth...leaving her utterly and unbearably alone yet again.

Elizabeth was sufficiently self-aware to realize that she could not survive a reprise of that excruciating moment...much less an unending string of such agonizing junctures. The prospect was simply too cruel to even contemplate and she was far better off passing eternity as an unseen witness on the fringes of life.

_'Such a fragile and delicate bloom you've become,'_ Cynara remarked mordantly, though Elizabeth thought she could discern a note of keen affection in that sardonic reproof. Much to her relief, her internal tormentor relented and fell silent, leaving her free to ponder the ramifications of her disquieting dream.

Her first impression of the dream was that it had been possessed of an oddly discordant character. Initially, it had seemed as if she had been fleeing from the darkest aspects of her past...desperately racing toward the future. The roiling, ugly cloud appeared to represent the malignancy that Cynara had visited upon her life and the vile ties that had bound her to the dark lady's master. The rooms had captured the critical junctures of her life in vivid and poignant clarity and as they crumbled away behind her, Elizabeth could not help but think that this had been meant to signify that there could be no returning to the life she had lost after Nathaniel's death. The prospect of normalcy had vanished like a fleeting specter before a surging gale.

That the future had been concealed behind closed doors was frankly rather cliché, but that sense of banality had been dispelled by the voice's vehement insistence that the future held within was the one true resolution to her life...the only tenable path forward that could bestow meaning on all that Elizabeth had experienced.

Yet, perplexingly, as the dream world had collapsed around her, the entire ambiance of the moment had reversed courses. When she had been on the verge of opening that final door...thus divulging the supposed best of all futures lying open to her, it suddenly appeared as though the voices of the past were desperately admonishing her against succumbing to the black enticement held within. They had seemed intent on forestalling her entry, thus implying that she had been somehow deceived and that the future contained within was inimical...and lethally so.

What she had discovered within the chamber seemed to validate that impression in disturbingly succinct terms. As Elizabeth conjured the startlingly precise recollection of the statue, her heart began to beat quickly and her breathing came in short, ragged gasps, forcing her to lean upon the railing merely to stay upright. There was nothing obscure in the symbolism of that beautifully rendered statue...the stark image had all of the subtlety of a sledge hammer. Two perfectly rendered women, kneeling naked and face to face. There had been no light in the eyes of her own perfect visage, but there had been something so enticing...so viscerally compelling in the slight smile that played at the corners of her generous mouth.

The message had been explicitly clear...only in death would she find genuine contentment.

And then there was the matter of the woman, with whom she had been immortalized...frozen in an intimate posture of shared self-immolation. There was something undeniably erotic about the way the woman's slack face had been nestled into the crook of Elizabeth's neck...or the way that her left hand rested lightly on Elizabeth's flaring hip. In response, she could feel her heartbeat begin to quicken, though now it was not motivated by apprehension, but rather by a decidedly morbid lust.

Shaking her head in open bemusement, she scolded herself, _'you really have been cloistered from the world for far too long if this is the kind of image that can get your pulse racing.'_

Irrespective of this morbid oddity, there was no denying that she found this depiction of a shared meeting of the willingly-embraced end to be acutely arousing.

_'Who is she...how did our lives become so deeply entwined that she would agree to end them this way...and what would compel us to do so?'_ She wondered absently.

_'Have you really grown so inconceivably obtuse...or do you despise me so much that you would rather delude yourself by playing the dullard than conjure my memory?'_ the voice of Cynara Saravic demanded irritably. _'This dream of yours can have but one meaning...fate is not quite done with us yet. You and I will come together again...though perhaps this time there will be a definitive end to our story.'_

Elizabeth long fingers floated to her mouth of their own volition, though not in time to stifle the cry of negation that welled up from deep in her throat.

"Never!" she rasped, but in her vehemence, Elizabeth could not mistake the resonating note of uncertainty. That emphatic rejection of the notion issued in sharp counterpoint to the rich, disdainful sounds of Cynara's sardonic laughter. Still, the particular avenue was a route over which Elizabeth was determined never again to traverse. When they had parted ways in that abandoned factory, in the moments before she had confronted Gregor Ingram's army of religious zealots, Elizabeth had vowed that it would be their final parting. This oath was not motivated by any festering animosity toward Cynara. On the contrary, Elizabeth had promised herself that she would never stand in the dark lady's daunting presence because she would do nothing to jeopardize Cynara's wellbeing. She had helped the dark lady throw off the satanic yoke and her presence would only pose a grave risk to Cynara's hard won freedom.

_'Ah my lovely ingénue...fate has its way of making a mockery of our best intentions and necessity turns our most solemn oaths into hollow lies,'_ Cynara intoned with the slightest hint of sorrow adding a melancholy nuance to her voice. _'Believe what you will and cling to this illusory life as long as you are able, my fragile dove...but I would strongly recommend that you sharpen your claws and fangs because the remorseless winds of change are about to blow through your life. When they do...you will come back to me...and I will be waiting.'_

Elizabeth began to give voice to a strident denial, but the words seemed to die on her lips...as if her subconscious was fully cognizant of their meaninglessness. She shuddered and leaning on the rail, bowed her head and closed her eyes until she could achieve some level of mastery over her roiling emotions.

The soft strains of derisive laughter seemed to reach her ears then, coming from somewhere nearby. Her preternatural gaze swept the length of silver beach and at first she was unable to locate the source of the derisive laughter. _'Over here woman...look and mark me well because you and I are on a collision course as sure as the sun will soon rise over this empty delusion of yours.'_

Elizabeth's regard was drawn to a spot some two hundred yards along the beach and now a figure did seem to coalesce out of the velvet shadows...a silhouette standing forth from the nuanced layers of darkness. Her immortal's augmented visual acuity brought the figure into sharp focus and she could clearly see that he was gazing steadily at her as she stood on the balcony. The weight of his gaze upon her scantily-clad flesh was palpable and vaguely repulsive...like the groping hand of a lecher and it required all of her composure not to bolt back inside. As if illuminated by an unseen light, the figure's face suddenly stood prominently forth and now Elizabeth did utter an audible gasp.

The man watching her had flesh that was pasty white...a sickly pallor that reminded Elizabeth of curdled milk. Yet the shock of vital, black hair and the burning eyes seemed to gainsay this impression of infirmity. In that piercing regard, Elizabeth could discern a profound avarice...an insatiable hunger that would be neither sated nor deterred without drastic measures. There could be little mistaking that she was the focus of that insatiable need, though she had never set eyes upon this abhorrent face before.

_'You have what he needs, Elizabeth,'_ Cynara intoned gravely. _'He will not be deterred by reason or threat of violence...And this is why you will soon need me, as loath as you might be to admit it.'_

The prediction came to Elizabeth as a barely perceptible whisper, so intently was she focused on the man on the beach and his aura of vague menace. As she watched him, her eyes began to turn the iridescent orange that always signified the onset of extreme rage.

"What do you want?" She roared and her strident voice rolled over the beach like apocalyptic thunder.

The figure greeted this hostile query with another spate of derisive laughter. "You'll know soon enough....though there is only _one thing_ that a whore like you would possess that would be of value to anyone else."

There followed another infuriating outburst of contemptuous laughter and then the figure simply blinked out of view like a malevolent apparition.

Elizabeth's anger drained away like water through a sewer grate and she reeled back into the false sanctuary of her bedroom, where she sagged onto the edge of the bed. She sat with her head bowed and her hands wrung tightly between her knees, inhaling deeply in an effort to calm her frenzied nerves.

As disconcerting as the sudden appearance of this nemesis was, it was the final image...caught in a brief flash the moment prior to his disappearance...that filled Elizabeth Simpson's intrepid heart with an atavistic dread. In the instant before he had vanished like a dark promise, the man's eyes had glowed an unearthly, demonic red!

Chapter Two

1

The only sounds to be heard in the darkened room were the barely audible whisper of the air purification system and the ragged breathing of the room's sole occupant. Thomas Greavy sat before the screen of his Virtua system, mesmerized by the ineffably beautiful images that floated before his transfixed eyes...rendered with impossibly vivid three-dimensional, high definition perfection. They were so real...so angelic and hypnotic cloaked as they were in their mantle of unsullied innocence...that Thomas was literally drooling with the desire to reach out and run his fingertips over the taut flesh...young bodies that had yet to be tainted by the ugly prevailing realities of life in the mid twenty-first century.

As badly as he wanted to touch...to consume and ravage...the images on his screen, Thomas understood that they were virtual images, for all of their perfection...images of children conjured especially for his titillation. Greavy's perverse black addiction had warped his reason and occluded his understanding that these graphic depictions were simply snippets offered by the purveyors of this heinous evil for the purpose of drawing him ever deeper into the mire of his vile affliction.

The images...like the shadow box that conveyed them...were merely a promise or an invitation to venture deeper into a black labyrinth from which there could be no extrication.

So Thomas watched the beautiful cherubs drift across his screen...all arranged in stylized postures of artful eroticism that masked the wretched ugliness and corruption that had inspired them. When the compulsion to reach out and touch that which could not yet be attained became more than he could endure, Thomas instead let his hand stray to his groin. Soon, his breathing came in fevered gasps and his hand became a frenzied blur on his rigid penis. He exploded to the scintillating image of a blond girl whose limpid blue eyes and pale skin reminded him of a delicate porcelain doll...innocence embodied.

Thomas closed his eyes and bowed his head, suffused by the intense rush of black shame that always followed release. As degrading as these shameful sentiments might be, they still lacked the efficacy to prevent him from returning to the black promise contained within the shadow box. In truth, the compulsion to delve into its forbidden waters was becoming increasingly difficult to resist and he found himself locked in this office with alarming frequency of late.

With his galloping heart thundering in his ears, Thomas opened his eyes and his gaze strayed automatically to the decidedly nondescript device that sat next to his Virtua console. The box reminded Greavy of a piece of polished anthracite...its only adornment being a flashing blue ray light that transmitted its illicit contents to his artificial intelligence console.

_'Smash it...put it on the floor and grind it to shards beneath your heel. It's the only way to pull yourself out of the fetid sewer into which you've fallen...the only slim chance you have of being saved!'_ A still rational part of his mind offered this desperate entreaty; the logical part that had made him one of the most successful commercial and corporate lawyers in England...helping him to accrue millions of pounds in personal wealth in the service of those who tolled their worth in the billions. Despite the prudence of this course of action, Thomas' affliction was inculcated into the very fabric of his being...like a demon that is impervious to exorcism. He could no more give up the shadow box than he could divest himself of the perverse compulsions that had inspired him to acquire it to begin with.

As he considered the small, square device...with its flashing blue light that brought to mind images of a rapidly blinking eye...a frown of perplexity came over his face. He tried to recall the first occasion when he had learned of its existence, though the recollection was partially concealed within a haze that resisted his every effort to penetrate. He had been sitting at his console here in his home office...perusing innocuous images of children at play...when his screen had abruptly gone black. Initially, he had thought that the Virtua had malfunctioned, but then _something_ had appeared on the screen...something wondrous beyond the faculty of words to articulate. He recalled that he been overwhelmed by what he had witnessed...hypnotized and set aflame by the very thing that had always plagued him. Now, however, his private obsession played across the screen not like something filthy and despicable, but as an expression of genuine love...something indescribably beautiful and sacred. He could be free to indulge the desires that he had struggled his entire life to conceal and repress...all thanks to this mysterious box that had floated on the console's screen like the very keys to paradise.

Thomas remembered that his initial reaction to this unsolicited invitation had been extreme distress...as if someone had divined his most closely guarded inner secret. Terrified, Thomas had managed to resist the enticement and had redoubled his efforts to keep his unhealthy attractions tightly leashed. Yet, like all of those who labor beneath the burden of this terrible affliction, Greavy soon found himself being drawn back to the seductive promise that this shadow box held forth like a moth being drawn toward the flames of its own destructive obsession.

A week later, Thomas found himself sitting in a Soho cafe on a drizzling afternoon. The man sitting across from him spoke with a slight Eastern European accent, which Thomas could not quite identify, and wore a perpetual half smile that never quite touched his eyes. He neither offered his name, nor asked Thomas to provide his...for which Greavy was genuinely grateful...though something about the man's mannerisms intimated that he knew everything about Thomas...every sordid detail of the growing infirmity that was ravaging his soul.

The most unsettling aspect of this assignation was that Thomas could recall absolutely nothing of how it had been arranged or what precisely it was that this furtive transaction was offering. He suspected that the particulars had been conveyed during that odd intrusion on his Virtua console, but if so, they had somehow been scoured from his memory. Still, a connection had been made and now he found himself sitting across from this vaguely sinister, albeit nondescript fellow, wondering just what it was that had compelled him to come to this seedy part of London...a district that he normally avoided like the plague.

The sense of being led...of being _traduced_ assailed him like a maddening itch.

Slowly, the man slid a rather mundane black box across the scarred wooden table with the gravitas of one conveying the key to the king's treasury. Thomas eyed the seemingly inconsequential device questioningly and then shifted his gaze back to the man, who was regarding him with the ghost of a smile playing at his thin lips. "What sits before you has been named the _shadow box_...a rather cryptic moniker for what is, in truth, the gateway to your hidden desires...a means to fully indulge the repressed proclivities of your dark passion."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Thomas had protested and though his precise British tone had been indignant, his heart had begun to pound in his chest.

The man offered Thomas a knowing smile and remarked, "Come now Mr. Greavy...there is no need to be disingenuous. I know exactly why you've come...even if you are not entirely certain. To me you are...what is the quaint western phrase... _an open book?_ "

Thomas attempted to speak, but his mouth closed with an audible plop. He was within close proximity to open panic then and he could feel perspiration beginning to form on his brow. Unexpectedly, the man reached across the table and squeezed his forearm in reassurance. Initially, Thomas stiffened, but was suddenly suffused by a placating warmth that seemed to reduce all of his concerns to mundane and foolish trivialities. "There is no need for anxiety, Thomas. We are both men of the world who have come to this juncture of our own accord...partners in a transaction that will, I can assure you, prove mutually beneficial."

He released Greavy's arm and sat back, nodding encouragingly at the black box. "This device contains a blueprint for the complete indulgence of those desires that you have struggled so desperately to repress since you were of an age to recognize them for what they were. It is also an impregnable fortress to ward those desires from those who would judge and condemn you for having proclivities that are simply part of your nature. That rather inconspicuous-looking device will guide you toward the ultimate expression of those long-held fantasies while insuring that you will never be held accountable for feelings and actions over which you genuinely have no control."

"I'm still not entirely sure I know what you mean," Thomas murmured, unable to drag his entranced gaze from the shadow box which seemed to be calling to him like a silent siren's song.

The stranger smiled and waved his right hand dismissively. "Do not concern yourself with minutiae, Thomas. The shadow box will disclose its full potential over time and if you allow it to guide you to a point where you are fully ready to accept your true nature, you and I will come together again. For now, take it to your sanctuary...the place where you have begun to explore these nascent feelings...and allow it to demonstrate its wondrous potential."

"What do you want...in exchange?" Thomas had demanded and though he had attempted to affect a peevish tone, his voice had rung fearful to his own ears. Thomas suspected that he would become hopelessly shackled by whatever arrangement he might make with this obscurely terrifying man.

"There is no need to discuss remuneration now, Mr. Greavy. Once you have had the opportunity to explore the rich tapestry contained within, you can decide what remuneration would be sufficient. Should you decide that the promise it offers is not to your _eclectic taste_ , you may merely dispose of the shadow box and this entire matter will be forgotten. Seldom in life does one come upon the good fortune to realize their dreams with absolutely no risk or complication...how could you possibly eschew that one rare opportunity?"

There was an aspect of the Carney pitchman to this last facile bit of salesmanship and Thomas could hear the rational part of his mind imploring him to assiduously reject this stranger's temptation. In the end, he had succumbed to the urging of his dark affliction, just as the man sitting across from him (who was not truly a man at all) knew he inevitably must. For men such as Thomas Greavy, the irresistible craving eventually surmounted the most dogged resistance with a trenchant need that would not be denied.

Thomas had snatched up the box and stuffed it into his stylish overcoat. He cast the man a final ambivalent nod and fled the cafe like an errant child who has stolen a sweet roll from his mother's kitchen.

2

It was a measure of Thomas' discipline...or perhaps his deeply ingrained fear...that he had managed to leave the shadow box in the bottom drawer of the desk in his home office for the better part of a month. He was ferociously determined not to heed the incessant call it seemed to emit, correctly gleaning that, once he started down that particular path, there would be no turning back.

Thomas had first become cognizant of his _proclivity_ when he was a student in law school. The only son of a wealthy industrial developer, Thomas had been blessed with both good looks and intellect...though he would later come to suspect that the god of genetics had a cruel way of balancing out such dispensations. Tall and athletic, with a handsome face that was dominated by striking blue eyes, Thomas was never at a dearth for beautiful young ladies to help him pass his idle time. Yet, despite the constant attention of some of the most attractive young socialites that London had to offer, young Thomas would find himself walking by primary schools in Knightsbridge or Mayfair, staring at the playing girls in the way a pirate might look upon an unattended cache of gold bullion.

Only when he noticed a school yard monitor scrutinizing him suspiciously, did he realize that he had been standing in the shadows, watching the third grade children play for the better part of an hour. Averting his face, which had flushed to a deep scarlet, Thomas had hurried away and had never went anywhere within the vicinity of that particular school again.

The urge that had driven him to skulking in the shadows of innocence, however, was not so easily banished and Thomas Greavy was forced to confront and acknowledge a terrible truth...he was a pedophile...or at the very least, had the potential for that awful affliction in the fabric of his privileged being.

Consumed by a nearly unbearable sense of shame, Thomas had nonetheless set about constructing an elaborate facade of normalcy, while waging a trying and incessant internal war to keep his demon tightly leashed. Upon completing his education, Thomas had employed his easy, gregarious manner and his social pedigree to open doors into the best legal firm in London. Taking full advantage of the opportunity, he had parlayed this into a career that could have been compared to a rapidly rising sun. By the age of forty-two, Thomas Greavy had what was for all appearances the perfect life. At the age of thirty, he had married the eerily beautiful Isobel Murray, actually stealing this coveted beauty away from a minor member of the Royal Family...a feat that only raised his esteem in the eyes of his peers. Their union had yielded two beautiful daughters...Penelope and Muraday, ages ten and eight respectively.

It had been in these two living jewels that Thomas had been faced with his darkest challenge. Even at their young ages, the girls were already showing the same promise of their mother's exquisite, refined beauty. There were times when he would find himself watching the girls as they played or concentrated on their piano lessons and the nascent stirrings of his demon would suffuse him with the darkest thoughts a father could entertain. They filled him with shame and self-loathing...but they persisted, leaving Thomas Greavy feeling ineffably vile. Desperate, Thomas had turned to his exquisite wife to dampen these abhorrent incestuous desires. Isobel was the very quintessence of a refined, prim English beauty, but behind closed doors she gave herself to Thomas with very few reservations...privately delighted that her husband seemed almost frantic to indulge in the pleasures of her nubile body with an appetite that was insatiable.

Never once in their years of marriage, did it occur to the loving Isobel that Thomas' unbridled carnal passion was inspired by a need to quell a lust of a far more insidious nature.

Penelope and Muraday were Thomas Greavy's greatest source of happiness...and also the living potential for his cataclysmic undoing...living dichotomies that would inevitably lead the tortured Greavy to his brutal demise.

3

Thomas' war might have continued indefinitely had it not been for the coming of the shadow box and the beguiling seduction it held. As he had explored the device, Greavy had been drawn deeper into the thrall of his black addiction...pondering things that he had managed to keep sequestered in the deepest recesses of his troubled soul since first discovering his inherent flaw. As the man in Soho had foretold, there had come the inevitable offer...a means to transform black desire into action...without the slightest possibility of being held accountable for any consequences. Greavy possessed enough intellectual pragmatism to discern that these offers of indulgence without consequences must invariably prove false. Still, the corrupting power of his addiction was such that it occluded all reason.

It was at this wicked juncture that Thomas presently found himself on this dark and drizzly London night. He shifted his gaze from the Virtua screen to the office's single window, beyond which darkness held court over his exclusive Knightsbridge neighborhood. The throbbing in his temples was a maddeningly distracting thing that made all well-considered thought virtually impossible.

He glanced at the shadow box and was suddenly consumed by a black hatred for the unassuming little device...a fury so intense that he felt certain he would smash the box to dust. Instead, he reached out and caressed its cool, polished surface the way a lover might lay hands upon the object of their adoration.

There followed a subtle metallic click and a small panel slid open on the box and a circular button arose from the device's interior. Thomas cried out and started to rise, but then his eyes were involuntarily jerked back to the screen of his Virtua console. What he saw there caused him to gasp. She was there...in all of her unsullied majesty...the blue-eyed, blond cherub who now haunted his dreams and circled incessantly around the periphery of his conscious thoughts.

To his astonishment, she began to speak...addressing him directly...filling his soul with both argent lust and paralyzing trepidation.

"We finally meet, Thomas...I was so hoping that we eventually would." Her child's voice was so melodic and caressed his ear with the sweetest intonation...exactly as he had imagined it would in all his fevered dreams. "Do you know my name?"

There was a coy, teasing edge to this simple query that struck Thomas as most unchild-like, but he was far too beguiled to give this disparity any meaningful consideration. In a dreamy, distant voice, he murmured, "Persephone!"

"Yes...Persephone...if you would wish it so...I can be _your_ Persephone," the porcelain vision suggested with a distinct note of gleeful anticipation. "You need only press that button and those long-hidden desires will be yours...I will be yours for as long as you would have me...and no one need ever know."

Thomas could feel his index finger gravitating toward the button of its own accord...so powerful was his primal need to see this virtual fantasy be made into living, breathing flesh. He glanced back toward Persephone, whose limpid blue eyes seemed to be charting the progress of his hand with unrestrained eagerness. With a monumental exertion of will, he pulled his hand back and stood up, sending his chair careening across the room.

A sorrowful shade appeared to slip across Persephone's lovely faced, but when she spoke, her tone was one of reassurance. "It's okay Thomas...don't fret. When you finally make an accommodation with the truth of who you are...I will be here...waiting for you. Bye-bye for now."

The cherubic image abruptly vanished from his screen and the button retracted back into the shadow box with a barely audible whisper...like a withdrawn promise.

Thomas regarded the device for a long moment...with his blood thundering in his temples and his penis lying along his thigh like a throbbing piece of iron. _'It's inevitable you know...you will press the button...either that or the day will come when Penelope or Muraday will become your Persephone.'_

Now Thomas could not suppress the groan of negation that escaped his lips, but once he had given thought to his darkest fear...the demon could not be called to heel. He stowed the shadow box in its locked drawer...now secured by a thumb-print encrypted lock...and fled the office. The upper hall was immersed in darkness and he stumbled along the runner carpet, before pausing briefly before the door to Muraday's bedroom. Opening the door, he peered in to find the night light casting a subdued yellow glow over the sleeping face of his beautiful daughter...and to his horror, the black urge began to pulse in his soul like a pernicious cancer that cannot be cut out.

In the terrible moment of epiphany, Thomas Greavy knew that his conscience had spoken the unequivocal and unavoidable truth.

He closed the door as quietly as possible and leaned his forehead against the polished oak, unable to prevent the falls of tears that were ultimately as meaningless as they were ineffective in quelling the dark fire that inspired them. Inevitably, his black addiction would be served and if so, was it not better to see it sated through the shadow box rather than on the product of his own flesh?

There was an aspect of practical consideration that roused a dread chill in Greavy's heart and suddenly he found himself needing to get out of the opulent flat and into the open air. He hurried down to the main floor and paused outside of the door to Isobel's reading room, but he did not go in...fearing that his roiling thoughts would be laid bare on his face. "Dear, I've come down with a monster of a headache and I'm going to take a short walk...maybe the cool air will take the edge off."

"Be sure to take an umbrella, Thomas...I'll wait up and maybe we can have a cup of tea when you come back," she called distractedly...engrossed in another of her beloved Victorian era mystery novels.

Thomas drew a quivering breath, wishing desperately that he could find contentment in the arms of this extraordinary woman who had given herself to him so unreservedly.

Taking a rain repellant jacket from the closet and eschewing the umbrella, Thomas Greavy set out on what would prove to be the final walk of his tortured life.

4

The streets of Knightsbridge were virtually deserted on this blustery September night. It was nearly eleven o'clock and the swirling winds and cool drizzle had resulted in sparsely occupied streets. Thomas walked along the darkened streets only peripherally aware of both the inimical weather and the dearth of traffic. In his preoccupation with the intensifying war raging within his beleaguered mind, Thomas also failed to notice the shadow that had slipped out of concealment and was now trailing after him with lethal intent.

Three blocks west of his flat, Thomas cut across the rain-soaked street with the intention of meandering along the winding trails of the green space that dominated a huge swathe of the affluent neighborhood. He gave no thought to his personal safety because this section of the city was perhaps the safest in London...if not all of Europe by the mid twenty-first century standards. A web of cameras now covered the city like a blanket and was especially dense in the more affluent neighborhoods, where the wealthy had vociferously demanded that their security needs be met. This omnipresent eye...along with cutting edge AI identification technology was a powerful deterrent to all but the utterly deranged and so Thomas never even considered that he might be in jeopardy as he approached the main gates leading into the path.

He had taken but three steps into the tree-lined, cobble path, when he was confronted by a sight so improbable that he stopped dead in his tracks with his mouth hanging agape in the steady drizzle. Less than twenty yards from where he stood, a small girl was bouncing a shiny red ball against one of the low stone walls that delineated the walk at intervals.

Utterly flabbergasted, Thomas quickly looked over his shoulder and then swept his gaze around the park, most of which was obscured by thick curtains of darkness. Greavy's initial reaction to the improbable spectacle of finding a small girl...alone and vulnerable...in a public park at this late hour, was one of parental indignation. The notion that responsible parents would allow such a thing was incomprehensible. True, this was Knightsbridge and one of the safest neighborhoods in England...but this was a small and vulnerable child...a temptation for the filth that infested every part of city...Knightsbridge included.

_'Filth like you, Thomas?'_ A sly voice inquired from the shadowy morass where his addiction lived and thrived. _'One man's monumental act of negligence...is another man's unexpected opportunity.'_

Thomas shook his head in emphatic negation and whispered fiercely, "Never like this...I'd never sink so low!"

_'Really...is that why you can hardly watch your own daughters while they sleep anymore? Can you deny that you experience those nascent stirrings of ugliness every time you do?'_ the voice persisted with ruthless mirth.

Before Thomas could offer a caustic rejoinder in his own defense, the girl abruptly stopped bouncing the ball and turned to face him. In the odd distortion of the moment, it seemed as if a celestial spotlight had focused its clarifying light on the spot where she stood. The girl was blessed with the face of an angel. Her large, luminous blue eyes shone with an innocence that only the very young could project and her beautiful face was framed by a mass of spiral curls that fell past her shoulders in a tumble of red fire. She offered Thomas a radiant smile and waved...a child-like gesture of delight that rendered the transfixed Greavy immobile. "Hello...Thomas. Would you like to play with me?"

Slowly, she extended her slender right arm with the shiny red ball perched on her open palm as if offering the most precious of delicacies. Thomas was only distantly aware of the low moan that escaped his lips...a discordant sound that was part denial and part smoldering hunger.

She laughed again and suddenly spun about, skipping along the cobbled path that led deeper into the green space's interior.

"Come Thomas...if you want to play...follow me...catch me...and we can play _whatever_ game you want!" she called over her retreating shoulder and giggled in that intoxicating way that rendered all logic meaningless.

Thomas stood in the drizzle for a long time, literally trembling with the desire to follow, while trying to heed the cautionary plea of the more composed aspect of his conflicted soul. _'For the love of your family, go home man. You have to know that something is drastically wrong here...how could she possibly know your name?'_

Greavy blinked as rivulets of rain ran down his face unnoticed. This was indeed the salient question that defined the improbability of the situation into which he had unwittingly blundered. The girl could no more know his name than she could be here...in this city green space near midnight on rainy a September week night. His every instinct was exhorting him to heed the advice and flee this park and return home and as desperately as he wanted to do this, Thomas Greavy implicitly grasped that he had reached a critical juncture from which there could be no turning away. If he returned to his wife and children, Thomas was certain that his black addiction would continue to grow like a rampant cancer until the last of his resistance had been surmounted. Then he would fall under the thrall of the shadow box and its insidious promise...or he would ultimately commit an unspeakable act that was far more damning.

Yet, if he could find this girl and lead her back to her family...unmolested and unharmed...Thomas suddenly felt certain that he would be able to permanently shrug off the grasping clutches of the evil compulsion that had haunted him since he was a young man.

Even as he succumbed to this facile, disingenuous logic, Thomas never considered that it had been proffered by the very malignancy that had tormented him all these years. He set off after the red-haired girl, fervently believing that he might actually be able to conquer his personal demons if he could just see her to safety...a symbolic refutation of the black disease that had plagued him since his youth.

She led him on a convoluted chase through the park, stopping at intervals to bounce her red ball against the low stone wall...only to set off again when Thomas came within close proximity of being able to reach out and touch her. Growing frustrated, Thomas ran his right hand through his now thoroughly soaked hair and called, "Little girl, stop now. Why are you alone so late at night? What is your name?"

She did a graceful pirouette and exclaimed, "My name is Cassandra...I'm here because you want me to be, Thomas."

With this rather cryptic response delivered, she was off again, skipping into the darkness...though now she strayed from the illuminated path for the first time, heading off into the dark center of the green space.

_'Don't go in there Thomas...turn and run...now!'_ The voice of reason entreated, though now there was a clear chime of apprehension in its tone.

"Don't be ridiculous...get a grip on yourself man," he chastised himself. There was nothing to fear in this park...certainly not a mischievous eight year old girl. If the grim truth be laid bare...he was the most dangerous predator currently stalking this upscale Knightsbridge piece of artificial nature.

Thomas Greavy was about to discover just how woefully incorrect this particular assessment would prove to be.

5

Thomas plunged into the darkness, unmindful of the way that the sodden grass sucked at his expensive Italian loafers. The inadequate light made it nearly impossible to see, but he could hear the lilting peel of her laughter coming from somewhere in the inky darkness up ahead. His internal monitor would not desist in its attempts to dissuade him, growing more frantic with every step he took. _'She's leading you, Thomas. Surely your infirmity hasn't warped your judgment to a point where you are incapable of discerning something that is so glaringly obvious? Something is using your disease to entice you here...you've got to see that!'_

Thomas stopped abruptly as if the dire implications of that last notion had finally torn him from his fevered trance. His fingers dug painfully into his thighs and his lips twisted in a perplexed frown. Suddenly, he could not recall exactly what it was that had drawn him into the green space in the first place. In a tremulous voice that he scarcely recognized to be his own, he called tentatively, "Cassandra?"

"I'm here, Thomas...waiting by the fountain. Come and join me and we can play whatever game you want," Cassandra promised and though the voice was very much that of a young child, the subtle intimations spoke directly to the monster that resided in the darkest corner of Thomas Greavy's diseased heart. He started forward again and suddenly a curtain of light seemed to coalesce out of the very air, shimmering through the trees less than forty meters from where he stood. With his breath coming in ragged gasps and his pulse throbbing painfully, he hurried toward the light and emerged into the circular heart of the green space. A bronze statue of some long forgotten war hero...from a long forgotten colonial war...towered above the bowl of the fountain around which were arrayed several ornate wooden and wrought iron benches. The girl was standing with her back to Thomas...peering intently into the cascading water, which appeared to glitter like tumbling diamonds beneath the harsh glare of the circling halogen lights.

Thomas hesitated on the periphery of the well-lit circle, glancing nervously up at the ring of motion sensitive cameras that sat atop scrolled columns, spaced at even intervals along the edges of the common. Those cameras, Thomas knew, had been installed as a deterrent against exactly the type of evil a twisted part of his soul was presently contemplating.

As he vacillated in the shadows, a strident electric hiss tore through the central common and each camera erupted in a brilliant shower of argent sparks, effectively blinding the unseen giant that kept vigilant watch over this part of the old London.

"Come and play Thomas," Cassandra encouraged and now her voice had assumed a dreamy quality that made Greavy shiver violently. "There's something floating just beneath the surface of the water...it's so beautiful. Won't you come and see it with me...the mean people can't see us now...and I do so want to be your special friend."

There was an irresistible imperative in the plea that would not be denied and Thomas felt his legs propelling him forward of their own volition while the blackness surged through his veins like a wildfire during the tinderbox heat of summer. He extended his right hand with no clear understanding of his own intention and still the embodiment of his every perverse desire did not turn to greet his fevered approach.

His quivering hand fell upon her small shoulder and he was immediately assailed by an intense jolt of electricity as if he had clutched an exposed electric wire in the rain. When he was again able to open his eyes, Thomas found himself confronted not by a young and pristine child, but by a woman who was several inches taller than he was. Like Cassandra, her red hair fell past her shoulders in a tumble of spiral curls and her face was the epitome of feminine perfection. Yet it was her deep blue eyes that held Thomas' gaze and caused his heart to palpitate wildly in his broad chest. In their infinite depths, Thomas could discern not the slightest hint of humanity...only an unaccountable glacial hatred that turned his blood to ice water in his veins.

"Not exactly what you were hoping for, Thomas?" she inquired in a rich, smoky voice that was rife with disdain.

Thomas attempted to speak, but his throat had constricted painfully and all that escaped his lips was a wheezing gasp. He began to turn away, but her right hand shot out with the speed of a striking cobra and clutched his throat like a steel vice. "I take it that you're not quite pleased with this particular manifestation of Cassandra...is that not so, Thomas? I don't appeal to your particular taste?"

Thomas attempted to dislodge her arm, but despite pulling frantically at her slender wrist, she held him fast, regarding his futile efforts with a disdainful smirk that did not touch her horrible eyes. Finally, she released him and he stumbled away, gasping and clutching his throat which had been abraded by her grasping fingers.

He stood upright and in a voice made shrill with burgeoning terror, demanded, "Who are you...what is happening?"

"Who I am is of little consequence and as for your other question...you, Thomas, have arrived at your moment of reckoning...as all foul creatures of your ilk inevitably must."

"I...I don't know what you're talking about...where is the girl...Cassandra?"

The blow that struck him was delivered with rapier precision and with the force of a mallet. In the next instant, Thomas found himself lying flat on his back and peering dazedly up into the intensifying rain. His fingers played gingerly over his shattered right cheekbone and he could feel warm blood flowing freely from his broken nose.

"Don't ever speak that name again...it's an obscenity rolling off your odious tongue," the woman growled menacingly.

In a garbled voice, Thomas moaned, "Why are you doing this to me?"

His tormentor did not respond. Instead, she reached down and seized the back of his coat, before roughly hauling the much heavier man to his feet and dragging him over to the fountain. Moving her mouth closer to his left ear, she intoned, "It isn't what you've done, Thomas...as much as what you are and given time...what you will become as surely as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. You and I both know what lurks beneath this erudite British exterior, Thomas...let us throw back the veil and have a brutally candid look."

With this, she plunged his head under the water and held him there, despite his panicked effort to break free of her grasp. In the frazzled confines of his mind, her voice boomed like apocalyptic thunder. "Open your eyes and see what you really are...see the face of your sick obsession and your disgustingly twisted soul."

And so Thomas Greavy complied and what he saw threatened to break his tenuous grip on sanity for here he found himself confronted by the monster that lived in the pit from which his sickness had found its origin. Gone was the ruggedly handsome British aristocrat, supplanted by a balding, pot-bellied man with watery eyes and thin, petulant lips that were always slick with spittle. Two small eyes leered from above a hawkish nose and in those eyes there radiated a mindless hunger that could never be satiated. The man's body was twisted and deformed until it resembled something constructed from spite and malice and Thomas knew this was the personification of his black affliction...the way he would actually appear to those who would fall victim to its monstrous evil. With this image indelibly emblazoned in his mind, Thomas found himself being jerked out of the water and tossed to the grass some ten meters from the lip of the fountain.

"And so you see Thomas, I know precisely what you are and denial would only insult my intelligence...something that would be a grievous error should you be so foolish as to cling to this pointless charade of innocence," she intoned evenly, though her luminous blue eyes made it explicitly clear that the penalty would be agonizing beyond all comprehension.

Thomas rose to his feet and turning quickly, began to sprint in the direction from which he had come. Glancing over his shoulder, he was relieved to see that she had made no move to pursue him, but that relief quickly curdled to emasculating dread when he turned his head only to discover that she was standing directly in front of him.

Colliding with the statuesque red-head was very much like running head long into a brick wall and Thomas again found himself lying on the wet grass, clutching his injured chest and gasping for breath. In the next instant, he found himself being dragged across the grass by invisible hands that then lifted him to his feet and slammed him against a tree hard enough to lacerate his scalp. His arms were drawn back around the trunk of the tree and Thomas cried out in agony as the tendons and ligatures in his shoulders were stretched until he was certain that his arms would be torn from their sockets. Three bands of orange effulgence materialized to secure him to the tree and soon the acrid stench of burning clothing filled his nostrils.

In the terrible moment of fear, Thomas Greavy knew, unequivocally, that he would not leave this green space alive...that his affliction had led to his undoing...just as he always had known it would.

She approached him slowly, crossing one long leg in front of the other as if relishing his moment of abjection...as if deriving ineffable pleasure from his primal fear. "You see Thomas...that is the true countenance of a man who follows a little girl into a darkened park on a rainy night. It is the twisted ugly visage of a man who masturbates while watching eight year old girls behind locked doors. It is the insufferably repugnant image of a man who visualizes his two daughters when he is making love to his beautiful wife!"

By the time the woman had finished her diatribe of condemnation, she was shrieking and her blue eyes were now blazing red that evoked images of glowing coals. Thomas' body jerked with every accusation and he finally wailed, "Stop...please enough! I never wanted this...never...I've fought my whole life to keep it hidden...to keep it repressed."

The woman's eyes reverted to their former shade of beguiling blue and she tenderly laid her palm along his fractured cheekbone...gazing in fascination as his tears of shame pooled against the side of her hand. Sympathetically, she murmured, "I believe you Thomas."

There followed an incisive pain as something penetrated the fabric of his mind and began to rummage through the muck and mire of his most tightly guarded secrets. As a horrified Greavy peered around in incredulity, ghostly images of his virtual fantasies began to coalesce out of the very night air. They began to circle slowly around the pair, but the superficial veneer of artificial eroticism had been savagely stripped away to reveal the deplorable cost of their exploitation. Their child's eyes were dead and their faces were contorted portraits of living misery, eloquently conveying the extent of the degradation they had been forced to endure. The moan of loathing and anguish that escaped Thomas' bloody lips was a visceral thing that could not be feigned.

"Here are the true faces of those who pay the price for your filthy addiction, Thomas. Theirs is a suffering that can only be assuaged in death because their innocence has been sullied beyond any hope of reclamation." Thomas listened as each word flayed his tormented soul and then came the two hovering images that tore his heart asunder. Penelope and Muraday drifted by and in their formerly expressive and lovely eyes remained not even the slightest vestige of vitality as if their spirit had been extinguished by a violation too immense to be articulated...or endured.

Thomas lifted his ravaged gaze to the woman and moaned, "I would never do that to them ...never! I...I love them more than I can begin to explain."

"Again Thomas...I believe you, but the beast that is inextricably intertwined with your essence is a malevolent entity of its own mind...and it is powerful beyond your sensibilities to fully grasp. Inevitably...inexorably...it will surmount your grim resistance and usurp control of your flesh and when it does...one of these children will pay the ultimate price."

Thomas was frantically shaking his head now...though the harsh light of acceptance had flickered to life in his tortured eyes. "I don't want this thing in me." He met her awful gaze and adjured, "Can't you help me...can't you cut it out...get this demon out of me."

The woman, who Thomas correctly deduced was not really a woman and who had deliberately enticed him into this ignoble end, regarded him with something that might well have been remorse. She leaned closer, until her full lips brushed his wet hair. He could feel her sweet breath tickling the hollow of his ear and shuddered. "You are a rare creature, Thomas Greavy...a man who seems wholly undeserving of the cruel fate that has been imposed upon you."

She drew back and regarded the terrified lawyer thoughtfully and in her luminous blue eyes Thomas thought he could detect the germination of a notion...one that might well spare his life. "If I could somehow excise this pernicious disease, Thomas...as you say, cut it from you like a cancer." She pursed her lips as though in intense contemplation and then mused, "But where is the root source of your disease, Thomas? That really is the salient question."

Stepping back a pace, she extended her long right arm with her palm open. As a thoroughly mesmerized Greavy gazed on...first in puzzlement and then dawning horror...a jade-handled dagger with a wicked curving blade materialized in the woman's finely-boned fingers. She considered the dagger and her beautiful countenance reflected clearly on its deadly surface. Even in the extremity of his terror, Thomas could not mistake the profound note of melancholy that underscored her words as she revealed, "The girl...Cassandra...was indeed how I appeared as a child, before monsters of your stripe scoured her soul...her innocence...from existence. They were far more loathsome than you would ever be...even if your disease was allowed to run its abhorrent course. I would let you live, but first I must cut that core from your flesh...to purify you."

Grasping her awful intent, Thomas began to whimper, frantically trying to break free of his restraints. His tormentor oriented the tip of the blade toward Thomas and began to move it in an indolent circular motion as though beset by indecision. "Now where would this filthy parasite reside...here perhaps?"

She pointed the tip at his groin and now Thomas began to babble for mercy. With a precise slashing gesture, the blade tore easily through fabric and the tender flesh beneath. Thomas's plea for mercy became a silver-throated wail of agony as blood, shockingly red, covered the front of his trousers and his severed member lay on the grass like a dead slug.

"Then again...maybe it's here...deep in the pit of your guts...along with the other muck and mire." A forward thrust of the wicked blade parted the muscles of his abdominal wall with the ease of a hot knife passing through butter and his intestines spilled from the massive rent in a repulsive, steaming wave.

"Or could it be that your heart has become a requiem for your perversion?" She then thrust her hand into his chest and her powerful fingers passed through flesh and bone as if it was spectral. When those fingers clutched his floundering heart, Greavy attempted to scream, but all that escaped his lips was a wheezing hiss...along with a trickle of blood and phlegm. Peering directly into his dying eyes, Cassandra offered Thomas a hideous parody of a smile and then closed her fist about his heart like the snap of a bear trap. Deep red blood exploded from his mouth like a geyser and the light in his eyes abruptly guttered and was extinguished. The explosion of blood did not spatter Thomas' murderer, but rather passed through her and sullied the grass in a three meter fan.

In a voice that resonated with madness and cruelty beyond all understanding, the creature that had once been a beautiful young girl named Cassandra Jasic growled, "Or does it hide in the deepest corner of your twisted mind...like a poisonous, bloated spider...biding its time in the shadow."

She thrust her fingers into Thomas Greavy's lank hair and pulling his head back, removed it from his body in three swift, powerful strokes. Dismissing the ghastly headless corpse from her mind, she carried the severed head across the common and threw it into the fountain as though discarding something ineffably repugnant.

She then began to stroll in the direction of the exit on the far side of the green space. In the moments before she had snuffed this latest twisted bit of excrement from existence, Cassandra Jasic had gleaned intimations of a new and ominous manifestation of this timeless disease. She found herself feeling decidedly perplexed by the image she had dragged from Thomas' tortured mind. The black box certainly seemed innocuous...but Greavy had regarded it as the ultimate purveyor of every black fantasy...a corrupting agent that would only incite these monsters to more heinous acts of evil...stoking their perversion like a diabolical fire.

"The shadow box," Cassandra whispered and the ghost of a smile took shape on her exquisite face. Until now, her quest had been random...extirpating weeds that she would encounter by chance. Now, however, she had found something upon which to focus her attention...and her infinite rage.

Chapter Three

1

The room was steeped in near perfect silence...its totality broken only by the hypnotic ticking of the antique grandfather clock that stood in one corner. Contayza Simpson sat alone in a dove gray wingback staring through the living room window that looked out over the quiet street. The street was deserted on this mid-afternoon weekday in this affluent Boston neighborhood where Contayza had lived the last forty-eight years of her life. As was the case with increasing frequency of late, Contayza passed her day in solitude...alone with the metronomic ticking of her beloved clock and eighty years of memories for company.

Even at eighty-two, Contayza was still a vibrant and attractive woman and though she labored mightily to maintain a sharp mind and a healthy body, she found herself slipping into long periods of wistful reminiscences more and more of late...losing herself in an aria of ghostly whispers from a lost life.

_'This is what it is to be old, Contayza,'_ she told herself with uncharacteristic melancholy. _'You've come to that point in your life where the future holds very little attraction and the past offers a refuge from the bitter truths that come with old age.'_

Contayza shook her head in rueful exasperation, loathing these maudlin musings that colored everything in the sepia tones of an old photograph, while eschewing the joy of being alive to enjoy each new day.

'Ah, but what a glorious life you've lived Contayza...more wonder and drama than most people experience in a thousand banal lifetimes. How can you not help but be drawn back through the river of years to the days of soaring elation and yes, sinking despair. These moments...so vivid...so visceral...they embodied what it meant to truly be alive. They are all gone now...leaving you with naught but faded echoes of the passion with which you once lived your life.'

Again, Contayza frowned as her gaze swept the lavishly appointed interior of the large house of which she had long been the sole occupant. It would be a gross misrepresentation to say that her life was empty. After all, she was seemingly blessed with her beloved daughter, Imirya...who had been the pride and joy of her union with Nathaniel. At the age of fifty-five, Imirya Simpson was perhaps the most renown neurosurgeon in the United States...a giving, devoted woman, who at times shamed Contayza with a compassionate sensibility that her mother had never developed.

And then there was Rebecca...the granddaughter who at twenty years old bore an uncanny resemblance to the young woman who had waged war with the minions of a dying communist regime nearly sixty years ago. Contayza conjured the image of her granddaughter's exquisite face and a smile broke over her own visage like a rising sun...though this smile held a hungry, feral aspect of which she was unaware. Rebecca had been named after the descendant who had lived her life in the service of the reviled monster...Cynara Saravic and like Contayza, Rebecca possessed a rare and powerful gift that had long run through the Prowzi bloodline...though the power remained dormant in the young girl...much to Contayza's eternal consternation.

Contayza shifted her gaze to a delicate crystal vase that presently perched on an equally fragile display table. Contayza inclined her chin slightly and the vase abruptly leapt into the air and began to spin like a frenetic gyroscope. With a petulant flick of a slender wrist...and a slight flexing her telekinetic muscles...she sent the vase flying across the room, where it shattered against the wall, showering the ceramic tiles with a thousand glittering shards.

The passage of time had done nothing to diminish her power and Contayza had gleaned that young Rebecca possessed enough power to make her own appear inconsequential by comparison. _'If only Imirya was not so damnably obstinate on the matter.'_

Contayza's increasing exasperation with her daughter's damnable obduracy was a symptom of the festering bitterness that had long ago soured their relationship. That resentment found its root cause in the subject of Rebecca and her heritage, the two women had been locked in a decade old dispute that had threatened to inflict irreparable damage on what was otherwise a loving relationship. Even now, the thought that Imirya adamantly refused to allow Contayza to apprise the girl of the gift she possessed roused Contayza's ire. To deny one's heritage...to willingly eschew the gift this heritage bestowed...Contayza regarded these as unconscionable acts of betrayal of her own lineage. Still, Imirya...a woman firmly rooted in the shallow soil of science and reason...had expressly forbidden her mother to speak to Rebecca of the talent that resided...quiescent and waiting...within the girl's mind. To Imirya's inflexible way of thinking, the old ways were a needless anachronism that had no place in the twenty-first century.

_'The girl is of an age where you need no longer adhere to her mother's coddling wishes, Contayza,'_ she told herself, but understood that...should she elect to ignore her daughter's explicit wishes on the subject...Contayza could well end up permanently alienating Imirya. _'Could I really endure an estrangement...give up my own child to propagate old ways that seem to have no real place in this world...a world that I can barely understand. What would Rebecca truly gain by being apprised of the power that resides in the sealed vault of her mind?'_

"It is her birthright, damn it!" Contayza spat truculently and that was inarguably true. Rebecca had every right to be informed of her heritage and the power that had been bequeathed to her. If she decided to forego its use...well that was a decision that was entirely within her right to make...but she should not be deprived of the chance to even decide for herself.

Cursing in frustration, Contayza rose from her chair and strode briskly over to the window. Despite her advancing age, her spine was ramrod straight and her shoulders were square...as if she was immune to the ravages of old age. That was a delusion, of course...time would come to claim her, but for now, it was a barely perceptible thing that circled the periphery of her awareness...like a storm on the distant horizon.

_'Take the girl home, Tayza. On the old soil, her power might awaken of its own accord and Imirya could not reasonably hold you accountable,'_ the voice of her defiant spirit advised, evoking a particularly bitter grin. It had been five years since she had last stepped foot on Romanian soil. The last trip to the land of her birth had left Contayza feeling despondent and sorrowful. Decades of enduring poverty had robbed the country of what little spirit had remained after the loathsome communist swine had fallen from power. Contayza could glean that the fundamental vitality had been leeched from the collective soul of the people who lived in the once proud land of forests and mountains. The Roma in particular had struck her as a sad and broken people who had lost their affinity with the majestic land, which in turn seemed to have lost much of its luster and glory as if it too had been drained of its vitality.

An image...stark and depressing for all of its clarity...came to her then. It had been a warm August day some five years past and Contayza had stood with her hands wrapped in a the chain link fence that delineated what had once been the Saravic estate on the outskirts of poor, dismal Chevru. The house had the abandoned appearance of a soulless corpse...awaiting interment. It had been here that Rebecca Prowzi had endured decades of torment under the Baroness Saravic's evil fist and it had been here that Contayza had waged her grim battle with the same vile demon on the night Cynara had slaughtered Jimmy Simms. Jimmy Simms had been the only man that Contayza had truly ever loved, though she would rather have died than confess that to another living soul...especially Imirya, who had adored her father above all things.

The recollection of that final climactic battle had burned in Contayza's mind with the magnitude of an exploding sun...every terrible detail rendered in excruciatingly vivid colors and hues. Yet, standing before that long abandoned mansion, Contayza could divine not the slightest echo of the momentous events that had occurred on this blood drenched patch of land. Even her memories had seemed oddly washed out and listless...as if she had experienced them vicariously...or imagined them entirely.

Feeling virtually diminished by the experience, Contayza had literally fled her homeland...vowing steadfastly never to return. Instead, she returned to the sedentary life of the retired widow...who passed the time engaged in charity work and evening bridge games with other retired teachers all whiling away the hours until the earth reclaimed them. Now, Contayza thought that that she should perhaps consider reneging on that vow and bringing Rebecca to Romania...purportedly on a bonding trip with her gifted granddaughter. This consuming need seemed to find its origins in a deep-seated desire to leave behind some manner of legacy...a genuine purpose with which to spend whatever days remained to her. She doubted that her incisive daughter would be deceived by this shallow pretext, but there was little that Imirya could do to actually prevent it, should Rebecca agree to go.

_'When did I become such an incorrigible sentimental...locked in this cavernous house with memories and wistful regrets,'_ Contayza wondered. That single interrogative evoked memories of her deceased husband, Nathaniel. Contayza was surprised and bemused by how seldom she conjured the memory of the man with whom she had shared the majority of her life. Though his picture still sat on her night stand, it had sunk to the level of a scarcely noticed fixture...faded greenery from another time that was irretrievably lost. She had loved Nathaniel...in her own way, but the man she had loved had died on dreadful night in the rainy quagmire called Seattle when the world had tottered on the crumbling edge of the apocalypse. The man who had returned with her from the cataclysmic night was a pale facsimile of the Nathaniel Simpson she had married and though she had still loved him after a fashion, Contayza understood implicitly that the integral part of him had followed that hateful bitch into the grave. The Nathaniel whom she had laid to rest twelve years ago was a sad and dispirited man who had lived much of his life with a quiet regret from which nothing could rescue him. In his defense, he had loved Contayza and Imirya unremittingly, but the loss of his mother had left him with a void that nothing else in his life had been able to fill.

The last few years of their lives together had been characterized by extended periods of silence in which she had often forgotten that he was present in the room. She recalled the afternoon that Nathaniel had died. They had been sitting together in this very room...she had been reading a book while he had been staring through the front window in the absent fashion that had become his habit. Some prescient instinct tickled her mind then and she had glanced up at Nathaniel. A tumble of bright sunlight spilled through the window, framing him in golden effulgence and for the briefest instant...Nathaniel Simpson appeared just as he had before that vile witch had returned to throw a pall over his life. His hair was a lustrous gold and his eyes were the clearest blue of warms waters and Contayza had felt her heart leap in her chest at the sight of this beautiful apparition.

Then a cloud had scudded across the sun and that delightful illusion had been shattered...leaving behind the weary shadow, staring out over the empty streets as though in search of whatever spark of vitality he'd lost. Contayza had sighed longingly and went back to her novel. Minutes later, Nathaniel had stirred from his reverie, rose on stiff legs and came to stand behind her chair. Bending forward, he had placed a lingering kiss on the top of her head and declared softly, "I'm feeling a bit tired, Tayza...I think I'll go up for a nap."

She recalled vividly how he had then bent forward and kissed the top of her head one final time, inhaling the scent of her hair as he used to do long years before. Her only response to this nostalgic gesture had been an absent, inarticulate murmur. She continued to read her novel as he had straightened and shuffled away. In the prevailing silence, the heavy trudge of his footsteps as he climbed to the second floor seemed unusually loud.

On the rare occasions when Contayza Prowzi opened herself to the unpleasant process of honest introspection, she would invariably be drawn back to that single moment and wonder why she had been incapable of properly acknowledging his gesture of affection...much less returning it. This would inevitably lead to contemplation of how often she might have withheld her affection over the last two decades of their marriage and the cumulative toll this absent denial might have taken on the man who loved her without reservation.

Such self-illuminating exercises were contrary to Contayza's forward-focused nature and thus she indulged them infrequently.

It had been some hours later before Contayza realized that Nathaniel had not come back down even though it was close to dinner. She remembered distinctly that what she had felt then had been nothing more than curiosity as she had moved to the foot of the stairs and called, "Nathaniel, I'll be starting supper...are you coming down?"

When he did not reply, her brow had furrowed and she mounted the stairs...thinking that he had fallen into a heavy slumber. That impression was dispelled the instant she had opened the door to their bedroom. Nathaniel was lying curled on his side, clutching a pillow to his chest. Her glance shifted to his slippers, which sat neatly beside the bed and she knew unequivocally that they would no longer be necessary.

Upon Nathaniel's face there lingered the ghost of a smile and his blue eyes were open and staring into a realm that she could not see. Even now, she wondered what it had been that he had gazed upon in his last moments and whether he had found a measure of contentment in the final moments before his solitary death.

She languished for a moment longer, but did not venture over to the bed. Instead, she had left the room and descended to the main floor where she commenced the process of becoming a widow. Only once in the days immediately following Nathaniel's death had she cried. She had been standing in the graveyard with Imirya, just after the conclusion of the grave side service, and the immensity of her devastated daughter's grief had finally shattered her reserve. She had sobbed unabashedly then, but in retrospect, Contayza realized that she had been crying more for her daughter's loss than for her own.

She came back to herself with an audible gasp, shocked to find that she was standing in the doorway to their bedroom with absolutely no recollection of having climbed the stairs. She was further bemused when she dragged the heel of her palm across her eyes to find that it came away wet with tears. Shaking her head in consternation, she muttered, "You crazy old woman...why are you exhuming these pointless memories?"

The question had been disingenuously posed as Contayza Prowzi was perfectly cognizant of what had motivated this uncomfortable trip through her tumultuous past. Of late, she had been plagued by odd, discordant dreams that came nightly, despite their ludicrous improbability. The two distinctly separate images manifested themselves in her mind's eye, though she found the notion that these individuals could ever be linked insufferably abhorrent. The faces of beautiful, free-spirited Rebecca and the loathsome countenance of Elizabeth Simpson chased each other through her nocturnal dreamscape like hounds playfully nipping at each other's tail. The idea was absurd of course...the hateful bitch was fifty years in her well-deserved grave and could pose no threat to precious Rebecca.

Yet, despite the inarguable logic of this, the dream of intermingling was relentless in assailing her nightly. She was contemplating this annoying puzzle, when she first heard it...like the snippet of a childhood lullaby that she would have thought long forgotten. Her heart abruptly seized in her chest at the memory this melody evoked and for a brief instant, she feared that it might not restart, but then she drew in a deep, quivering breath.

The lilting strain came again and this set her into motion...understanding that this was not the echo of a memory, but a sound originating in the tangible world...the mundane here and now.

She stumbled down the stairs, fortunate to retain her balance in her present state of distraction and as she entered the living room, the forlorn melody of a recorder was louder than ever. With her heart thundering precipitously in her chest, Contayza threw back the sheer and peered out into the street.

The cry that escaped her lips was part terror and part incredulity. Standing on the otherwise deserted street, directly in front of her home, was a man dressed in traveling clothes from another era. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled down over his eyes, obscuring his face, but she required only one glance at the scuffed wooden recorder and the canvas bag that was slung over the man's shoulder to know exactly who was standing before her house...like a specter arisen from her tumultuous past.

"Gregory?" She whispered and was startled when the man abruptly stopped playing and lifted his gaze...staring directly at the spot where she cowered. He raised a hand and waved a gesture of greeting as if encountering an old friend after a protracted absence.

"Greetings sister...it has certainly been a space of years since last we met," he declared in his rich, gregarious tone. "I must say that it would appear as if the years have been kind to you, sister...but then again, very often the facades we erect are shockingly thin and fragile."

"Why are you here...what could you possibly want with me after so many years?" She demanded through clenched jaws that belied the trepidation his sudden appearance evoked...though the possible answer filled her with an atavistic dread.

"I have come as a friend, sister...a friend who once tried to see you through a period of intense darkness. There is a storm coming sister...though I would suspect that you were certain you had seen an end to the storms in your life. If it is any consolation, you can be assured that this will be the last. I would advise you to prepare yourself...to make peace with the restive ghosts that plague your shadowed soul. Perhaps then, Contayza Prowzi...daughter of the gypsy wind...you may find the forgiveness and contentment you so desperately crave, but fear to acknowledge."

"I...I don't understand!" Contayza sputtered truculently. "What storm...why now, after so many years?"

Beneath the golden sunlight of day, this reluctant creature of the night offered her the sad, wistful smile she remembered from their first encounter. "The answer to your query can be found in your restless dream, sister." He fell silent and peered along the street with a yearning expression on his rugged face. "We will not meet again, sister, but I will offer a fervent wish that you find the happiness which you have been denied through so much of your life. May the enduring spirit of your people sustain you through what is to come."

With this, Gregory lifted the recorder...his one true companion...to his lips and began to play as he slowly drifted away.

Contayza Prowzi continued to stare into the deserted street long after the final strains of his timeless melody had faded to silence.

2

"So you've exhausted every venue?"

"We have," Doctor Andrew Mcammon confirmed, his pinched expression conveying how expensive this concession of defeat had proven to be. "My team has explored every option and has pushed the science right to the very edge of ethical medicine...frankly, we've strayed well over that boundary in the past six months. Even the DNA modification and recombination therapy has yielded no meaningful results...despite the astounding degree of success we experienced in the two sets of trials. We've made enormous strides in the field of genetic modification in the last three decades...including DNA regeneration through artificial modifier strands, but this field is still in its relative infancy and it may be some years before we can actually completely regenerate crumbling DNA structure...and even then, it will still remain a branch of the field with very intransigent limits. Nature is intent on not allowing us to efface the finite limits of the life cycle. I can't begin to tell you how thoroughly defeated and sorry I am to be making this concession of defeat."

Sir Ian Barrows acknowledged this earnest apology with an absent nod. In truth, he had expected as much when Mcammon had embarked upon this last round of highly experimental (and blatantly unsanctioned) treatment...undertaken in strictest secrecy at the Barrows Institute for Genetic Research. The man standing beside Barrows hospital bed and delivering this dismal news had won three Nobel prizes for his work on DNA modification and restoration therapy over the last thirty years. Doctor Andrew Mcammon was regarded as the father of anti-aging bio-genetics, but even this intrepid scientific visionary had met his match in one hundred and sixteen year old Sir Ian Barrows.

"What is your realistic estimate of the time I have remaining, Andrew," Sir Ian inquired in a voice that quavered with weariness. The voice, like the body from which it had issued, was beyond simply old...it was decrepit in the extreme...reminding Mcammon of the sound wind might make as it blew through the remains of a desiccating corpse. The skin that covered Barrows' gaunt face was gray-tinged and hideously wrinkled. There was a smell that wafted from the old man's wasted body that evoked impressions of ancient tombs. It required all of Mcammon's well-practiced discipline not to flee in screaming horror from the gruesome parody of a human being now lying before him.

"The biggest problem we're facing is your body's refusal to accept any further implants or organ re-spawning bio-pods. To put it in basic laymen's terms...your basic genetic material is simply worn out and is now rejecting nearly every attempt to either repair or enhance it. Even rudimentary transplant procedures will no longer work because your body seems determined to reject every new implant." Mcammon paused for a brief moment so that Barrows could absorb what he had just been told...the declaration of the approaching end for a man to whom the very notion of death seemed to be intolerably abrasive. "The most realistic prediction I can offer is that...with the tricks I still have up my sleeve and your willingness to forego any further experimental therapy...which is merely taxing on your body and has no hope of success...I think you can expect to see the age of one hundred and seventeen, but nothing beyond that."

Sir Ian absorbed this dire forecast with a wheezing grunt that segued into a harsh coughing fit that lasted for several minutes. When it finally subsided, Barrows was left feeling extremely tired and haggard. Only his expressive gray eyes showed the slightest hint of lingering vitality. They burned in the hollows of his skull like flaming torches...proof that the mind trapped within the rapidly deteriorating vessel of flesh was still keen. "What is your opinion on the matter of sentient relocation...to your mind is it in any way credible?"

Mcammon scowled, regarding the controversial field of science as a fool's endeavor...a hot bed for charlatans looking to swindle millions of research pounds from desperate wealthy patrons. Still, one would have to be a reckless fool to utter such an uncompromisingly harsh opinion in front of Sir Ian Barrows...a man who did not suffer impertinence lightly. Choosing his words carefully, Mcammon offered, "It might seem odd that I...of all people...would be a skeptic, but the notion of implanting a living consciousness into an artificial intelligence receptacle simply isn't plausible. Everything has tangible limits, Sir Ian...and borders that cannot be contravened. A conscious mind requires an organic brain to provide it with a physical residence...because consciousness is an extension of the organic vessel...the two are inextricably linked. Sentient relocation is the stuff of science fiction, Sir Ian...and that is what it will remain."

The room descended into a charged silence as Ian Barrows pondered the grim ramifications of what he had just been told...a devastating pronouncement that his end was rapidly approaching despite his every effort to forestall its arrival. At last, he shifted his unsettling regard to Mcammon and remarked in a hoarse whisper, "Thank you Andrew...for _everything_ you've done on my behalf over these last forty years. I've made provisions to insure that both the institute and its star researcher are lavishly provided for. You spoke of finite boundaries...but I believe the day will come, old friend, when you will find ways to knock down barriers even you believed were insurmountable."

Profoundly touched by Sir Ian's unexpected and effusive praise, Mcammon faltered to find the appropriate condolences. "Thank you Sir Ian...I wish there was some way of giving you more time...giving me more time. I'll never lose sight of the fact that everything I have and all that I've accomplished was due in large part to your patronage and generosity."

Barrows waved this off with a weak gesture of his piteous thin left hand. "Think nothing of it, Andrew...I've lived a long and robust life. Giving back is an obligation for the privilege. Now, if I can impose upon you to make the necessary arrangements...I will be returning to Warrington house in Mayfair as soon as you've done so."

Doctor Mcammon greeted this disclosure with undisguised alarm. "I would strongly advise against that, Sir Ian. As I've mentioned, I still have a full spectrum of tools to make the last months of your life as comfortable as possible, but you must remain in the facility to insure that you receive treatment in a timely fashion."

With tremendous effort, Barrows reached out and touched Mcammon's right hand and again the doctor marshaled all of his mettle not to flinch beneath that repulsive touch. "Don't concern yourself old friend. Warrington house is better equipped than most hospitals in London and I really have a great deal of work to do. As wealthy as I may be, time is at a dearth and I can't afford to squander anymore here. Now make the arrangements and let me have a word with Cedric if you would be so kind."

Barrows then offered Mcammon a hideous facsimile of a grin that exposed black, cankerous gums.

Mcammon frowned and spared a brief glance at the glacial visage of Cedric Drury, who never failed to evoke an intense shiver of disquiet in the doctor's heart. Drury's unlined face was devoid of expression and his eyes reminded Mcammon of a dead carp. The doctor nodded absently and fled the room, suddenly and unaccountably relieved to be out of the presence of these two daunting men.

When they were at last alone, Barrows turned his daunting death gaze on Drury who very likely would not have blinked if confronted by Satan himself. Drury had been Sir Ian's personal assistant for the past thirty years, but in the final accounting, Cedric Drury would have more accurately been described as a living vessel of Barrow's inexorable will. During those long decades, Drury had performed deeds on Barrows' behalf that strayed well beyond the pale of ethical human conduct...and he had done so without question or reservation. Drury was neither surprised, nor outraged when Sir Ian issued his next instruction. "Failure is never an acceptable outcome, Cedric...especially when that failure can be tolled in the billions of pounds I've committed to this facility. In the not too distant future, the good Doctor is going to meet with a most unfortunate accident...and this facility...his legacy...is going to burn. See to the arrangements and I'll give you the word when I would have them implemented."

Drury acknowledged this with a slight nod as if Barrows had simply asked him to make some mundane business arrangement. Barrows lapsed into a contemplative silence, his burning eyes narrowing into speculative slits as he considered his next course of action. Mcammon...the traitorous bastard that he was...had just pronounced what was effectively a death sentence on the richest man in Europe. Ian Barrows, however, was not a man to readily accept the imposition of external realities, when his was the will and means to forge his own. Perhaps the limits of conventional science had been reached, but rather than resign himself to the inevitable death that came to all human beings, Ian Barrows merely turned his focus on the unconventional...the eclectic.

"I want Beyarov here this afternoon...and Cedric, should he inquire as to why he is being pried away from his collection of expensive toys...tell him that I need him to save my life," Barrows disclosed and this cryptic remark drew a rare frown from the undeviatingly inscrutable Drury.

3

**Suceava, Romania:** "I love my children...you must understand that!" Mikaela Trescu declared vehemently as she wept and wrang her thin, scarred hands in her lap. Her gaunt face was the very portrait of living misery and carried with it the indelible scars of the thirtytwo years she had lived like a roadmap through the ugly terrain of human torment.

"Of course you do...of that I have absolutely no doubt. I am certainly not here to judge you, Mikaela...only to help you through this dark time...to guide you toward making the best decisions ...for both you and your children," Simona Bayonescu assured the distraught mother in a voice that was rife with commiseration and concern.

"If there was any other way, I would not have come...you must know that...it's just that I...I..." Mikaela's vehemence faltered and she resumed her study of her scarred hands, which reminded Simona of pallid spiders. The plump, matronly older woman furtively studied the mother as she waged her pitiable battle between hopeless addiction and crushing guilt. She need only one glance into that sallow, skeletal face, with its fevered brown eyes, to understand the woman's motivations perfectly...just as she could predict with unequivocal certainty that Mikaela Trescu would be dead in a state pauper's grave within six months. She had witnessed an unending parade of such women wind their way through the doors of this _adoption agency_ over the past fifteen years; enough to recognize someone caught in the two inescapable snares of penury and addiction.

There were occasions...though mercifully few...when Simona would contemplate the true nature of the transaction that was being executed in this squat, nondescript building on the outskirts of this moldering city. She would wonder whether women...such as the woeful Mikaela Trescu...might reconsider their actions had they been aware of what awaited the children they had come to surrender. From her position of trenchant cynicism, Simona was clearly skeptical. Desperation had effaced the last vestiges of humanity from these wretched creatures' souls and they wanted only to be free of obligation which they could, in all truth, never meet.

Still, this tragic farce was an elaborate charade in which adherence to the prescribed roles must be rigidly observed and so Simona reached across the desk and gently squeezed Mikaela's frail right forearm. "These times are cruel Mikaela and they force so many into impossible and agonizing situations. Who has the right to judge you...if they have not walked in your shoes...have not seen their own children go hungry day after day? If they have not looked on helplessly while their precious babies sicken and deteriorate with not a helping hand to be extended, how can they condemn your action? We both know that a mother must do what is best for her children and that is why you have come...because you love your son and daughter and you would see them granted the chance at a life that you've never had. Is this not so, Mikaela?"

"You speak the truth, Simona Bayonescu," the wretched creature declared solemnly...as if the ferocity of this hollow declaration could somehow lend it credence. "A mother must do what she thinks is best for her children!"

Simona offered the woman a warm smile and sat back in her chair, its ancient wooden frame creaking wearily under her considerable bulk. She produced a flawless forgery of the standard government form and laid it on the pitted blotter before the younger woman and then placed a pen beside the form with the requisite gravitas, knowing that the document would find its way into the teeth of a shredder the instant the woman left the office. With a reassuring, motherly grin, Simona offered the final well-practiced enticement, "This is the first step in providing your son and daughter with that future, Mikaela...a step that only a woman who genuinely loved her children would ever have the courage to take."

To her credit, Mikaela...who had been without her fix for the last seventy-two hours...dithered for several minutes, before finally snatching up the pen and scrawling her name across the designated consent line. She threw the pen down as if it was something vile...which, when one considered the heinous evil it had been employed to enact, it was. With the signing of the document, the last flickering spark of vitality was extinguished in Mikaela's dull brown eyes. This too Simona had witnessed on occasions too numerous to account. With this last uncoupling of any ties to normalcy or responsibility, there went the final resolve to do anything other than self-destruct. Seeing the pall of despondent resignation that now hung over this broken woman, Simona revised her estimate...Mikaela Trescu would be dead by the onset of winter.

The woman sat back in her chair and intoned morosely, "What will happen now?"

Simona conjured her most compassionate smile, nuanced with just the right degree of solemnity. "Today you will go home and spend the afternoon and evening with your children and show them all of the love you can and try to emboss their faces in your memory. If there is a particular place they love to go, take them there and simply bask in their company, Mikaela. Tomorrow, you will bring them to the agency along with their clothing...and a keepsake so they might always remember their mother and how she loved them very much. They will be taken to the central orphanage in Bucharest and I promise that it will not be long after that they can begin their new life."

Simona's flawlessly delivered speech had the desired effect...the proper blend of emotions that seldom failed to reduce the mother to tears. Mikaela buried her thin face in her callused hands and began to weep. Simona rose and came around the desk where she bent and drew the shattered wretch of a human being into a hug, though there was something repulsive about the woman's gaunt frame that reminded the older woman of a bundle of dry sticks. "Come now Mikaela, you must be strong for the sake of your children. Dry your tears and find solace in the certainty that your sacrifice will insure that these two beautiful children will find the happiness they both deserve. Draw your strength from that knowledge."

"They won't be separated...Gregori is frightened and lost without Emilia's comforting presence?" the mother inquired, clearly horrified by the prospect that her two children...the only things that her life had yielded of any appreciable worth...might be torn apart by a decision which she understood was ruthlessly selfish.

"As per your wishes, they will be placed together. I have already contacted the central agency in Bucharest and they have assured me that there is a long list of prospective parents who are extremely interested in adopting siblings." Simona then dangled what she knew would be the ultimate carrot for a woman whose perspective of the world was based on total ignorance. "The majority of those parents are Americans."

"America!" Mikaela echoed fiercely as though giving voice to an incantation to ward against all evil. Finally, she drew a deep and tremulous breath and pushed herself heavily to her feet. Simona tracked her shambling movements as she made her way to the door and the dreary summer afternoon beyond. In a rare moment of sentimentality, Simona wondered if the beleaguered creature had ever experienced a genuine moment of happiness. Mikaela paused at the door and shifted her gaze back to Simona and in her red-rimmed watery eyes there capered something sly and furtive...the ugly addiction that craved fulfillment. "Will my payment be ready?"

"You will be provided with your chip card upon turning the children over to our custody," Simona said, scarcely able to repress the bleak sigh that the dismal truth of this charade always evoked. Mikaela glared back at the older woman for a moment, her face contorted into a discordant expression of shame and defiance.

Then she was gone.

Simona closed her eyes and for a brief moment, she could feel the full, crushing weight of her cumulative ignominy drop upon her shriveled conscience like the collapse of a mountain. She was alarmed to discover that only the sound of the rear door opening prevented her from bursting into tears.

"Executed with your customary aplomb, Simona," a heavily-accented voice declared with just the slightest suggestion of condescension. Simona shivered and peered up into the inscrutable eyes of Peytor Estrovitch whose angular face appeared to have been chiseled out of granite by a sculptor who was patently unsuited for his art. In Estrovich's daunting presence, Simona long ago decided that stoicism was the best policy, so she accepted this sardonic compliment with a slight nod. The man radiated menace and the potential for brutal violence like no other living being that she had ever encountered, but even this was not what filled Simona Bayonescu's inured heart with atavistic dread.

The mere recollection made her want to cry out and flee the room in terror, but she could not purge it from her thoughts however badly she wanted to. Whenever the Russian cast his baleful gaze over the pictures of what he referred to as the collateral, his brown eyes would flare a brilliant red that conjured vivid images of peering down into the pits of hell. That was utterly ridiculous or course, but her mind had been unable to repudiate what her eyes insisted was the unembellished truth and now Simona had become convinced that her employer was a monster in the truest sense of the word.

She was grateful that his back was turned to her as he snatched up the two photographs of Gregori and Emilia Trescu. After a brief consideration, Estrovitch rendered his dreadful judgment. "The girl is fetching in her own crude way...we will send her to England."

Simona fetched a silent sigh of relief which quickly curdled to horror when the monster disclosed the boy's fate. "It's appalling how repugnant these inbred whelps can be. This one can serve only one possible purpose...arrange to have him transported to Chelyabinsk."

He then slammed the photographs down on the desk and left the office as though the entire affair held no further interest for him. Simona's gaze was drawn involuntarily to the photographs. The first showed a pretty eleven year old...who would spend what life remained to her in the rapidly burgeoning world of sex slavery in Western Europe. As repugnant and cruel as that fate would prove to be, it was compassionate in comparison to the unspeakably abysmal future that awaited the boy. Simona's gaze locked on those light brown eyes and then slid to the mottled and misshapen face of unfortunate Gregori Trescu...who could have easily been spared this marring deformity by rudimentary medical treatment.

He was destined for a secret warehouse facility in Chelyabinsk...where humanity's forgotten and unwanted children were kept alive in cages as fodder for the thriving illegal organ harvesting trade.

Despite the impregnability of the vault in which Simona Bayonescu had sequestered her heart, the old woman began to weep.

Chapter Four

1

As he carefully maneuvered his prized Mini Cooper into the far corner of the parking lot, Donald Gansby was suddenly suffused by the disquieting certainty that this was destined to be anything but a routine day. Stepping out into the early morning gloom, Donald wandered over to the sleek delineator barrier and peered out over the gray waters of the tired old Thames as it listlessly made its way to the channel. He then shifted his gaze to the roiling gray sky that held the promise of yet another rainy day as the great hinge of time turned and give way to another September. The eddying breeze that blew through Donald's light brown hair held the first promise of approaching fall and he could find nothing in the rather dreary morning that would warrant this odd sense of _prescience_ that he had experienced just now. Inkling was too mild a word to properly describe what he had just experienced. The sensation had left Gansby with the distinct impression that he was about to cross paths with something...of someone...that would radically and irreversibly alter his life.

Shaking his head in bemusement, thirty-seven year old Gansby turned on heel and made his way across the parking lot, knowing that he was technically violating his employer's regulation by not parking in the designated underground facility, but not particularly caring. This flaunting of regulations was uncharacteristic of the normally compliant Gansby, but he genuinely loathed the cloying feeling that came with underground parking garages...a peccadillo he had never been able to cast off.

As he threaded his way through the rows of compact and mini cars that had become the fashion of the mid twenty-first century, Donald's gaze was drawn to the hulking Gallsworth building, which served as the home of Scotland Yard here on the Victoria Embankment. The building had been opened in 2042 and struck Donald as somehow discordant and forbidding, though in light of the purpose it served, perhaps that was entirely appropriate. The Homicide Inspector entered the bright central reception area, which was already abuzz despite the early hour, and strode briskly over to the elevator. He waved to a few acquaintances and then subjected himself to the electronic verification procedure that would grant him access to the elevator banks.

The feeling that today was bound to be somehow _unique_ had pretty much dissipated by the time he reached the fourth floor and made his way to his work station. Despite the pervasive ugliness that was an intrinsic aspect of his vocation, Donald still found that the vast majority of his work adhered to a time-honored routine that the organized Gansby found comforting.

"I'm not seeing that smile one would expect, mate?" A voice declared from over his shoulder and Donald turned to find his partner of eight years...Ewan McGowan...regarding him with a deceptively casual grin. "Considering how you've been spending your weekends these last months...and in whose company...I would think that you would breeze in grinning from ear to ear...or red-eyed from being worn down. Instead, I'm confronted by a man who gives the impression that he might have spent the weekend darning socks."

Gansby grinned and retorted, "No one darns socks anymore, Ewan."

McGowan chuckled but the levity quickly vanished from his ruddy face...which along with his shock of rusty red hair, evoked images of a harried clown. "Seriously, Don...you should be the happiest man I know...yet quite often, you give the impression of a man suffering through the final stages of terminal boredom."

Donald fixed the older man with an exasperated frown, wondering why Ewan seemed so fixated on the matter of his extracurricular activity...a subject that caused Gansby increasing and unaccountable discomfort over the last few weeks.

"And how is the fair Cassande?" Ewan inquired with that practiced casual air that belied keen interest.

Donald sighed and slumped into his chair, absently activating his AI assistant. He realized that he had been deliberately circumspect about his new relationship with Cassande Verhoeven just as he knew that he could produce no logical explanation for that circumspection if pressed to produce one. Perhaps it was the entire improbability of their relationship that made Gansby reluctant to drag it into the harsh light of day and examine it closely. To Donald, it seemed like a fragile thing that would not survive serious scrutiny or analysis. There was more to it than basic insecurity, he understood, but this too evoked a profound unease that Gansby was keen not to confront.

"Cassande is fine," he replied, knowing that this tacit disclosure would hardly satisfy the naturally inquisitive McGowan.

"That may well be...but instinct is telling me that Donald Gansby isn't and before you raise your normal protest to the contrary, I've been your partner long enough to know when something is niggling at your insides. You remind me of a man who has found a fortune in a rubbish bin, but his moral qualms won't allow him to enjoy it. Being who I am...I can't help but be curious as to why."

For a protracted moment, Donald did not respond, staring at his partner and friend with open exasperation. In McGowan's incisive gaze Donald could discern a genuine desire to understand...not based on simple curiosity, but rather concern. On impulse, Gansby turned to his AI terminal and instructed, "Open my personal directory and call up the file...Question Marks."

While an intrigued McGowan left his own work station and came to stand behind his sometime reticent colleague, Donald reflected back on how he had first met Cassande Verhoeven. It had been a typical January night that saw Donald slumped onto a stool at the end of the bar at Wickersham's Pub in Soho...an establishment he had frequented since he had been a young lad new to the Metro Police Force. As was the case on most evenings since the implosion of his last relationship, Donald sat at the bar with a group that could be best described as mates in common boredom, loudly discussing the relative merits of football and rugby. He had been carefully nursing his pint of bitter while listening to the spirited debate with only partial attention, when he suddenly became aware of a _compelling presence_ at his shoulder. Shaken by the intensity of the sensation, he had turned on his stool and found himself confronted by a sight that impacted upon him like the detonation of a nuclear weapon.

The sheer magnitude of Cassande Verhoeven's enormous beauty had prompted Donald to gape like an awestruck child. She leaned against the bar with the casual elegance that a certain refined breed of women seemed to project with such effortlessness and Donald...who was an attractive man in his own right...sincerely doubted that she was even aware of his presence.

_'Mayfair royalty slumming it in Soho,'_ he thought with just the right amount of resentment, knowing that women of her kind would often find a night of amused diversion, by crawling through the hip Soho pub scene...if only to catch a glimpse of how the working class muddled by far beneath their social radar.

She had ordered a gin and tonic and after the drink had been delivered, she had turned to Donald...who was stealing furtive glances at the statuesque flame-haired beauty out of the corner of his eyes...and declared bluntly, "You can actually look at me without fear of turning to stone you know."

Shocked and embarrassed at having been caught out, Donald had stammered, "I...I'm sorry...but..."

She had rescued him from his maladroit verbal spasm, by extending a long right arm and offering the fumbling Gansby a radiant smile, "I am Cassande Verhoeven...and I've just recently moved to London from Amsterdam. Some of my friends back in Holland insisted that I had to spend some time in Soho...that it had a shabby-chic charm that I would find...pleasantly appealing."

"Well...it does have that I suppose...but it still has its seedy side and it's wise to be careful when wandering around...especially at night," he had replied, cursing his social ineptitude. Still, there was an unnerving aspect to her immense beauty...especially her large, lustrous blue eyes that regarded him with an unsettling intensity.

Those limpid eyes had narrowed and she had arched a finely tapered eyebrow as she fixed him with a gaze of appraisal that made Donald want to squirm. "Now judging by that particular caveat, I would hazard a guess that you're either a policeman...or a cab driver."

Donald had blanched at the last bit and Cassande had thrown back her head and clapped her hands, thoroughly beguiling him with a spate of rich laughter. Where normally he would have found this comparison rude and condescending, from Cassande's lips it struck Donald as thoroughly charming.

"Then your are an astute judge...I am a policeman...Donald Gansby...inspector, homicide division...Scotland Yard, actually," he declared with a stiff formality that made him wonder why he felt the strong compulsion to make a positive impression on a woman who could only ever perceive him as something far beneath her. She had inclined her chin and favored him with an exaggerated grin as if feigning admiration.

"I'm duly impressed...and Scotland Yard no less. As I've mentioned...I'm new to London and still trying to decide where to set up house. I'd bet that your opinion would be a considerable deal more reliable than the pompous real estate agent whose been conducting my house search when it comes to selecting a safe neighborhood." Donald recalled that she had offered him another smile that had never touched her intense blue eyes and it was in that decidedly cold and somehow disingenuous expression that the seeds of Donald Gansby's disquiet had been sown.

From this absurdly improbable moment, the pair had embarked upon an unlikely relationship that had left Donald feeling like a character in a twentieth century British comedic farce about a working class bloke that falls in love with an erudite upper class aristocrat. The relationship had earned the incredulous admiration and envy of his circle of mates and though their meeting had seemed random, Donald could not divest himself of the unsettling impression that there had been something premeditated about this elegant beauty suddenly materializing beside him on a pub stool in shabby Soho. That was fatuous of course...though no more so than the idea that a beautiful and affluent twenty-six year old would be attracted to a middle-aged, middle-class police detective. Still, the impression persisted...growing more intense with every passing month...like an unattended itch that refused to be ignored.

The genesis of their implausible relationship flashed through his mind in the short span of time it required for his AI to respond to his verbal command. McGowan stared over his shoulder and with obvious bemusement and blurted, "Good Lord man, don't tell me that you've actually ran background checks on your own girlfriend?"

Donald flushed, recognizing how _creepy_ the notion sounded when stated so bluntly. "I did and before you call for a wagon to the funny farm...I'd like you to hear me out. Even if we ignore the glaringly obvious fact that this woman is a Himalayan mountain above me in every facet of the concept...there is one minute detail that has nagged at me from the first night we met in Soho. Take a look..."

Gansby uttered the requisite command and the holo-terminal produced a three dimensional rendering of two juxtaposed women who Ewan assumed were one and the same. The picture on the left side of the screen had been taken recently, probably by Donald, while the photograph on the right was considerably older. "I'll bite...in for a penny, in for a pound...what exactly are you showing me?

Donald grinned at the corny old adage...of which McGowan was so fond. Articulating his disquiet for the first time, Donald explained, "The photograph on the left is one taken of Cassande Verhoeven about six weeks ago."

"A still capture of absolute perfection, Donald...again, you should be the happiest man on the planet," McGowan observed, clearly mesmerized by the flame-haired beauty.

Donald raised his hand in a gesture for indulgence. "Mum use to be a nut for the cinema and movie stars and such...she must have read every tabloid and scandal rag ever set to print. They were around the house like litter while I was growing up. They had a tawdry sort of appeal I suppose and it was hard not to leaf through them...almost like peeking through a bedroom window at the sordid details of someone else's life...if that makes any sense."

"It does and I take it this excursion down memory lane is somehow relevant to this second picture?" Ewan correctly deduced as was typical of the astute policeman.

"I found this second picture on line. This particular picture has been in the back of my subconscious since I was a lad of six. That's when I first saw it...while flipping through one of my mum's magazines. It stuck in my mind because I remember being smitten by the woman in the way a small boy sometime can. I never forgot it." He paused briefly and issued a second command to his AI, "Reveal caption please."

The system complied automatically and Ewan squinted at the display and grunted in surprise before uttering a self-conscious chuckle. "This has to be a coincidence, right."

The photograph had been take at a fashion show in London in the early fall of 2026 and captured a daunting young woman watching as fashion icon Karnalla Mansley floated down the runway during what would prove to be her final show for Versace's fall and winter collection that season. "The woman was simply known as Cassandra...the constant companion and purported lover of the model Karnalla Mansley," Donald remarked in a voice that was rife with puzzlement. "Nothing is really known about her and she seemingly vanished from existence when Mansley retired and became a recluse of sorts several years ago."

McGowan snapped his fingers and said excitedly, "I remember reading something about her in the arts section of the Telegraph recently...she sold her country home and left England...though the story offered no insight on where she was going. It made no mention of her having a companion. Now, prove to me that you're still somewhat rational and tell me you're not thinking what this seems to suggest you might be thinking?"

For a long moment, Donald did not respond...feeling his foolish dread beating at the fabric of his subconscious with vulture's wings. "Due to the dating on this first photo...our recognition technology isn't unequivocally accurate...but I ran the pair through the program anyway. It yielded ninety-eight percent guarantee of a perfect match."

"That is utterly preposterous Donald!" Ewan exclaimed disdainfully. "That would make Cassande almost sixty years old...which is too ridiculous to even entertain in any terms that could be construed as rational."

"And that isn't the worst of it. This is where my ramblings become really bizarre," Donald forewarned distantly. "I couldn't ignore what seemed ludicrous, so I did a bit of sleuthing on this Cassandra...using mostly the facial recognition software to scan the standard known databases and I came up with this...though I admit the connection is...nebulous." A quick manual entry added a third photograph to the panel...though this one was too old to be converted into a three dimensional projection. This time, McGowan was unable to suppress the gasp of consternation that escaped his lips. Gansby nodded his commiseration.

"I understand entirely because it was exactly how I felt when this photo first came up. Obviously because of its age...there is some latitude for error...but my gut instinct is telling me that this fashion diva's girlfriend and this rather haunted-looking teenage runaway are one and the same," Donald explained and paused to await a clearly bemused Ewan's reaction.

As he had anticipated, McGowan's natural reaction was one of vexed cynicism. "This connection is tenuous...but at least plausible. The connection between the fashion groupie and your Cassande is irrational. If this is what had you looking so maudlin, then I'm genuinely concerned for your sanity, mate."

Donald offered his partner a crooked grin that held no rancor. "Here is where the tale veers into the twilight zone. This girl...Cassandra Jasic...ran away from her home in Ontario, Canada and was never found. She was spotted once...in the company of a woman who poses one of the great unsolved mysteries of that time...a woman named Elizabeth Simpson." Donald again called upon his AI to conjure another set of old photographs that depicted a radiantly beautiful blond woman. "This woman's history implies something that even I have no desire to ponder too deeply. She lived in a small Washington town that was struck by a natural disaster of some sort way back in 1976...missing and presumed dead and thus a part of ancient history...right?"

McGowan nodded, thoroughly engrossed in this decidedly macabre tale that was growing more intriguing for all of its absurdity. "I assume that wouldn't prove to be the case?"

"Twenty five years later, Elizabeth Simpson resurfaces in America...on three occasions. She was wanted in connection to the murder of a motel owner in Colorado and then in connection with an explosion that killed several people in an Oregon truck stop. A woman matching her description is last seen by a hotel clerk in the very town where Elizabeth Simpson went missing. In every case, witnesses recall that she was traveling in the company of an attractive red-haired teenage girl," Gansby disclosed quietly. "They both vanish and are never seen again. Ten years later, this girl's parents are found brutally murdered and dismembered in the same small town that Jasic apparently ran away from. I understand that I'm extrapolating data well beyond the breaking point of logical assumption. Still, it's hard to deny that these events seem... _connected_ in some odd fashion."

Now Ewan was regarding Donald with an expression that suggested he was having serious concerns for Gansby's mental health. "If you invested this much time in this admittedly fascinating noir tale, then I assume you've also ran a background check on Cassande?"

Donald's answering frown was rife with bewildered perplexity. "Records indicate that she is exactly who she claims to be...the only surviving daughter of an enormously wealthy Dutch developer."

"I would hazard a guess that you have spoken to Cassande about these...misgivings?"

Donald shifted his gaze to Ewan and for the slightest moment, McGowan thought that he could discern something that might have been genuine trepidation capering in Gansby's normally placid eyes. Donald merely averted his eyes and muttered, "No...of course not."

McGowan's customary levity vanished and his tone became sober...even stern. "Donald, where exactly do you see all of this leading? Suspicion is like a corrosive agent that kills everything of worth in a personal relationship...so what possible good can come out of entertaining these kinds of doubts?"

Donald averted his gaze to the floating images of the beautiful hieroglyph named Elizabeth Simpson and shook his head absently. Before he was forced to produce an explanation, the AI messenger spared him from the discomforting effort. The pleasing countenance of Diane Cheevers filled the screen as she announced, "Excellent...you're both together. Superintendent Coran will see the both of you in his office at once please."

Diane signed off without awaiting a reply and the two men exchanged uneasy glances, knowing that a summons to the Superintendent's office was a deviation of protocol that often declared that a dramatic change was imminent. Very often said change was inimical.

"Any notions?" Donald inquired glumly to which McGowan merely shrugged.

"None...but we'd better go up and find out what the old man wants."

Donald nodded and the pair set forth for the seventh floor. As they rode the elevator in silence, Donald reflected that his spell of augury had proven correct...this was going to indeed be a day of titanic upheaval.

Donald had no way of knowing that he was about to encounter someone who would forever alter the course of his life.

2

Entering The Superintendent of Homicide's office, Donald and Ewan could sense the palpable tension that suffused the air like low grade electricity...that simmering sense of exigency that declared the onset of some new and driving priority. As was customary, Roger Coran did not rise as his two inspectors entered his office, nor did the room's other occupant who was seated in a chair across from the superintendent, turn to acknowledge their entry.

Coran waved the two men into the seats next to his guest, who was a petite blond woman with lustrous shoulder length hair. A fleeting glance at the woman provided Donald with several salient insights about whom she was and why she might be here. The conventional cut of her clothing declared plainly that she was a fellow police officer, though this was the first time that he had ever set eyes upon her. She had a lean face that would have been rather pretty had it not been for the severe and intense expression that lent it a rather daunting aspect. Her light blue eyes radiated both intellect and impatience and it was immediately obvious that she was not particularly amenable to being here...whatever the reasons for her presence might be. She became cognizant of his furtive scrutiny and flicked Donald a glance that seemed less than amicable.

Donald sighed internally, fearing that his professional life was about to become...complicated. When the pair of inspectors was seated, Superintendent Coran cut right to the heart of the matter. Never one for elaboration or needless chatter, the often churlish Coran disclosed, "Gentlemen, I would like you to meet your new partner...Inspector Mary Langdon, who will be joining us on temporary assignment from The Child Crimes Branch. Mary, this is Inspector Ewan McGowan and Inspector Donald Gansby."

The three exchanged the cursory handshakes and Donald was rather shocked by how powerful her grip was as she vigorously pumped his hand. When the obligatory pleasantries were dispensed with, Coran continued, "Inspector Langdon, these two have been the lead investigators on the spate of apparently random murders that has seemed to garner your branch's attention. Initially, you will be working with Donald in the field and Inspector McGowan will coordinate matters here in the office. Inspector Langdon, perhaps you could begin by summarizing your branch's interest in this case..."

Mary nodded briskly and turned to face the pair and in addition to that rather disconcerting intensity in her blue eyes, Donald immediately gleaned the presence of a keen intellect and laser-like focus. "Of course, you both know that there have been sixteen rather gruesome murders in the Greater Metro area over the last two years...all men...all Caucasian. Of the sixteen victims...it happens that five of the deceased turned up on our branch's known sex offender composite list."

Gansby and McGowan exchanged expressions of astonishment. Ewan glanced briefly at Coran before remarking brusquely, "This is being communicated to us only now?"

Mary frowned in response to McGowan's accusatory tone, but merely shrugged in the way of someone who has no patience for dwelling on past errors. "The information was there and should have been obvious to both branches...but was somehow overlooked...or _ignored_. Irrespective of which, five of your sixteen victims were registered child sex offenders and obviously this casts your inspection in an altogether different light."

"Are you suggesting that the motivation for these murders may revolve around the sex offender connection?" Ewan inquired in a tone that made his skepticism apparent.

Mary regarded the older inspector flatly and retorted, "I'm not suggesting that there is a connection...I'm stating it flatly. Five of these men were registered sex offenders...convicted pedophiles...and now they are dead...killed in an extremely graphic fashion that resembles the way in which the unrelated eleven murders were committed. If nothing else, this establishes a foundation that would warrant Child Crimes interest in these cases...and thus, my assignment."

Beneath her vehemence, Donald could detect the presence of an enormous and consuming passion that he feared might well make Mary Langdon intractable. Hoping to avoid any unnecessary tension with his new partner, he offered, "Frankly Inspector, we haven't been able to establish a single viable connection between the murders...other than the obvious gender and race consistency. I think that Ewan will concur in saying that we had become dubious that there is even a legitimate connection at all and these homicides might well be nothing more than an unrelated series of random acts of brutal violence. This new information at least gives us a fresh perspective from which to examine the cases."

Ewan was staring at Donald with something that may have been incredulity and even Inspector Langdon seemed placated by his rather diplomatic perspective. She offered Gansby a rare smile that completely transformed her face into something extremely pleasant to gaze upon. Coran had watched the exchange in silence and was satisfied that the three would be able to function in a more or less harmonious manner, but to insure that there would be no jurisdictional wrangling, he clarified, "So that you are all marching to the beat of the same drummer, let me establish the authority order for the duration of this investigation. This is still a homicide investigation and Inspector McGowan is the ranking officer on the case. Inspector Langdon is here on a consultative basis, but having said that, I fully expect that you two gentlemen will give serious consideration to her insight on these murders and you will both insure that she is fully apprised of every aspect of the investigation thus far. I further expect that this working relationship will be a flawless example of inter-branch cooperation...have I made myself exceedingly clear?"

The three responded with dutiful nods and Superintendent Coran stood and gestured towards the door. "Then I will allow you to get back to business. Ewan, begin by making arrangements for temporary quartering for the three of you...for the duration of the investigation. I believe there is available space on the third floor that will suffice nicely...arrange with Ms. Cheevers to have the work order drawn up."

McGowan nodded though a shadow traipsed quickly across his face, propelled by the fear that he was going to be inundated with the bureaucratic aspects of the investigation. Before the three could rise to depart, a muted buzz issued from the Superintendent's AI console. Coran issued a command and then inclined his chin toward the door in a rather impatient gesture that the audience was over. They rose as one and began to file out, but before they had reached the door, Coran declared gravely, "It seems that Inspector Langdon will have to wait to familiarize herself with the case files...this is a forward from your terminal, Ewan. It seems that there has been another murder." His demeanor darkened considerably as he disclosed, "This one has been discovered in a park in the heart of Knightsbridge...I forecast that the priority on this investigation is going to be elevated significantly."

3

Donald maneuvered their car through heavy mid-morning traffic, only gradually becoming aware that Mary was regarding him with unmistakable exasperation. Finally, she inquired gruffly, "May I asked why you're not using the klaxon?"

He glanced at the clearly perturbed detective and realized that this was yet another of his personal idiosyncrasies that strangers might find both perplexing and irritating. McGowan had long since adjusted to these rather eccentric habits and it had been years since Gansby worked with anyone else. Patiently, he began to rationalize his reasons for eschewing the siren. "There have been units on site since dawn and we only received a courtesy call because it might relate to our investigation. Blazing through heavy Friday morning traffic with the klaxon blaring can only add another unnecessary element of chaos to an already hectic street situation. I don't mean to be flippant, Inspector Langdon, but it's not as if the victim is going anywhere."

"Call me Mary, please...formality is tedious in these circumstances," she remarked, but raised no further complaints concerning his driving style. Instead, she resumed her study of the rain-swept London streets. Gansby had always subscribed to the theory that good rapport with a partner was one of the most critical aspects of effective police work and his instinct was telling him that the woman beside him was less than enamored with the situation into which she had evidently been conscripted.

"Mary, would you mind if I make an...observation?" Gansby began in a neutral voice.

She eyed Donald warily, but finally allowed, "Why not...but I must warn you, I've not had my morning tea."

The unexpected irreverent remark drew a startled laugh from Gansby and he could feel that nascent tension ease if only fractionally. "It seems that you are...less than delighted with this new arrangement. I can assure you that Ewan and I really are wonderful fellows...if you can take us with a grain of salt at times...like when I'm driving, as an example."

Mary's intense expression softened and she offered Donald another one of those disarming smiles. "I'm sure you both are and I want to apologize if I came across as being curt in the superintendent's office. I can also assure you that this isn't about an alpha female being disgruntled about taking third seat to two men. This is your investigation and I fully accept that I'm here in a... _consultative capacity_." After a protracted paused, she elaborated, "It's just that being assigned to this case...at this particular juncture...is a bit of a personal setback."

Donald's arched an eyebrow at this particular turn of phrase, "Setback...I don't quite understand. This city has had sixteen...check that, seventeen...gruesome murders in the past two years. I can't possibly imagine how being assigned to this case could ever be construed as a _personal setback_."

"I don't mean to trivialize this case, Donald...not at all. Before I was tapped for this assignment, I was working on the very preliminary stages of what promises to be a massive, multi-country investigation. Over the last few months, Child Crimes Branch has gotten wind of a possible child trafficking ring...just whispers and shadows, if I'm being entirely candid...but deeply disturbing stuff nonetheless. I was exploring one possible facet of this new investigation when I came across the connection with your murder investigation. That bit of astute sleuthing earned my reassignment and with my departure, I'm afraid that the investigation might be put on the back burner...which would be a colossal misjudgment...if my intuition is at all correct."

Donald absorbed this thoughtfully. His initial understanding of Child Branch's bailiwick was nebulous at best and he assumed that it revolved primarily around domestic abuse issues and sex offenders, but nothing as elaborate as organized human trafficking. "Forgive my ignorance, but when you speak about human trafficking...you're essentially speaking about slavery...in this case, slavery of children for..." He hesitated, barely able to articulate the morally abhorrent concept. "Sex?"

"Yes, that is one aspect of human trafficking...even when it comes to children as young as five years old...but it is not confined exclusively to buying and selling of children for the purpose of sexual slavery," Mary explained in a somber voice that did not entirely conceal her repugnance. "These children are also used as slave labor and mercenary fodder. There has been a great deal of chatter...as yet unsubstantiated...that there are facilities where children are kept for organ harvesting."

Now Donald could not entirely conceal his horrified incredulity. "Good Christ! You're telling me that there are places where children are kept locked up and alive...only to harvest their organs. You're not saying this kind of facility might exist here in Britain?"

"No, probably not. The root end of this kind of vile business would likely be located in a place where poverty is rampant and the government is either indifferent or hopelessly ineffective and corrupt. If this kind of facility does exist...it would likely be found in Eastern Europe or Central Asia. Again, these are just intimations, but there are enough rumors that Interpol and our home agencies have taken keen interest. Britain and other affluent countries are the end recipients of this particular brand of evil. At any rate, over the last twelve months, there have been indications that a new organization has set up shop and may be moving children into Britain. That is what I was working on before the assignment. Again, I have nothing concrete to substantiate my intuition, but I have a terrible feeling that we are picking at the fringes of something sinister beyond my ability to even comprehend...on a scale that beggars reason."

For the longest moment, Donald was unable to muster a suitable response, so thoroughly flummoxed was he by the idea of such hideous evil. He had witnessed a thousand different visages of death...murders committed for reasons as varied as the number of murders themselves. Many...like the ones he was presently investigating...were appallingly savage, but even these mindless acts of brutality paled in comparison to the willful, premeditated kind of evil that Mary Langdon was presently describing. To think that these incomprehensible acts were perpetrated against children...this simply defied his sensibilities to understand. "I'm sorry Mary...sorry that you've been pulled off your case."

She waved off his apology with a dismissive flick her right wrist. "Don't be...and it certainly isn't your fault. What's more...this will give me the opportunity to discover why five convicted pedophiles were murdered because I sincerely doubt this was a coincidence...not at all."

Donald merely nodded and tried to concentrate on his driving...but as they grew ever closer to ultra-posh Knightsbridge, he was assailed by the unsettling certainty that he was about to be drawn into something that would forever alter his perception of the world around him. He could sense the proximity of a new beast circling around him in the darkness...its unfamiliar horrifying gaze fixed squarely on his back. The disconcerting thought sent fingers of ice trailing up the length of his spine.

4

The Knightsbridge green space was completely cordoned off, but when the two inspectors approached the barrier, they were met by a Metro Inspector named Myron, who quickly squired them into the park. Donald required only a single glance at Myron, whose angular face was gray-tinged and pallid, to guess that the crime scene would be particularly grizzly. It occurred to Donald that this might be Mary's first exposure to an actual murder scene and even though she had reviewed the case files...which contained an endless catalogue of graphic photographs of the victims...Donald knew that no photograph could adequately convey the horror of seeing gruesome death up close and personal.

As they hurried through the cobbled paths, Inspector Myron remarked, "I've been with Metro for twelve years...and I've never seen anything approaching this. This kind of thing just doesn't happen in Knightsbridge...not ever."

"Anything on the victim?" Gansby inquired, casting a significant look at the stoic Langdon, whose rigid posture made it clear that she was steeling herself for the ugly spectacle towards which they were being led.

"A legal heavyweight named Thomas Greavy. He lives just three blocks east of here. A white male in his mid-forties and married with two daughters. It seems that Mr. Greavy went out for a late night stroll last evening and never returned. His wife Isobel called in a report just after one o'clock this morning...and a jogger found the body just before five a.m." Myron summarized, succinctly describing a tragedy that had just left an affluent family's ostensibly perfect world in bloody ruins.

"Has the wife been informed?" Gansby inquired, not envying the constable who would have to deliver this most devastating of all possible disclosures.

"She has," he replied simply and in that tacit response, Donald was given an unspoken account of how horrible that disclosure had been...how utterly heartrending.

Just then the trio rounded a slight bend in the meandering path and came upon the central fountain area, where Donald came to an abrupt halt. His gaze swept the open space, with its elegant fountain and ornate benches, taking notice of the ring of mounted cameras before coming to settle on the headless wreckage of what had all too recently been a living human being. He was peripherally aware of Mary as she drew a deep breath, but he could not avert his gaze from the ghastly sight of Thomas Greavy's headless corpse, which was still impaled against the tree where he had evidently been savaged and then murdered.

"In case you're wondering...the victim's severed head was found in the fountain. Once you've given your approval, I'll have the medical team remove the body. All forensic and photolog evidence has already been gathered," Myron reported and though his tone was business-like, there was a discernible quaver in his voice that declared how clearly the veteran had been disturbed by this heinous act of incomprehensible violence.

"The cameras captured this, I would imagine?" Donald asked, shifting his regard to the mounted units that were positioned perfectly to capture anything that would have transpired within the common area.

A shadow of puzzlement swept over Myron's face and to Gansby's surprise, that perplexity was accompanied by the flicker of something that could only be profound trepidation. Both emotions resonated clearly in the man's voice when he related, "Yes...but I feel compelled to warn you...the footage will only _complicate_ matters."

Myron fell silent and Donald glanced at the man sharply, even as he experienced another stab of burgeoning anxiety. "Complicate matters...how so?"

Again, the inspector conveyed the unmistakable impression that he was deeply disturbed by what he was about to disclose...disturbed and terrified by all it implied. "I will be blunt because there is little to be gained by being circumspect...the footage makes little sense. Quite frankly, that would be a misrepresentation because the video footage suggests something that is impossible. The tech has the footage ready for your perusal, but I wish I had never seen it because I think it will be a long time before I sleep easily again."

With this rather cryptic declaration delivered, Myron turned and wandered away with his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. Donald watched the man leave, a quizzical expression set on his face. _'He's scared out of his wits...as much as he wished to hide it.'_

Donald was suddenly suffused by a cold ripple of apprehension and correctly surmised that he would share Myron's reaction once he perused the captured footage of what was the most gruesome of these bloody spree murders.

As he had spoken to Myron, Mary had slowly gravitated deeper into the common area. She had spared a brief glance into the fountain, frowning at the sickening sight of Thomas Greavy's head floating in the murky water. Then she had made her way over to the corpse, moving with a mechanical gait that hinted at a woman poised on the very edge of self-control. Hurrying to join her, Donald could not help but share her revulsion. The other sixteen victims had been badly abused during the course of their murder, but nothing on the level of the mayhem that had been unleashed upon Greavy. Scanning the revolting pile of intestines at the foot of the corpse, Donald spied what he recognized as a severed penis and felt his stomach execute a slow, queasy roll. Whoever had killed Thomas Greavy had simply reveled in the act...deriving enormous pleasure from this ineffable act of butchery. This could be indicative of many things...none of which bode well for the future of this investigation.

Mary turned away from the wreckage and faced Gansby. Her face was pallid and her blue eyes were narrowed in obvious disgust, while her jaw muscles stood out from the intensity with which she had clamped her lips together.

"This is...unsettling. I should have warned you, Mary."

She frowned in consternation and shook her head vehemently. "Jog my memory if you would...in any of the previous cases, has there ever been an attempt by the perpetrator to contact authorities...to take credit for the murders? Perhaps something to taunt investigators?"

Both questions had been astutely posed and confirmed that this Mary Langdon possessed an especially agile and sharp mind. She was clearly referring to the tendency of serial killers to deliberately engage in a provocative, albeit abstract dialogue with police...a contest to display invulnerability or superior intellect...of perhaps a subconscious plea to be stopped. During this investigation, the assigned teams had never once been contacted. Nor had they ever obtained even the slightest shred of evidence to indicate that the person responsible sought sick public acclaim of some sort. "Nothing of the sort actually. Nothing about any of these murders suggests that the perpetrator regards this as some sort of perverse game."

Inspector Langdon merely nodded tightly and threw a quick glance over her shoulder at the pinned corpse as if seeking to find something that might communicate a possible motive. "I won't profess to be an expert on homicide or the underlying psychosis of a serial killer, but I have been exposed to the face of immutable rage...or indignant fury and all that it inspires. This atrocity was inspired by that kind of anger...and hatred. It's an incredibly personal...intimate kind of thing that would make it highly improbable that this was a random act. Whoever killed Thomas Greavy did so for a very specific reason."

Donald did not reply for a moment as he studied her intense face and grappled with her theory. "I would tend to agree...except for one inconsistency. Murder committed in the throes of extreme rage is normally extremely violent...which these certainly have been. Here is the rub that repudiates your theory...at least to a certain degree; passion-fuelled murders are also very sloppy. They leave fingerprints and blatantly obvious evidence that makes arrest and conviction a comparatively simple matter. In all sixteen prior cases, we have yet to produce a fingerprint, a fiber or hair...any tangible evidence whatsoever that might provide a clue as to the perpetrator's identity. Absolutely nothing. This city has an extensive network of video surveillance equipment and audio sample technology, but in every case they have failed to yield a single shred of evidence...not one!" He paused to allow her to absorb this almost unfathomable dearth of evidence and then concluded, "So you see, while the nature of the murders would suggest a very personal and hateful intimacy with the victims, the general circumstance would lead one to conclude that the murderer is very meticulous...that his every action is deliberate and premeditated...to the point of evil genius, if we're being entirely candid."

Mary considered this for a moment and then offered, "We still cannot lose sight of the fact that five of the victims were convicted pedophiles...a crime that would easily evoke this level of unmitigated rage. I've seen the families of these violated children and I have never seen such perfect fury as in the parents of these children."

"You sincerely believe that could be the missing commonality, Mary...the thread that connects to the other eleven victims...and to Thomas Greavy here?" he asked not able to fully repress his skepticism. Gansby was all too aware of the inherent dangers of attempting to mold evidence to suit your preconceived ideas and adamantly refused to be drawn into that pitfall...despite the temptations.

Mary's blue eyes narrowed and a disapproving note echoed in her voice as she replied, "I can glean what you're thinking, Donald...I'm obsessing on this one particular angle and trying to conjure connections that aren't there. I can't really blame you for drawing that conclusion, but I can assure you it isn't the case. By your own admission, the case had previously yielded absolutely no evident connections. Today, I've given you five examples of an admittedly tentative commonality. I'm merely saying this warrants a second hard look at the previous eleven cases and this murder as well. Someone capable of this level of savagery...has an infinite capacity for hatred and I don't think we can afford to discount anything...however flimsy it might first appear."

_'You're dealing with a bleedin' intellect from a whole different league, Donald my boy,'_ he told himself as he offered her a tentative grin and nodded. "Let's visit the lads in the command truck and see what they can give us."

5

Even as Donald mounted the stairs to the imposing CIMCV...the criminal investigations mobile command vehicle...a large, modified truck that was equipped with the most advanced analytical AI that a civil authority could procure...he was again visited by the bewildering sense that he had come to a critical, as yet undefined juncture in his life from which there could be no returning to the status quo.

_'You're about to discover something that will make no provisions for your perceptions of what you believe is possible and what is not,'_ a strange voice informed him. That was absurd, of course, but the sensation was nonetheless irrepressible. His first glance into the CIMCV technician's troubled eyes did little to allay that unformed anxiety. It was glaringly apparent that something had badly shaken the man's equilibrium. Donald attempted to affect a casual air...if only to settle his own jangled nerves. "Inspector Myron tells me the video footage has produced some...some kind of aberration."

The technician nodded, shaking his head in a subconscious gesture of disbelief. "That will be the understatement of the bleedin' decade, inspector. Before I run this playback, I want to start by telling you that I have run a system diagnostic on both this vehicle's equipment and the park's surveillance cameras and audio monitoring equipment. Both systems are fully functional...which makes what you are about to see even more perplexing and improbable."

"I'm intrigued...let us see what you have," Donald prompted despite an unaccountable desire to do literally anything but view the security footage.

Inhaling slowly, the technician issued the appropriate verbal command and the holographic projection coalesced into being. As Donald watched the playback with unblinking fixation, he could feel the blood drain from his face and turn to ice water in his veins. The horrifying atrocity captured in sickeningly vivid high definition defied all reason and made an absolute mockery of any known conventional logic...painting a portrait that was impossible by any known definition of the word. Beside him, Gansby could hear Mary breathing in ragged gasps and he could certainly empathize with her aversion and incredulity.

The improbability of the images being conveyed by this projection sent Gansby's mind reeling.

_'Not improbability...that is far too mild a euphemism...this is just fucking impossible!'_ he amended as he gazed on in dark wonder while an unseen assailant sliced Thomas Greavy's head from his body in one apparently fluid cut. The disembodied head then appeared to float across the cobbled common area, before it was unceremoniously discarded into the fountain.

The depth of the silence was absolute and palpable as the trio grappled with the insanity they had just witnessed. Drawing a deep breath to recover some semblance of composure, Donald turned to the technician and inquired, "You're absolutely positive that the surveillance systems were functioning properly during the time period of this recording?"

Despite the gleam of obvious perplexity in the technician's expression, his response was unequivocal. "I am...the diagnostic programs are pretty meticulous in ferreting out inconsistencies in system performance. I can also tell you that the program would detect any attempt to alter the original footage." He lapsed into an uncomfortable silence and averted his eyes. "The diagnostic analysis did pick up two small oddities, but I wanted you to view a run through of the video before letting you see them. The system is of the opinion that what you are going to see is an aberration...possibly created by a moisture distortion on the lens in combination with the angle from which the image was captured. I'll admit that I'm skeptical...if this is a distortion, then it is the most vivid one I've ever come across during my career."

Donald nodded and glanced briefly at Mary, who was staring at the projected image with unblinking consternation. A shadow lay across her face like a pall and her firm jaw was set in something that might well have been anger...or possibly enlightenment. She became cognizant of his scrutiny and turned that piercing gaze on him, providing Donald with the distinct impression that she had noticed something crucially important...something he had evidentially missed. That impression was augmented when she activated her PDA and issued a verbal request for Thomas Greavy's personal file. As he looked on in fascination, Mary quickly perused the particulars and nodded to herself.

When she returned her attention to Donald there was a new exigency to her gaze. To the technician, she requested, "Before you run the video a second time, can you give us a hard copy of the audio capture for the corresponding portion of the video?"

The technician appeared mystified by the request, but nonetheless moved to comply. As he issued the appropriate commands, Mary turned back to Donald and explained, "When Greavy was speaking, it was apparent that he was engaged in a one-sided, but very specific dialogue...as if he is speaking to someone that the camera did not see."

Donald shook his head, feeling suddenly like a bumbling incompetent in the company of a genuine professional. "I'm sorry inspector...I'll admit that I was thoroughly flummoxed by the first play through and didn't really focus on the audio...I was mesmerized by the impossible, I guess."

Mary Langdon offered him a grin that was neither condescending, nor patronizing and as a consequence, his respect for the woman soared proportionally. Most of the inspectors he had worked with over the years were not above gloating when the opportunity presented itself. The technician handed copies of the audio printout to both inspectors. Mary immediately plunged into the transcript and while Donald watched her furtively from the corner of his eye, a triumphant smile spread across her lean face. He glanced down at the page and was baffled to discover that he was suddenly reluctant to extract the pearl of wisdom that awaited him there.

_'You knew precisely what Mary was referring to, Donny boy...because you're sharp on the uptake and heard every word that came out of Greavy's mouth. You just didn't particularly care for what you heard...no, not one bit!'_ This particular revelation startled Donald and he could feel his heart rate begin to accelerate...the way a driver's would when their vehicle suddenly began to slide on glare ice. _'Once you've read what's on this page, it will open your mind to all sorts of dark musings and they will hound you incessantly...no matter how desperately you want to expunge them from your thoughts.'_

Stealing another quick glance at Mary, Donald was grateful to see that the perceptive inspector was engrossed in the strange transcript...a one-sided account of a truncated conversation. Forcing himself to be calm, Gansby then shifted his regard to the page and began to read. The gasp of stark abnegation had slipped from his lips before he could suppress it as the single word was emblazoned in his mind in burning letters...Cassandra! He shook his head, thinking that perhaps his anxiety had imposed its will upon his senses...but the name adamantly refused to be banished from the page. Like a natural progression that could not be stymied, his mind made the automatic leap to Cassandra Jasic...the girl he felt certain was the mysterious Cassandra from his childhood memory. He brutally bludgeoned the next step in that macabre progression, certain that it was simply too ludicrous to contemplate.

After the pair had finished reading the transcript, the technician remarked, "I'll play this through again and the program will automatically shift to still mode when the aberrations come up. In real time, these were less than the blink of an eye, but the diagnostic program still isolated the images."

Mary nodded raptly, oblivious to Donald's disconcerted state...that look of slightly glazed dread. Again, the chronicle of the impossible began to unfurl and Donald could almost hear Mary Langdon's incisive mind begin to cycle up very much like a tenacious hound that has just caught the scent of its natural enemy.

"Here he is speaking as if inquiring after a little girl who is alone in the park," Mary observed and to Donald's unsettling mind it seemed as if he was listening to one side of a telephone conversation as Greavy spoke, paused and then responded to what he had apparently heard.

"Okay...at this point he leaves the actual path and heads into the green space," the technician interjected. "Though this area is not particularly well illuminated and it was drizzling, these cameras are the best money can buy and so is the audio equipment...Knightsbridge and all. He calls out a name and an instant later, the first of the distortions is captured," he noted, a thread of disquiet snaking through his otherwise even tone.

"Cassandra?" Greavy called out and Donald could feel his entire body spasm as if it had been subjected to a dose of low-level electricity. An instant later, the system came to an abrupt halt and a single still image coalesced before Donald Gansby's eyes...shining with a magnitude that threatened to fry his synapses. Though the image was diaphanous, there could be no mistaking that he was seeing a red-haired pretty girl dressed in antiquated clothing...she wore a beguiling smile of _invitation_ that was incongruent with her age and apparent innocence.

His traitorous mind automatically juxtaposed the image of runaway teen Cassandra Jasic next to this apparition and Donald was suffused by an atavistic dread that made him want to scream. Instead, he forced his eyes shut, but still the two images had been branded into his mind's eye. When he opened his eyes, Mary was regarding him with a keen, speculative expression, "Is everything all right, Donald...you honestly look as if you've seen a ghost."

He shook his head and offered his new partner a poor facsimile of a grin that he doubted would fool her for a second. "Sorry...I'm suddenly feeling a big peaked...I'll be fine. Let's carry on."

She continued to regard him closely for a moment longer, an exasperated frown playing at the corners of her full lips and then signaled that the technician should resume playback. The three watched in silence as Greavy entered the common area and came to a halt. "Here comes the second aberration."

Again the system paused and projected another red-haired girl, though this time with her back turned to the camera, evidently peering down into the fountain. Now, Greavy looked up directly into the camera and then started toward the fountain.

"Who are you...what is happening?" Thomas Greavy had demanded in obvious confusion. There had been an apparent response, to which Greavy had replied, "I...I don't know what you're talking about...where is the girl...Cassandra?"

"There!" Mary exclaimed excitedly, startling Donald, who had just been shaken by hearing the name Cassandra for the second time. Langdon rose from her seat, gesturing for the tech to pause the playback. "Something consequential transpired right at this exact moment. This Greavy entered the park, thinking that he was following a young girl...a child, but for some inexplicable reason, what _he_ was seeing changed swiftly...and violently just as he reached the fountain. That last phrase makes it clear that he is frantically denying something. Let it roll to the end."

The technician complied and Thomas Greavy's horrific, savage death rolled inexorably across the open space in gruesomely vivid detail...no less comprehensible for its graphic recounting. Mary was shaking her head in astonishment as she watched the clearly terrified Greavy attempt to flee only to fall to the ground as if he'd collided with an invisible brick wall. Immediately after falling, Greavy was literally dragged across the common and somehow bound to a tree, where he would endure his moment of torment and subsequent gruesome and reason-defying death.

Mary stared intently at her audio transcript while a malign specter dismembered Thomas Greavy and when the final scream had faded away and the silence descended on the murder scene, she turned to Donald and intoned, "Are we seeing this from the same perspective?"

Deliberately choosing to ignore the question, Donald instructed the technician to have electronic copies of all files forwarded to the embankment. "Just one last thought...did any of the other cameras pick up activity during this time...in other parts of the green space?"

"None...the space was as dead as a tomb for the entire night. The first person through the space after this incident was a runner, who called in the discovery."

"What about the vicinity...was Greavy picked up by surveillance before he entered the park?"

"Being Knightsbridge, the video surveillance mesh is especially thick. We picked Greavy up as he came out of his flat and he was in view all the way to the park. The night was rainy and that meant completely deserted streets...except for Greavy."

Donald pursed his lips, his thoughts deluged by a hundreds different clamoring tangents and the insinuation of one implausible element that would give him no peace. "I'm imposing a gag on all audio and video evidence pertaining to this case...for readily apparent reasons. Who else has viewed this footage?"

Taken aback by Gansby's abrupt brusqueness, the technician stammered, "Inspector Myron...and the both of you."

"Grand...let's see that it stays this way. Mary, let's find Inspector Myron and then do one final walk about before I give permission to the medics to remove the body," Donald instructed crisply and left the CIMCV without further word, leaving a bemused Mary Langdon staring after him. She thanked the technician and quickly moved to follow. Outside, she found Donald engaged in a quiet, but intense discussion with Myron and decided to leave them to their discourse. She wandered over to the body, examining the steel rod that impaled Thomas Greavy to the tree. It was completely coated with dried gore, but a noticeable dearth of anything that might have been a fingerprint. That was not particularly surprising considering the macabre circumstances surrounding Thomas Greavy's ineffably horrible death.

_'What exactly happened here Mary?'_ she demanded of herself and found that she could produce no answer that was even remotely plausible. She then crossed over to the fountain and closely scrutinized Thomas Greavy's head...which was perpetually frozen in a rictus of horrified torment. It was obvious that he had been an exceptionally handsome man...just as it was evident that something had inflicted this horrific death upon him for a very specific reason.

"Just what kind of devil were you hiding behind that cultured mask, Thomas?" she inquired softly and though she received no response, Mary Langdon suspected she already knew the awful answer.

She could sense a presence at her shoulder and turned to find her new partner regarding her with an incisive gaze that concealed the extent of his disquiet. He had been profoundly affected...and distressed by a particular aspect of what they had just discovered and Mary intuited that she would have to drag it into the light...in time. Instead, she remarked gravely, "We'll have to question the wife...perhaps not today...but very soon."

Donald's expression contracted into a grimace, but he merely replied, "Let's get back to the embankment...Ewan has to see this footage."

Chapter Five

1

Sir Ian Barrows was alone in the suite of rooms that were reserved for his frequent visits to his biotech research facility, though the state of inactive solitude was one that he had come to dread over the last several years of his long and dramatic life. Time had become his enemy because time was the one commodity that even his amassed fortune could not procure. He had not really required Mcammon's confirmation to know that the researcher had exhausted the last of his death defying illusions. His traitorous body made it emphatically clear that his end was imminent...a few scant months to a year to put a final exclamation point on a storied life.

Ian Barrows had never been one to accept constraints and restrictions...and this tangible limit to life expectancy would be no different. As if to mock his unflinching resolve, his body was suddenly wracked by a profound and painful fit of coughing that left him gasping for breath when it finally subsided. He managed to depress the alarm monitor on his Contained Care Module before one of the vexing nurses could rush in and shatter his solitude. The device had been designed and developed by his biotech company and the apparatus had become an extension of his own failing flesh. Ian now lived his entire life confined to the unit, which resembled a motorized pod on wheels, complete with its own air exchange system to protect his extremely fragile body from the weakest of viruses. Its state of the art monitoring system constantly assessed Barrows vitals system and delivered medication as required...all in an attempt to sustain a body that should have been consigned to the ground years ago.

The irascible Barrows did not want to die...not while his mind was so keen and full of a consuming thirst for things yet to be achieved...kingdoms yet to be carved from the stone walls set before him. Barrows had never known want...had never tasted the sting of constant poverty. His had not been a rags to riches story to inspire the unwashed masses into the belief that they could transcend their ascribed lot in life. He had been born into affluence and had employed that bequeathed fortune as a springboard to accrue a fortune that only a hand full of men could claim to exceed. That he had achieved that status by being a ruthless and intransigent tyrant who viewed every other living thing as a resource or an obstacle to be crushed did nothing to assail his conscience. There were men in this world who carved their own destinies and the rest, who were crushed beneath the purposefully striding boots of others...it was the way of the world and had been since the dawn of civilization. He saw no reason to attempt to disrupt that logical arrangement.

_'Except when it comes to dying of course...that is the one inviolable arrangement that you simply refuse to respect,'_ the voice of his long dead father reminded him in that precise and condescending tone that had always privately infuriated young Ian.

Ian Barrows had not made himself the richest and most powerful man in Europe by timidly respecting convention. Those few men and women who had been foolish enough to cross him over the long years, had learned to their painful dismay, that Ian did not have a great deal of respect for the sanctity of life...save for his own. Politicians, environmental crusaders and union organizers...he had dealt with them all and had lost track of how many he had ordered to become part of footings and foundations all over the city of London. His had been the hand that had rejuvenated the brown field areas along the Thames and he made no allowance for the weak-willed who lacked the courage and conviction to do what had to be done to raise the grand old dame up to a semblance of her former glory. The sixth decade of the twenty-first century had seen London return to its rightful place as a center of power in Europe and the lion's share of the credit for that accomplishment could be attributed to him.

Those without the temerity to seize the reins and guide their fates often condemned the strong and courageous, but Ian expended very little thought on the mediocre...unless of course, they found the audacity to stand in his way. Then he derived enormous pleasure from demonstrating...in clear and unequivocal terms...that these impediments had strayed above their station and must be reminded of their importance in the grand scheme of things.

_'You will not intimidate or coerce death, Ian...it will come for you inexorably and laugh at your presumption of exceptionalism,'_ his father observed with smug disdain.

"We shall see," Ian retorted, though his weak, papery voice belied the ferocity of his determination to bend even death to his will.

At that exact moment, the doors to his suite slid open and the daunting Cedric Drury glided lithely into the room with the dour Olem Beyarov in tow. The Russian glanced uneasily at the man to whom he was little more than a talented serf and quickly averted his eyes. Tall and razor thin, with ice blue eyes that seemed utterly devoid of any hint of humanity, Beyarov was the kind of man whose age was virtually impossible to determine with any degree of accuracy. The case of the stoic Russian could have served as a microcosm for the method in which Sir Ian dealt with _obstacles_.

Fifteen years earlier, one of Barrows' companies had been hacked and a good deal of sensitive data had been purloined despite being protected by what Barrows had been assured was an impregnable firewall. Rather than seek out a legal remedy, Sir Ian had opted for a more intimate approach...one that would serve as a far greater deterrent for future miscreants intent on doing him harm. After a protracted search, Beyarov and his fellow conspirators had been found working out of a warehouse in Riga...organizing hit and run style data raids on the biggest firms in the world. The team of mercenaries that carried out the subsequent raid were among the world's ruthless elite. The conspirators, they dispatched in especially grizzly fashion, but Beyarov...the genius behind the operation...was waylaid to a bunker in Scotland...where he was acquainted with the salient realities of the forces governing the world. After ordering every second toe removed from the unfortunate Russian's feet, Sir Ian had given the agonized Beyarov two strictly non-negotiable options; he could have his body parts amputated one joint at a time until he was dead...or he could come to work for Barrows and apply his unique skill set to Sir Ian's side of the equation...a consultant with an ankle ball and chain.

The choice...which obviously wasn't a choice at all...had been a simple matter for the prosaic Russian and Olem Beyarov soon found that his toes had been a trifling fee to pay for the perks his new life afforded him. Provided with a seemingly bottomless pool of funds and endless resources, Beyarov had demonstrated the extent of his unprecedented genius in the fields of security and artificial intelligence. Now, Sir Ian required that the brilliant Russian surpass himself and produce a miracle.

Never one for circumlocution, Barrows struck at the heart of the matter in flat, clinical terms. "Thank you for being punctual, Olem...I know how you do hate to be separated from your gadgetry. Still, this is a matter of critical importance...one that requires your _special_ brand of ingenuity."

Beyarov raised a thin eyebrow and glanced briefly at the inscrutable countenance of Cedric Drury, who appeared to have been carved out of a block of granite in his reticence.

"I'm dying Olem...and while that may come as no particular surprise...and may in fact fill you with a measure of private delight, I still find the prospect rather distressing," Barrows intoned with a levity he did not feel. "I also find the fact wholly unpalatable and that is where you come in. Conventional medical science has exhausted its venues and so I must turn something more...eclectic...perhaps even metaphysical. Do you believe in metaphysics, Olem?"

Beyarov merely pursed his thin lips and shook his head, though his pale blue eyes had narrowed into speculative slits. Barrows offered the Russian a ghastly smile and continued, "I would have found the idea laughable not that long ago, but impending death has a way of reconfiguring one's cynical perspective when you find yourself staring it in the face."

"Are you speaking of _consciousness relocation_ , Sir Ian? If you are, I must be candid...while I find the notion intriguing...I can also tell you that it is a considerable way from being plausible," Beyarov interjected flatly to which Barrows merely nodded impatiently.

"I'm contemplating something considerably more....mystical. What I need from you is a program that will scour the very face of the world and isolate and identify longevity-related anomalies in living human beings. Am I correct in speculating that the vast ocean of data that swirls around us can be mined for that kind of information?"

For a protracted moment, Olem Beyarov did not respond as he tried to gauge the extent of this terrifying creature's seriousness. He discerned the gravity behind the cursory humor...and beyond that, a deep, festering dread that made the Russian smile. "You are and given the proper parameters, I can design a program that will scour databases and surveillance logs from every corner of the planet...isolating individuals who wear faces that are not in keeping with their true age. The refined facial recognition technology will also help to pierce false identities and other mitigating or deceptive factors. Again, I must warn you that this effort would require an unprecedented commitment of resources...and a considerable amount of that effort would be dedicated to activities that are highly illegal."

Sir Ian smiled that nightmare smile and growled, "It's what you do best, Olem. This will be your highest priority for the foreseeable future...no, amend that....your only priority. If anyone has the audacity to question the diversion...send them to Cedric. He will remove the scales from their eyes."

"Once I've composed a list of the most puzzling of the inconsistencies...what would you have me do? Verification will still require direct contact and examination," Beyarov inquired, his eyes whirling and twirling with the complex minutiae of this enormous challenge.

"That, you can also leave in Cedric's capable hands. Simply identify potential individuals and he will make the necessary physical verification arrangements. Time is at a premium, Olem, and so I fully expect that your program will only submit genuine anomalies that have been corroborated by hard evidence...date of birth and absolute facial recognition," Barrows admonished, a hint of menace creeping into his voice.

"Of course," Beyarov acknowledged with a slight and oddly formal bow that one would expect from a vassal from a previous time. "The names I submit with be fully authenticated...except for the physical corroboration."

Sir Ian did not bother to offer a grin when he delivered his final dire warning. "Olem, I fully expect that this project will yield swift and tangible results. Remember, like the pharaoh of ancient times...those who serve me can expect to share my fate...something to ponder should you have the urge to procrastinate."

To Beyarov's credit, his only reaction to this overt threat was a slight frown. "With your permission, I will take my leave and begin at once."

Barrows waved a hand weakly and the Russian departed quickly, his enthusiasm trailing behind him like a vapor. When they were alone, Sir Ian turned to Drury, who had been in the older man's employ for the greater part of four decades. The two men had first met in Birmingham where Drury had made his living as a middleweight boxer during the early part of the century. Barrows had immediately recognized that Drury possessed qualities that could prove most useful in the world beyond the boxing ring; a cold, vicious streak that made him capable of anything when combined with a complete lack of ethical constraints.

Even if Beyarov succeeded in locating a trove of mystic wonders, it would be Cedric Drury who would ultimately prove to be Sir Ian Barrows' salvation. "I want you to personally select extraction teams and see that they have no encumbrances. When Olem produces his list, I want them to be in a position to bring them here...and find out just what makes them tick. We'll use the carrot as inducement at first, but if that does not yield the desired result...let's be prepared to employ a very heavy stick."

Cedric nodded and his crude face broke into a terrible parody of a grin. "I'll begin at once. When the hound flushes them out, the teams will bag them in short order."

Drury started to turn away, but before he could leave, Barrows remarked in an uncharacteristically somber voice, "Cedric, you are the one person who I have come to trust above anyone I've ever known...certainly more than my own parasitic children. Should this prove to be an exercise in chasing shadows...I want you to know that you will be provided for in a fashion befitting royalty."

The hint of something that may well have been genuine gratitude flickered briefly in Drury's glacial eyes and he intoned, "We will find your elixir, Sir Ian."

Then he was gone leaving Barrows alone with the specter of looming death for company.

2

She stood with her toes dangling over the edge of the south Tower of London Bridge, her distracted gaze charting the progress of the tired Thames as it made its indolent way toward the channel. Far below her, the traffic on Tower Bridge was heavy on this Friday morning as people went about their dreary city lives...oblivious to the extraordinary creature who tracked their passing with inhuman eyes. Cassandra...or Cassande, as she had taken to calling herself...turned her gaze toward Southwark and then swept it across the river to the heart of the city, before sighing and retreating from the precipitous fall.

She settled against the slick stone of the tower and closed her eyes, extending her consciousness out over the city...enveloping the entirety of the beast that was London beneath the invisible penumbra that was the extraordinary mind of Cassandra Jasic. She closed her eyes and allowed her head to loll back against the rain-dampened stone. At once, her consciousness was assailed by a tsunami of discordant thoughts and voices...a virtual inundation of sensory input that would have driven a normal person into the unbreakable grasp of blithering madness.

There was no context under which Cassandra Jasic could ever be qualified as normal. The trick of filtering this sensory flood had become second nature to the immortal and soon the vast majority of these clamoring clusters of consciousness were purged and culled from her awareness. In the wake of their departure a comparatively small smattering of points spread out over the field of her consciousness like stars in the firmament. _'Except these stars are anything but heavenly. Quite the contrary...they're like specks of filth on the face of the world.'_

These points of corruption spread out across the astral field of the city of London, evoking images of a spider web...unseen, intangible, but nonetheless lethal to those unfortunate enough to be ensnared in its gossamer strands. She could sense their perversion pulsing and churning like the heat of a rampant infection, making her own body shudder in revulsion as she shifted her regard from one repugnant point of vile consciousness to the next.

Cassandra had isolated and emphatically crushed seventeen such points of corruption over the course of the last two years...but this festering disease was pernicious and like the mythical hydra, it spawned dozens more for every one she extinguished. Fortunately, she was a creature of limitless time, matched by a capacity from retribution that would never be satiated...no matter how many of these insufferable monsters she consigned to the earth.

Sweeping her prescience over the entire span of the city, Cassandra could discern their ugly perversion lurking in every corner, embedded in every stratum of society...crossing every social and cultural boundary. She need only think back to the previous night to demonstrate that affluence and education did not preclude the possibility of infection.

_'Yes, but were you hasty, Cassandra? Did you allow your unfettered rage to occlude the service of your purpose...in the grand scheme of things?'_ Cassandra grimaced and let the sprawling astral depiction of London evaporate like mist before the sun. Thomas Greavy...the wealthy, erudite British lawyer...a man who had never known want and for whom obstacles in life seemed to part like the Red Sea before Moses. In truth, her treatment of Greavy had been the harshest she had ever dispensed and the voice of her seldom-heeded conscience had raised a legitimate contention in wondering why she had seen fit to savage him as she had. Compared to the other unapologetic sexual deviants she had obliterated since beginning her personal crusade, Greavy was perhaps the least deserving of the fate she had visited upon him. He had, after all, never succumbed to his dark proclivities and had led a conflicted, often tortured life...and yet she had gleefully dissected the man as if he was the foulest of miscreants. Why?

"Because the fucker actually considered himself to be a victim!" She spat venomously, the recollection bringing her blood to a boil even now. When she had rummaged through the fetid sewer where his disease lived, she intuited that Thomas regarded himself a victim...no different from the unfortunate child who would suffer when his inevitable moment of capitulation finally came. It had been this preposterous presumption that had incited Cassandra to this unprecedented act of savage violence...though in retrospect, perhaps she had committed an error in judgment. She was recalcitrant because she understood the cause of her behavior...the horrible ordeal that had inspired her loathing, but the case of Thomas Greavy did warrant further examination...not only because of her loss of control, but because of the intimation of a deeper evil that her mindless rage had unwittingly extinguished. Thomas Greavy had harbored a critically important secret...one far more sinister than the expression of his personal black addiction.

"Shadow box!" Cassandra uttered these two rather nebulous words in tones that one would normally reserve for the darkest and most forbidding of mysteries. Even her most persistent and assiduous prying had been only partially successful in dislodging this kernel of information from the place where Greavy had cloistered his addiction. She had extracted enough, however, to realize that the shadow box was a tangible item and was somehow responsible for feeding and nurturing the black flower that was growing in the soil of Greavy's diseased heart. The particulars of what it was and how he had come to procure it had followed Thomas Greavy to the grave...thanks to her inability to control her damnable fury.

Cassandra's eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips in speculation as she peered out over the river, where she could feel the malign pull of those festering points of consciousness begging for her lethal attention. With considerable effort, she ignored them and instead turned her attention to this mysterious beacon and all that it implied. Cassandra was astute enough to have learned that for every addict...for every twisted addiction...there existed those ruthless opportunists that would find a means of exploiting both. This particular affliction was no different and she could sense that there were monsters working actively to cultivate these nascent proclivities and turned them into full blown demons. In truth, these amoral and unfeeling opportunists were infinitely more evil than the monsters they fed and Cassandra Jasic decided that rooting out these purveyors of the blackest of human miseries would take precedence over extirpating the filth they fostered.

"A declaration of war then...so be it. I'll cut a bloody swathe through this cancer and find its root. What better way to pass eternity," she declared solemnly, vulcanized by this renewed sense of purpose. Rising, she moved to the edge of the precipice and spread her long arms, luxuriating momentarily in the intoxicating rush of the chill-laden wind through her flaming mane.

Tilting forward, she allowed herself to fall from Tower Bridge, plummeting toward the Thames and certain death, but long before she could strike the water, the statuesque beauty underwent the most astounding of transformations. In the blink of an eye, Cassandra Jasic winked from existence...one second a tumbling woman and the next, a gray dove. The bird executed a long sweeping turn and sped along the Thames, heading west before cutting north into the heart of Knightsbridge. It came to rest on the branch of a tree overlooking the fountain area, where only the night prior, Cassandra Jasic had beguiled an unsuspecting Thomas Greavy to his gruesome end.

Unnoticed, Cassandra now peered down through avian eyes as a thoroughly confounded and sickened Metro police force attempted to grapple with the grim aftermath of her latest act of deadly retribution.

The bird gave a start and skittered along the branch when it spied a familiar face enter the cordoned area in the presence of a female, whom she did not immediately recognize. Watching Donald Gansby survey the crime scene...his face set in an expression of bemused horror...Cassandra congratulated herself for having found a conduit through which she might gain more information on the _shadow box_ and the perplexing mystery it represented.

When Gansby and the woman vanished into the confines of a large vehicle, the dove chirped and took to the air with a graceful flap of wings, spiraling up over the park and heading in the direction of the house where she had first detected Thomas Greavy and the dirty secret he harbored.

3

The genesis of Cassandra Jasic's obsession found it origins in a small, isolated town in Ontario, Canada and though the immortal would have vehemently attested that she had made an accommodation with the nightmare of her childhood, it had left an indelible scar on her psyche that would never be effaced if she lived a thousand lifetimes. She could still smell the stale breath and the rank body odor of the man...her so-called father...as he raped her mercilessly, just as her flesh quivered in response to the memory of the rope whip as it bit into her back and thighs. It had been her insane mother who had wielded the whip, deriving immense pleasure from young Cassandra's unheeded pleas for mercy. She had endured years of systematic rape and torture at the hands of these two inhuman monsters, whose evil made Thomas Greavy's seem like petulant spite by comparison.

A teenage Cassandra Jasic had fled for her very life and sanity and though she had managed to extricate herself from the clutches of these demons, the lingering memory of her ordeal had inculcated seeds of an entirely different disease in the fabric of her psyche. Taking to the open road on a meandering journey across America, it had been those two reviled faces that had assailed her fevered mind as she left a string of bodies in her wake.

Only a chance encounter with an extraordinary creature named Elizabeth Simpson had prevented her from succumbing to the clinging pull of total insanity. In retrospect, Cassandra came to see that it was this seemingly random encounter that had totally and irreversibly altered her course in life, leaving her with the sense that her crossing paths with the angelic creature might well have been pre-ordained. Had events unfolded along a happier tangent, Cassandra Jasic's life from that point forward might have unfurled along an altogether different course. Elizabeth Simpson was a being of such grace...of such unflagging _divinity_...that she might well have succeeded in pulling Cassandra's badly damaged soul free of the morass into which it had been cast.

Despite her solemn vow to the contrary, Elizabeth had been embroiled in her own desperate struggle and had not been able to protect Cassandra...instead foisting responsibility for her keeping on another creature of her ilk. Karnalla Mansley...or Cynara Saravic...was a self-absorbed, supercilious monster, who simply lacked the sensibilities to rescue Cassandra from the pit of her burgeoning darkness. True, she had granted Cassandra the gift of immortality, but even Cynara's ill-advised decision to facilitate Cassandra's revenge upon her reviled parents had only strengthened the already stout chains of Jasic's psychosis.

Cassandra conjured the memory of the night the pair had visited her parents with the same possessive avarice that a miser would regard her sequestered cache of gold. Cynara had simply stood back while the newly-created immortal had visited her immutable fury upon the couple...first literally dissecting her drunkard of a father, before turning her immutable fury upon a wailing mother. To Cassandra's troubled mind, it had been the mother who had committed the most grievous offences against her innocent, defenseless child and it had been the mother whose torment had been protracted and excruciating beyond words. While an increasingly troubled Cynara had gazed on, stupefied by the girl's savagery, Cassandra had whipped her mother with a knotted rope until the woman's vocal cords had burst from screaming...she had continued to whip her until every inch of her body had been reduced to raw, oozing pulp...radiating agony like heat

For a considerable span of years, that ineffably brutal act of retribution seemed to placate Cassandra's restless inner demon. She willingly allowed Cynara to immerse her in the vainglorious and absurdly affluent myth that was Karnalla Mansley. While Cynara indulged her gargantuan ego by strutting the world's premier fashion stages in the guise of the legendary Mansley...Cassandra had trailed after her like a mysterious wraith. She had worked to refine and nuance her own physical beauty until hers became a pulchritude to rival Karnalla's. She had refined and developed other abilities as well...these she kept carefully hidden...even from her maker and mentor.

Cassandra and Cynara had spent nearly three decades after the cataclysm in Seattle living this preposterous, excessive life, but despite her ubiquitous presence in Karnalla's shadow...Cassandra remained a hieroglyph to the public. This improbable feat could be attributed to a reticence that went far beyond simple aloofness. There was something daunting and vaguely sinister in the flame-haired beauty's limpid blue eyes that seemed to discourage even the most determined scrutiny. Cassandra seemed to exude something that naturally drove people away...an attribute that suited the solitary Jasic just fine. One fashion journalist once characterized Cassandra's abstractly menacing aura perfectly, when he had wrote: _when the ethereal Cassandra's gaze falls upon you, it is easy to imagine that this is how God must appear when his gaze happens upon one of his creatures that he finds to be particularly tedious and trying._

In those years, Cassandra had become Cynara's lover and though it had been Cynara who had first led Jasic to her bed, it was Cassandra who had thoroughly conquered and beguiled the older immortal...affecting the needy Saravic in ways she could not possibly have anticipated. As had been the case with Elizabeth...though to a far lesser extent...Cynara had become enthralled by her own creation. In time, however, this enchantment would lose its luster.

Things might have continued indefinitely, had Saravic not come to the realization that she could no longer propagate the charade...that even timeless beauty could not account for her defiance of age as she reached what the public believed was her mid-forties. Thus Cynara had given up the life as fashion's biggest icon and retreated into seclusion. She never saw fit to apprise Cassandra of the reasons for this decision to withdraw completely from the public eye, but the incisive Jasic had correctly surmised that it had been motivated by what Cynara had been...before they had first met.

Gradually, the older immortal had receded into the tepid waters of melancholy, despite Cassandra's best efforts to engage the dark beauty. Cynara had retreated into a brooding sort of solitude, withdrawing behind walls of silence that proved impregnable to all of Cassandra's overtures. As the years crawled by, Cassandra had simply lost the desire to even try and the pair had drifted about the huge mansion and grounds like estranged castaways on a deserted island...growing more distant with each passing season. With this abandonment, the restive ghosts of Cassandra's past had returned to haunt her...gradually growing to torment her like an incessant itch that would give her no peace.

She could hear the children...fragile and defenseless...crying out for mercy, just as she had once done. As had been the case with her own tortured childhood, those piteous entreaties had fallen on deaf and obdurate ears. It had been during this unsettled time that Cassandra Jasic had discovered the faculty of what she called _perceptive abhorrence_...the capacity to detect the presence of the ugliest of perversions in mortals. Repulsed by the notion, she had nonetheless refined the faculty until she need only close her eyes and she could feel the sickness pulsing in its perpetrators like a malignant tumor.

It was then that Cassandra Jasic first heard the desperate adjuration...the cumulative call of suffering children everywhere exhorting her to come forth and be their champion...their protector angel. The notion began to churn in her heart like a roiling sea that could not be calmed or placated and Cassandra Jasic understood that her voluntary exile was rapidly coming to an end. The maudlin Saravic could drown in the waters of pathetic self-pity, but Cassandra would endow her life with a higher purpose...one for which she had been forged in the cruelest of fires.

She still recalled the afternoon that she had thrown off the yoke of subjection. She had come upon Cynara sitting in one of the mansion's many parlors. The immortal's face was buried in a long-fingered right hand, that spectacular visage hidden by a cascade of tumbling raven hair. The erratic rise and fall of the other woman's shoulders declared that she was weeping silently and had been for some time. Standing on the threshold of the parlor, Cassandra had noticed that the other woman was holding a well-worn photograph in her left hand...which trembled like a sapling before a brisk March breeze. Something about discovering the immortal in this posture of contemptible weakness roused an inexplicable anger in Jasic who had long since lost both her patience and affection for her maudlin companion.

"What a tedious disappointment you've become," she had rasped as she strode briskly across the large room, snatching the photograph from Cynara's hand in one spiteful gesture. She held it up for inspection and beneath the golden sunlight that filtered into the parlor Cassandra was confronted by the smiling countenance of the entrancing Elizabeth Simpson...who appeared to be the very embodiment of grace and serenity.

The sight of this unwelcome specter infuriated Cassandra in ways she would not have thought possible, believing that she had moved beyond any lingering emotion for both Elizabeth and the woman who pined over her loss after nearly six decades. The blow that struck Cynara fell with the force of a sledge, shattering the spindly chair beneath the immortal and driving her to the area rug in a sprawl of limbs. "You never deserved me...never! You can rot here with your precious ghost for company!"

Cassandra had then torn the Cynara's precious picture into pieces and tossed them into the immortal's upturned face. They remained this way for a suspended moment...Cassandra glaring down at the immortal while Cynara gazed up with her hand on her throbbing cheek and a wounded expression of incredulity set on her beautiful face.

Finally, as reason filtered through the rage, Jasic realized that she had just struck her creator and turned on heel, fleeing the room in burgeoning trepidation.

Cassandra had returned to her reading room, waiting nervously in anticipation of the retaliation that never came. Night had descended when the door to the room had opened slowly. Cassandra turned reluctantly, staunchly determined that she would not beg and plead while Cynara meted out her justice. Instead, Cynara had merely stood in the doorway, appearing hopelessly forlorn in the muted light. When she spoke, her voice was bereft of emotion and Cassandra was shocked and pained to realize that the other immortal held no affection for her as well...a devastating revelation that left Cassandra feeling desolate and abandoned. "It's time for you to leave, Cassandra...to make your own way in the world as you see fit."

Verging on panic and sounding very much like a small, frightened child, Cassandra pleaded, "I'm sorry, Cynara...what I did was wrong...it will never happen again...please don't be angry!"

"You're right...it won't happen again and I'm not angry. In truth, I deserved what you did because I've neglected you for so long...dragged you into the morass of my...despair. As much as I realize this...there is nothing I can do to change it...and you do deserve so much better. That is why it is time for you to go. I will provide for you and if you wish, I can establish a new identity that will allow you to commence a new life...a far happier life than you could ever have with should you remain with me."

Feeling like a woman who had awoken in an unfamiliar and inimical place, stripped of all contextual references, Cassandra moaned, "What will I do?"

"What ever you please, Cassandra," Cynara had replied with a rare smile. "Being what you are...the world is yours for the taking."

She had then turned, pausing when Cassandra had called softly, "I'm sorry that I couldn't replace Elizabeth, Cynara."

Cynara had not responded and after a moment she strode briskly down the hall.

Cassandra had gathered her few possession and descended to the main entrance of Karnalla Mansley's estate...which had become a mausoleum. Sitting on an ornate table was a large envelope. Cassandra's name was scrawled across the front in Cynara's elegant, flowing script. She opened the package to find that it contained a large sum of cash, bank chip cards and a ream of other documents that would help Cassandra establish a new identity.

Cassandra recalled how she had been lanced by an immense pain at the moment, staggered by the horrible realization that Cynara had been planning this moment of uncoupling for a long while...perhaps only waiting for an appropriate moment, which Cassandra had given her.

From that moment forth, Cassandra Jasic's path had been carved in stone and had inevitably led her to the juncture where she pledged her life to the waging of a holy war of sorts...a war that would eventually consume the woman who had set her free...and the angelic specter that haunted her.

4

The fraught silence that gripped Superintendent Coran's office was a palpable thing that made the simple act of breathing an onerous task. Coran, along with the case's three inspectors and their immediate superior, Chief Inspector Reginald Cowley, had just viewed the video capture of Thomas Greavy's impossible murder for the third time. Multiple viewings did nothing to diminish its shocking impact...or make his demise any more comprehensible.

"You were correct in placing a gag on this video footage, Inspector Gansby," Coran remarked and a tremor could clearly be discerned in his gravelly voice. "I'll run this through the channels and see if MI6 and the military can provide any further insight into how this might even remotely be possible. Thomas Greavy was a well-connected heavyweight and it wouldn't do to have it about that he was butchered by an invisible assailant. I've already had some rumblings from up the chain and it appears that the high town folk are shaken and perturbed by Greavy's death...which is certainly understandable." Turning to Chief Inspector Cowley, Coran instructed, "From this point forth, this trio will be exclusively committed to this investigation...if they require additional resources, we'll accommodate them."

Cowley nodded dutifully, sensing that his unit was about to become the focus of some particularly intense and discomforting public and media scrutiny. Turning back to the three inspectors, Coran demanded, "Other than the bewildering conundrum suggested by this video, were you able to garner anything of prosaic value from the crime scene?"

Ewan inclined his head deferentially in Donald's direction, catching Gansby by surprise. After an uncomfortable hesitation, Gansby cast a quick glance at Inspector Langdon and remarked, "Superintendent, Inspector Langdon has offered some very specific...and I must say...astute observations and I think she should be the one to explain those insights."

Mary fixed Donald with a sharp stare, her rigid posture declaring that she didn't entirely trust the motivations behind his unexpected deference. He smiled encouragingly and her demeanor softened...if only incrementally. Turning to the others, she began, "Setting aside the obvious white elephant of this crime's impossibility...it's my opinion that this was not a random crime. Thomas Greavy was targeted directly and for very specific reasons."

Ewan grunted and Donald fixed him with a look as if to suggest that the older inspector should be patient and open-minded. McGowan pursed his lips, but nonetheless remained silent. Mary inclined her head toward the audio transcripts and continued, "By extrapolating the context of Mr. Greavy's responses back into the gaps in the dialogue, it would appear as if the assailant is making some very specific allegations...which Greavy is attempting to vigorously refute...with no success. I realize that there is a great deal of latitude for interpretation, but I believe that certain comments made by Mr. Greavy may provide some indication as to the nature of those allegations."

"I would caution against taking this particular leap of faith, Inspector Langdon," Ewan remarked in an uncharacteristically sullen voice. "I'm not implying that your tangent is without merit, but it might be imprudent to make this the focus...so early in the investigation."

Superintendent Coran raised a hand and interjected, "I think her notion is worth exploring, Ewan." To Inspector Langdon, he inquired, "Obviously, you discern a connection to your home branch's interest in this investigation?"

Mary inclined her chin, those incisive blue eyes flashing with a refusal to be intimidated by the collection of unfamiliar men by which she was now surrounded...and who would pass an unspoken judgment on her merit. Donald found himself applauding her courage and conviction...even if he didn't envy her position.

"I do, Superintendent, and while I respect Inspector McGowan's first instinct toward caution, I don't think we can afford to ignore the things implied in this video. Thomas Greavy was lured into this green space by what appeared to be a young red-haired girl, who he followed for reasons that we can only speculate upon. It's my contention that the dialogue and actions captured on this admittedly puzzling video provide clues as to his possible motivation for following the girl."

As Donald stole furtive glances at the bemused trio of men, Mary flipped through the pages of the copy of the audio dialogue, until she came to what she believed was the first of the corroborating entries. "First Greavy displays genuine confusion after he approaches the fountain... _who are you?_...and after a pause, he asks... _where is the girl...Cassandra?_ To my mind this is confirmation that, whatever it was he was seeing, it was not the little girl whose image we saw earlier."

The three men considered this and then, one by one, they signified their agreement with a tacit nod. Mary allowed herself a brief glimmer of optimism and plunged ahead...knowing that her next contention would prove to be the most difficult to accept. "When the assailant starts to abuse Greavy, he begins to utter some very emphatic denials...as if he is being accused of something quite specific. To my mind, there are two very damning statements that substantiate my contention... _I never wanted this... I've fought my whole life to keep it hidden_. An instant later, he can be heard crying... _I would never do that to them...I love them more than I can explain._ I am aware that this is hardly irrefutable proof, but there is a strong enough intimation to warrant further...aggressive investigation into Mr. Greavy's home situation."

The Chief Inspector absently dragged his hand across his mouth, clearly uncomfortable with this particular avenue of consideration. "Basically, you are suggesting that Thomas Greavy may be a...a pedophile and that he sexually assaulted his children?"

Inspector Langdon shook her head adamantly. "No...but it is my contention that his murderer believed that he did. As to Thomas Greavy being a pedophile, unless I've badly misconstrued his own words...he has essentially admitted to have certain unhealthy proclivities."

Again, a tense silence descended upon the gathering and finally, Superintendent Coran turned to Gansby and inquired pointedly, "Do you share Mary's perspective, Inspector?"

Donald flicked a brief glance to Mary, who had averted her gaze to the audio transcript, before replying, "Perhaps not with the same degree of conviction, but I think her conclusions would definitely warrant pursuing this line of investigation. As she first pointed out, five of the previous victims were convicted pedophiles and there is an implicit suggestion that Thomas Greavy was harboring a very dark secret that his murderer somehow deduced."

"Ewan, do you concur?" Coran demanded and Gansby held his breath, knowing that McGowan's response would set the tone for the remainder of the trio's working relationship.

Ewan frowned but returned, "Like Donald, I'm not entirely convinced...but Inspector Langdon's theory is sound. This was not a random murder and it does seem like this ghostly assailant had very precise reasons for targeting Greavy."

Chief Inspector Cowley sat forward and threw two spanners into Mary's carefully constructed works. "Is it possible that this crime is completely unrelated to the others...a grudge against Greavy in particular? Also...and I know how daft this will sound, but not more so than the idea of spectral murderers...is it possible that Thomas Greavy...did this to himself?"

Under other circumstances, Gansby might had scoffed at the theory that Thomas' torment and murder was self-inflicted, but the concept was no less absurd than subscribing to the idea that the lawyer had been slaughtered by a ghost. Ewan articulated the situation best, when he remarked, "The circumstances surrounding this murder are so...macabre and bizarre that I doubt anything can be summarily dismissed."

Coran folded his hands on his desk and demanded, "That being said, what is the way forward? I can assure you all that there will be an unprecedented pressure to see this individual apprehended after this atrocity in Knightsbridge."

Gansby grimaced internally when Mary abruptly sat forward and insisted," Our priority has to be questioning Thomas Greavy's widow."

"To what end?" Coran demanded, displaying obvious consternation for the first time.

"It is my theory that the murderer believed that Thomas Greavy was a pedophile and that he might eventually...or may already have harmed his two daughters. We have to ascertain if there is any truth in that allegation," Mary explained evenly.

Coran scowled at what he apparently perceived to be Mary Langdon's monumental insensitivity. He made his displeasure clear in emphatic terms. "Apart from the fact that this woman has lost her husband in the most horrendous way imaginable, Isobel Greavy is not a woman we would wish to offend. Thomas was an extremely well-connected and eminent member of the London legal community, but in comparison to his wife, he was a bush leaguer. Isobel Murray is the daughter of one of the most formidable Lords in England...not to mention a woman with close friends in the Royal Circle. This is not the kind of woman to whom one would make unsubstantiated allegations about her murdered husband, Inspector Langdon."

Mary began to reply, but fell silent...though her smoldering frustration was readily apparent. She was surprised when her new partner took up the thread of her argument. "I think Inspector Langdon's proposed course of action is logical, superintendent, and I hardly think she is suggesting that we confront the spouse with an accusation. If we approach the interview with the intimation that we are looking for something in Thomas' personal or professional life that may have inspired a grudge...she might be amenable to allowing us to see his personal records of her own accord. Only if we come upon something concrete to indicate that Greavy had deviant proclivities, would we broach the subject."

Though he was clearly reluctant, Coran nodded, though his subsequent caveat was hard and uncompromising. "I'll allow this, but only on the provision that you say or do nothing to raise Isobel Greavy's ire. Reginald and I will do what we can to have the riddle of this video deciphered. I'll also deal with the media exclusively, so I expect that Ewan will keep me constantly apprised of even the slightest new wrinkle."

5

Shortly after the meeting ended, the three inspectors made their way to the commissary, where they sat in contemplative silence, sipping tea and staring through the large bank of windows into the blustery September afternoon. Donald stole furtive glances at his two partners while nursing his tea. He envied Mary Langdon's resolute focus...reminding him of a bulldog that had sunk its teeth into a particularly tasty morsel and is tenacious in its determination not to let it go. In her mind, the path forward was delineated with glowing lights and led clearly to Thomas Greavy and the possibility that he might be a...sexual deviant. In Gansby's mind, the issues were not so clear, but with no other viable route forward immediately presenting itself, he could see little recourse but to follow this unpleasant thread. _'Ah, but how desperately you wish it could be avoided, don't you Donny boy,'_ an inner voice taunted. _'Your instinct is telling you...warning you that there are answers waiting at the end of this dark road...answers you have no desire to entertain...not at all.'_

Donald shook his head in consternation. That was ludicrous, of course, but as adamant as his denial might be, his subconscious insisted on conjuring the diaphanous image of the red-haired shade that had led Thomas Greavy to his ineffably horrible end. On the heels of that, it slid forth the image of a bewildered and lost countenance of a young Cassandra Jasic...implying a connection that made absolutely no sense in any logical context.

_'It seems that logic has taken a vacation, Donny boy...you've been drawn into an entirely new reality, where the old rules are no longer germane. Remember...only a fool ignores his gut instinct.'_ Donald grimaced and sought distraction in dialogue, knowing full well that this persistent hound would return to waylay him soon enough. "Ewan, you seem....flummoxed?"

McGowan turned his troubled gaze upon Gansby and the full extent of his disquiet became readily apparent. "Points for observation then, Donald, because that summarizes how I feel perfectly...flummoxed. What we saw in there was simply impossible and I'm sure that the three of us are of the same opinion that the spies and the military techs won't come up with a plausible explanation, so I can't help but ask myself where exactly that leaves us. Invisible murderers? Frankly, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to assimilate that idea."

Quietly, Mary offered, "I think all three of us feel exactly the same, but I wonder if we should just set the methodology aside for the time being...and treat it as if it's really a perplexing distraction from what we should be focusing on?"

"You're proposing that we ignore the white elephant...I'm not entirely sure I follow your reasoning here, Inspector Langdon," McGowan remarked with a puzzled frown.

As Donald watched her, Mary turned the full weight of her imposing gaze on Ewan. "Please call me Mary. Basically, I'm suggesting that we don't know _how_ Greavy was murdered, but we may have a formative sense of _why_ he was murdered. I'm merely suggesting that we concentrate on what we are able to work with and hope that it will yield some insight into the baffling _white elephant_. Every indication intimates that someone believed that Thomas Greavy was doing something particularly vile to his children...or other children...or intended to. I assert that we should focus on determining if there is any credence to this allegation...and concentrate on how the murderer came to obtain this impression of Greavy."

Ewan pondered this briefly and then turned to Donald and beamed a broad Ewan McGowan grin, "I do believe we've found ourselves a much-needed razor, Donald." To Mary, he remarked, "You're right...wasting time on imponderables will yield nothing of value. We'll leave that in the hands of the lads upstairs. I'll have you both concentrate on the Greavy murder and your specific considerations, while I familiarize myself with the cases against the five dead pedophiles. Am I correct in saying that these men were listed in the public directory...which is open to anyone's perusal?"

Mary nodded. "Yes...because of the severity of their convictions, their lives became open books for the public safety. It would have been a simple matter for someone to identify these men for what they were. Essentially, our society has elected to brand these men with a glaringly obvious target"

Ewan nodded thoughtfully and Donald perceived that he was grateful to be back on familiar investigative ground where things could be examined through the clarifying lens of conventional logic. "I will concentrate on going back through the eleven other homicides and trying to establish this pedophile connection. I'll probably be tapping you frequently for insight Mary...so expect that your time with Scotland Yard Homicide is going to be frenetic."

"It's exactly why I'm here, inspector," Mary returned seriously.

"Ewan," McGowan interjected with a smile. "I doubt that I have to, but I'm going to reiterate the superintendent's caveat...we have to approach this aspect of the investigation with extreme delicacy. For reasons mentioned this is particularly true in the case of Isobel Greavy, but would also apply to the other eleven victims as well, many of whom had families who were devastated by the murder of their loved one. Intimating that these men might have been sexual deviants will not sit well with these families and frankly...I'm daunted by the prospect of approaching them from this angle. Again, I will be looking to you for guidance. We'll be covering a great deal of ground, but given what happened in Knightsbridge, I doubt resource allocation is going to be an issue from this point forth."

"I'm all for being circumspect Ewan, but there are two very different reasons why we have to establish the legitimacy of this pedophilia link in an expeditious manner," Mary replied and though her voice was even and modulated, Donald could glean the presence of a hard, uncompromising passion lurking just beneath the surface. "If my suppositions are even remotely correct, whoever did this is far from done. Quite the contrary in fact...they are just getting cycled up. Dallying simply won't do...even in the name of sensitivity. There's another reason that I can't be overly concerned about the feelings and reputations of the eleven victims, though this may be difficult to understand without having been exposed to the ugly realities governing my world. The child victims of this crime are scarred for life...many beyond any hope of reclamation. Their only hope for any kind of closure comes in acknowledgement of the grievous wrong done to them...an admission of guilt or some other form of declaration that they were victimized. This is the only way these children will ever heal or be able to take up the threads of normalcy. If these eleven men were engaged in this type of activity, we owe it to their victims to drag it into the light."

Both Donald and Ewan we're nonplussed by Mary's quiet vehemence, but both could at least empathize with its source. In a subdued voice, Ewan remarked, "Very well, I'm going to contact Mrs. Greavy and see if she would be amenable to a brief interview sometime tomorrow. If she is, I'll let you meet with her at the place of her choosing. Once that's done, I'm going to check in with the vivacious Ms. Cheevers and see where our lodgings situation is at." He stood and extended his hand to Mary, who accepted it with a warm smile. "I'm grateful you're on board, Mary...something tells me that we're going to require every iota of expertise you can bring to bear on this investigation before it's done. Now, you may have noticed that our Donald is a peculiar lad, but if he becomes particularly vexing, just cuff him behind the ear."

He then smiled at Donald and walked away. When the pair was alone, Donald averted his gaze to his hands and observed, "Ewan is right...we are going to need your every bit of insight on this case. Even setting aside the insanity depicted in the video, this investigation appears set to veer into territory that neither Ewan nor I are qualified to deal with. Oh...and he wasn't being literal when he said that you could cuff me behind the ear."

"Best not to be vexing then, Donald," she retorted with a slight grin. "I really do grasp the need for sensitivity in approaching Isobel Greavy, but it's imperative that we get inside Thomas' head because it may well be the only path to unraveling the mystery of this particular _white elephant_."

Donald pursed his lips and said, "Mary, there is one aspect of this that perplexes me and it has to do with the five registered sex offenders. You mentioned that this registry is an easily accessed list that is open to public scrutiny, correct?"

She nodded, her penetrating blue eyes boring into him intently. Donald met her gaze unflinchingly. "I'm going to assume that the list is a great deal more extensive than five names...so if this is strictly a vendetta against pedophiles, why weren't more victims on that list. For that matter, why weren't all of the victims from that list. If you have an immutable hatred for pedophiles, the authorities have essentially composed a convenient list of targets...so why seek your victims elsewhere? Also...if your theory is substantiated...then that is really what we are dealing with here...a vigilante?"

"Yes...I firmly believe the perpetrator of this crime should be characterized as a vigilante, who is deliberately seeking out and ruthlessly murdering pedophiles. In respect to your first question...it's a valid point and one for which I have no viable explanation. Still, I ascribe to the conviction that this is a related string of crimes...all committed for the same reason."

Again, Donald was assailed by the unsettling notion that he was blithely sailing into uncharted waters. "This person would regard themselves as someone doing a...public service...ridding the city of a particularly nasty parasite?"

"Yes," came the tacit reply, nuanced by emotions that Donald could not interpret.

Wondering why he felt the compulsive need to persist, Donald nonetheless asked, "Is this how you see them as well...given the nature of the crimes these men have committed?"

For a moment, anger and indignation flared in Mary's blue eyes, but Donald's expression was open and earnest, inspired by a genuine need to understand something so baffling to a man possessed of normal sensibilities. Sighing, she attempted to articulate her complex feelings toward the perpetrators of the most heinous of crimes. "Many of the men who committed these acts are monsters...psychopaths whose twisted fixations happen to focus on small children. Others are men such as Thomas Greavy and their situation is considerably more...complicated. They are driven by a compulsion that they often struggle incessantly to repress. The adamant and fraught denial Thomas Greavy made in the moments before he was killed implies that he had struggled for a long time to keep his demons in a cage. In short, these men have committed unconscionable crimes and should be made to atone for those crimes...but not like this. They are afflicted by black compulsions that are relentless sources of internal torment. In truth, they would require clinical help in trying to repress these urges, but the stigma associated with this particular disease all but guarantees that they'll never find that help."

Donald flushed and he shifted his gaze to the commissary windows, grasping just what it had been that he had implied. "I'm sorry Mary...I had no right to ask that question...I've been working with Ewan too long. I'm going to have to refresh my understanding of social boundaries."

To Gansby's surprise, Mary reached across the table and squeezed his right forearm in reassurance, "Don't be...you and I are going to be working together in what I predict will be some very trying circumstances over the next while. We both have a right to know who we're dealing with." After a momentary pause, she continued, "Now I would like to ask you a question...or perhaps make an observation and you tell me if I've missed the trolley."

Donald smiled at this quaint adage and nodded for her to proceed, though the rapier precise observation that followed quickly made him wish he hadn't. "Perhaps I'm way off the mark, but when we were viewing the tape for the first few times, you exhibited an extremely intense reaction to two distinct segments in particular...reactions that could not be attributed to shock alone. Am I wrong?"

The denial began to take shape on his lips, but something in her incisive scrutiny informed Donald that he would permanently lose her trust if she discerned the slightest hint of prevarication in his response. Unaccountably, it was suddenly critically important that he not allow that unfortunate juncture to come to pass. Still, how could he possibly articulate what he was thinking without sounding hopelessly daft? "You're right, but my reaction really had nothing to do with this investigation. I'm going to ask you a favor...could you just give me a temporary pass on this one thing. I haven't really sorted it out in my mind yet, but once I do...I promise to come clean. I think you'll find the whole notion rather amusing."

Mary pursed her full lips and nodded, but the glint in her eye made it clear that she was dissatisfied with his response. "Let's go back down and go over the eleven files...if that's okay with you?"

Donald agreed and the pair rose and made their way back to his work station. In the back of his mind, Donald was unequivocally certain of one thing...the exceptionally sharp Mary Langdon would not find what he was contemplating amusing...not in the least.

Chapter Six

1

The melodic tinkling of the antique bell over the wooden door drew Caralampio Katsaros out of his doze and set his heart racing. Katsaros was the proprietor of a small grocery store that had been in the family for ten generations. In the greater world beyond, time marched on like an inexorable juggernaut, but in Petalidi time was held at bay by a force that even the residents of the town could not entirely fathom. In addition to being the small town grocer, the sixty-four year old Katsaros was the mayor of Petalidi and had been for the better part of twenty years.

Caralampio had lived in the small Greek village his entire life and it was here that he would die, content in the knowledge that he would be buried in the same cemetery as men and women who had walked these streets before the time of Jesus.

He raised his head from his forearm and shifted his bleary-eyed regard to the front of the store, his broad face breaking into an exuberant grin upon recognizing his customer.

Wearing a beige linen dress that did nothing to hide her exquisite figure despite the conservative cut of the clothing, Lizbet Asari radiated the kind of beauty that could inspire the ancient gods to compose sonnets to her pulchritude. Caralampio could feel his heart begin to race as he watched her long golden mane sway across her back like loom spun gold as she approached his time worn counter. Yet it was not her beauty that had always made the old man's heart soar. Lizbet (and Caralampio had long doubted this was her real name) appeared to be surrounded by a golden corona...a radiance that shone and could banish all feelings of weariness and despair just through the sheer magnitude of her presence. Hers was a grace and divinity that was...Katsaros knew...all too rare in human beings, whose auras were tarnished by the onerous burden of everyday life.

Today, as Lizbet approached the polished wooden countered that had witnessed transactions for the last three hundred years, that effulgence seemed distinctly muted and the smile she offered the old man was uncharacteristically wan.

"Did I catch you napping, Caralampio?" She inquired with feigned disapproval. "It's two o'clock in the afternoon."

"The tourists have all gone home...and you can hardly fault an old man for taking advantage, Lizbet," the old man retorted with an exaggerated plaintive whine that made her smile. "If I could have only one customer...it would be you."

When Lizbet did not respond to his comment with her usual gaiety, the old man arched a thick eyebrow and his demeanor became sober. "Is all well, Lizbet...you seem troubled?"

She offered him another subdued smile that essentially confirmed his worst fears. "I'm afraid that I may be leaving soon, Caralampio...though I'm still not certain when."

"Will you...be coming back, Lizbet," he inquired, not fully able to contain his sadness that she might permanently leave Petalidi...as if her departure might take with it some of the town's essence as well. The thought of her sudden leaving made it acutely clear to the aging villager just how profoundly this woman's almost mystical presence had added a positive, albeit abstract element to ancient Petalidi's aura. Though it was hard to imagine...in light of all of the grand figures who had walked these streets over the course of history...Caralampio Katsaros believed that this ethereal creature's absence would leave Petalidi somehow diminished.

"If I do have to leave, Caralampio, it is unlikely that I will be returning," she replied softly and now the regret resonated clearly in her dulcet voice. "That is why I have come to see you today...if you are willing, there is a favor that I would ask of you."

"Of course, good lady...I can think of nothing that you would ask that Petalidi...or Caralampio Katsaros would not willingly give," he replied without embellishment.

Her tone became grave as she began by delivering a chilling warning, "It's possible that someone will arrive in Petalidi...looking for me. They might ask questions and show pictures, though I'm not really certain."

"You know that we would never speak a word of your presence, Lizbet," Caralampio interjected hastily, wanting to emphasize just how secure her privacy was with the citizens of the village.

"Of course...but just this once, I want you to make an exception. If someone should ask you about me...or show you a photograph...I want you to say that you have seen me in the village regularly, but you don't know who I am or where I reside. Then I want you to send someone to fetch me, Caralampio." Her voice assumed an exigent edge as she added, "Once you've done this...it's important that you give this person a wide berth...ignore them completely if possible."

"Are you in danger, Lizbet?" Caralampio inquired, shuddering at the thought that someone would intentionally harm this exquisite jewel.

The answering smile that adorned Lizbet Asari's face was one that the old mayor had never before glimpsed...feral and fraught with vague menace. "No, Caralampio, but the people who may come looking for me might not take kindly to interference."

She the reached into her purse and handed the mayor an envelope with his name written on the front. He took the envelope and glanced questioningly at the statuesque blond, who nodded encouragingly. "Should I have to leave, this is my gift to Petalidi, Caralampio...a token of my appreciation for the kindness your village has extended to me during my years here."

He accepted the envelope with trembling fingers, despising the finality of this gesture. Crestfallen, he pleaded, "Do you really have to leave, Lizbet? This is your home...you are part of this village and there isn't anything we would not do to have you stay...to _protect_ you if that is what is required."

Her returning smile was fey and somehow timeless...carrying with it an aspect of tragedy that made Caralampio Katsaros' heart clench painfully in his broad chest. "There is nothing that I would love better than to remain here...to spend the rest of my life sitting in the shadow of the harbor walls while watching the sun make its way across the sky. It seems that the world is often disinclined to accommodate such capricious dreams, Caralampio. I've often thought that life is very much like a turbulent storm that would occasionally grant us periods of respite. The years I've spent in Petalidi have been amongst the happiest of my life and I will always look back at my time here with fondness because it was here that I learned the joy of simply being alive. In answer to your question, Caralampio...if someone does come looking for me, I will have no choice but to leave...but I will never forget my time in Petalidi or the people who helped make it so memorable."

As he listened, the old man's brown eyes had misted over and he stammered, "You're going to make an old man cry, Lizbet Asari."

With surprising swiftness, she reached across the counter and gripped his right forearm. Ardently, she insisted, "You will not cry and you won't feel sorrow for my leaving or pity for me, Caralampio. You will be happy and live a long life in this beautiful place by the water and when you do think of me, it will be a fond memory without regret...you must promise me this!"

In the next instant, Caralampio's aging body, deep in which the first nascent stirring of the malignant cells had already begun to germinate, was suffused by soothing warmth. It gathered like golden effulgence and rolled through his body like an ameliorating light, banishing these seeds of infirmity before they could take root. When the process was complete, Lizbet retreated a pace and offered the old man a smile of heartbreaking magnitude. Caralampio Katsaros sighed and settled back unto his stool, his face set in a broad grin of dreamy contentment. "Lizbet, this may seem like the rambling of a silly old man, but if you had been my daughter I would have named you Agapita."

"Agapita...it's such a pretty name...what does it mean?" she inquired, profoundly touched by the old man's sentiment.

"It means _she who is loved and wanted_. You have become Petalidi's Agapita."

"Goodbye Caralampio Katsaros," Lizbet Asari intoned formally, even as she smiled affectionately at the old man whom she had come to care for so deeply.

"Goodbye Lizbet Asari," Katsaros replied in a voice he scarcely recognized, feeling as if the weight of years had been rolled from his shoulders.

She turned and left his store and he watched her leave, still grinning in contentment and though he would never see the woman he had known as Lizbet Asari again, she would never stray far from Caralampio Katsaros' thoughts for the remainder of his life.

2

Two men stood in the shadows and watched as the tractor-trailer pulled away from the loading dock and began to move out into the sprawling complex of yards that constituted the Blackwall Docks Shipping Facility. The facility was owned by one Sir Ian Barrows and had been a part of a massive refurbishing project that had lifted the area back to prominence the decade prior. The particular container that now held the pair's attention had commenced its journey in the Gdansk Shipyard in Poland and had made its way through the Baltic, before sailing out into the Atlantic and then into the Port of London. Nondescript and one of thousands, it had easily cleared the rigorous customs inspection and had been loaded onto this particular transport for the relatively short final leg of its journey to a very specialized facility just ninety kilometers north of the greater city of London.

The manifest claimed that the container housed a shipment of common and cheap household electronics from Hungary, but both men knew that its contents were infinitely more precious and eclectic than disposable consumer detritus.

"No issues clearing customs inspections?" The first man asked, his harsh angular face set in an inscrutable expression that was no less intimidating for being indecipherable.

The second man, a nondescript middle-aged man named Roger Pipson, shook his head, "Not a one...the cloaking tech works like a charm."

The other man merely smiled but offered no comment. Peytor Estrovich then turned his disconcerting gaze on the watery-eyed Englishman and offered the shorter man a smile that glinted like new barbed-wire. He handed the other man a small briefcase and remarked, "You will find the new distribution list and your...compensation. The people for whom I work are...immensely pleased with the progress of our _little project_ and thus we can anticipate an acceleration of both the shipments and the frequency with which you'll receive these lists. Of course, your compensation will increase proportionally."

Pipson, who had made a career of surviving in the seedy underbelly of London, had long ago learned never to display any emotion that might be misconstrued as greed before men such as the one now standing next to him. He merely nodded as if the matter of compensation was of little consequence to him one way or the other. The truth was diametrically opposite as his unexpected association with Estrovich had padded Pipson's personal worth to a level he had previously thought unattainable.

As the transport vanished from sight, Peytor inquired in his deceptively neutral voice, "The distribution of our _devices_ goes well?"

"It does," Pipson replied automatically, but the fleeting glint of something must have rippled in his mild blue eyes because the perceptive Estrovich's eyes narrowed.

"I sense you harbor a...misgiving, Roger. If you have a concern, I would hear it. The people who employ us are not enamored with surprises and it would not do if it was found that you did not see fit to apprise me of potential... _complications_." The implicit warning in the foreigner's voice was not lost on Pipson, who had learned to survive by not running afoul of men exactly like the one standing beside him.

"The distribution of the shadow boxes has proceeded without the slightest snag. Everyone on your list has accepted them...even the ones who tried to appear openly reluctant. I can feel their _addiction_ radiating like a disease...how badly they want to snatch the device up...like a junkie who's three days out from his last fix. No matter how desperately they might want to refuse...inevitably they all take the box...as predictable as a Swiss watch." Pipson lapsed into a silent contemplation of the amazing addictive attraction of this rather innocuous device, wondering...not for the first time...how precisely it managed to so hopelessly ensnare its victims. He suddenly found Estrovich's right hand clamp down on his forearm with bone-crushing force and jerked his gaze to meet the other man's terrifying regard.

"But something else troubles you...yes?" the man persisted, boring into Pipson with a penetrating gaze that reminded Roger of a stiletto...precise and cruel. Hesitantly, Pipson began to articulate his concern.

"In the last few months, two of the men to whom I had given your device have been murdered...in extremely savage fashion," he disclosed.

"And you saw fit to apprise me of this only now?" Estrovich intoned with unconcealed menace.

"The second murder only happened last night...I only heard about it on the telly this morning," Pipson said quickly, clearly unnerved by the man's sudden displeasure and implicit criticism. On the shadow periphery of civilization, judgments were rendered quickly and executed with stunning alacrity. "The man murdered last night was the rich one...from Knightsbridge."

Something flickered briefly in Estrovich's inhuman eyes...there and gone in the beat of an apprehensive heart. As fleeting as if had been, Pipson had perceived its presence and was astonished by its shape. For the briefest instant, Peytor Estrovich's glacial blue eyes had exuded bewilderment...and enormous fear...an emotion of which Pipson would not have thought the other man to be capable. When the big man spoke, however, any trace of apprehension was gone...having given way to his normally unflappable composure. "You've done well to bring this to my attention, Roger. This is something that definitely bears watching...better to extinguish a spark than a raging conflagration, is it not?"

Estrovitch uttered a mirthless chuckle and Pipson dutifully joined in, but he had seen the anxiety in this monster's eyes and knew that it might not bode well for his own future, Roger Pipson...a long time denizen of the shadow world...began to plan his exit strategy. It only occurred to him later that he had entered a labyrinth from which there was, in fact, no escape.

3

The rain had relented to a fine drizzle by the time Donald Gansby and his new partner exited the Gallsworth building and hurried into the visitor's parking lot. Friday afternoon traffic was heavy and Donald was contemplating the prospect of an annoying drive back to Soho and stealing furtive glances at the woman who walked beside him, when he noticed the vintage bottle green Jaguar Elegante idling in the parking lot directly behind his Mini Cooper, which looked tawdry by comparison. Donald uttered a groan and flicked his gaze to his watch which seemed to glare balefully while informing him that it was quarter to six.

"Bollocks!" He muttered thickly which drew a questioning frown from Mary Langdon. Donald shook his head apologetically, just as the driver side door of the Jaguar swung slowly open and a tall, strikingly beautiful red-head stepped into the early evening gloom. She fixed Donald with a glance of what might have been mild exasperation and leaned back against the car, while crossing both her arms and slender ankles.

"A bit of a memory lapse, was it then?" the woman demanded in a slightly peevish tone that quickly gave way to a giggle. She pushed off the car and strode over to Mary with a long right arm extended and her face set in a warm, disarming smile that Mary decided could quite probably melt a glacier. Mary accepted the taller woman's hand, who announced, "I'm Cassande Verhoeven...Donald's significant other. I was supposed to collect him for an early dinner before taking in a play on the south side...but it appeared that he's been...distracted."

Cassande then swept a keen gaze of appraisal over Mary and the incisive Langdon noticed that her broad smile never touched her large blue eyes. Donald came forward and even as he introduced her, Mary could discern a level of discomfort in his demeanor that went far beyond simply having forgotten that he had made prior plans. He appeared unaccountably sheepish as if something in his relationship with this stunning creature was cause for...embarrassment. "Cassande, this is Inspector Mary Langdon. Mary has been assigned to collaborate on the investigation that Ewan and I have been working on these last several months."

"What has become of the charming Ewan then?" Cassande inquired lightly, never taking her piercing gaze from Mary's face. There was something disconcerting in that frank regard as if the taller woman was searching for something very specific. Not certain why, Mary refused to be intimidated in the face of that intense scrutiny and met Cassande's gaze unblinkingly as if to declare that she would not be daunted by the other woman's beauty and obvious affluence. After a moment, Cassande's smile broadened and now its light did reflect in those exquisite blue eyes.

_'It's almost as if I've somehow passed some vague test of her approval,'_ Mary thought and while she was vexed by the notion, she was bemused to realize that she was also unaccountably grateful that she had. In his discomfort, Donald appeared totally oblivious to the moment of extreme empathy that had just passed between the two women.

"Ewan is going to be the general on this and Mary and I will be his foot soldiers. Anyway, this is her first day and we have to be back here tomorrow, so I'm sure she's anxious to be off," Donald remarked, drawing a puzzled frown from his new partner.

To his chagrin, Cassande stepped beside Mary and linked her arm with the startled woman's left arm. "Nonsense...Donald is constantly trying to keep me away from his mates on the force and if I was another kind of girl, I might be rather put off by it all." She leaned closer to Mary and with a theatrically loud whisper, intoned, "Frankly, I think he's rather embarrassed that I'm so much taller than he is."

Donald appeared stricken by Cassande's forward behavior, but the younger woman's unexpected levity caught Mary off guard and she laughed, correctly discerning that this was a woman whose charm would be difficult to resist when she brought its full weight to bear. "Listen Mary, this play that we were off to see was my idea...and an iffy proposition at best...maybe you're keeping Donald late was an act of providence." Her blue eyes grew comically large, lending her a child-like aspect and she gushed, "I've had a brilliant notion...why don't we forego the play and the three of us go to dinner instead?"

Donald's obvious discomfort grew geometrically at this suggestion, causing the perceptive Mary to question its fundamental cause. There was something decidedly _off kilter_ about the degree to which her new partner seemed ill at ease with his ravishing and thoroughly charming girlfriend. This inconsistency germinated a seed of intuition...all ice and razor blades...in Langdon's incisive mind as if it presented a conundrum she must solve. Offered as a pleading entreaty, Donald remarked, "Cassande, we really can't impose on Mary...it's been a particularly trying day and I'm sure she'd like to be shut of me for a few hours."

"Nonsense, Donald," she intoned dismissively, flashing that brilliant smile like a rapier. She turned to Mary and inquired, "If it's a matter of a waiting hubby, then we can collect him as well and all go off to dinner together. What district do you live in, Mary?"

"Islington...and there's no waiting husband...only Holmes and Watson, my two cats. They do have a tendency to become cross when they haven't had their dinner at the prescribed time," Mary replied.

"A cat lady then...well, English men obviously have no taste whatsoever if you remain unclaimed?" Cassande declared with mock solemnity, drawing a groan of despair from Donald, who appeared on the verge of apoplexy. "We'll drive to Islington...it really is a quaint part of the city...and wait on the street, while you feed the lions. Then we can go off to dinner at the place of your choosing and you can be back at a reasonable hour...my treat!"

The girl's natural effervescence, combined with Mary's braying instinct that it was crucially important that she unravel this couple's discordant dynamic, compelled Mary to accept. Despite her desire for nothing more than an evening with her two cats, a cup of tea and a few hours of mindless telly, Mary Langdon smiled and replied, "How could I possibly refuse?"

She shifted her gaze to Donald, who appeared crestfallen by this unexpected turn of events. _'We are definitely going to have an intense conversation over this anomaly tomorrow,'_ she thought bemusedly, but said, "Donald, I hope this hasn't disrupted your plans?"

Gansby sighed in resignation, "Of course not."

Cassande slid forward and bestowed a fervent kiss on his right cheek. "That's a dutiful Donald...now off to Islington we all go."

It was in this rather transitory fashion that Mary Langdon first met the creature that would take her life some short time hence.

4

Olem Beyarov stared fixedly at the perplexing assortment of data that was arrayed across the surface of his large working table like the components of an alien mechanism...the purpose of which he could not decipher. He had been in this particular contemplative posture for the better part of an hour, trying to find a resolution to the unprecedented moral quandary into which he'd fallen. He blinked owlishly and then dry scrubbed his angular face with his hands, before shifting his gaze to the floor to ceiling bank of windows that dominated the north exposure of what he had come to think of as his personal sanctum. In truth, Sir Ian Barrows owned every single item in the facility...from the state of the art AI arrays, to the coffee cups...and if he was being entirely candid, to Olem Beyarov himself. Despite the savagery with which their forced association had commenced, Sir Ian had proven to be a benevolent and generous feudal lord over the course of the years...willing to lavishly indulge Olem's every creative whim. There wasn't a piece of equipment in this facility that hadn't been specifically procured at the Russian expatriate's behest...a fact that filled the reticent Beyarov with quiet pride.

In all candor, Olem understood that he owed everything to the ruthless Englishman, who possessed the ethical sensibilities of an East African pirate. Still, Sir Ian was the quintessential serviceable villain, whose astute business mind made him receptive to the radical slant of Beyarov's creative genius. Olem, whose own sensibilities did not vary greatly from his master's had been allowed to indulge his genius to its fullest extent in this research facility, producing some programming masterpieces that...while not technically legal...had certainly helped Barrows grow his already dizzying fortune.

Ever the pragmatist, Beyarov was accordingly grateful and this was the primary reason why he had applied himself to Barrow's latest bizarre commission with such fanatical zeal. Olem had long perceived data as a vast invisible ocean, literally bursting with potential for exploitation. The analogy of a skilled fisherman caused the Russian to grin because it was so succinctly apt. There was no snippet of wisdom this roiling sea would not yield...if one possessed the necessary tools to entice it forth. Sir Ian had been unerringly accurate in his contention that the data ocean was the ideal place to seek out otherwise inconspicuous longevity anomalies...to corroborate or reject their legitimacy.

The technical challenge came in establishing the correct parameters with which to undertake the search. The process of harvesting this dauntingly large ocean could really be likened to culling superfluous and irrelevant data and distilling the remaining data down to the most relevant within established parameters. Beyarov possessed all of the skills necessary to create such a program...if given the razor precise parameters necessary to refine his search criteria. To establish these crucial parameters, Beyarov had enlisted the help of three of the century's greatest theoretical mathematicians...enticing them with an intriguing challenge and a liberal dollop of Sir Ian's money in the form of research contributions.

In the two intervening weeks, Olem had concentrated on selecting the venues through which he would conduct his search, while the analytical mathematicians had applied themselves to the task of defining parameters. Being from the same part of the world, none had bothered to inquire about the possible practical value of this _eclectic project_...wisely concerning themselves only with the theoretical aspects of the challenge. All four men had come from a part of the world where expressing undue interest in things beyond your normal scope of concern could pose an extreme hazard to your wellbeing. It was this compartmentalized thinking that often facilitated the most heinous of crimes, but again, these were matters over which Olem was disinclined to waste much thought.

While the mathematicians worked their incomprehensible magic, Olem contemplated the selection of the best parts of the ocean in which to conduct his search and the venues through which that search could be conducted. The identity business and its inherent verification process were naturally more firmly established in the Western European and North American countries...where governments went to great lengths to gather as much information concerning their citizens as possible. With the right programming and aggressive ferreting techniques, divining possible age verification and discrepancies were comparatively easier matters, while in other areas of the world, age anomalies would be far more difficult to identify and examine. A person in Timor could claim to be one hundred and twenty years old and it would be virtually impossible to confirm the veracity of their claim.

When the trio had produced a preliminary set of mind-bogglingly complex algorithms, Olem had quickly integrated them into his crude beta program and let the beast loose into the data ocean. He had sat back in amazement and watched as his _fishing trawler_ had efficiently cut a swath through every firewall and security ward in existence...identifying a preliminary set of _peculiarities_ for the Russian to consider. It had been his intention to examine this _catch_ with a mind to identifying deficiencies in the parameters and programming for subsequent refinement.

Though the vast majority of the initial yield proved to be flawed and easily discredited...one particularly riveting anomaly had captured Olem's attention. Thinking that this particular _discrepancy_ could be easily discredited, Beyarov had re-calibrated his creation to focus exclusively on this one specific data set.

To his consternation, the program had labored mightily for over a day, burrowing through endless convoluted tangents of seemingly unrelated data...like an inexorable hound that will not be put off a scent. Beyarov had considered terminating the effort, suspecting that an imperfection in the program was causing it to waste time exploring dead ends, but some deeper instinct had compelled him to allow the process to run its mysterious course.

When he had returned to the facility this morning, Olem had been confronted by a data yield that was as incontrovertible as existing technology could produce...confirming the anomaly's validity to ninety-nine point nine to the infinite percent.

He glanced back down at what seemed impossible by any known convention of logic. His eyes scanned the critical data and then shifted to the recent photograph that had been juxtaposed against this irreconcilable collection of vital statistics. Olem shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose before working his way through this complex labyrinth of data to a conclusion that defied all reason.

Elizabeth Simpson had been born in 1949 and was listing as missing and presumed dead in 1976. Beyarov's tenacious data trawling creation had breached American Federal Records to show that the mysterious Simpson had appeared in various parts of the United States on three separate occasions in the year of 2001. This was all very mysterious, but hardly noteworthy in the context of Olem's interest, but it was here that his ingenious data trawler had displayed its gift...scanning innumerable facial recognition logs and records...until it produced an image of one Lizbet Asari taken via a string of traffic cameras near the small Greek village of Petalidi. Olem shifted his gaze from the two dimensional photograph of Elizabeth Simpson to the three dimensional model of Lizbet Asari that had slid forth from his three dimensional printer. The eerie resemblance made the light blond hair on his forearms stand on end.

From this uncanny resemblance, Beyarov had instructed his trawler to play a virtual game of connect the timeline dots, while he had subjected the host of photographs and images to the scrutiny of his facial recognition software.

The culmination of this process had yielded two incomprehensible truths that shattered the foundations of Olem Beyarov's perception...Elizabeth Simpson and Lizbet Asari were one and the same person and call them by what moniker he would, the woman was one hundred and seven years old. His system had confirmed this incredible conclusion with an error probability that was so infinitesimally small as to be nonexistent.

Olem issued a voice command and conjured forth the last recorded image of Lizbet Asari...or Elizabeth Simpson. Elizabeth had been sitting on a bench near a stone wall when a tourist had evidently snapped a photograph of the blond beauty...later posting the photo on his social media page along with a host of other shots taken during a vacation trip.

The beauty immortalized in this photograph could not have been older than twenty-nine. Again, Olem had subjected this three dimensional rendering to an analytical examination...a highly experimental program designed to seek out evidence of physical alterations in the human face. If the individual had undergone even the slightest surgical or laser cosmetic process, this program...which Olem had purloined from the American CIA and refined...would identify the procedure...and more astounding still...undo its effects. Elizabeth Simpson's ineffably beautiful face had never seen a scalpel, laser or enhancement modification of any sort.

For all intents and purposes, Elizabeth Simpson was a one hundred and seven year old woman with the face and body of a twenty-nine year old...exactly the verifiable anomaly that Sir Ian Barrows was gambling his life upon.

Olem Beyarov should have been ecstatic...thrilled that his efforts had been met with such scintillating success on the very first try...and yet, as he sat in his personal sanctum...the Russian found himself plagued by a perplexing ambivalence.

His gaze strayed to the tourist's photo, which Olem had come to speculate had probably been snapped on impulse in response to unexpectedly discovering this beguiling beauty sitting by an ancient stone wall and gazing out at the ocean. There was something in her expression...some rare quality...that Beyarov simply lacked the sensibilities to articulate properly and yet touched him on an emotional level that he would have sworn he did not possess. Her luminous eyes seemed to be peering into dimensions that no other living being would have been capable of seeing. About her there hovered an aura of timeless grace...of long-suffering nobility...that twisted Beyarov's vitiated heart with its poignancy.

Olem Beyarov's unrelentingly grim life had not afforded him many occasions to witness the genuine beauty that life had to offer...much less contemplate the precious value of such beauty. Yet as he stared in mesmerized fascination at this randomly-captured image of living perfection, Olem reflected back on something his mother had once told him when he had been a very young boy. Unlike Elizabeth Simpson, Valirya Beyarov's face had resembled a road map of human misery and hopeless despair. He recalled how she had held his hand as they wandered through a park in Moscow she had abruptly stopped near a pond and pulling him to her side, pointed to a small group of swans. He had only been eleven at the time and lacked the facilities to divine the precise shape of her despair, but as she gazed at the graceful creatures, Valirya had offered, "This life does not allow us to gaze upon true beauty very often, Olem...and it's seldom kind to such things when it discovers them. Always look for the beauty there is to be had...embrace and cherish it whenever you're fortunate enough to find it. It's fleeting, but life holds very little purpose without it."

The gist of her message...offered in the desperate hope that her only son would find some measure of contentment in life...was lost upon young Olem, who even at the age of eleven was already well along the path to shadow. All too soon, his care-worn mother would be lost to the boy as well, the sad victim of one too many drunken fists.

Now, nearly forty years later, Olem grasped the intrinsic meaning of that imparted pearl of wisdom in a revelatory flash as he studied the sublimely beautiful countenance that reminded him of the birds he had watched so long ago.

Though he had long made it a point of not pondering things beyond the context of his immediate role, Olem could not ignore his understanding of exactly what would happen should he decide to share this information with Ian Barrows. Irrespective of her desires or willingness to participate, Elizabeth Simpson would soon find herself in a nondescript facility, where she would be subjected to every indignity and torture imaginable in search of the elixir that would save Barrows' wretched life. She would be dissected like a high school biology experiment, her immense beauty sacrificed in the name of Ian Barrows' insane desire to preserve his ugly existence.

Olem scowled...at the incongruity of his sudden scruples and the temerity of the act of defiance he was contemplating. Beyarov had survived through his harsh life by adhering to the way of the chameleon...by blending in and being inconspicuous. He did not make waves and he never held the desire to blaze his own trail. It had been this distinct lack of focus...of ambition...that had made it such an easy matter for opportunists to take full advantage of Olem's _talents_. As he stared at the serene countenance of this Elizabeth Simpson...a woman about whom he knew nothing...Olem Beyarov suddenly found himself wanting to protect her from a dying monster. In that unprecedented moment of selfless defiance, Olem decided that he would expunge every record of this creature's existence from the vast data ocean.

Fate is a fickle commodity and the mechanics that govern its function are often inexplicable and seemingly cruel beyond the capacity of the sentient mind to grasp. Had Olem Beyarov found that moral resolve only ten minutes earlier much of what followed never would have come to pass and the life-obliterating maelstrom that occurred would have been averted.

In his fixation with Elizabeth Simpson and the sudden exigent desire to spare her from the horror of Sir Ian Barrows' attention, Olem did not hear the door to his sanctuary open until the visitor was standing directly behind him.

"Found something interesting, have we?" Cedric Drury inquired in that cold, toneless voice that never failed to fill Beyarov with dread. This time, the Russian's heart clenched painfully in his chest and he swiveled around to find the unsettling Drury studying the three dimensional projection of the living hieroglyph known as Elizabeth Simpson. He pursed his thin lips, which were bisected by an ugly scar the man had suffered during his boxing career and picked up the vital data sheet that sat on Olem's desk. The dead eyes scanned the vital statistics and then widened slightly as Drury shifted his gaze to the rendering. With a rare display of animation, Cedric demanded, "You have verified this data?"

Trying to conceal his sudden dejection and hoping to discourage the other man's interest, Beyarov replied evenly, "To some extent, but this is the first yield of my beta program...so it doesn't carry a great deal of validity. The purpose of this first yield was simply to test the parameters of the program and make subsequent refinements...so there is no concrete credibility in this particular result."

Perhaps discerning the falsehood, Cedric studied the Russian carefully and then returned his attention to the other data that spread over Olem's desk like a snow drift. "Gather this information...we'll take it to Sir Ian at once. This is precisely what he is searching for and I can organize the required corroboration on the ground." He unexpectedly clapped the despondent Russian on the shoulder and smiled exuberantly. "You've done well, Olem. Should this anomaly pan out, I believe that your future will be one befitting a king."

Beyarov nodded dutifully, but as he gathered up his finding, Olem became convinced that this particular odious act would probably insure him a special place in hell.

Chapter Seven

1

Imirya Merin maneuvered her BMW coupe to the curb and stared bleakly through the drizzle-spattered windshield...staring morosely up at the house where she had been raised. That house had somehow assumed a sense of foreign and somehow hostile territory over the course of the last dozen years.

_'Not inexplicable at all, Imirya,'_ an internal voice contradicted with the slightest hint of impatience. _'You know precisely why this place seems so cold and alien...and when the gnawing impression first started.'_

Imirya inhaled sharply in anticipation of the incisive pain that always assailed her with the raising of this particular memory. It had been more than twelve years since her father had died and though she concealed her private grief from the world quite carefully, the pain of his loss had not been diminished by the passing of years.

' _And there's another very specific reason you are so reluctant to come back here, isn't there...while we're on the topic of honest introspection?'_ the voice inquired slyly as though relishing the consternation it was rousing. _'You still blame her...dear old mom...still think that her cold reticence caused him to wither and die...like a neglected flower in the shadow of Contayza's apathy.'_

"I'm not going to dwell on this, damn it!" She spat in a voice that was rife with vexed bemusement. Even as she uttered this emphatic denial, Imirya understood that evasion would do nothing to attenuate the truth of this internal tormentor's contentions. Frowning, Imirya glanced briefly at her watch, gathered her clutch purse and stepped out into the dull Massachusetts morning. Despite being the nation's preeminent Neurosurgeon and one of the stars of Massachusetts General Hospital's talented staff, Imirya always felt like wayward child when coming into the presence of her mother, with whom her relationship had slowly, almost imperceptibly frayed like an old rug in the years since her father's death.

Even at fifty-five, Imirya was a beautiful woman, but her driven nature made her beauty a distant, somehow inconsequential thing upon which she expended very little time and effort. Fortunately, she possessed a natural elegance and grace that allowed her to foster the impression of style while making very little actual investment of time in the effort. Though she remained unaware of the fact...Imirya had inherited this natural proclivity for effortless elegance from a woman she had never met...a woman who had died tragically before Imirya had been born, under strange circumstances that Imirya never fully understood...again in large part due to her mother's intransigence.

She strode up the walk and knocked on the door, glancing about the old neighborhood that had also managed to become alien to her over the course of the last decade. There was a great and intrinsic sadness in this realization which Imirya was disinclined to entertain. Her life had been lived at a frenetic pace and in her desire to ameliorate the suffering of strangers, Imirya Merin had sacrificed the private cornerstones of her life...her marriage and the complex relationship with her mother had both been casualties of that sacrifice. Only two relationships had managed to survive the consuming vacuum of Imirya's passion for her career...her love for her dead father and her love for her daughter, Rebecca. Somehow, they had managed to win an allotment of space in Imirya's life that she had been unable or unwilling to impart to anyone else. Only now was she beginning to grasp the cumulative toll this obsessive quest for perfection had extracted from everyone around her.

Today's visit with her mother had been more of an official summons than a casually requested visit. As always, Contayza had been vexingly secretive about the subject of this summons, but Imirya had gleaned the exigency in her mother's tone and had reluctantly agreed to visit, despite the pressing demands of her schedule.

Some instinct informed her that the subject of this forthcoming discussion would revolve around Rebecca and the nature of that discussion was not likely to be amicable.

Contayza opened the door and gazed up at her daughter, who towered a full eight inches above her diminutive mother. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, it would have been difficult to recognize that Imirya was related to the woman standing before her...much less that the pair were mother and daughter. The differences in appearance were symbolic of the vast disparities in attitude and perspective that had come to forge a divide between the two women and Imirya found it increasingly difficult to spend any appreciable length of time in her mother's caustic presence.

Contayza, dressed in black slacks and a white blouse, threw back her long black and silver hair and stepped aside, gesturing for her daughter to come in without so much as a word of greeting. Despite being cognizant of its causes, the coldness still evoked a sharp stab of pain in Imirya's heart.

She followed her mother into the sitting room and remarked, "I'm giving a lecture to a group of interns this afternoon, mother...so I don't have a great deal of time. Your tone made this seem urgent, so I've taken time out of my schedule..."

She left the final sentiment unexpressed, but Contayza interpreted it perfectly and offered her daughter a knowing grin that was devoid of humor. "Of course, Imirya...as always, your life makes little allowance for the few people that actually occupy it. Still, I'll come to the point so that you can go back to your beloved hospital."

Imirya grimaced, not wanting the old rancor to flare. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean it that way. It's just that..."

Contayza forestalled her explanation with a raised hand. "Don't bother...it's precisely what you meant and we both know it. I've had a rather _disturbing_ visit and there is much we have to discuss...especially concerning Rebecca."

"Rebecca? Someone has visited _you_ concerning Rebecca?" Imirya exclaimed anxiously.

Contayza waved a thin hand dismissively. "Not directly...but I have reason to believe that my granddaughter is in some kind of...danger."

"Danger...what are you talking about?" Imirya demanded, standing abruptly and nearly upending her chair.

"Sit down and listen!" Contayza hissed impatiently and the festering resentments that had come to characterize their sad relationship were never as close to the surface as they were at that precise moment. Contayza's next disclosure would lay them bare in all of their ugliness. She recounted the gypsy demon's warning and the nature of the perplexing dreams that had plagued her...both before and since Gregory had delivered his abstract, but nonetheless terrifying warning.

Imirya absorbed her mother's tale of a traveling minstrel demon and his cryptic warning in silence, her smoldering anger growing as Contayza attempted to make some logical sense of the dream association between Rebecca and her grandmother, Elizabeth. When she had reached the conclusion of this absurd tale, Contayza leaned forward and intoned fiercely, "This is why you must relent in your stubborn insistence that I do not speak to Rebecca of these matters...or apprise her of the gift residing within her."

For a protracted moment, Imirya did not respond...instead attempting to rein in her anger and prevent this exchange from veering off into a pointless barrage of vitriol and recriminations. She rose from her chair and strode over to her mother, towering over Contayza like a storm cloud. "Mother, enough...I will not hear another word of this nonsense and you will most definitely not approach Rebecca with this matter. She's just entered her final year of pre-med and you'll do absolutely nothing to distract or disrupt her studies...am I clear?"

To her absolute astonishment, Imirya found herself being pushed back across the room and deposited in her chair by invisible, but insistent hands. Wide-eyed with indignant outrage and astonishment, she seethed, "How dare you employ this primitive witchcraft on me? You've gone too far this time...mother!"

Contayza rose slowly from her own chair and stalked toward her daughter...those amber eyes burning like twin suns. Suddenly, Imirya felt the same huge and unseen force clamp her jaws shut, cutting off her outrage as if she'd been gagged. "For once in your adult life...you will listen to me. I will tolerate no more of your condescension or your disdain for my heritage...for your heritage and Rebecca's. You see the world from your lofty pinnacle of modern science and think you understand everything...but I'm going to tell you that you are wrong...that you know nothing! Today, I will make you see...rip away your damnable blinders. I will not let your skepticism hurt my granddaughter...allow her to be harmed by the things that are coming as surely as night will fall at the end of this day."

Imirya's eyes were wide with anger, but also the first nascent stirrings of fear. There was something...sinister in her mother's beautiful eyes today...something ineffably dangerous. As improbable as it might seem, Contayza might actually harm her own daughter if she did not at least give the impression of being receptive to this madness. As if in affirmation of this fear, Imirya's chair actually lifted slowly from the floor until her eyes were level with Contayza's gaze. Abruptly, the invisible gag vanished, leaving Imirya unsettled and gasping. Contayza offered her frightened daughter a humorless grin and intoned, "I take no pleasure in terrorizing my own daughter, but neither of us has the luxury of a protracted debate. Rebecca's life is in peril and though I can't fathom how, it has something to do with that long-dead, hateful bitch. You are going to permit to me to speak with Rebecca and help her to explore and develop her gift so that she can protect herself against whatever form this danger might assume."

"You've gone crazy!" Imirya spat derisively "Being cloistered in this big house with nothing but your bitterness and delusions for company has finally driven you mad. You're going to put me down and then I'm going to walk out of here...and maybe...if you seek help and I see that you're genuinely contrite...I might be able to look at you again."

Contayza's expression became flinty...that old obduracy that Imirya recognized so well from her years growing up in this house. The force holding the chair aloft withdrew and Imirya found herself crashing to the carpet as the ornate chair exploded beneath her in a clatter of broken wooden legs. Contayza came to stand over her dazed daughter and now her face was as cold and hard as steel in the depths of winter. "Perhaps it is you who should reflect on the delusions you cower behind. The man who came to me...Gregory...saved both your father and I fifty years ago and he has returned to tell me that my world is about to be thrust into chaos. This recurring dream has about it an aspect of augury and it is unequivocal in its insistence that our Rebecca is in danger. You can eschew your heritage and heap your disdain on our family, but I will not permit your prejudice to endanger Rebecca."

Imirya pushed herself to one elbow, regarding her mother in the manner of a woman gazing upon a potentially dangerous stranger. "Have you ever stopped to consider the possibility that your _augury_ is actually warning that _you_ are the threat to Rebecca...that your twisted obsession with my grandmother and this ludicrous bullshit you refer to as a heritage might actually be the real menace?"

A heavy glass vase leapt from a nearby table and sailed across the room, where it came to a halt...spinning like a dervish...only feet from Imirya's head. Standing utterly still in a posture made livid with rage, Contayza's large amber eyes bulged. She waved her right hand and the vase reversed course and shattered into tiny fragments against the far wall. In a low, quavering voice, she rasped, "Get out of my sight!"

Imirya rose on unsteady legs and brushed a hand through her disheveled hair, before retrieving her clutch purse and stumbling toward the hallway. She stopped by the door and pivoted in place, glaring balefully at her mother with her luminous blue eyes glistening with tears. "Alienate me then...just like you did with father...driving him away with your irrational hatred toward Elizabeth." Imirya understood that she was risking permanently extinguishing whatever tiny spark of affection remained between them, but found that she was powerless to restrain the accumulated vitriol. "You broke his heart with your inane insistence that he not even speak her name in your presence...that and your cold, inaccessible nature. Now, what do you have to show for your life...alone and bitter...willing to drive your own daughter away, rather than give up this foolishness?"

Contayza took a menacing step in Imirya's direction and lashed back with her own accrued contempt. "Now that is particularly rich, considering that you drove your husband into the arms of another woman...a good man whose only _crime_ was wanting the woman he married to acknowledge that he was alive and might actually mean something to her. You perceive yourself as a scintillating success...with your accolades and high praise...but when you're alone in your bed at night do you really view yourself as a success? If you're capable of that particular delusion, then I wonder who really is the crazy one?"

"Stay away from Rebecca...you hateful bitch...I'm warning you!" Imirya screamed...her normally erudite voice rising through the octaves until it had become a raw-edged screech.

Another invisible push sent Imirya reeling toward the door. Contayza strode to the end of the hall and growled, "Get out before I forget you were ever my daughter and do something I'll regret."

Bursting into hysterical tears, Imirya Merin groped for the door and staggered out into the New England gloom. She stumbled down the walkway, only distantly aware of an elderly couple that was watching her warily. She managed to make it back into her BMW without falling, and then buried her face in her hands and began to bawl in earnest.

In the darkened interior of the house, Contayza drifted back into the sitting room and came to stand before the large window, peering through the sheer curtains. Even from this distance, she could clearly see a distraught Imirya as an inner voice adjured, _'You foolish old woman...what have you done? Go after her...beg for her forgiveness...on your knees if that's what is required!'_

Contayza understood that she had allowed things to go horribly awry...perhaps permanently alienating her daughter...and doing absolutely nothing to mitigate the danger posed to Rebecca. As prudent as she realized the voice of reason's advice had been, Contayza remained riveted where she stood...paralyzed by her own uncompromising, damnable pride. After what seemed like an eternity, Imirya clumsily steered her car into the empty street and drove away.

Contayza turned her attention to the detritus of her ruined chair. In a way, the splintered wooden shards were a microcosm of what she had done to her life. Sighing, she began to collect the pieces...knowing that she had maladroitly cleared the last obstacle in introducing Rebecca to her heritage.

2

Traffic on this Saturday morning was blessedly light as Mary drove toward her new professional home on Victoria Embankment. With the morning sun reflecting off the dark waters of the Thames and a clear blue sky above her, Mary was nonetheless accosted by the unaccountable feeling that she had been thrust into a situation that was bewilderingly complex and fraught with a growing number of lethal riddles. The task that awaited her this morning did very little to alleviate her disquiet or lift her somber mood. The forthcoming interview with Isobel Greavy was critical to the investigation, but the prospect of interviewing a woman in her blackest moment of grief was not one that Mary relished...especially when she considered just what it was she was hoping to discover. There was an aspect of facile subterfuge to this forthcoming interview that Mary detested, but understood was necessary.

_'Be cautious Mary...you have to keep an open mind or you will find yourself becoming something less than useless,'_ the voice of her conscience reminded her in a stern, disapproving tone. The voice was correct of course...it was an easy matter to convict the purported offenders on instinct and inclination alone, but it was a compulsion that was not easy to resist given the heinous nature of the crimes being committed.

As she drove along the river, her thoughts strayed to the other topic that was troubling her...though this source of concern was far more nebulous...formative, but worrisome nonetheless. What had preoccupied her thoughts and kept her from a restful sleep was her new partner...Donald Gansby...and by extension, Donald's thoroughly perplexing relationship with his girlfriend, the beguiling and lovely Cassande Verhoeven.

_'Mary...is this really any of your business?'_ that inner voice demanded and on the surface, its contention was valid enough. Mary had made it a rule to maintain a distance between her professional life and personal life (which was admittedly rather empty). She had always tried to foster a good professional rapport with her partners, but strove to distance herself from their personal affairs. Though she had known Donald Gansby for only a day, he had somehow managed to become the singular exception to the unwavering rule and this...as much as anything else...caused the pragmatic Langdon no small degree of consternation.

Even last night's spontaneous social outing had been completely out of character for Mary, who was especially leery of interacting with fellow policemen outside of the work environment. Yet something about Cassande Verhoeven intrigued Mary in ways she could not logically define...almost as if Cassande was a hieroglyph that Mary must decipher. The improbable nature of her relationship with Donald Gansby was only one facet of her mystery, but it was perhaps the one most easily defined and so Mary turned her thoughts to it.

Cassande had driven them back to Islington and after Mary had attended to her feline companions, Verhoeven had asked her to recommend a spot for the evening's dinner outing. A short while later, they found themselves ensconced at a private table in the Afghan Kitchen; a venerable restaurant that had long been Mary's favorite in the entire city. Being in Cassande Verhoeven's presence was very much like basking in the glow of a warm, radiant light. The young woman was engaging, gregarious...clearly intelligent and funny. Despite her daunting beauty and obvious affluence, Cassande was light-hearted and self-deprecating. In her shadow, Donald seemed dull and unnoticeable. The incongruity of their pairing was immediately evident...as was his almost excruciating discomfort with the incredible beauty with whom he had become inexplicably _entangled_.

When Mary had politely inquired after Cassande's vocation, the girl had uttered that disarming laugh and replied cheerily, "Nothing in particular. I grew up in an environment awash with money and came to realize that I had no real aptitude for anything that someone would actually pay for in a work environment. It was then that I decided to be idly rich. After my parents died, I resolved to see the great cities of the world...to spend one year living in each. I spent a year in Milan and the next in Paris. This year, I came to London with the notion of moving to New York next year." She turned an affectionate gaze on Donald...one that filled Mary with envy. Had anyone ever looked upon her with such ardor? "Quite by chance, I met this fellow and it seems that my grand ambition is likely to be derailed for a time?"

She then bent forward and kissed Donald's cheek. Gansby's stunning reaction was one of resigned tolerance and Mary found herself suddenly vexed with her new partner. It was this inexplicable reticence that not only perturbed Mary, but left her feeling uneasy as well. While it was true that she prided herself on being an astute observer of people and their mannerisms, Mary thought that one would have to be blind not to discern that Donald Gansby was less than enamored with his scintillating significant other. Despite this, Cassande seemed oblivious to his discomfort...although it was glaringly apparent to anyone who might spend five minutes in their presence.

_'Now who's being the ingénue Mary? Donald is no fool...he understands that he isn't close to being in Cassande Verhoeven's league and the day will inevitably arrive when she reaches the same conclusion and breezes on to new waters,'_ the inner voice of apparent reason opined and though this seemed reasonable enough, Mary was not inclined to accept it so readily.

Clanging romantic incompatibility aside, there had been another incident that had left an unsettling impression on Mary. As the evening wore on and the trio became more comfortable, Cassande had posed the reciprocal question. "Mary, Donald mentioned early that you had been assigned to this investigation...can I interpret that to mean that you are not a homicide inspector?"

"You may...I'm actually from the Child Crimes Unit of the Yard," Mary replied, not wanting to venture into this particular venue of discussion.

Cassande's reaction to this disclosure had been rather puzzling. Her luminous eyes had narrowed and her expression darkened...in the way that a thunderhead will suddenly appear to occlude the sun. There was a hard and vaguely menacing aspect to that expression...one that Mary would not have thought the effervescent Verhoeven capable of projecting. In an oddly fraught voice, she had echoed, "Child Crimes Unit?"

Peripherally aware of Donald's mounting displeasure, Mary elaborated, "The moniker can be decidedly misleading I suppose. Its basic mandate is to investigate crimes _against_ children. I'm not at liberty to discuss particulars of the situation obviously, but my department has an interest in Donald's investigation and I've been assigned to his unit...in an advisory capacity."

"Oh believe me...when it comes to his work, Donald is as tight-lipped as a British Lord," she responded with a casualty levity that did nothing to diminish the blistering intensity of her gaze. "When you speak of child crimes...you're talking about pedophiles and sex-offenders and such?"

After a brief hesitation, Mary had replied, "Yes, though the branch's mandate is not confined exclusively to those two crimes."

Cassande had lapsed into a pensive silence then and in the resulting vacuum in conversation, Mary felt the casual ease vanish from the moment. The rather baffling and somber mood was further exacerbated when Donald posed a completely unexpected question...seemingly out of left field. His brow had furrowed and he leaned forward, regarding her with a nuanced animation that seemed uncharacteristic. "Mary, I know this is hardly jovial dinner conversation, but there's something that has been troubling me..."

"Well let's hear it then," she had remarked with a casual grin, trying to disguise the sudden anxiety that had suffused her like a low grade electric pulse.

"These men who commit these acts...who have this compulsion...are they criminals or are they victims of mental infirmity. I guess what I'm trying to ask in my maladroit fashion is...should these men be jailed...or institutionalized and treated some how?" The halting manner in which Gansby had posed the question declared his own conflicted view on the matter and raised his esteem greatly in Mary Langdon's regard.

Had she not grappled with precisely this question for the entire time of her sojourn with the branch...vacillating constantly between both perspectives? She was about to share her conflicted impression with Donald when her gaze happened upon Cassande and the words dried up on her lips. Cassande Verhoeven was regarding Donald with an expression of unbridled fury that bordered on the psychotic...as if she was about to fall on the unsuspecting Gansby and tear his throat out with her teeth. The perceptive Cassande became aware of Mary's scrutiny and offered her a radiant smile, but there could be no mistaking the intensity of her reaction to Donald's spontaneous query. It had touched a particularly sensitive nerve and roused a terrifying anger in her soul...a fury that would have few constraints if given expression. Donald remained oblivious to Cassande's anger, though Mary felt certain that the heat of her gaze might well be capable of burning him to cinders where he sat. Instead, Donald was watching his new partner intently, and realizing that some manner of response was required, she stammered, "Well...it's a...complicated matter and perhaps one that we can discuss back at the yard when opportunity allows."

Fortunately, Donald let the matter drop and the rest of the night had actually been a pleasant diversion. Cassande's _episode_ passed and her gregarious manner re-asserted itself, though the odd dynamic persisted between the mismatched pair for the duration of the evening. It had been just after eleven o'clock when Cassande had dropped Mary back at her flat. She was in the process of walking away from the vehicle, when the Elegante's window had rolled down and Cassande had called her back. Reaching out, she had gripped Mary's right forearm and intoned warmly, "Thank you for coming out tonight. It was really was delightful meeting you and I hope you and I will become fast friends."

Then she had offered the bemused Mary a brilliant smile and pulled the car out into traffic. Mary had gone in to be greeted by Watson and Holmes, who wasted no time in expressing their displeasure with her protracted absence. She placated the two Toms by given them each a saucer of milk, while making herself a cup of tea. Sleep eluded her for a long time and as she finally sank down into its embrace, Mary carried with her Cassande's disconcerting expression of malevolent fury.

3

She steered the car into the empty Scotland Yard visitors' lot, which was virtually empty on a Saturday morning, and pulled into the spot adjacent to Donald's Cooper. She caught sight of its owner sitting on the channel railing and staring absently at the murky Thames as it rolled on. Something in his posture suggested that he had been sitting in the exact same position for quite some time.

_'This chap is going to need your help, Mary...like a drowning man on a turbulent sea. You'll have to watch him carefully!'_ an inner voice declared in a tone fraught with foreshadowing. That was absurd of course...Donald Gansby was a grown man, whom she hardly knew. The recollection of Cassande Verhoeven's scorching fury suddenly made the notion seem anything but ridiculous. Shaking her head, Mary's bemusement gave way to full blown consternation and she exited her vehicle and hailed her partner.

Gansby raised a hand and started in her direction and as he came closer, Mary could see both the exhaustion and dismay etched into the otherwise smooth skin around his eyes. They exchanged greetings and began to walk toward the Yard building, but Mary came to an abrupt halt and glanced quickly at her watch. When Donald glanced at her questioningly, Mary began, "We still have a few minutes before we have to set out for Knightsbridge and I thought perhaps we should have a chat about last night."

Donald grimaced and interjected quickly, "I'm sorry Mary...I hadn't the slightest notion that she would waylay you that way. Cassande has a tendency to be a bit overbearing when she's set her mind to something...and forward."

Mary frowned and dismissed his apology with an impatient wave of her right hand. "Cassande is thoroughly charming and I was sincerely delighted to meet her. What's more, she rescued me from another dreary Friday night of watching mindless telly and I want you to thank her again on my behalf."

Gansby nodded glumly and promised that he would. Unlike Ewan, Mary found that she was more perturbed than puzzled by Donald's attitude toward his remarkable love interest...a stunningly beauty who would have been a queen in another time. "Don't hesitate to bark if you think I'm being forward or intrusive, but I really don't grasp your apparent attitude toward Cassande. Most men in your position would be intoxicated with the idea that Cassande Verhoeven had let them take her arm and you manage to make it seem that being her man is the most onerous and dreary task one could be burdened with. I'm completely at a loss to understand your thinking because you're coming across as the world's biggest ingrate. Now...go ahead and bark away...I know I deserve it, but I'm still mystified by your behavior nonetheless."

Donald's eyes widened and his mouth puckered into an indignant scowl, but instead of upbraiding her for exceeding any boundaries of propriety, he merely averted his eyes and sighed. "You're perfectly spot on...I must seem like a portrait of ingratitude. Cassande is perfect really...beautiful beyond words to adequately express with a personality that is virtually faultless and as everyone is constantly reminding me...I should be the happiest bloke on the corner. Is it really that apparent?"

"It is...almost painfully so. Cassande strikes me as an incredibly perceptive young woman, so I can't fathom why she hasn't picked up on it," Mary remarked softly.

Donald glanced back at the Thames and then up into the pristine blue morning sky and Mary could feel the pain and confusion emanating from him in palpable waves. "I feel as though I've inadvertently found my way into a place I really don't belong. I can't escape the impression that...no matter how good it feels to be there...eventually I'll be found out and made to leave. That may make little sense from the outside, but it is how I feel about our relationship."

She wanted to tell him that...if this was his perspective and if it was one from which he could not be dislodged...perhaps it would be prudent and fair to simply walk away. Instead she remained silent and nodded in commiseration knowing that it would be a huge presumption that she was unprepared to take. Gansby's next revelation raised her unspoken misgivings to an entirely new level. "We had a huge row last night...our first really, because Cassande is an extraordinarily accommodating creature. Actually, it was a pretty one-sided affair and left me feeling a bit like an old wartime soldier after a sustained artillery barrage."

Mary raised an eyebrow as the pair resumed their walk to the office. Donald again appeared dismayed and she correctly deduced that it had been this row that was responsible for his haggard appearance this morning. Though some instinct implored her not to solicit an explanation, she heard herself ask, "Really? She seemed to be in such an affable mood."

"That's what I thought, but when she dropped me at my flat she erupted and I suddenly felt like a lad who's been flattened by a tornado out of the clear blue sky." He shifted his gaze to meet hers and Mary was afforded a stark glimpse into his earnest bewilderment. "It was over the question I asked you at the Afghan Kitchen. I really shouldn't repeat this, but maybe you can help me understand just what I did wrong because I'm frankly flummoxed."

Recalling the sinister gleam in Cassande Verhoeven's limpid blue eyes, Mary nodded and offered tentatively, "I'll try."

"To begin with, it wasn't just what she said, it was her state when she said it. Mary, she was absolutely livid." Again, Donald shook his head in bewilderment. "She told me that she never wanted to hear me defend molesters in her presence again. When I replied that I didn't really think that was a fair criticism and that certainly hadn't been my intention, she reached across and threw open my door. She then told me that if I was going to be so daft...I could get the fuck out and go wank myself. I'm going to be honest Mary, that language couldn't have been more shocking if it had come out of the mouth of Queen Katherine herself."

Donald fell silent and gazed at Mary expectantly, clearly hoping that she might make some sense of Cassande's tirade. Though her expression remained neutral, a storm of burgeoning questions raged behind her ice blue eyes. The kind of fury that Donald had described...it was the kind of killing outrage that had been brought to bear on Thomas Greavy. That was absurd of course...the willowy beautiful Cassande Verhoeven simply wasn't capable of the things captured on that perplexing video from Knightsbridge. Tentatively, she ventured, "Donald...you've been seeing Cassande for less than a year; is it possible there are things about her childhood that she hasn't shared with you...things that are profoundly disturbing?"

"You're asking me if she might have been molested as a child?" Donald replied quietly, his expression growing thoughtful.

"Yes...children who have been molested...especially by the people they trust the most...are very often extremely reluctant to talk about it. Though they are clearly the victims...there is a sense of acute shame in what has befallen them. Her intense reaction goes beyond the customary outrage that the average person would hold toward this type of crime. It seems very...personal." Mary concluded, trying to sound calm in the wake of her own roiling thoughts.

"Honestly, I don't know and I would have no clue how to even open this particular dialogue...that's assuming there is any further dialogue to be had. I didn't hear from her last night or this morning...so I'm not really sure where we stand at the moment." As Mary stole furtive glances at Gansby, she could discern what she construed to be relief beneath his obvious confusion...as if this eruption just might provide him with the out that a small part of his beleaguered mind so desperately craved.

Not certain how to advise Donald or if it was her place to offer advice at all, Mary merely remarked softly, "I'm sorry Donald. Cassande is an intelligent young woman...I think she'll see that her reaction was...unfair. If there is something she's been unable to share with you, I suspect she will be forthcoming. You realize of course that, should she discuss this kind of traumatic event with you, it will mean that your relationship will have evolved to an entirely new level of intimacy?"

He glanced at her and then offered Mary a broad grin. "Why do I always get the feeling that you're so much wiser than I am?"

She offered him a rather demure smile and replied, "That would be because I'm such a remarkably gifted actress of course."

They shared a laugh and entered the Yard building, heading toward the lower level parking garage. As they stepped out of the elevator and into the muted gloom of the garage, Donald turned to Mary and intoned gravely. "When we finish this interview...there's something I would like to show you...regarding your observation yesterday."

Mary nodded, but did not press for an elaboration. Minutes later the pair was heading west toward Knightsbridge and their interview with Thomas Greavy's widow.

4

Both Cedric Drury and Olem Beyarov watched in expectant silence as Sir Ian perused the material that the pair had presented for his consideration. The old man eyes seemed to flare as he read through the dossier containing Elizabeth Simpson's vitals and then spent several moments carefully examining the visual data that so eloquently contradicted the written text. When he finally turned his attention to the other two men, his gaze was resplendent with an emotion that had been conspicuously absent since his return from the research facility...hope.

Something else was stirring to life in that awful gaze. Olem Beyarov saw it clearly and felt his heart wrenching his chest. In the desiccating monster's eyes, he could glean the nascent stirring of that ferocious determination...the kind that came with men whose lives were fuelled by avarice and boundless arrogance. He suddenly experienced a pang of intense pity for Elizabeth Simpson. "You are confident that this is legitimate?"

Beyarov somehow resisted the urge to fidget before the hunger in that gaze. Though he could not lie to Barrows, he did make an attempt to equivocate...to waffle. "Within the parameters of the beta program I've created...yes. As I explained to Cedric...this is the first run and requires many further...refinements."

"I see," Sir Ian responded, pursing his thin lips in a gesture that rendered his face ineffably horrifying. "Return to your work then and continue to make your refinements. Turn each new possibility over to Cedric along with your assessment of their viability."

Beyarov was suffused by profound relief, but as he moved to gather up his data, Sir Ian raised a palsied hand and instructed, "This will remain here. Once I've reviewed it a second time, Cedric will return the hardware to you."

With the greatest of effort, Olem succeeded in masking his disappointment. Nodding, he hurried from the room, hoping that this Elizabeth Simpson would find it in her heart to forgive him.

When the Russian had exited the room, Sir Ian intoned, "He was clearly reluctant to corroborate this data. Perhaps our friend requires a refresher in why he is where he is and with whom his only loyalties should lie...though not before he produces a few more prospects."

Cedric nodded dutifully. Through his tenure in Sir Ian's employ, Cedric had overseen the administration of many such _object lessons_...some far harsher than others. His fundamental lack of human empathy made him the ideal man for such tasks. "How would you have me deal with this first result...this Elizabeth Simpson?"

"We'll begin with the carrot and stick approach. Have someone dispatched to this Grecian backwater and confirm her presence and the visual accuracy of these images. The inquiries should be discreet until our agent makes contact with an offer. In the meantime, you will prepare the stick...should reasonable dialogue hold no sway with the mysterious Ms. Simpson."

Cedric's heavy brow furrowed, "Is there some specific...inducement that you would have me arrange?"

Sir Ian scanned the sparse details of Elizabeth Simpson/Lizbet Asari's esoteric life and Drury could almost hear the wheels of Barrows' agile mind begin to trundle. "Ms. Simpson's only living son is dead as is her divorced husband...though he was savagely murdered as it turns out. Her daughter-in-law still lives in Boston. Contayza Simpson has a daughter...Imirya Merin, who is an eminent neurosurgeon and also divorced. Ms. Merin has a daughter...Rebecca, who lives in Cambridge." As Barrows spoke the names, the three holographic images coalesced before his eyes...pilloried from the American Social Security Registry. "Position your team to have this Rebecca taken...should Ms. Simpson not prove to be pliable or receptive to our initial overture."

As he studied the floating, oddly diaphanous images of the women, Cedric Drury was accosted by a strange presentment...an inexplicable, but emphatic certainty that any entanglement with these women would prove... _fatal_ to everyone involved, like an avalanche that indiscriminately obliterates everything in its path. This ambivalence must have reflected on his craggy face because Sir Ian inquired sharply, "Something is troubling you, Cedric?"

"I can't say precisely why...but there is something _forbidding_ about this woman. It's difficult to put my finger on, but the impression she exudes reminds me of something from my boxing days."

Barrows raised a shaggy eyebrow and queried, "I'm not sure I follow, Cedric...what exactly do you mean?"

Cedric grimaced as though the complexity of his concern exceeded the capacity of his faculty to give it voice. "Every now and then, you would come across a fighter who on first glance just didn't seem like much...like they would be a push-over...but then you would catch a fleeting glimpse of this indefinable glint in their eyes. I came to recognize that glint...in the ring, it could translate into an unexpectedly difficult fight. In the outside world, it could mean a swift and nasty death."

"You're suggestion that this Elizabeth Simpson has that glint?" Sir Ian prompted and as he gazed at the angelic beauty, it was apparent that he was skeptical.

Drury frowned and shook his large head. "Not precisely...but there's something sinister about the circumstances surrounding her...apart from the irreconcilable disparity between her age and appearance. I can't necessarily put my finger on my reservation...but it's there in the details of her life. There are just too many inexplicable peculiarities that add up to the suggestion of something...dangerous?"

Sir Ian pondered Cedric's contention for a moment and realized that Drury's surprisingly perceptive analysis of this woman's _situation_ was astute. Whatever mechanism drove Elizabeth Simpson's life, it was well beyond Barrows' comprehension. Ian Barrows had never been a man to quail in the face of the unknown and given his current desperate circumstances, now was hardly the time to begin...however bizarre Elizabeth Simpson's tale might prove to be. "Make the necessary arrangements, Cedric. If it turns out that something malevolent capers behind those exquisite blue eyes, we will take the requisite precautions." Something suddenly occurred to the rapier sharp Barrows and he added, "I think that the good Doctor Mcammon may be able to provide me with one final service in that regard."

Cedric nodded and left to make the preliminary arrangements for the next phase of this macabre adventure. Even as he contemplated which of his long list of resources might be best suited to the two distinct tasks of the carrot and stick initiative, Cedric could not escape the disconcerting impression that he was about to initiate an unstoppable destructive process that would not be discriminating in whom it destroyed.

Chapter Eight

1

Mary drew a deep breath as she and Donald mounted the steps of the Greavy home in Knightsbridge. Donald rang the bell and it was apparent that he was also rather nervous at the prospect of interviewing Isobel Greavy so hard on the heels of her husband's senseless slaughter. During the ride over, Donald had reiterated the need for delicacy and both had agreed that it would be Gansby who would pose most of the questions.

A dour maid squired the pair through the lavish interior of the Greavy home and as she viewed the opulent and tasteful trappings, Mary could not help but think that in the final summation, even Thomas' considerable fortune could not insulate him from harsh and ugly side of life.

Isobel Greavy awaited the pair's arrival in a drawing room that was roughly the size of Mary Langdon's entire flat. Mary's first impression of the woman was one of instant admiration. Tall and eerily beautiful in the manner of Cassande Verhoeven, there was absolutely nothing self-deprecating about Isobel. She exuded the supreme confidence of a woman who is distinctly aware of her place and value in the world and who is certain that she is fully entitled to everything life has bestowed upon her. Hers was a regal bearing and poise that would make even Queen Katherine seem dowdy by comparison. Attired in a conservative black dress, the blond-haired widow was the very quintessence of grieving nobility...something from England's lost grand age.

Isobel did not rise to greet the two inspectors, instead gesturing them into identical floral pattern wing backs near the hearth of the large fireplace that dominated the north wall of the room.

"Would either of you care for tea?" she inquired in a rich erudite voice that reminded Mary of expensive silk. When both inspectors declined, Isobel inclined her head and the maid quickly departed, though not before giving the pair a rather puzzling frown of disapproval. Isobel noticed the look and when the maid closed the door, she remarked, "You will have to excuse Esther...she regards me as a particularly delicate piece of porcelain and is fiercely protective. Now, is this simply to be an information gathering affair...or do you have something tangible to bring me?"

Donald glanced briefly at Mary, who did not envy his position as lead on this interview, and then began, "Mrs. Greavy, I want to begin by expressing our deepest condolences for you tragic loss and I can assure you that this investigation will bring every resource available to bear in the effort to find the person who committed this unspeakable crime."

Isobel Greavy tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement of his expression of sympathy and her hazel eyes settled briefly on Mary. Mary's gaze shifted quickly to Isobel's long fingers, which rested lightly on the arms of her chair. Even her posture spoke of a woman whose grip on composure was literally unflappable, but Mary had little doubt that this facade was brittle and the right careless remark could cause it to crumble, revealing the turbulent vortex of her pain and grief. "Thank you inspector...and I can insure _you_ that all resources _will indeed_ be committed to finding the monster that did this to my husband. I am correct in assuming that the extensive web of surveillance cameras on the green did not capture what transpired the other night?"

The not so subtle implication was clear to both inspectors...Isobel Greavy possessed the requisite clout to insure that the Yard was diligent in pursuing her husband's murderer.

_'This is one extremely formidable woman,'_ Mary recognized and she could almost feel Donald's palpable discomfort intensify.

"The electronic monitoring equipment seemed to malfunction for a period of hours on Thursday night. The technicians are not sure why, but unfortunately the video logs could provide no useful information," Donald allowed, offering the agreed upon fabrication.

Isobel pursed her lips and her expression became scornful, but she offered no immediate comment. "I've always been a woman who places a high value on candor, inspector...especially in a situation such as this. I also believe in the concept of mutual reciprocity, which is why I have made the time to meet with you today. I will ask you plainly, inspector Gansby...do you know why my husband was killed or at least suspect the possible motive?"

The incisive weight of Isobel Greavy's regard was a tangible as a physical touch and it was clear that she would suffer no equivocation. To his credit, Donald met her gaze of appraisal unflinchingly. "We do not, Mrs. Greavy and that is why it was so critically important that we meet with you as soon as possible, despite the horrible imposition this must seem. Your husband was killed in a fashion that implies a connection with sixteen other murders that have occurred in the greater city of London over the past two years. It is a matter of public record that the Yard has been unable to establish a single connection between any of the victims...or has produced a single meaningful lead as to the identity of the murderer or the motives behind the crimes."

Isobel pursed her lips and her full mouth curled slowly into a rueful frown. "I'm vaguely familiar with these crimes...they were savage beyond words and seemed to target Caucasian males. The media has been unrelenting in its scathing condemnation of the authorities' inability to solve the cases. This would mean that my husband was simply a random victim of a free roaming psychopath...who has decided to expand his or her horizons into the affluent sections of the city? Is this what you're suggesting, Inspector Gansby?"

"That could be entirely possible, but we are still inclined to believe that this may not be simple crime of opportunity," Mary interjected, drawing a subtle frown of disapproval from Gansby and a speculative expression from Isobel.

"What inspector Langdon is saying is that we are unwilling to rule out the possibility that each victim was selected for a very specific reason...though we have nothing concrete to substantiate that idea," Donald added hastily and Mary added _very skilled liar_ to his list of abilities.

"Yet, if what Inspector Langdon suggested has any credence that would intimate premeditation and the notion that my husband was specifically selected as a victim?" Isobel pressed like a jackal that had caught a very enticing scent.

"Again, this is only one venue of investigation. We wish to be thorough and that involves considering every possibility and discounting them if they prove baseless...which leads me to my first question and a request I would make of you, Mrs. Greavy...if you're amenable."

"If it means that the monster who butchered my husband is made to atone then rest assured that you have my cooperation, Inspector," Isobel remarked, her beautiful face set in a mask of grim resolve. Mary had little doubt that...should she glean even a hint of the subtle game they were playing, she would use her influence to insure that both she and Donald spent the rest of their careers walking a night beat in Southwark.

"This first question is strictly procedural, but it's the obvious starting point...did your husband have any enemies or people who might have harbored a professional or personal grudge against Mr. Greavy?"

Isobel sucked lightly at her cheeks, lending her beautiful face an aspect of exasperation. "My husband was an affable man who was liked and respected both professionally and by those who knew him on a personal basis. Obviously, there is no accounting for irrational resentments and grudges that people are inclined to harbor, but Thomas possessed an extremely disarming manner and so I would say that the answer to your question would be a definite no."

Mary sat forward, leaning a forearm on her knee. She had promised to be strictly deferential, but now saw that her input would be needed if anything meaningful was to be garnered from this interview. "Mrs. Greavy, over the last period of weeks...even months...did you notice any _changes_ in Thomas's behavior...even something as simple as a change in work schedule?"

Isobel did not answer for an extended moment, but rather fixed Mary with an acutely incisive gaze. Mary fielded her regard evenly, feeling very much as she had the previous night when Cassande had fixed her with a remarkably similar gaze of appraisal. She might be the product of a middle class upbringing, but Mary Langdon refused to feel inferior in the face of breeding and wealth and thus she would not be intimidated by Isobel. Perhaps sensing this resolve, Isobel Greavy replied, "I've noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Thomas' career is demanding, but he has always succeeded in maintaining a proper balance between its demands and his private life." She hesitated for a brief instant as though weighing the relevance of her next disclosure. "Over the past month, he had been spending an unusual amount of time cloistered in his study. Ironically, it was my intention to speak to him on that very matter, but..."

Isobel inhaled sharply then and Mary realized that...for all of her luster...this was still a newly grieving widow. "Was it normal for Thomas to take walks later in the evening? Thursday was rather inimical...and not the most inviting night for a stroll?"

For the first time, Isobel displayed the slightest hint of impatience. "I'm not sure what you're implying, Inspector Langdon...but I'm certain I don't care for it in the slightest. Perhaps you might regard me as a supercilious prat who is oblivious to her surrounding, but if so, you would be making a grave error. I make it a point of being cognizant of my family's wellbeing, Inspector...so if you are suggesting that my husband wondered off to clandestine assignations without me being aware..."

Mary held up her hands in a gesture of placation. "Not at all, Mrs. Greavy. I think Inspector Gansby will confirm that the perpetrators of this kind of crime often fixate on their victims...study them for periods of time, looking for habits that would translate into opportunities. For instance, if your husband was in the habit of taking a walk at a specific time every night, this would be the type of thing that such a person would note."

Isobel shuddered visibly at the notion that her household might have been the target of this type of systematic scrutiny, but Mary's quick thinking appeared to have defused her nascent indignation. Donald allowed himself a slight smile at her adroit recovery. "Thomas rarely left the house after nine p.m. and never without a specific reason. On Thursday, he complained of having an intense headache and thought that a walk in the fresh air might be the elixir. Now I'm going to ask you a question, Inspector Langdon and I fully expect reciprocal candor. You mentioned that there might be a connection with this serial murder spree that has plagued the greater city, but weren't many of these men murdered in the less savory sections of the city?"

"Yes...a number were committed in the east and south of the river," Mary confirmed neutrally and she could sense Donald's increasing discomfort on the periphery of her awareness.

Isobel's eyes narrowed ruefully. "I can assure you that my husband would never associate with the caliber of individual from those quarters...ever. The notion that my husband was selected because of some obscure connection with these other men is simply preposterous."

Mary could feel irritation rising in her throat like hot bile, but before she could respond, Donald remarked, "Again, Mrs. Greavy, we are only exploring venues of investigation. You are correct...we have been unable to establish a tangible connection between any of the victims beyond their gender and skin color."

Isobel nodded slightly and demanded, "Then you really don't have even a rudimentary insight into the possible identity of the monster that has committed these barbaric acts."

"Nothing concrete...no, and this brings me to my request; with your permission and under your supervision, we would like to examine the contents of your husband's study. I will be entirely candid...you are under absolutely no legal obligation to comply and it is highly unlikely that we could secure the necessary authorization to gain a warrant. Still, this dispensation could yield the one critical insight that might help us find the individual that did this to your husband." Having offered unprecedented candor, Donald held his breath, hoping that Isobel Greavy would glean his sincerity.

The elegant blond arched an exquisitely tapered eyebrow and raised a long right index finger to her full lips. She suddenly stood gracefully and bid them to follow her. As she led the pair through the sprawling home, Isobel established the parameters for what she would allow in a tone that made it unequivocally clear that she expected nothing less than their full acquiescence. "Naturally, I cannot grant you access to anything related to his professional undertakings. To do so, you will have to go through the proper channels with his firm. I will peruse the material and if I do happen upon something _anomalous_...I will bring it to your attention. Thomas was a meticulously organized man and the separation between his professional and private affairs was always precise and clearly delineated. I will grant you unfettered access to this material...under my supervision." She paused before the door to Thomas' office and lashed the pair with a withering glare. "I will not permit Thomas' memory to be besmirched by the suggestion of impropriety or anything even remotely scurrilous, Inspector. You would be well advised to take me at my word on that account."

Both Donald and Mary nodded gravely and Isobel opened the door and led them into the darkened interior of Thomas Greavy's inner sanctum. A verbal command brought a blaze of light into the interior which conveyed the image of a man with impeccable, although conservative taste and a strong sense of organization. Isobel strode purposefully over to Thomas' desk and sat down before his Virtua Console. When she issued the verbal command to activate the display, Mary received her first inkling that Isobel Greavy's perception of the degree to which she held control over her carefully structured life was about to be startlingly disabused.

"Encryption password required," a monotone voice declared, evoking a perplexed frown from Thomas' widow.

Isobel turned her gaze upon the two detectives, her lovely face set in lines of confused vexation. "I was unaware that Thomas had placed an encryption password on his system," she confessed. "It could be that he was working with especially sensitive material from the firm..."

She trailed off and it was evident to both inspectors that she ascribed no credence to her own explanation. Turning back to her husband's desk, Isobel systematically opened the drawers on the right and leafed briefly through the contents. "These are all firm-related documents...contract review material, I suspect."

Shaking her head subconsciously, Isobel turned to the left side of the desk and slid forth the one large drawer that dominated that section. Contained within was a highly laminated metal box that both Donald and Mary correctly deduced was an expensive personal safe. Next to the ornate bronze handle was a small scanner that was commonly employed in thumb print recognition devices. Isobel shifted her blue-eyed regard to the two inspectors and in those limpid depths both could clearly discern both the consternation and the burgeoning sense of betrayal behind Isobel's facade of composure. "I...I didn't know that this was here...that Thomas had installed such a thing. No one would dare violate the sanctity of his office and so this measure is so...unnecessary."

"Mrs. Greavy, I think it is imperative that we know what is in this safe. It may be completely irrelevant, but with little else to go on, we dearly need to be certain," Donald insisted with a carefully contrived blend of authority and desperate need.

When confronted by something disturbing or unsettling, Isobel fell back on her default posture of resolute determination. "Inspectors, I will arrange to have this safe opened and this terminal decrypted. You have my personal assurance that I will contact you immediately once I've examined the contents. Now, if you will excuse me...I have a funeral to arrange."

With this, Isobel stood and strode briskly to the door. Both Donald and Mary cast longing glances at the mysterious safe and then fell in behind her. In the foyer, Mary decided to risk a circumspect overture that earned her a disapproving scowl for her new partner. "Again, you have our condolences, Mrs. Greavy. Your daughters must be utterly devastated by the loss of their father."

Isobel stiffened at the unexpected mention of her daughters and her features became wooden with either pain or outrage. "They are. Both Penelope and Muraday adored their father beyond words to express. I intend to shield them for the ugliest aspects of what has happened, but the loss of their father will haunt the girls for the remainder of their lives. Now...if you will excuse me."

She opened the door and brusquely gestured for them to make their exit. Mary and Donald dutifully complied and stepped out into the brilliant late morning sunshine.

2

She stood recessed in the shadows, staring fixedly at the scarred wooden door and trying mightily to ignore the fetid stench that permeated the narrow alley. Moldering detritus of all sorts littered the alley, from broken crates to bags of garbage...to other organic materials that she was of no mind to ponder. Cassande had come to Southwark in the guise of a dove, gliding gracefully through the run down streets of what had once been a theater district, but now resembled a war zone in a protracted civil war, where there could be no winners...only casualties of indifference and neglect. She had found her way to the center of the neighborhood, where trenchant poverty had left its indelible stamp on everything...human and otherwise.

As she had floated down into this narrow alley, she had transmogrified into the glorious creature who had once shared covers...and a bed...with Karnalla Mansley. She wondered obliquely what Mansley might think if she saw her now...skulking in the shadows of this filthy, reeking alley. Would she derive a certain measure of comfort from the direction Cassande's life had taken since their falling out? She shook her head in bemusement, wondering why she was expending any effort on contemplating a part of her life that had in truth been utterly shallow and devoid of any genuine meaning. Self-absorbed and tragically flawed Cynara Saravic would never understand what it was Cassande was striving to achieve...it was simply beyond her sensibilities. Let her wallow in her posh cloister...Cassande had a purpose...a war to wage.

This depressingly bleak alley would be the site of her next battle.

She glanced back at the door, which had once been a crimson red, but had now faded to a listless maroon. Scrawled across the ill-fitting door was line upon line of graffiti. Sick fuck...child diddler...these were but a sample of the crude expressions of rage and condemnation that adorned Barney Tate's door.

Cassande scowled, her face contorting with revulsion and somewhere in her immortal breast, she could feel the first stirring of killing fury...the immutable rage that had goaded her into dissecting Thomas Greavy only two night's early.

_'Control it, Cassande...at least until you get what you've come for,'_ she cautioned herself, knowing that her reaction and her proclivity for giving savage expression to her disgust would serve no purpose in her new role. She closed her eyes, but images of Donald Gansby, a hurt and puzzled expression on his handsome face, kept intruding on her efforts to regain her equilibrium. Her tantrum of the previous evening played itself out in her mind in a rapid series of intense images...how close had she been to actually harming Donald? She suspected that she had been very close indeed and that proximity to total loss of control was cause for alarm. Last night's volatile eruption over what was really an innocuous remark was symptomatic of a looming shadow...one that could ruin everything if she did not find a way of containing the beast that dwelled within...the immutable madness that had once defined a much younger Cassandra Jasic.

_'You're losing your tenuous grip Cassy...and if you're being perfectly honest, you'll admit that. The cage door is starting to rattle and if it should burst open...'_ The voice of Elizabeth Simpson left the final consequence unspoken, but Cassandra Jasic discerned her meaning all too well. With troubling frequency, she was losing control of her emotions and the lingering specter of madness...a return to the murderous insanity of her mortal days loomed over her like a pall. Her fortuitous encounter with Elizabeth had rescued her from its embrace and when Cynara had bestowed immortality upon Cassy, the older immortal's supercilious influence had nonetheless kept her grounded...but the old demon had never been exorcised. It had lain dormant in the blackened corners of Casey's damaged soul. Now, without the benefit of having someone to tether and restrain her, it suddenly seemed inevitable that it would re-emerge and again lay claim to her soul. She tried to envision what would happen should it succeed and found that she simply could not...the prospect was simply too horrifying to entertain.

She had a war to wage, but only an unwavering control on her tempestuous emotions would allow her to fight the darkness she now believed was poised to envelope the city. With this understanding came the realization that she would have to turn to Donald to serve as her foundation...the grounding influence she so frantically required to keep her personal monster securely locked in its cage. The recollection of how she had mistreated Gansby caused her to grimace and she resolved herself to making amends by any means necessary...once she had dealt with the matter of one Barney Tate.

She glanced at the ill-fitting door, which did not overlap with the sill. There was a full two centimeter gap at the bottom of the door and Cassande could clearly visualize filthy rainwater pouring into the squalid apartment during periods of heavy rain. The prospect made her smile and helped appease her stirring anger. She closed her eyes and her body abruptly became translucent...less substantial. There followed a rapid metamorphosis and the statuesque Cassande dissolved into an eddying cloud of red smoke. It hovered there for a moment, billowing and rippling in the brisk September breeze that blew down the narrow alley.

Quite suddenly, the roiling cloud darted across the narrow expanse of dirty cobbles and slipped under the gap.

The interior of Barney Tate's lodgings was dismal, poorly lit and abysmally dirty. As she swirled through the closet of a kitchen, Cassande found her quarry sitting on a badly stained and frayed sofa, watching an antiquated television that looked like a relic from the previous century. Tate was a ferret-faced, wiry man with a bald pate and small, mean eyes that seemed to blink incessantly. He was dressed only in boxer shorts and a stained tank top that looked as if it had never made an acquaintance with the laundry. The very sight of the registered sex offender incited a towering fury in Cassande and it required all of her imperfect self-discipline to simply not surge forth and tear his throat out.

Inhaling, she allowed herself to materialize out of thin air. Barney's small eyes grew impossibly wide until it seemed inevitable that they would be extruded from their sockets. In a high, grating voice, he screeched, "Who the fuck are you then?"

Cassande smiled and wagged a long, disapproving finger at the smaller man. "I really would watch the language...I'm not really disposed to vulgarity."

"Like I should give a fuck! How did you get in here?" He grumbled and started to rise, but before he could climb to his feet, the tall red-head blinked out like a defective light bulb...leaving Barney gaping at the empty space she had just occupied.

She materialized immediately behind Tate and dealt a clubbing blow to the back of his skull that drove him to his knees. Gripping his protruding ears, she then smashed his face into the coffee table, the legs of which exploded on impact. Tate collapsed to his face atop the rubble of the table, moaning and clutching the ruins of his jutting nose as blood flowed freely between his fingers. She gazed down on his struggles with a distinct measure of satisfaction. Fetching a bored sigh, she intoned wearily, "Why are these object lessons always necessary with vermin? It really is all so tedious."

She remained stationary as Barney turned onto his rear and scrabbled across the tiny flat, hunching up against the far wall. "What do you want? You got no right coming in here and doing this to me!"

Cassande uttered a spate of derisive laughter...a humorless expression of contempt that never touched her luminous blue eyes which burned with sinister promise. "That a man who buggers small children would actually have the audacity to utter that particular statement is beyond incomprehensible."

Still not grasping the governing realities of his present peril, Barney scrambled to his feet and made a desperate run for the exit.

Cassande gesticulated with her right hand and a small cabinet leapt from its position near the door and sailed across the room in a blur. It struck a startled Barney in the chest and sent him careening off the kitchen counter and onto his knees next to a badly scarred refrigerator. He merely knelt there, panting like a failing steam engine before shifting his terror-stricken gaze to his tormentor." Did you...do that?"

Cassande spread her long arms in a gesture of modest acknowledgement. "I must admit...I did; just one of my numerous _talents_. Here is another you might find rather amusing."

A second flick of that long-fingered right hand and Tate found himself being lifted into the air as if he had become spectral. He was then borne across the room and slammed into his sofa. Before he could rise, a harsh tearing sound resounded throughout the dingy confines of his flat and to his eternal amazement, the very springs of his tattered sofa tore through the fabric and ensnared his legs. The jagged ends of the heavy springs tore the pallid flesh on his thighs. Though the wounds were superficial, they began to bleed profusely and soon Barney's thighs glistened with blood. He glanced up at the woman towering over him and in her contemptuous smirk, Barney Tate gleaned not the slightest intimation of empathy or the capacity for mercy. He began to cry then, his tears coming in a deluge and intermingling with the blood from his broken nose.

Cassande bent forward, offering the distraught Tate a contemptuous smile. "I would think the gravity of your situation has made itself imminently clear in the sewer that passes for your mind. Now we may proceed and the shape of our dealings...the tone they assume...will be entirely dependent upon your _spirit of cooperation_. I'm going to ask you questions...and you're going to answer. If I'm pleased with your answers, there is a possibility you might actually live to see the outside of this shitty rat hole again. However, if I'm dissatisfied by your responses...or worse still, if I think you've actually been obtuse enough to lie to me...then I'm going to remove one of your fingers. One finger for every lie you tell...a simple concept really. Now, are you ready to begin?"

"Who are you?" Barney demanded...his voice a petulant whine that reminded Cassande of a spoiled child.

Her smile became radiant and she replied cryptically, "Perhaps the more pertinent question would be...what am I? Now...first question...what is the _shadow box?_ "

An expression of profound confusion rippled across Barney's rapidly swelling face and he shook his head adamantly. "I don't know nothing about any shadow box...I don't even know what it is!"

Cassande's expression darkened perceptibly and she pursed her full lips ruefully. Her first instinct was to simply tear out his throat and move on to the next piece of ambulatory sewage, but she repressed the urge. She understood the exigent need to gain mastery over her anger and this would be a proving ground for her ability to do so. _'Restraint Cassande. Maybe he knows nothing of the shadow box, but he may know someone who might. Still, it might not hurt to provide a gesture of your sincerity.'_

The last notion evoked a nasty grin that spread across Cassande's face like oil on pristine water. Barney saw the expression...interpreted it perfectly...and began to blubber. "I'm telling you the fucking truth...I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about!"

Cassande did not reply. Instead she held forth the index and middle fingers of her right hand, grinning broadly as the two digits transmogrified into a ten centimeter long beam of blinding argent light. With the speed of a striking adder, she touched Barney's left wrist with her left hand and all sensation vanished on that side of his torso. With dazzling speed and stunning precision, she brought the argent beam down in a tight arc. In the blink of a terrified eye, Barney Tate's severed thumb lay on the filthy sofa cushion beside him. The blackened stump that remained behind had been perfectly cauterized by the intense heat of Cassande's deadly scalpel. Tate opened his mouth to scream...though part of his mind was perplexed by the absence of pain...but his tormentor pressed her fingers to his throat and no sound issued forth.

"I think that effectively resolves any doubts about my sincerity, Barney...I do hope you are right-handed. On second consideration, I doubt an imbecile such as you has much occasion to actually write anyway." She threw back her head and laughed at her own witticism, which was completely lost on the dread-stricken Tate. "Let us assume that you were actually telling the truth and you have no idea what a shadow box might be...that brings me to my next question. I have little doubt that your type has a naturally affinity for each other...sick perverts drawn together by their ugly fantasies. Have you heard any of your fellow reprobates mention anything...even an oblique reference...to something new or addicting on the streets...a new way to indulge your perversions?"

Barney shook his head vigorously, but there was something in the way his mouth twisted and contorted that suggested he might not be disclosing the entire truth. Glowering severely, Cassande brandished the argent scalpel. Barney flinched back into his sofa cushion as a dark stain spread over the front of his boxer shorts. Cassande straightened, her beautiful face a living portrait of disdain and disgust. Her nose wrinkled in reaction to the rising reek of hot urine. Slowly, articulating each word slowly, she prompted, "Answer the question...have you heard any kind of _buzz_ in your circle of sick fucks?"

Despite his obvious terror, Barney's reluctance was still readily apparent. He clearly knew _something_...or had heard whispers and intimations of something. That very fact that he was hesitant to make a disclosure...even in these grim circumstances...declared that this something was of enormous consequence. A blur of motion and Tate's ring finger joined his severed thumb on the sofa cushion."

Barney twisted spastically on the sofa and brayed a silent scream. When his thrashing subsided, Cassande reiterated her question, while attempting to modulate her voice so as to conceal her burgeoning excitement. Knowing that this monster would patiently and gleefully dissect him, Barney Tate began to haltingly relate the buzz he had heard...which really amounted to nebulous whispers of... _something_ that had neither shape nor definition.

"I've never heard anything about a _shadow box_...not a whisper, but I did hear something that may interest you..."

"Go on," Cassande insisted, her grave tone making it implicitly clear that she would suffer no deception.

"There's a place where...where guys like me go...and we exchange _stuff_...mostly old magazines and video. The last few times I was there, some of these blokes were talking about something that would open a whole new set of doors...a flood of top quality material for people...with our tastes. I wasn't part of the conversation, ya' know and they were speaking in hushed whispers, but they were excited and made it sound like...whatever this thing was...it was like our version of crack. I didn't really pay it no mind at the time...but I remember how they was really wired about this something."

"And where exactly might I find this _gathering place_?" she inquired menacingly.

"It's a couple blocks south of here...there's a store that sells old video...and kid's comics and things. The place is owned by a fellow name Gentry...don't know his first name, but they nickname him the slug. There's a back alley and that's where the entrance to the basement is...where you can get stuff!" Tate concluded significantly.

"And was this Gentry...this Slug...part of these discussions you overheard?"

Barney merely nodded enthusiastically. "I told you all I know...now please...leave me the fuck alone."

While Cassande's incisive mind set off along this new tangent, she considered the pathetic creature now cowering before her. She splayed one long leg out to the side and cupped her right elbow in her left palm, bringing a fist to her chin in a posture of deep contemplation. "What am I to do with you Barney? By your own admission, you've hardly reformed...still seeking out ways to stoke the fires of your sick proclivity...still dreaming of little boys and girls to ruin."

Before Barney could mouth a hollow denial, there followed an intense flash of golden light, the magnitude of which forced him to close his eyes and raise his arms against its glare. When the flaring finally subsided, Tate opened his eyes and uttered a gasp of incredulity. Standing before him was a beautiful girl...perhaps eight years old...with luminous blue eyes and a mass of red spiral curls that tumbled over her shoulders in a spill that reminded the beguiled Barney of fire. In a voice rife with innocence, this apparition intoned, "In your heart, the fire of your evil still burns...a hunger that will never be extinguished. Only By fire, shall you be cleansed."

With this solemn judgment delivered, the girl abruptly burst into flames and fell upon the horrified Tate, catching him in an unbreakable death embrace. With stunning alacrity, the flames consumed Barney Tate, burning blue and finally argent and immolating the flesh from his bones in the span of a few heartbeats.

Then they were gone, leaving a grim-faced Cassande standing over the charred skeleton of yet another monster she had erased from existence. Despite the cataclysmic destruction of its occupant, the sofa beneath Tate displayed not the slightest hint of the gruesome fate that had befallen the man who sat upon it.

Permitting herself a satisfied grin for a job well done, Cassande dissolved into red mist and flowed out of the filthy flat...knowing that she had a repulsive slug to crush under heel in the very near future. Beyond that pleasant enterprise there beckoned the thorny path to the shadow box.

3

Donald watched Mary's face discreetly while she perused the contents of the private file he had compiled on Cassande Verhoeven. As he studied her face, with its pale blue eyes and perfect nose, high cheekbones and firm jaw, it occurred to him that this was an exceptionally attractive woman, hidden beneath the mundane attire of her vocation and a disinterest in the attractive qualities that nature had endowed her with.

_'Donald, for god's sake, don't be a Pratt,'_ he chided himself, wondering where these random irrelevant thoughts found their origin. He had no real idea what to expect of this macabre disclosure...or even why he felt compelled to share his decidedly paranoid meandering with a woman who was firmly rooted in the soil of pragmatism. Those misgivings only intensified as her countenance darkened and her mouth twisted into a frown. When she had scanned the last of the text, Mary returned her attention to the three juxtaposed images, before turning her regard on her new partner.

They were alone in their new accommodations on the third floor for which Donald would later be grateful when reflecting on the stern down dressing he was about to receive from a thoroughly irked Mary Langdon. With undisguised consternation, she demanded, "Donald, you can't actually be seriously entertaining this nonsense?"

"Perhaps not seriously...but in light of what we witnessed on the surveillance footage...maybe I am," he retorted in a tone that was slightly defensive and nonplussed by her aggression.

"Have you shared this _theory_ with Ewan?" she asked.

"I have...he finds it rather amusing...if I'm being perfectly honest," Donald conceded quietly.

Mary rose and came to stand directly beside him, looming over him in a decidedly adversarial posture that lent her face an imperious aspect. "I don't find it amusing in the least...especially considering that you are one of the lead investigators on this case."

"You don't see any oddities in this data?" He retorted, trying to maintain an even tone in the face of her smoldering disdain.

"I see a set of intriguing coincidences that should easily be dismissed by any rational individual who thinks about them for five minutes," she countered and Donald could discern that she was on the verge of eruption. "Donald, we won't speak of this again and if I glean even the slightest hint that this bizarre obsession is impairing your judgment on this investigation, I will request to be removed from this case...do you understand?"

Stunned by her vehemence, Donald meekly offered, "I do...and it won't be an issue."

Mary nodded brusquely and moved away, snatching up her purse with hands that shook slightly. Donald watched her, disconcerted and dumbfounded by her indignant anger.

_'Could you reasonably expect any other reaction, lad?'_ The voice of Ewan McGowan inquired with a hint of exasperation _'This is a serious, intelligent woman who must think she's been assigned to work with a lunatic.'_

Seeing the validity of his point, Donald offered sheepishly, "I'm sorry, Mary...for upsetting you."

She came to an abrupt halt and spun about. "I make it a point never to become embroiled in my partner's personal life...but I'm going to make a rare exception today. You have been blessed with the good fortune of having captured the attention of one of the most beautiful creatures I've ever set eyes upon and who appears quite taken with you, despite the fact that you treat her like a plague carrier when you're together. She is funny, intelligent and warm and yet you are skulking behind her back, concocting an utterly preposterous theory that she is...what...some manner of supernatural entity...who occupies her time slaughtering men, when she's not fawning over you. It's obvious to me that you don't believe that you are worthy of her and are looking for an excuse to cut and run, but if this is best you can manufacture, then you are right. Do the decent thing and let her go!"

This said, Mary turned and strode from the office, leaving a gaping Gansby staring after her. As he listened to the strident clatter of her heels fading into the distance, Donald realized that she was correct in her ruthlessly frank assessment of his attitude toward Cassande Verhoeven.

Donald remained where he sat for a long time after Mary's tempestuous departure and though he had initially been offended by her vehement condemnation, he came to see that it had been well warranted. If truth be told, he was being a perfect arsehole in his relationship with Cassande...and that did not even take into account his paranoid delusions revolving around Cassandra Jasic. He briefly considered deleting the file, as if to purge its contents would efface them from his mind, but as he was about to issue the irreversible command, some deeper instinct admonished him to renege. By way of compromise, he vowed that he would never give it another thought.

He realized that...in the space of less than twenty-four hours...he had reduced his life to a debacle...a state of suspension in which nothing was clear. He had alienated Mary Langdon and had inadvertently managed to enrage Cassande Verhoeven. Sighing wearily, Donald Gansby rose and made his way to the exit, hoping that he could somehow salvage both relationships.

4

The transport that had left London earlier in the morning finally reached its destination just before late afternoon...the final leg of a journey that had commenced at different points throughout the impoverished enclaves of Eastern Europe. The vehicle turned off the main highway and trundled down a secondary road deep in the English countryside...well way from the prying eyes of the more settled city.

The driver skillfully maneuvered the large truck along the winding narrow lane that was delineated by a thick stand of trees on both sides. When it finally pulled into the crushed-stone courtyard of the estate, it was greeted by a team of workmen, a supervising doctor and two nurses...a decidedly odd contingent to receive a purported shipment of low end electronics.

The former manor had been converted into what appeared...on first glance...to be a private clinic of some sort. Closer inspection might have revealed some rather perplexing...and disturbing anomalies. The front of the sprawling property was delineated by a ten foot high hedge that essentially occluded the view of the property. Along the east side of the property, several large Quonset-style sheds had been erected. These squat corrugated steel structures held an array of highly specialized pieces of equipment and tools.

One of the reinforced steel doors slid quietly upward and a strange vehicle rolled out of its darkened interior, trundling across the crushed stone forecourt like a giant alien beast. It came to a rather tentative halt some twenty meters from the rear doors of the recently-arrived transport truck. As it idled, the operator raised the telescoping boom of the vehicle, the end of which terminated in a flat stainless steel plate that reflected the slanting sun in blinding magnitude. When the operator was satisfied that the electro-magnet was in the appropriate position, he allowed the beast to idle...patiently waiting to serve its purpose.

Out a second Quonset structure came two mid-sized forklifts that maneuvered quickly to the rear of the transport. The operators raised their forks and waited while the driver and his assistant opened the truck's rear doors, entered quickly and began to remove the cable strapping that had kept the skids of electronic goods in place during their long voyage. Once this process was complete, the forklifts quickly removed the skids of electronic goods and conveyed them to another storage hangar near the rear of the property. There, these goods would sit while awaiting disposal somewhere in the future...a mere distraction to conceal the nefarious purpose of this particular carrier.

Margaret Mead descended the facility's main stairs and strode purposefully across the crushed stones. A tall, thin blond with a severe face and blue eyes that conjured images of frost on grave stones, Margaret was the diametric opposite of Simona Bayonescu in that she had no fear of the man whom she had come to stand beside...or any moral quandary regarding the task he had assigned her to oversee. In the cold, analytical mind of Margaret Mead, everything was a commodity...to be used and exploited as opportunity allowed. She knew instinctively that the tall man beside her was dangerous in ways that she did not entirely fathom...just as she understood that he posed no threat to her if she performed her duties with her customary meticulous and flawless efficiency.

They watched in silence as the forklifts cleared the detritus from the shipping container, but Margaret thought she could discern just the slightest hint of anxiety in the big man's rigid posture. This was the first shipment of its kind into Britain and carried a value of millions of pounds. Even this was but an inconsequential trifle because...if the system worked...future shipments of this exotic cargo could generate hundreds of millions of pounds in revenue for the mysterious masters the pair served.

From her perspective of ruthless pragmatism, Margaret Mead could never comprehend that the master Peytor Estrovich served cared not a whit for accrued fortune...the concept was simply beyond her sensibility. She could never have grasped that the commodity these _men_ craved was defined by irredeemable corruption.

Peytor became cognizant of her presence and acknowledged her with one of his smiles that would have chilled the hearts of most recipients. "This is the onset of a great undertaking Margaret. From this humble beginning, we shall raise an empire. I trust the facility is fully prepared to receive our _special guests_?"

"It is...the staff you've recruited are competent and focused. The psychologists have reviewed their indoctrination protocol extensively over the past weeks. I have absolutely no doubt that they will prepare the _commodities_ to not only accept...but to embrace their new purpose," Margaret predicted, exuding implacable confidence and Estrovitch smiled. This was not a woman to make idle boasts. In fact, Peytor was so impressed with this woman's cold, vitiated soul that he was pondering _turning_ her...or at least, approaching his masters with the recommendation. With the enhanced skills that the turning would bestow, Margaret Mead would be a most formidable night creature.

"Very good...then let us see how our commodities survived the journey." With this, Estrovitch gestured and the cryptic machine sprang into action. It advanced slowly and the driver adjusted his angle of approach so that the large plate was perfectly parallel to the opening of the shipping container. When the truck's driver confirmed that the plate was indeed perfectly positioned, the operator began to slowly extend the boom and the electro-magnetic plate gradually vanished into the apparently empty interior of the container.

There followed a metallic clatter as the plate made contact with the rear false wall of the container. Mere seconds later, a low hum permeated the air as the electro-magnet cycled up to full power. Estrovich ventured closer to the vehicle and Margaret trailed after him, anxious to garner a first view of what was concealed behind the wall. A distinct click declared that the magnet had fully engaged the rear wall's special plating and then the boom began to retract and the vehicle simultaneously began to retreat from the container. When the section of wall was finally removed, a gush of fetid, stale air rushed from the container's interior. At the rear of the container was a twenty foot deep, well-illuminated section that had been hidden by the false wall.

A tall, thin man stumbled forward and with Estrovich's assistance, jumped down onto the white stones of the forecourt. His expression was pinched and his face was pallid as he stood in the open air and took several deep gulps of fresh air...the first that he had taken in three weeks...since the cargo ship first sailed from Poland. The man offered Peytor a wan smile and remarked, "It's good to see the sky again."

"Indeed, but I think you'll find that the remuneration will more than compensate for the sacrifice. I trust the cargo survived the journey unharmed?"

The man, a former doctor from Bulgaria who had been convicted as part of an organ harvesting ring, nodded. "They did...the pods and the containment environment...functioned perfectly. The area was certainly confining, but livable for the periods in question. For a more protracted voyage...I'm not so certain. There would be the questions of waste disposal and muscle atrophy...among others. There is also a risk that the environment monitoring system might fail during the course of a protracted trip...which would leave the end recipient in possession of some very pungent cadavers."

"All logistic to be considered as we move forward, good doctor," Estrovich replied with a comradely clap on the back. "For now, the initial run has been a success and we can interpret that as a blessing for our endeavors." He then handed the doctor a package containing a new passport and a chip card that would see him live out the rest of his years in opulence. "Rest here at your leisure and then head home. You'll be contacted when arrangements have been made for another shipment."

The doctor nodded dutifully and then headed toward the main house, sparing the cargo, with whom he had spent the last several weeks, one final glance. Margaret and Estrovich watched the doctor disappear into the house...both knowing full well that he would not live to see the morning. In an operation as delicate as this one proved to be, even human assets had a definite shelf life and for the _escorts_ that shelf life expired after a single trip.

Under the pair's scrutiny, the in-house physician and his two nurses quickly climbed into the container and after a preliminary examination of the seven commodities, signaled that the workmen could begin the process of conveying the life support pods into the main building. Peytor watched as each life support pod was detached from its support frame, his nose wrinkling at the pungent stench of excrement that wafted out of the unit's waste disposal tube. He moved over to the first of the pods as it was unloaded from the container and placed on a waiting gurney.

He vaguely recalled the pretty face of Emilia Trescu as she lay in her drug-induced coma. She would be gradually brought up from its depths and would begin the final preparations for her new life...a pretty child-toy for a wealthy Scotsman with a proclivity for living dolls. Conjuring the image of Mikaela Trescu, whose haggard face resembled a portrait of living despair, Estrovich believed that the girl had been fortunate to find her way to this particular juncture. Even satisfying the perverse sexual needs of an aging deviant was preferable to the slow decay that she most probably would have expected should she have remained in Romania to see adulthood.

When the last of the pods had been sequestered into the facility, Peytor gestured for Margaret to accompany him to the main gate. They stood in the golden September sunlight that slanted over the trees in the early evening as summer relented to fall and another cycle of wither commenced. Estrovich glanced up into the sun without squinting and then instructed, "Make sure that the container is fully sanitized and that a diagnostic is run on all technical components. A truck will be dispatched to collect it next week." He glanced at her and offered Margaret that disconcerting grin. "Your diligence has been noted Margaret. As this operation begins to cycle up, you will play the pivotal role in insuring that this facility is ready to accept and disseminate the additional commodities."

Margaret offered the mysterious foreigner a grin that mirrored his own. "You needn't worry...we will prove more than equal to the task."

Quite seriously, he replied, "Of that, I have little doubt. I'll leave the rest to you and be back when the first girl is ready to be united with her new owner."

Margaret nodded and watched as Estrovich walked through the gate and began to stride purposefully down the country road as it was his intention to walk all the way back to London. The rather fatuous notion made her smile and then she turned and made her way into the main building...knowing that there was much preparation to be completed before receiving her new charges.

5

When Donald finally summoned the requisite motivation to rouse himself from the torpor that had settled over him after his incident with Mary, he contemplated calling Ewan and giving him a heads up on the possible discord he'd inadvertently sown. He decided to forego the idea, thinking that the decision was rightfully Mary's to make. Feeling rather dejected, he made his way out into the late afternoon sunshine and back to the parking lot, intent on returning to his empty flat in Soho and losing himself in a night of mindless movies.

To his surprise, Gansby found Cassande leaning against his Cooper, her lovely face set in a tentative expression...that was both sheepish and apologetic. Her red hair was swept away from her face and she wore a long floral print jacket that looked as if it had come directly from a runway in Paris or Milan. That association automatically conjured the image of Karnalla Mansley and her mysterious companion from his childhood photograph. Donald thrust the image savagely from his thoughts and offered the statuesque beauty an uncertain smile.

She met this with a radiant grin that was rife with pure relief and then closed the distance between them at a run. Taller than Gansby by several centimeters, she allowed her forehead to settle onto his shoulder in an oddly submissive gesture that startled Donald. Hesitantly, he put his arm around her tiny waist and drew her closer. She kissed his neck fervently and they remained in this position for a good while, before she pushed him to arm's length and regarded him with that incisive gaze that always made him want to squirm beneath its intensity. In a pleading, mournful voice, she declared, "I'm sorry...I was a perfect bitch last night. I don't know what came over me, but that's hardly an excuse. My behavior was reprehensible...and if you forgive me, I promise it won't happen again."

There was a pleading, desperate edge to her voice that Gansby found both perplexing...as if her anxiety was contrived. Nonetheless, he remarked, "Don't Cassande...the subject matter was hardly appropriate for casual dinner conversation and discussing it in such a...clinical fashion must make me seem incredibly obdurate and cynical. I just find myself in a situation that I just don't feel at all comfortable with and I'm struggling to understand. Mary is the authority and I was only trying to gain a sense of what we're dealing with in the investigation. Again...it was hardly appropriate dinner conversation and I'm sorry for having brought it up. I promise that I'll leave these problems where they belong from this point forth."

To Gansby's surprise, Cassande frowned and shook her head adamantly. "That's just the thing...I don't want you to. I want you to feel that you can confide in me and use me for a sounding board...or a wailing wall, if that's what you require. Despite how it must seem at times...I'm not a child, Donald. I want to be the kind of partner that you can be open with and be confident that whatever you share will remain strictly between us. Perhaps I'm to blame for not making that apparent, but I'll change that if you allow me. I guess I'm trying to tell you that I have no intention of going anywhere...as long as _you_ want me to stay."

She gazed at him, her large blue eyes ablaze with solemnity and Donald suddenly felt incredibly small and unworthy in the face of her candor. When he could trust himself to speak, Donald confessed, "I'm the one who's been the ass here...I've held you at arm's length and kept you way from the other people in my life as if I was somehow ashamed of you...when absolutely nothing could be further from the truth. Cassande...though you've done absolutely nothing to warrant it, I feel incredibly inadequate in your presence...like I'm not deserving and my presence somehow tarnishes you. Since we're soul-baring, I may as well admit the truth. With you, I feel as if I'm living a beautiful and fragile illusion that will dissolve like mist before the first brisk breeze. I know how terribly unfair that is, but it is how I feel."

She raised a quizzical eyebrow and frowned ruefully. "You're right...that is ridiculous and nothing could be further from the truth. You're where you are on the strength of your own merits...while I'm just a rich twit living an ultimately pointless life through the good fortune of daddy's money." She offered him a lop-sided, self-effacing grin and quipped, "Not that I'm complaining. Now, let's make a pact...no more irrational outbursts on my part and no more festering feelings of anxious inadequacy on yours. Instead, we'll be a team...you can supply the thoughtful, reserved intellect and I'll contribute the scintillating good looks and the cash."

Astounded by his seemingly incredible good fortune of having this amazing creature in his life, Donald laughed and intoned, "A deal then...and certainly a bargain on my part."

Cassande threw her arms about his neck and kissed him ardently, causing his heart to race and his breath to hitch in his chest. She broke the kiss and with a throaty growl, suggested, "Then you had better prepare yourself for diner in Mayfair and a long night of unconstrained make-up sex."

With this not so subtle challenge issued, she tugged him toward the Cooper and his misgivings vanished on the winds of lust and burgeoning contentment that would prove to be woefully short-lived.

6

By the time Mary Langdon reached her flat in Islington, her anger with Donald Gansby had pretty much dissipated like steam from a kettle. In retrospect, Mary realized that she had been excessively harsh in her condemnation of Gansby's odd obsession, and though her consternation had been warranted certainly...she could have been far more tactful in expressing her disdain. She resolved to take Donald aside Monday and apologize...for her curt tone.

It should have ended there, but as Mary settled in to the prospect of another dreary Saturday evening of solitude...passing her idle time in the company of her two imperious cats, the two juxtaposed images of Cassande Verhoeven and Karnalla Mansley's beautiful plaything kept imposing themselves on her thoughts. Ensconced in her favorite love seat, with her two purring tom's draped over her lap and shoulder, Mary found her attention straying from the tepid movie she was watching to the Virtua console that sat on a desk near the window.

_'Why are you even pre-occupied with this nonsense?'_ she thought, shaking her head in bemusement as her obsessive nature began to assert itself. _'For that matter...why the hell are you passing another Saturday night alone, instead of going out and trying to add some genuine meaning to your life? Jesus...Mary, we're not getting any younger here!'_

Mary ignored this desperate entreaty, having no desire to contemplate the essential sterility of her life beyond her chosen vocation. The reasons for her current state of existence were complex, frankly convoluted and absently painful and she had no desire to immerse herself in an exercise that could only be self-defeating in the end. Mary had evolved to become who she was meant to be and understood that rebelling against her solitary nature would only cause eternal heartache. Instead, she turned her thoughts to her internal keeper's initial query. Despite the absurdity of Donald's preposterous conclusions, the two images did propose an intriguing conundrum. Mary's keen mind had always regarded anomalies as affronts to her intellect...something that she felt obligated to unravel if only to satisfy her perception of the mystery they posed.

"Intellectual validation then?" she said, baffled by the idea that she could ever be so shallow. _'Still Mary...Donald has offered you a peek at a particularly compelling mystery...like a Carney pitchman...touting the wonder behind the curtain. We both know it's not in your intrinsic nature to look away. Once that seed of fascination has been implanted in that fertile mind of yours...you have no choice but to see it germinate. In this case, however, do you really want to know what waits behind this particular curtain? Once you throw it open, it can never be drawn shut again.'_

Though her flat was pleasantly warm, Mary Langdon was assailed by a particularly gripping chill then...along with a cryptic warning that might well have been a portent...were she inclined to place much stock in such things. _'Let this go, Mary...if you set out along this particularly thorny path...it will be your undoing.'_

Mary threw back her head and uttered a sardonic laugh, earning a baleful glare from her two cats. To her ears, that laughter resounded hollow and forced in the confines of her flat. Shaking her head, she shrugged the toms from her lap and shoulder, garnering a plaintive hiss from both...who abruptly decided to give expression to their displeasure by swiping at each other. Mary wagged a finger at both and intoned gravely, "Play nice lads."

The two toms eyed her warily and then set off in different directions, casting menacing glances at each other as they went. Carrying her tea, Mary padded over to the console and settled into the chair, still not certain what she expected to achieve by engaging in the exercise she was about to undertake. Initiating the general web search engine, she began with the easiest aspect first...images of Karnalla Mansley's companion toy. Refining her search to publicity appearances and runway images taken over the period of 2005 until 2025, Mary still found that she was confronted with the prospect of wading through an avalanche of images that stood as a testimony to this Mansley's imposing public presence...a fascination that extended to every aspect of her life.

Taking a sip of her steaming tea, Mary plunged into the preserved public fodder of what she perceived as Karnalla's essentially shallow life. As she scrolled through the pages and pages of images...posed perfection captured for posterity like the arc of a narcissist's self-indulgent life...she discovered that this companion was a ubiquitous figure. Aloof and austerely beautiful, she trailed after Karnalla Mansley like a wraith...omnipresent and inscrutable. The photographs captured a closed vault that gave no indication of what might lurk behind those captivating eyes.

_'Still it's impossible to deny that every image is a mirror reflection of the woman in Donald's life...the resemblance is beyond uncanny.'_ Mary's inner keeper insisted and Langdon thought she could discern just the slightest hint of nascent disquiet in that attestation. Returning to the original page, she repeated the process, selecting a dozen clear images of this mysterious companion, which she ordered her system to copy into a separate file.

This done, she initiated the remote access protocol that gained her entry into Scotland Yard's extensive database and archives. Using the public domain images as a search criteria, Mary commanded her system to produce a corresponding identification for the submitted image. She then settled back for what she assumed might be a fairly protracted wait considering the open-ended parameters she'd set for her search.

Mary was startled...and admittedly dismayed...when the system retrieved one relevant entry...one Cassande Verhoeven...admitted into Britain only this past January. Changing her parameters, Mary requested that the system repeat the search and exclude entries after the commencement of the current year. Almost immediately, the system delivered the perplexing result...no matches found.

Mary sat back in her chair and raised her right index finger to her full lower lip, staring pensively at the unexpected result. She could feel her heart begin to accelerate in her chest as she contemplated the possible inference of this bizarre yield. Summoning a split display, she called up the Mansley images again and asked the system to display all accompanying captions and posting dates. As she perused these, the facets of this puzzle only assumed a more confusing...and macabre tone. A significant portion of these photos had been taken at fashion venues in London and in all...the mysterious woman, Mary now considered Cassande's clone, had been present in each and every one.

"How could Donald have missed this?" She heard herself murmur with obvious exasperation.

_'Because he was already unsettled and frightened enough by what he had discovered,'_ her inner keeper suggested and that seemed plausible enough given Mary's state of agitation.

"Don't get ahead of yourself...there has to be a logical explanation," she chided herself, though her visceral reaction chose to ignore her words of cautionary advice. Mary next instructed the system to conjure a brief bio of Karnalla Mansley, and discovered that the model had spent a good portion of her time in London during her career. She had purchased a country estate just north of the city and it was there that she had evidently retired into the life of a recluse...withdrawing completely from the public eye. Despite being a permanent fixture at Mansley's side, the mysterious red-head was a ghost according to the British government, whose records contained not a shred of evidence that she had ever set foot on British soil...much less actually lived here. Mary wracked her incisive mind for a possible plausible explanation, but could not produce a single one that would withstand even the most cursory scrutiny. Seething with mounting frustration, she retraced Donald's step and submitted the two images to the yard's facial recognition software...producing the same incomprehensible result...the two images were irrefutably identical...one and the same.

Despite the improbability...no, impossibility of the notion...Cassande Verhoeven and Karnalla Mansley's companion were the same person...at least, according to Scotland yard's cutting edge AI technology. Deciding to draw no conclusions on the ramifications of this enigma, Mary was about to turn her attention to the next link in this progressive chain of paranoia...the missing teenager, Cassandra Jasic...when her eyelids began to flutter and weariness fell upon her like a billowing blanket. She glanced at the antique clock on the wall and was flummoxed to discover that it was coming on ten minutes to one Sunday morning.

Shaking her head, Mary Langdon instructed her terminal to hibernate and stood, feeling both irritated over having squandered so much time on a nonsensical and pointless exercise...and vaguely uneasy over what the endeavor had yielded. As she stumbled to her bed, Mary was determined that she would refrain from any future excursions into the twilight zone...as much as she might now empathize with Donald Gansby's bewilderment.

Despite her normally resolute nature, this would be one vow upon which Mary was destined to renege. This deviation would indeed prove to be her undoing.

Chapter Nine

1

For Elizabeth Simpson, the period of graceful solitude...of quiet contentment in isolation...in which she had lived the last twelve years of her life, came to an emphatic end one sunny afternoon during the third week of September. In truth, it had ended on the moment she had awoken from her portentous dream some weeks before, but the conscious part of her mind continued to cling to the beautiful illusion, hoping that the dream had been just that; a disturbing aberration in her otherwise happy life. In the intervening weeks she had spent her idle hours in a state of nervous expectancy...anxiously awaiting the moment when the foundations of that happiness crumbled to dust.

Like a harbinger of doom, it was the doorbell that heralded the end of her period of respite. As she frequently found herself doing of late, Elizabeth was standing before the bank of windows in her bedroom, staring wistfully out over the calm waters of the Messenian Gulf...though her thoughts were turned inward to the small collection of reminiscences and memories that had defined some of happier moments of her old life. Sadly, such moments had been few and far between before she had found this enchanted place, but nonetheless, Elizabeth cherished these memories...succumbing to the sense of euphoria they roused each and every time she reflected upon them.

In the intervening weeks, Elizabeth had tried to imagine what form this unwelcome disruption might assume and found that she could not give it precise shape or specific substance. The dream had manifested an image, but Elizabeth ascribed no credence to the rakish man with the shock of vital black hair and the disconcertingly red eyes.

_'Don't want to peer down that particularly disturbing road, do we Elizabeth dear?' the voice of Cynara Saravic demanded with just the slightest note of disdain. 'I can't say that I blame you though...the idea that my former master has seen through Alexandria's clever misdirection has to be unsettling. Still, ignore the possibility at your own detriment.'_ Cynara uttered a derisive laugh as though she found the notion of Elizabeth's plight inexplicably amusing.

Elizabeth shook her head in vexation. After years of existing on the periphery of her conscious thoughts, where Elizabeth had deliberately exiled her, Cynara was never far from her the center of her attention now. There were times...disturbingly more frequent in the last few days, when Elizabeth would turn suddenly to find a diaphanous version of her fellow immortal standing there and regarding her with a somber expression of disapproval. These hallucinations made Elizabeth fear that it was perhaps her sanity that was in peril of being stolen from her.

_'Really Elizabeth...are you truly capable of such a monumental act of self-delusion. What you experienced was not a dream...but an episode of augury...plain and irrefutably simple,'_ Cynara spat derisively. _'While you lurch about in this lavish prison, fate is bearing down upon you like a juggernaut, yet you obstinately refuse to accept it...hoping for some sort of reprieve. I can't help but wonder just what it was you expected when you first came here. Did you really believe that you would sit blithely in the shade and watch as the flow of years trickled through quaint Petalidi...a living statue that watches people live and die in its shadow...like sand blowing back and forth across the desert? Well I hate to burst you whimsical bubble, but the real world...with all of its unpalatable ugliness...has found you. If you were prudent, you would accept that...which ever shape this vague menace might assume...you're going to need me to extricate you from its noose. Come and find me now...before it's too late.'_

Elizabeth had gritted her teeth and had forcibly ejected this persistent dark echo of her past from her mind, but it inevitably returned to accost her when she was the most vulnerable...like a predator that senses it's quarry's moments of inherent vulnerability.

The melodic strains of her doorbell broke this worry-plagued reverie and Elizabeth fetched a deep sigh, turning away from the Messenian Gulf with no small degree of reluctance. Moving to the mezzanine railing that overlooked the open floor of her home's main living area, Elizabeth stepped lithely over the railing and simply allowed herself to float the tiled floor...like some gauzy material billowing on an eddying breeze.

Elizabeth would have be profoundly unsettled to realize how frequently she had been employing her abilities since the night of the dream, where as she had deliberately eschewed the conveniences they offered since first coming to live in her new home. She would have been even more disconcerted to discover that her subconscious mind was preparing her for the travails that awaited her once this imminent storm finally broke...irrespective of the form it might assume.

She opened the door to find a boy of no more than ten years old standing on her doorstep, fidgeting nervously and holding a cream-colored envelope in his two small hands. She recognized him, recalling that his name was Dario...Caralampio's youngest grandson. Peering over his shoulder, she could see a small bicycle leaning against the low stone wall that delineated her property.

The boy proffered the envelope to Elizabeth and intoned haltingly in Greek, "Grandpa told me that I was to bring this to you and not leave until I put it in your hand."

The boy was gazing at her with the same wide-eyed reverence that all the children of Petalidi seemed to display whenever she saw them looking at her and she wondered briefly if the innocent possessed the capacity to glean something of her nature. She held out her hand and he pressed the letter into her palm. Unexpectedly, he then rushed forward and threw his arms around her legs, pressing his face into her flat stomach. This innocent gesture of affection was so touching and emotionally poignant that Elizabeth felt herself wavering on the brink of tears and she feared that...should she start to cry, she would be unable to stop. Instead, she ruffled the boy's thick black hair and luxuriated in the giddy feeling of holding a child again. Finally, he stepped back and offered her a heartbreakingly lovely smile. She knelt down and gripped his arms lightly. "You go back to your grandpa and thank him for me and make sure to tell him to remember what I said last time we spoke...can you do that for me Dario?"

The boy's eyes widened and he nodded solemnly. Elizabeth could not resist the compulsion to kiss his cheek and then taking his small hand, she walked him back to his waiting bicycle. He bid her goodbye and she stood by her wall, watching as he commenced the return trip back to the village. Some one hundred meters down the road, he stopped and twisting in his seat, the boy waved a vigorous goodbye. Elizabeth returned the gesture and with tears streaming down her lovely face, watched him until he had vanished from sight.

She then turned and trudged back to the house, feeling more bleak and despondent than she had ever felt in her long life.

Elizabeth carried Caralampio's letter back into her house and then meandered out onto the sun-drenched rear patio that afforded such a spectacular view of the gulf. She wondered if this would be the last occasion she would have to sit and bask in its timeless beauty.

_'You're becoming nauseatingly maudlin, Elizabeth,'_ Cynara grumbled irritably and then mercifully fell silent.

Elizabeth turned the letter over and over in her hands, clearly reluctant to open it as if to do so was to grant her worst fears a measure of credence that could not be undone. Finally, fetching a tremulous breath, Elizabeth neatly tore open the flap and with two long fingers, nimbly extracted the single folded sheet from the envelope. The cream-colored paper had a rich texture and Caralampio's script was surprisingly elegant. Cursive writing had become an antiquated art form and there were few who still practiced this art...a fact that struck the sentimental Elizabeth as ineffably tragic. It was clear that the old man still clung to this fading tradition...just as passionately as he clung to Petalidi's ancient identity. Steeling herself against the anticipated pain, Elizabeth began to read.

Dear Agapita:

This is the day that I had hoped would never come...but like most, it has proven to be a fool's hope. As you had predicted during your last visit...a stranger has come inquiring after you. He showed your picture and claimed that it was vital he speak with you...that he had some important information to convey. He did not offer your name. As you had asked, I told him that you visited the village frequently, but I had no knowledge of who you were or where you lived. I said that you visited my shop every Wednesday morning for groceries.

When he was gone, I wrote this letter and sent Dario to find you. I hope I have done the right thing, Lizbet...but if so, it still carries a painful price...as if I have somehow betrayed you...as if Petalidi has failed to protect its angel...its Agapita.

I wanted to tell you that this man did not seem particularly dangerous...he was an older, blond man...thin and shopworn. He did not look dangerous...only unsavory.

I hope this will help you and that you can find a way to either avoid or overcome whatever threat he might pose to you...so that you may stay amongst us. I know...I know...just an old man's foolish wistfulness. If leaving should prove to be your only option, then I hope...Lizbet...Agapita...that, wherever your journey might carry you, it is to a place where you find the enduring contentment and happiness that your presence bestows upon the lives of those whom you touch.

Your friend always,

Caralampio Katsaros

Elizabeth allowed the letter to slip from her fingers and buried her face in her right hand, unable to resist the deluge of tears that burst forth. When the last of her tears had been spent, Elizabeth returned to the house and collected two of her most treasured possessions...framed photographs of David and Nathaniel. She carried these back out onto the patio and slipped back into the lounger. Placing Caralampio's letter on her lap, she held the two photographs up and studied them intently...though they had been committed to her perfect memory for decades, the tangible feel of the frame in her hand made it seem as though both were here with her. The first photograph showed a smiling, sixty year old David Stillman standing with his back to the majestic mountains of Romania, where he and Elizabeth had shared the last thirty years of his life.

Upon his death, Elizabeth had buried David next to his greatest enemy, Cynara Saravic. It seemed somehow appropriate as he had come to forgive the demon for the havoc she had visited upon his life.

The second photograph was taken when Nathaniel was only two years old. He was gaping up at the camera with his expression of beautiful wide-eyed innocence and wonder...blithely unaware of the dark cloud that was fast descending on his sweet little life. Gazing into that beautiful face that held such hope and promise, Elizabeth felt her heart wrench painfully in her chest at the thought of all the sorrow and suffering this little soul would be forced to endure over the course of his sad life. She realized that she would gleefully trade her immortality for just a small space of time in which she and her lost son could share the happiness embodied in this precious photograph.

Cradling these two cherished relics to her breasts...reminders of a life permanently lost...Elizabeth gazed unblinkingly out over the calm waters of the Messenian Gulf. The world had evidently come to reclaim her...but for one final night, she would luxuriate in the peace and tranquility of this splendid place. Holding her two lost loves, Elizabeth watched as if from the depths of a dream as day gave way to a gloriously clear night and an infinite number of worlds danced their celestial ballet as if only for her.

2

While Elizabeth Simpson enjoyed her final fleeting moment of peaceful solitude, a half a world away, two women she had never met...but who were of her blood...were sharing their own moment of intense personal drama.

Rebecca Merin emerged from the inner court parking area to find her mother sitting on the front stairs of her Cambridge townhouse. Imirya's visits were a rarity on weekends, but Rebecca could not recall the last time her mother had made the drive to visit her daughter during the week. As she hurried up the walk, Rebecca's open, happy countenance was clouded by sudden concern. As she sat on the stone stairs, there was a despondent hunch to Imirya's normally perfect posture, declaring eloquently that something ominous had befallen her mother.

Rebecca's first thought was that something might have happened to her grandmother, Contayza, but she quickly dismissed that. Though she could not say precisely how she knew, Rebecca was nonetheless _certain_ that she would know if her grandmother had met with ill-fortune. That was patently absurd of course, but young Rebecca was not so inclined to dismiss such metaphysical concepts as her pragmatic mother might have been.

Still, for Imirya to be drawn away from her beloved hospital during a work week...only something severe would provoke her to deviate from her rigid schedule.

"Mother...is everything okay," Rebecca inquired tightly, her concern resonating in her melodic voice. Imirya's head jerked up and Rebecca could see that her limpid blue eyes were red-rimmed from crying. She stood and roughly dragged the heel of her palm across her eyes.

The two stood regarding each other for a moment...two women who were related by flesh, but who bore very little resemblance to the other. Imirya...tall and blond, constrained and cultured...had inherited much of her physical traits from a grandmother she had never met. Dark-haired and amber eyed Rebecca was a diminutive beauty who would have been a mirror image of her beautiful grandmother...had the tribulations of life not worked to twist Contayza's beauty into something dark and severe.

For a moment, Imirya did not respond, just stood stationary...swaying slightly and regarding her daughter with a grave expression that Rebecca could not recall having ever seen on her mother's face. Then she inhaled sharply and intoned, "Can't a mother spontaneously decide to come and see how her daughter is faring?"

"Of course," Rebecca replied, inclining her head slightly...not trusting this suggestion of a casual visit for a second. Imirya had always been too structured...too driven for that kind of spontaneity. What's more, the grim expression on her lovely face made it clear that this was anything but a casual visit. This impression was further substantiated by the urgency with which Imirya hugged her when the two embraced. Rebecca pulled away and upon studying Imirya's face, was troubled to see that her mother was perilously close to tears again. Taking the taller woman's hand and squeezing it in reassurance, she intoned warmly, "Let's go inside...I'll make you a dinner that will make you glad you made the trip."

3

Imirya sat on a stool and watched with unconcealed admiration as Rebecca floated around the kitchen of the townhouse Rebecca's father had purchased for the girl upon her admission to Harvard. There was a fluid and easy grace to Rebecca's movements that had always reminded her mother of physical poetry. As always, just being in the girl's presence seemed to ameliorate her anxiety's...making them seem somehow trivial...or at the very least, manageable. There was an elusive quality about Rebecca that seemed to exert a calming...placating affect on everyone in her presence. Imirya had felt it even when her daughter had been a young child...it was why people were so naturally attracted to Rebecca...drawn to her by a quality that went far beyond her exotic beauty to an aura that was very difficult to define, but impossible to deny. Once the girl had pushed her impromptu casserole into the oven, she poured two glasses of Pinot Noir and came to sit at the counter, taking the stool directly across from her mother. "Now tell me why you're so upset and don't you dare try to trivialize your state by saying you came on an impulse."

Imirya's eyes widened at her daughter's uncharacteristically brusque tone, but the concern in those exquisite amber eyes was genuine and banished the older woman's misgivings. "Your grandmother and I had a fight...no...that would be a gross understatement. We had what could easily be compared to a nuclear explosion." Her voice choked then and she managed, "We said things to each other that no mother and daughter should ever say to each other...ever! Ugly and cruel things...meant to scar; I'm so ashamed...and hurt."

She buried her face in her hands and began to cry unabashedly. Rebecca reached across and began to caress the back of her mother's left hand. As always, the affect served to exert a placating influence on her mother...who gradually regained her composure. Rebecca waited silently until Imirya had regained her equilibrium and then she insisted softly, but firmly, "You're going to tell me exactly what happened and don't you try to pretend this wasn't somehow about me because I _know_ better."

Imirya gazed at her beautiful daughter and though she wanted desperately to ward her against the pervasive ugliness that had characterized her relationship with her own mother, Imirya could not escape the recollection of the mad zealot's light that had burned in Contayza's eyes as she had menaced her in that hovering chair. There was a tenacious determination in that expression that informed Imirya that her mother would stop at nothing to draw Rebecca into her mad delusions. Haltingly, she began to recount the events of the horrible afternoon. She did not trivialize the ugliness of their acrimonious barbs...but she did expunge Contayza's use of her gift to threaten Imirya into compliance.

Rebecca listened without interjection, though a storm cloud began to gather on her smooth brow. When Imirya fell silent, Rebecca rose from her stool and began to pace back and forth in the confines of her small kitchen, clearly disconcerted by her mother's troubling tale. Something about Rebecca's restive movements conjured images of a stalking panther. When she finally stopped pacing her eyes were narrowed and her face was set in unfamiliar lines of consternation. "Mother, there is something you're not telling me...but before you leave here tonight you will. Ever since I was old enough to understand it, I could always sense this festering tension that smoldered between the two of you every time you were in a room together. Some prescience told me that it somehow involved me, but I could never compel either one of you to talk about it. That reticence ends here and now. The things you both said to each other are horribly cruel and unforgivable...and you're right...they should never pass between two people who love each other."

"Perhaps that's a vast part of the problem, Rebecca," Imirya remarked somberly, "perhaps we don't love each other."

Rebecca's came swiftly around the counter and swiveled a startled Imirya to face her, gripping her mother's shoulders and shaking her briskly. Adamantly, she intoned, "I won't hear that kind of talk...I won't hear that my mother and grandmother have damaged their relationship so irreparably that it can't be healed. You're going to tell me how I've caused this discord between the two of you and then we're going to figure out how to repair the damage."

Rebecca stepped back and crossed her slender arms beneath her full breasts, gazing at her rather unsettled mother expectantly. It was rare for the girl to display this kind of aggressive determination. In fact, Imirya could only recall having encountered it on one prior occasion...when they had butted headed over the career path that Rebecca might choose to follow once her internship was done. While Imirya had been insistent that Rebecca would follow her into specialization and institutionalized medicine, Rebecca had been equally adamant in her intention to go out into the world and practice in places that had the greatest need...where suffering was a trenchant part of everyday life. In the face of the normally accommodating girl's grim intransigence, Imirya had wisely relented. That intransigence was burning in Rebecca's luminous amber eyes now and it was readily apparent that she would accept nothing less than total candor from her mother. There was another reason that Imirya decided to be totally forthcoming with her daughter...if she did not make the disclosure, Contayza would and Imirya feared that her beautiful daughter would be traduced by the silly lore that had plagued her life since Imirya had been old enough to remember.

Trying to relate the nature of Contayza's abilities and beliefs...both of which were alien and terrifying to her...was one of the hardest tasks Imirya Merin had ever had to undertake. Trying to summon all of the impartiality she could muster, Imirya recounted the tale of Contayza's life and the gifts she possesses...including the life she lived before she met Nathaniel. She spun a story of hardship and enduring love and unbreakable family bonds. Rebecca came to see that her proud, often stubborn grandmother had lived an epic life full of drama and tragedy the likes of which the average person could scarcely conceive. Imirya spoke of Nathaniel's mysterious mother Elizabeth, but here her account became disjointed and wanting for detail. "The loss of his mother broke my father's heart and though he continued to live and loved my mother and me with unremitting passion, a part of his spirit died with her."

"Did he not speak of her...tell you about the kind of person she was?" Rebecca inquired softly and the recollection of her grandfather...a kind man with sad blue eyes...threatening to move her to tears. She was dismayed to realize how seldom she thought of the man she had loved so much as a child.

A shadow rippled across Imirya's lovely face then and she revealed, "No...Contayza forbid him to even speak Elizabeth's name in her presence. She was brutally indifferent to my father's grief over his mother and I can't help but believe that her callous indifference...her refusal to offer him any comfort...robbed him of some critical...element. When he did dare speak to me of Elizabeth...when we were alone or off on some short trip or outing...it was obvious that he revered her beyond his words to express. I saw it in his eyes however...they would light up for a short while...temporarily giving him back whatever he'd lost through losing her. I was aware of all of this and even as a young girl...it opened a chasm between mother and me that only grew wider as time passed."

Two hours had passed since Imirya had begun her tale and brooding shadows leaked through the windows of Rebecca's townhouse. She crossed to the drapes and glanced briefly out into the September dusk...thinking nothing of the black cargo van that was parked directly across the street. She drew the blinds and stood in the shadow for a protracted moment, trying to gather her thoughts about Imirya's dramatic and ultimately tragic tale...of lives lived and squandered in a time she could scarcely imagine. Finally, she came back into the kitchen and stood directly before her mother, who was regarding her warily. "I understand why you are angry with grandmother...what she did to grandfather...refusing to even acknowledge something that was so important to him or the pain of losing someone he adored...was inexpressibly cruel." She leaned closer until their faces were only inches apart and in a calm voice, bereft of judgment, she inquired, "By forbidding grandmother to speak to me of her heritage...of our heritage...and share her history, with its grief and joy...have you not done precisely the same thing...not only to her, but to me as well?"

Imirya opened her mouth to raise a strident denial, but then Rebecca's infallible logic asserted herself and she fell silent with a low moan of self-condemnation. Imirya inhaled sharply and then hung her head in shame. Rebecca reached forward and tenderly lifted Imirya's face by placing an index finger beneath her firm chin. "All of this bitterness ends today. I am going to call grandmother and then you and I will visit her Saturday...no excuses accepted...and the two of you will resolve your differences and start the healing process. Even if you can't forgive the things you've done to each other...you will move beyond them...together."

Imirya shook her head and in her deep blue eyes there shone an emotion that puzzled Rebecca...trepidation. "I really don't think that's a good idea, honey. Your grandmother threw me out of her house in a way that made it emphatically clear that my return would be...unwelcome."

Rebecca's expression became severe and she growled, "If she wishes to see me again...to have the opportunity to share her heritage with me...then she won't ostracize my mother. I will make that perfectly clear when we speak later. Now...why are you so frightened of me learning about my heritage...about grandmother's gift?"

Imirya's face contorted miserably as she groped for the requisite words to express the nebulous fear that had plagued her since the day Contayza had announced that Rebecca possessed dormant abilities that exceeded her own. Hesitantly, she admitted, "Your grandmother believes that you possess latent gifts...much like her own. It has always been her desire to mentor you...to help germinate these abilities...something that I expressly forbid. That conflict was the catalyst for much of the rancor that has existed between us for so long...though the truth is distressingly more complex than this alone."

Rebecca pursed her lips in vexation, but made no comment. Instead, she asked, "Why does grandmother despise Elizabeth so passionately?"

Imirya's expression became one of perplexed bemusement and she shrugged, "I honestly don't know...something terrible happened in Romania during the time that she met my father. Contayza lost her entire family, but before you ask...I don't know any of the details. It was another topic that she simply did not entertain...and father simply could not speak of as if to do so was more than he could bear. You see dear...our family is built on a riddled foundation of dark secrets."

"Then perhaps it's time we shed light on the darkness. On Saturday, I intend to extract answers to all of these questions and we're not leaving until all of these festering grievances have been resolved. You still haven't answered my question, mother...why did you not want grandmother to discuss the subject of these abilities with me?"

Imirya studied her beautiful daughter...the one accomplishment in her life of which she was the most proud. In those gorgeous amber eyes there was no tolerance for evasion and so she confessed softly, "I was afraid that they might change you...that you would become like her...dark and _vitiated_."

Rebecca smiled warmly, and abruptly kissed her mother's right cheek before holding her to arm's length. "I love grandmother, but you must surely see...I could never be like her. We may share the same blood, but we are two unique...and distinctly different people. You raised me...influenced me...how could you not see that?"

Imirya averted her eyes in the face of her daughter's astute observation and honest bewilderment. "Contayza was right about many of the things she said...maybe that's why they stung so deeply. I was a poor excuse for a daughter...I know how deeply I disappointed her. I was a terrible wife as well...but I pray I was a good mother to you?"

There was such a note of desperate entreaty in Imirya's voice...such self-doubt...that Rebecca could feel herself tottering on the brink of tears. Suspecting that her mother would misconstrue her tears to be an affirmation of her failure as a mother, Rebecca summoned the strength to control her emotions, though her voice quavered precariously when she replied, "You were the best mother I could possibly hope for. If you were a bad wife...it was only because...in your concern for the wellbeing of strangers...you lost sight of the man who needed you as well."

Imirya nodded in shameful acknowledgement of this irrefutable truth...of a squandered love lost to obsession. "Your father...is he happy?"

Rebecca squeezed her hand and nodded. "He loves Hudson very much...and she loves him. She's a giving, kind woman and I am very happy for the both of them, mother."

Imirya nodded and even managed to muster a wan smile, though the tear that slid forth from the corner of her right eye made her pain eminently clear. "That's good then...I guess it might have been better if he had found her first...then you wouldn't have had to experience a broken home."

Rebecca greeted this rather morose exclamation of self-pity with a mirthful giggle before reaching across and hugging her mother. "Without you...I wouldn't be who I am...and I kind of like what I've become just fine."

Imirya's eyes widened in surprise and then she too burst into a gale of laughter. When it subsided, Rebecca's tone became serious and resolute. "Everything is going to be okay...we're going to fix this as a family. We're going to listen to grandmother's story...all of it. I want you to be there when she shares whatever it is she has wanted to tell me for so long. Judging by what you've told me, it's nearly impossible to grasp the life she's lived...the experience she's garnered on her journey. Allow her to share it with us mother...without a jaundiced eye. Perhaps there is something valuable both of us can learn and just that one concession on your part will go a long way toward healing old wounds."

"Do you really think so?" Imirya inquired with a finely tapered eyebrow arched in cynicism.

"I really do...please mother...do this for me!" Rebecca beseeched adamantly, "For all of us."

Imirya inhaled sharply and nodded with an enthusiasm she did not feel. "Then that's precisely what I'll do. You know...I can't help but feel we're experiencing a role reversal, you and I...clearly I should be the errant child in need of a good shake and you should be the sage mother ready to administer it."

They both laughed and the conversation segued into lighter topics, though Imirya could not entirely eschew the dread of confronting her mother again...knowing how close Contayza had come to harming her. Stealing a brief glimpse at her watch, Imirya gave a start and exclaimed, "Wow, we've been gabbing like two old hens...you have school tomorrow and I have a mid-morning procedure."

"Can you not stay here tonight and drive back in the morning?" Rebecca asked without a great degree of hope. As expected, Imirya shook her head and her daughter relented, though her disappointment was evident on her lovely face. "How about I collect you Friday and then we go to Contayza's together on Saturday morning? We can have a wonderful dinner in the city on Friday night."

Rebecca's countenance brightened like a dawning sun and she remarked, "That would be wonderful mother...and thank you for letting me try to patch things up with grandmother."

Imirya paused at the door and was suddenly suffused by the need to make another concession...a major one that might begin to redress all past shortcoming. "I want this to be a new beginning Rebecca...a nadir from which hopefully something good can come. I'm going to...refocus my priorities on teaching and research...and most importantly, my family."

Rebecca smiled, "Mother, you can't begin to imagine how happy that makes me. You're a beautiful, vibrant woman with so much to offer...and who deserves so much in turn. You deserve someone to grow old with and experience all of those things you've ignored for so long. Intimacy, passion and the joy of spending the remainder of your life with a special person who makes you feel alive; these are the things that I want to see you have."

Rebecca's exuberance was infectious and evoked a broad smile from Imirya Merin. They hugged again and Imirya set off on her return trip to Boston. Rebecca watched her go with a fond smile. She closed the door and made a wish that this was one promise her mother would keep.

Less than five minutes later, a brisk knock came on the door. Rebecca hurried to the door, thinking that Imirya had changed her mind and decided to stay for the night after all. In her delight, Rebecca ignored the one protocol to which every single female in America should adhere if they wished to stay safe; vigilance.

She threw open the door and was abruptly greeted by a spray of fine green mist. As consciousness receded, Rebecca caught one disjointed glimpse of a figure wearing black from head to toe...and then she was plummeting into the void.

4

Elizabeth spent the long night lost in a reverie of years long past...shining a reminiscent light on each of her cherished memories and drawing joy from each recalled experience in the way a bee will draw pollen from a flower. When the sun reared its golden face over the horizon, breaking over the Messenian gulf in a thousand different hues of red, green and gold, Elizabeth rose from her lounger. Carrying her two precious photographs and Caralampio's letter, she marched back into the house and up to her bedroom. She placed both the photographs and the letter on her nightstand and then stripping out of her clothes, made her way naked to the tub. As she slipped into the perfume scented water, Elizabeth banished all sorrowful thought and carefully returned her cherished memories to the repository in her mind, wondering bleakly if she would ever have the opportunity to indulge them again.

She rose from the tub and dripping on the marble floor, brushed out her honey blond hair. Waving an arm about her head, she conjured a warm wind that dried her in mere minutes, before returning to the bedroom and selecting clothing. She selected an electric blue dress that clung lovingly to every sweep and curve of her nubile body. To this, she added bracelets of pearls at her wrists and a blazing emerald pendant that nestled in the deep valley of her firm breasts.

Though she could not necessarily articulate her reasons, Elizabeth made the conscious decision to confront this new threat to her private requiem in all of her blazing splendor. Someone decided that they must find her...then let them see her in all of her radiant glory...let it burn them like the fires of the blazing sun.

She stood before a chevalier and preened. Satisfied that she had achieved the desired beguiling effect...Elizabeth hurried down stairs, sparing one brief and incisively painful glimpse at the two photographs on her nightstand. She paused at the main entrance and looked back at the home where she had passed some of the happiest days of her life. In the radiant light of morning, she discerned that something...some abstract but critical element had been leeched from the ambience of this special place...permanently lost, irrespective of whatever might transpire today.

Frowning and ineffably sad, Elizabeth closed the door and strode out to the road. She decided that she would forego the vehicle and make this last walk into Petalidi on foot...savoring this one final journey.

As she walked along the road, which was delineated by strands of sun bleached sand as white as her pearls, vivid memories of David and Nathaniel...of her simple, small town life in Semelar kept trying to intrude on her thoughts and disrupt her focus. It was hard to credit that she had once been a provincial ingénue whose only wish was to live a long and happy life in a small Washington town. That line of meandering inevitably led to Cynara...the demonic shadow that would reduce those young girl's modest aspirations to ruin and set her on the road which inexorably led to this moment of turbulence and uncertainty. Like a stellar burst of pristine understanding, the obscure meaning of Elizabeth's dream resolved itself in her mind...with a terrible clarity that caused her to falter in mid-stride.

The road she was setting out upon would lead to her death...to a final, unavoidable oblivion...an eternal blackness into which she would not venture alone. Elizabeth uttered a soft curse of negation...a strident denial fraught with the conviction that nothing could induce her to commit an act of self-immolation...not after all that had been sacrificed to see her live.

_'Time makes a mockery of our best intentions, darling Elizabeth...you've lived long enough to know that,'_ the voice of Cynara Saravic observed blithely.

For a brief instant, Elizabeth entertained the enticing notion of simply fleeing...of turning about and discarding her face and identity and fading off into the distant horizon.

_'Too late dear...the world has your scent and there is nothing for it now...but to fight or be eaten,'_ her tormentor informed her with a perverse glee...and then added darkly. _'Should you elect to run now...it will not be you who pays the price for your cowardice.'_

5

Henry Cyr sat in the shade of the only tree along the entire stretch of road, which was strangely deserted for this time of the day. The previous day, traffic along this quaint street had been surprisingly brisk, but as Henry sat on a bench that afforded him an unobstructed view of the old man's grocery store, he suspected that he could have counted the passing cars on the fingers of one hand.

Henry removed his summer hat from his head and began to fan his perspiration-soaked brow. Despite wearing an appropriate white linen suit and summer shoes, Cyr was insufferably hot. He hoped that this mystery woman would make her regularly scheduled appearance so that he could fulfill his obligation and get out of this god forsaken backwater. He'd be glad to be shut of Greece and its maddening heat. _'Give me rainy old London any day.'_

Though Henry would have vehemently denied it, it was not the heat alone that made him anxious to decamp this sun-ravaged repository for the backward obsessed. Since first coming to Petalidi, Henry had been perpetually assailed by the irrational feeling that this was an ill-fated venture that he might not survive to see to its end. That was preposterous of course, but as ludicrous as it might prove to be, Henry could not refrain from thinking that he had bitten off far more than a creature of his stripe could chew by accepting this decidedly _irregular_ assignment.

He had arrived in Petalidi just the previous day and after showing his photograph to several of the locals to no avail, he had ventured into the grocery store just across the way. The old man behind the counter had confirmed that this woman did frequent the town, though he had no information on her place of residence...only that she made a habit of visiting his shop every Wednesday. Content that he had obtained the one piece of tangible information he required, Henry had spent the remainder of the day sitting near the harbor and enjoying the ambience of this ancient village. The night he had passed by partaking in the local spirits, before stumbling up to his hotel room in a state normally conducive to a dreamless sleep. On this night, however, he was to be denied his oblivion. Instead, he had been plagued by disjointed and abstractly terrifying dreams...nightmares in which he had fled from one peril to the next. Through all of these random mazes of horror, his plight had been witnessed by a pair of iridescent eyes that shone the most improbable shade of orange. The slant of those eyes conveyed the impression of immutable rage...a deadly fury directed squarely upon him. As ludicrous as this vivid nightmare was, it had left Henry Cyr feeling profoundly unsettled...and frightened, if he was being entirely candid.

He cast a glance to the photograph of the blond woman. Nothing in that angelic countenance suggested the slightest capacity for violence, but the more he studied that exquisite face, the deeper Henry's disquiet became.

_'What's gotten into you, old sod...you've been through far too much to let this situation give you the willies,'_ he chided himself and that certainly was true enough. At fifty-one years old, Henry Cyr's diverse life experiences had taken him to every corner of the world and exposed him to things...many of which he sincerely wished he could efface form his memory. There had been a time...decades earlier, before the cynicism and indifference had extinguished his idealism...when Henry Cyr had dedicated his life to the pursuit of idealism and the recording of the honest truth...both beautiful and ugly...that unfurled through the triumphs and tragedies of the world around him. As a freelance photojournalist, Henry had captured some of the most compelling and poignant moments of the early twenty-first century...resonating stills of the eternal flow of life in all of its splendor and desolation.

Yet, somewhere along the path, the resolutely idealistic Henry Cyr had simply stopped giving a fuck. From behind his lens, Henry had come to the debilitating realization that life was nothing but an endless cycle of the same vapid mistakes and injustices...repackaged and re-branded, but depressingly recycled nonetheless. It was then that Henry began to care less about what he captured, than the money his efforts might yield. Moral dissolution followed hard on the heels of this uncoupling with his principles and ideals and soon Henry found himself earning a living taking photographs of celebrities and public figures in compromising positions...fodder for tabloids and scandal rags.

Henry's life path had taken a decidedly sinister turn when he had met a man named Cedric Drury. Drury's interest in Henry's talent for clandestine photography had gone beyond simple scandal and random malice. Henry had been enticed into the role of gumshoe...trailing political and corporate heavyweights in search of anything incriminating that might set them down the greasy slope to ruin. Henry had demonstrated an amazing aptitude for this unsavory vocation and Drury's employer had compensated Cyr in amounts well beyond his wildest expectations.

Only later, when Henry had attained a level of financial comfort that made such tawdry undertakings unnecessary, did Cyr realize that his association with Cedric Drury and his mysterious employer was the type that could not be abrogated.

Years passed and Cyr began to increasingly feel like a rat caught in a slowly collapsing cage. Despite these growing reservations, Henry had never felt personally threatened by the actual work. He had an aptitude for being invisible when the situation required...a shadow that drifted always under the line of vision. Sitting here, however, in quiet, unassuming Petalidi, Henry Cyr felt the chilled breath of fear on the nape of his perspiration soaked neck, as if he was caught out in the open, naked and vulnerable beneath a glaring spotlight with his every fault and imperfection laid bare.

He was still trying to decipher the source of this seemingly baseless fear when he caught his first glimpse of the woman whom he had been dispatched to find. Henry sat upright, his breathing hitching in his narrow chest. Even from this considerable distance it appeared that she was bathed in a corona of golden effulgence...an intense golden glow to rival the burning molten orb that dominated the sky above. He watched, transfixed, as she glided down the otherwise deserted street...moving in a slow and languid rhythm that was irresistibly hypnotic. As she grew closer, Henry raised the small magnifier to his right eye...a small tubular device that could easily be concealed in his palm, but which had the power to draw distant objects closer with stunningly vivid clarity.

He heard a small sound escape his lips...a gasp of amazement inspired by the enormity of this woman's staggering beauty and while the photograph had captured something of her essence, it lacked the faculty to do justice to the tangible reality of her physical presence. He swept the lens along the topography of her exquisite, statuesque body and then returned it to her face...his heart jumping in his chest when he saw that her limpid gaze was fixed squarely upon him. He snapped the magnifier into his closed fist and quickly averted his gaze to the opposite end of the empty street.

After a moment, he returned his gaze to the woman and even without the benefit of the magnifier, he could still feel the weight of her daunting gaze sitting squarely upon his face.

_'Come then...you've sought me out...let us speak!'_ The dulcet voice...smooth like the finest of Scotch...invited Henry...not through the medium of open air, but in the frazzled interior of his mind. Henry's eyes bulged open and though he could discern no overt hostility in this invitation...he could clearly hear the implacable authority that would brook no refusal. The woman paused for a moment, her hands on tight hips, and then turned down a narrow alley that ran beside the grocery store.

With his heart galloping wildly in his chest, Henry remained stationary for a moment, immobilized by ambivalence and apprehension. He briefly contemplated simply bolting and leaving Drury's message undelivered, but an instinct for self-preservation informed him that he had now become the hunted and flight would only hasten his demise.

Rising on legs that were wooden with fright, Henry stumbled across the strangely deserted street, wishing desperately that someone would emerge from one of the buildings and restore an aspect of normalcy to this macabre moment. At the mouth of the narrow alley, Henry paused, suddenly reluctant to venture into what resembled the gullet of a great concrete basilisk.

As if in response to this disconcerting metaphor, a barely perceptible sibilant hiss issued forth from the alley. "Coooome theeeeen....let us speeeeak."

The susurration caressed Henry's ear like a soft sigh and he found his feet moving of their own volition...drawing him deeper into the shadowy recesses of the alley. He threw a wistful, longing glance back over his shoulder and was shocked to discover that cars and people were now moving along the street that suddenly seemed so impossibly distant.

_'There is no going back...only dialogue and candor,'_ the same melodic voice informed him and Henry did not doubt its veracity for a second. Seeing that he was left with no viable alternative, Henry Cyr mustered his flagging courage and started forward.

He came to a T-intersection and on the compulsion of some vague instinct decided to turn left and follow the alley behind what should have been the grocery store. Several buildings further along the alley took an abrupt ninety degree turn and Henry veered to his right, though there was still no sign of the beautiful blond that had lured him into this confusing maze.

The flow of time...or at least, his perception of time, seemed to become distorted then as if it had become somehow malleable. He made one turn after another and still there was no hint of the woman or any sign of another street. He became cognizant of several furtive sounds that were rife with nebulous menace...the snarling of something that could have been a wolf and the guttural grumble of something...else...something huge and ominous that Henry had no desire to envision.

The heat only exacerbated his sense of disconnection, dulling his perception until everything seemed syrupy and distorted. He felt unaccountably exhausted and even the effort of walking suddenly felt incredibly onerous. He lurched around another corner to find himself confronted by the biggest wolf he had ever seen in his life. Its head was down and its huge fangs were bared in a slavering snarl.

Henry cried out and without taking his eyes from the beast, began to back out into the intersection, relieved when the wolf displayed no inclination to follow. That relief turned to dread when he saw that both ends of the alley were now cordoned off by curtains of writhing flames that spanned the full height of the building. A still functional part of his mind registered the discordant fact that the intense flames could find no purchase on the buildings.

During the entire time that Henry had pursued the magnificent specter, he was unaware that he was still clutching the glossy photograph that Drury had given him before he had departed the relative safety of England. He turned around to face the wolf...which still blocked any hope of egress from the other alley, but his attention was drawn upward.

She was standing on the edge of a roof some ten meters above him, gazing down on him with eyes that burned a malefic shade of orange. Her picture had captured an image of angelic perfection, but if this woman was an angel...it was an angel of retribution.

She snapped her right fist closed in a gesture of summons and the photograph was torn from his right hand. Henry watched in unconcealed terror as it floated up into her open hand as if borne on a current of air. She regarded the picture for a long moment, her expression becoming frighteningly grave. Frowning, she held the photograph to arms length and it abruptly burst into flames, the ashes wafting down on Henry like dirty snow.

Growing frantic with the need to flee, Henry was weighing the merits of making a desperate dash through one of the curtains of flame when she spoke. "Don't try to run."

She then simply stepped off the edge of the building, but rather than plummet to the bleached cobbles, she merely floated slowly to the ground like some manner of diaphanous wraith, with her long, honey blond hair billowing around her like loom spun gold. She landed lightly on the balls of her feet and stood stationary, fixing Henry with a penetrating gaze of appraisal that turned his blood to ice water.

There was something otherworldly...deity-like about her aura...as if she was some manner of goddess reborn into an age where she had no place. Falling to his knees like a supplicant, he raised his arms and pleaded, "Please don't hurt me...I'm just a messenger!"

She did not respond at once, but Cyr felt his terror abate, if only marginally, when that awful orange drained from her eyes. Her blue eyes were refulgent and lent her face a soft, benevolent aspect. She raised her leanly-muscled right arm and Cyr found himself being jerked into the air as if by an invisible tether. Henry screamed as some titanic invisible force spun him about until his head was pointed toward the ground. The same unseen hands shook the terrified photographer briskly and soon items from his pockets littered the pavement...including his wallet and a round metallic sphere.

The shaking mercifully stopped and as a moaning Henry peered on, the woman slowly walked over and stooped gracefully down to retrieve both his billfold and the metallic object. Even from his disorienting perspective, the lecherous part of Cyr's mind could not help but notice how exquisitely formed she was as her bronze legs flexed as she squatted down. He waited in nervous silence as she rummaged through the contents of his wallet, extracting his passport card with two long fingers. Spontaneously, Henry was turned right side up and set gently down on the cobbles in a kneeling position. Still holding his passport, she stepped closer...a perplexing amalgam of raw sexuality and a discordant divinity. Henry became acutely aware of the way her electric blue dress clung lovingly to her body and felt his heart cycle up several beats...though now for entirely different reasons.

A primal instinct informed Henry that this...this creature would not harm him, unless he left her with no other recourse. Henry Cyr might be characterized as many things, but a fool was not amongst them and he shrewdly decided that he would tell her whatever she might wish to know. "Henry, I trust you've figured out that I'm no ordinary woman. For your sake, I genuinely hope you have. I have no desire to hurt you...but I need to answers to my questions and I will have them from you...one way or the other. Do you believe me, Henry?"

"Most definitely!" Henry replied emphatically. "I tell you what I can, but you've got to believe me when I tell you it isn't much."

She placed the flat of her right palm on his chest. At once his body was suffused by a placating warmth that relegated his anxiety to meaninglessness. "Then begin by telling me what you do know and believe me when I warn you that I have an incredible acuity for discerning lies."

Henry inhaled sharply and nodded gravely...his pale blue eyes signifying his understanding. Haltingly, he began, "I was sent here by a man named Cedric Drury...to locate the woman in the photograph that you so neatly incinerated. I will tell you that he provided a picture and a possible location to commence my search, but not a name. After I confirmed that you were the person in the picture, I was to take photographs of you and then deliver the device you're holding in your hand. Once that was done, I was to confirm that I had completed my assignment and the go back to my old life...a considerable sum of money wealthier, I'll admit."

The blond considered this for a moment, her smooth brow furrowing in consternation. "What do you know about this man...Cedric Drury?" Please, stand...I derive no pleasure from humiliation."

Henry nodded and stood, feeling a measure of disappointment when she withdrew her palm and stepped back a pace. He stood and brushed at his knees with his hat, before providing a response. "Cedric Drury...to begin with...is one of the most terrifying men I've ever met and believe me when I tell you that I've come across a good many in my travels. He has eyes that remind me of grave stones...devoid of any compassion or humanity. The other thing I can tell you about Drury is that he is a trained dog...a very lethal and efficient trained dog...but a trained dog nonetheless."

"So this Drury is someone's creature?" The blond asked her eyes narrowing in contemplation that lent her lovely face a decidedly feral aspect.

"Creature...I like that term...it's appropriate. Cedric is a wind-up toy, but I have no notion who might be turning his key," Henry admitted.

"Why would such a person have interest in me...a woman living thousands of miles away in anonymity?" The blond inquired, genuinely perplexed. It was immediately obvious that these men were not aligned with Cynara's former master, so that begged the question of how they had come to discover her existence and what interest they could have in her.

For his part, a rather incredulous smirk twisted Henry's thin lips as he allowed his gaze to slowly wander the dizzying topography of her scintillating body. The blond noticed his blatant ogling and frowned. Henry laughed and shook his head. "Dear, you are exactly the kind of woman men such as Cedric Drury's master would want. These kinds of men are ravagers who have come to believe that everything they desire...is simply theirs for the taking. To such men...everything is a commodity and exotic beauty such as yours is the most precious commodity of all. This kind of man would want to acquire you for a toy."

The woman's eyes flared that unnerving orange...a color Henry had quickly come to associate with fury...and she snarled, "Any man foolish enough to attempt to acquire me, as you put it...would find that I would make a most disagreeable toy...fatally so."

To defuse her anger, Henry raised a placating hand and remarked, "Look, all of that is just speculation on my part...nothing more. I have no idea who Drury works for or why they would go to such elaborate lengths to locate you." He pointed toward the metallic sphere which sat, forgotten, in the blonde's hand. "I'm guessing that could provide the answers to many of your questions."

The woman held up the small sphere for inspection. "What is this device and what purpose does it serve?"

Henry gaped at the woman askance...clearly mystified by her unfamiliarity with rudimentary technology. "It's a common holographic communication sphere. It works with a standard Virtua terminal. You place it in proximity to your terminal and the three dimensional holograph activates. Cedric told me that this is protected and will only activate if you provide your name when prompted. Even if I had been inclined to do so, I was not provided with your name and could never open the message. In my line of work, curiosity is a very detrimental quality to possess if you wish to see a ripe old age."

The woman crossed her arms beneath her full breasts and propping an elbow in her palm, raised an index finger to her lips in the most enticing posture of contemplation that Henry had ever set eyes upon. It was virtually impossible not to be mesmerized by this creature and he could almost understand why ruthless exploiters would go to such lengths to possess her. Finally, she looked at him intently and inquired urgently, "Do you have a vehicle?"

"Yes," Henry replied uncertainly. "It's back at the inn not far from the harbor."

"Very good...then we're going to go back to my home...where you will show me how this device works'" the blond concluded in a voice that would countenance no refusal. She discerned Henry's obvious reluctance and burgeoning trepidation and assured him, "You have my personal assurance that I will not harm you. Once we have viewed the contents of this device...you are free to go on your way."

He nodded and to his surprise, she extended a long right arm and offered, "My name is Lizbet Asari."

Eyes wide, Henry accepted her hand, startled by the power of her grip and again, that ameliorating warmth that suffuse his entire body. She then stepped back and gestured for him to lead the way. Henry Cyr was relieved to discover that the massive wolf was nowhere in evidence.

6

The improbable couple made the short drive to Lizbet Asari's manor in silence. The beautiful blond stared thoughtfully out at the Messenian Gulf, while Henry stole furtive glances at her profile. Beneath her mantle of serenity, Henry could sense an acute anxiety and knew that his coming was its cause...a realization that filled him with an intense shame; something he had never before experienced in these types of situations.

When they turned into her villa, Lizbet led him inside and Henry was impressed by the opulent property where this woman lived in comfortable solitude. "This is one posh set-up Lizbet...do you live here alone?"

"I do...and have for my entire time here," she paused and gazed directly at the photographer. "You have no idea what your coming has done to me Henry. This place...the beautiful tranquility and solitude it offers...these are my most treasured possessions. You and more specifically, the men who sent you...have stolen them from me...irrespective of how this might turn out."

Henry swallowed, feeling that unprecedented sense of shame sear his heart. Knowing how hopelessly inadequate it must sound, he offered quietly, "I...I truly am sorry, Lizbet."

She offered him a wan smile that still managed to be heart-breakingly lovely. "I've learned to my own painful enlightenment...that there are consequences to all things in life, Henry...no matter how inconsequential those things might seem at the time."

Appearing sheepish and apologetic, Cyr could conjure no valid response to her comparatively mild condemnation. She came to stand directly before him and placed the index and middle finger of her left hand on his right temple. There was a fleeting instant of incisive pressure, followed by a drawing sensation and while it was not painful, the impression of having something extracted from his mind was certainly disconcerting. During this process, Lizbet gazed at Henry unblinkingly and the older man could correctly deduced that she was somehow rummaging through the archives of his memories...of the life he had lived.

When it seemed that she was satisfied, Lizbet moved away and Henry stammered, "What...what are you?"

She greeted this query with a forlorn smile and replied wistfully, "A living being who wants only to live in quiet contentment, Henry...beyond that, who or what I am is of little consequence. Frankly, it is best for you that you know as little about me as possible. Now, let us look at this message."

She dropped the sphere into Henry's hand and as he watched her disappear into the kitchen with a fetching sway of tight hips, Henry Cyr felt his trenchant cynicism dissolve like butter in a skillet. He suddenly knew...irrespective of how this situation resolved itself, he could never return to the life he'd been living prior to coming to this ancient place and encountering this mystical woman. He sat before her Virtua console and she soon returned, placing a chilled glass of ice tea near his right hand.

He shook his head in open bemusement and observed, "Women aren't generally so magnanimous about their stalkers, Lizbet."

She met this with a solemn expression and remarked, "I discern no malice in you Henry Cyr. You are not an evil man...an unscrupulous one to be sure, but not inherently evil. I have seen the defining events of your life...the disillusionment that have led you into shadow. I know...all too well...how easily that can happen. I also know...with the right catalyst, you can change...regain a certain measure of the idealist you once were."

Henry Cyr swallowed both terrified and elated by the pearl of wisdom she'd imparted. Inhaling deeply, Henry asked Lizbet to issue the startup command for her console. She compiled and after a moment, Henry depressed the small activation button on the sphere and immediately the Virtua console issued a prompt asking for an access name. Cyr turned to Lizbet and nodded encouragingly. Lizbet leaned closer, unaware that her full right breast was pressing on Henry's thin shoulder, who was all too maddeningly aware of its substantial weight. He drew a tremulous breath, but made no move to break the contact.

"Lizbet Asari," she intoned, enunciating the words slowly and clearly. When there was no immediate response, Henry shook his head in confusion and asked her to repeat the command...which she did to similar effect. She glanced at Cyr questioningly and he remarked, "Drury was very specific...he said that this holo-sphere would only be activated if you provided your full name. He even made a point of saying that you true name was required...though I'm not sure what he meant."

Lizbet's limpid blue eyes widened and her mouth gaped even as she stood quickly and strode away. In the instant before she had averted her face, Cyr clearly glimpsed an expression of unfettered panic on his face. He conveyed something of consequence...something dire...in that seemingly innocuous disclosure. "Lizbet...what is it?"

After a moment, she turned back to him and now her anxiety was blatantly apparent. With a bemused Cyr gazing on in open confusion, Elizabeth returned to the console. In a grim voice, fraught with dread, she spoke a name that she had discarded nearly fifty years before. "Elizabeth Simpson."

Immediately the identification protocol prompted, "Input play to commence."

A low, involuntary moan of negation escaped her lips and to Henry's absolute dismay, she collapsed into the chair next to his and burying her face in her hands, began to weep. Uncertain what to do, but pained by her obvious misery, Henry tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. "I don't understand. What does this mean...Elizabeth?"

Her tear-stained face jerked up at the mention of that name and for the slightest moment, Henry feared that he had committed a colossal blunder and she would take her sorrow out on him. Instead, she drew a quavering breath and disclosed morosely, "Elizabeth Simpson is the name of a woman who the world believed died eighty years ago and for all intents and purposes...she did. That some one could possibly know that I am still alive...is ominous and distressing in the extreme. Play this message Henry."

Henry's mind was inundated by a million questions, but it was glaringly obvious that a distraught Elizabeth would be disinclined to answer. Suppressing the urge to give them voice, he issued the playback command and with every word spoken, Henry Cyr's guilt and pity for this exquisite creature grew geometrically...a shame that burned him like acid.

The three dimensional holograph that bloomed out of the Virtua console showed a room steeped in shadow and the silhouette of a single occupant. When the occupant began to speak, his weak, papery intonation conveyed the impression of tremendous age and infirmity. "Good day, Lizbet Asari...or more properly...Elizabeth Simpson. You may be wondering how I know your name and how I managed to find you...when you have so obviously labored to conceal your identity from the world. Let it suffice to say that technology is a powerful and inexorable force that is capable of shining a light into the deepest of shadows. So that we may commence our relationship on equal footings, let me tell you that my name is Ian Barrows....Sir Ian Barrows actually...if you ascribe any meaning to titles."

Beside her, Elizabeth heard Henry groan and lashed him with a severe frown to which he responded with a head shake. With plummeting despair threatening to drag her heart into the abyss, Elizabeth focused her attention on the holograph, where Ian Barrows continued to speak in his death-whisper voice. "I have gone to great pains to find you, Ms. Simpson, just as I suspect you have gone to great lengths to remain anonymous. I assure you that I have absolutely no desire to harm you or expose your identity to the world. I do, however, have a proposition that will be mutually beneficial. Unfortunately, due to my decidedly dire circumstances...I cannot allow you to simply decline my offer. You see Ms. Simpson, I am dying...a fate that I am zealously determined to avoid for the foreseeable future and I believe that you may possess the means to helping me avoid that unpalatable eventuality. To that end...another message will be left with the day concierge at the new Chevalier hotel in Paris on the first of October bearing the name Lizbet Asari. I fully expect that you will collect this message and heed its instructions, but should you be so foolish as to spurn my invitation...our relationship will assume a most unpleasant adversarial tone." Barrows paused, his breathing coming in shallow rasps and reiterated, "Yes...most unpleasant indeed. I am a man who is accustom to having what he wants, Ms. Simpson...and desperate need has only vitiated my determination. Consider this carefully before choosing your path forward. Good day, Ms. Simpson."

The holographic projection vanished and the room descended into a charged silence that persisted for several moments. In a somber voice, Henry ventured, "I don't understand...what is he taking about...how could you possibly prevent him from bloody dying?"

Elizabeth's eyes were distant and her expression forlorn...resigned in a way that caused Henry to grimace. When she spoke, her tone was somber and fey. "I know precisely what he wants...just as I know that he will not be deterred...will go to any lengths...hurt anyone to attain it."

"Jesus...this bastard is one nasty piece of work and to think that I've been unwittingly digging his dirt these last years. Elizabeth, this man makes Cedric Drury look like a Good Samaritan by comparison...I mean this is one seriously evil bastard," Cyr exclaimed, sickened by the thought that he had played a role...however small...in ensnaring this delicate butterfly in Barrows' web.

Elizabeth rose and walked slowly to the large bank of windows that looked out on the calm waters of the gulf. "I know Henry...thank you...for helping with this. You may go now."

Despising himself and feeling the need to atone, Cyr came to stand beside her and insisted, "Look Elizabeth...I feel like the world's biggest shit right about now...and I want to make amends somehow. Let me return to London and see if I can dredge up some more specific detail on what this wretched bastard is planning."

Elizabeth turned to Cyr and shook her head vehemently. In a forceful voice, she growled, "Absolutely not, Henry...I won't jeopardize your safety by embroiling you in this. I know nothing of this Ian Barrows, but I can guarantee that he has opened a Pandora's Box that will make him wish he was dead before much longer."

He gripped her shoulder...and forgetting what she was, even shook it vigorously, "Elizabeth, you can't engage this man...vanish...it's a big world and even Ian Barrows' reach is only so long."

She turned to Henry and though she brought her unsettling gaze to bear, there was something impossibly distant in her eyes...as if she was peering into a reality that only she could see. "I wanted to believe exactly that Henry...to subscribe to the idea that I could live a quiet existence in a place precisely like this one...attract no undue attention and be left alone with my solitude and my memories. I now see how misguided that notion was...how childish. I don't know how...but irrespective of where I might go...eventually...even if only by chance...I'll be found. You might find this difficult to credit, Henry...but there are things far worse than the Ian Barrows of this world."

Henry shuddered at the idea that something could be more insidious...more perfectly wicked or frightening than the British reaver. "Elizabeth...you really don't see it do you?"

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What is it I don't see, Henry?"

"Elizabeth...even if you didn't possess a beauty that could melt glaciers, you have this...aura about you...a presence that is compelling and magnetic. I know this is going to sound daft, but there is a divinity about you as if you're surrounded by a diffuse golden glow." Henry stopped abruptly, surprised by the expression of intense anguish this observation seemed to evoke.

Quietly, she remarked, "If that's the case Henry...then my position has become immeasurably more complicated. Come, I'll walk you to your car."

She linked her arm in his as if they were long-time friends and Elizabeth led Henry from the house and back to his car. They stood beneath a hot mid-afternoon Grecian sun that seemed better suited to prevailing contentment than the ineffable tragedy that Henry had unwittingly helped wrought. Holding open the driver side door, Elizabeth treated the aging English rogue to a bedazzling smile. "Henry, I hope you have the prudence to heed your own advice. Don't go back to London. My guess is that a man in your vocation has been meticulous in building himself a considerable nest egg?"

"I've done well enough, it's true," Henry admitted, wishing this moment could play put for an eternity in this place that was, in her presence, indeed a small alcove of paradise.

"Then don't go back to London, Henry. Let this be an end to your associations with these types of men." She shifted a longing gaze to the Messenian Gulf. "Once you've reported that you have located me and have given me their message, find your Petalidi, Henry and be happy there. If you truly wish to make amends for what has happened here...that is how you may do it."

"You know...I have a brother in America that I haven't seen in fifteen years. I think it's high time we got reacquainted...maybe I'll pay him a visit."

"I think that's an absolutely wonderful idea, Henry," Elizabeth agreed with one final radiant smile. She the stepped back and watched as Henry reluctantly climbed behind the wheel. "Goodbye Henry Cyr...be kind to yourself."

"Goodbye Elizabeth," Cyr replied in a voice made hoarse by emotion. She waved as Henry maneuvered his rental out onto the highway. When he glanced to the rear view mirror, Elizabeth was gone from sight.

Henry would adhere to his promise and after reuniting with his estranged brother, settled into a comfortable life in a small mid-American town. Over the thirty years that remained to him, his encounter with Elizabeth Simpson would never be far from his thoughts. Like Caralampio Katsaros, Henry Cyr would spend the rest of his life wondering what might have become of the mysterious and tragic creature who had briefly but profoundly touched his life.

Chapter Ten

1

As he strode into their newly-appointed quarters, Ewan McGowan was privately pleased by the obvious rapport that had developed between Mary Langdon and Donald Gansby. She seemed to defer to his leadership without obvious rancor and Gansby possessed enough perceptive sense to solicit and respect her judgment and insight. The trio had spent the entire day Monday pouring over the prior sixteen cases, searching for a commonality that could link them to this new pedophilia thread. Using Mary's insight as a barometer, they had slowly assembled a list of five cases that they would re-examine in hopes of rooting out a possible connection.

By silent agreement, none had broached the subject of the video and its inherent impossibilities...deciding that it would be best to await the military's feedback before trying to conjure an explanation of any sort. Though they were anxious to obtain the results of Isobel Greavy's search of her husband's private papers, the trio understood that they might have to manage their eagerness.

From Donald's perspective, the last two days had brought with them several accommodations that were welcome changes from the tension fraught incident that had clouded his relationship with both Mary and Cassande. Upon her arrival on Monday, Mary had taken him aside and apologized for her behavior on Saturday. He, in turn, had reiterated his promise that he would never raise the subject of his weird conspiracy again. He went on to relate how he and Cassande had spent Saturday evening and Sunday discussing what were essentially his insecurities and how they would overcome them. Strangely, Mary had greeted this with a rather puzzling frown and when he informed her that it was his intention to delete the file he had compiled on Cassande Verhoeven, Mary had urged him to let it sit for awhile longer, offering no further explanation for her strange request. Other than that one anomaly, both seemed perfectly content to let Saturday's outburst be forgotten.

Both looked up from their work when Ewan entered the area and the older inspector announced, "I doubt that either of you will be particularly surprised to hear that the military lads came back with no meaningful explanation on the video other than to confirm the system diagnostics...everything was functioning to specification at the time the footage was captured."

"So where exactly does that leave us?" Donald wondered, disappointed, but not especially surprised.

It was Mary who, as usual, drew the salient conclusion, "With a mystery that will yield nothing but questions that defy any rational answer. We have to focus on other aspects of this investigation...the previous cases and the information that Isobel Greavy might produce."

Here, Ewan's brow furrowed in consternation, clearly displeased by what he was about to divulge. "While I was meeting with Superintendent Coran, a call came through....from Isobel Greavy...requesting that she be paid a visit this afternoon. Not surprisingly, this call came from the top down, which means that Mrs. Greavy is employing her considerable leverage to insure that the Yard dances to her tune." When his two partners exchanged perplexed glances, Ewan elaborated. "Mrs. Greavy has produced the information you requested...which she is willing to share...on the express provision that she meets with Mary privately first."

"With me privately...why?" Mary intoned, clearly uncomfortable with this decidedly irregular request and its unfathomable ramifications.

"No explanation was given, but since she has information that may prove critical to solving Thomas Greavy's murder...information which she is under no obligation to provide...our superiors have decided that we will accede to her demand," Ewan said with a shrug that conveyed his shared discomfort. "She will see you at One o'clock this afternoon at her home in Knightsbridge. Donald and I will continue to backtrack through these other files...and eagerly await your return."

Mary nodded and glanced briefly at her watch to learn that it was fast approaching noon. "If it's alright with you, I set out now. If she produces anything of obvious value, I'll call you before heading back in."

The two men watched her depart in silence and when she was gone, Ewan observed, "I'm not necessarily comfortable with this situation...but I wasn't left with a choice in the matter. Will she be okay?"

Donald nodded vigorously. "Rest easy Ewan. Isobel Greavy is a formidable, imposing woman...but Mary Langdon just might be her match. I think this is something major. That Mrs. Greavy would make this request on the day after she buried her husband...it can only mean that she found something pretty significant in his personal safe."

"Let's hope you're right, Donald," Ewan intoned in an uncharacteristically somber voice, "because we find ourselves in dire straits with no land in sight right about now."

2

"I must strongly advise against this, Sir Ian" Mcammon protested insistently. "Your health is simply too fragile to risk this type of procedure...especially one that is not directly connected to keeping you alive."

"Nonetheless you will make the arrangements...I want to have this procedure completed by the first of the month," Barrows countered and though his tone seemed mild...even affable, Cedric Drury could clearly discern the snap of intractable steel in his employer's thin voice and hoped that Mcammon was perceptive enough to hear it as well.

The doctor frowned disapprovingly, but wisely relented. "I'll make the arrangements for the procedure. If Olem can send me the precise specifications for the implant, I will insure that the procedure is designed to be only as invasive as strictly necessary to successfully implant the device."

"Very good, Andrew...and incidentally, you're assumption is incorrect...Olem's device is critical to keeping me alive for the immediate future," Sir Ian contradicted. Andrew pursed his lips and fixed the Russian with an expression of obvious distaste as if he had intruded upon his bailiwick. Shifting his attention to the impassive Russian, Barrows inquired, "The integrity of this device is inviolable, Olem...it cannot be disrupted or disabled by an outside source."

"Absolutely not," Beyarov promised with implacable confidence. "Once it has been implanted, this device will continue to monitor your heartbeat...until it has nothing left to monitor. Immediately thereafter, it will execute the desired protocol...which no external force will be able to abort."

Barrows nodded, the simple effort of merely moving his head raising an acute pain in his neck and lower skull. _'Time is ticking, Ian...winding down with bewildering rapidity. Mcammon's forecast of another year is wildly optimistic. At the rate you're deteriorating, you'll be gone long before time turns on the hinge of another year.'_

Barrows fetched a weary sigh, feeling the irrefutable truth of this pessimistic projection in his brittle bones. "Exemplary as always, Olem...provide Andrew with the specifications we need and we'll take things from there. Now if you gentlemen will excuse us, I have a few matters to discuss with Cedric."

The pair watched in silence until the two men had filed from the room and then Barrows asked, "You're satisfied with this photo-vulture's confirmation?"

Drury nodded gravely. "Yes...Henry Cyr has always proven reliable. He said that the woman became aware of his scrutiny immediately...which has unsettling implications in itself. Cyr is a talented chameleon...if this woman detected him, then she is perceptive...in the extreme. Still, Petalidi is an isolated place and a stranger making inquiries is bound to raise eyebrows. The long and short is that he was unable to obtain photographs. He did give her the holo-sphere and he did confirm two crucial facts. She is the woman in the photograph and she appears to be...as he put it...a comely wench of no older than twenty-eight."

"Remarkable. And the other matter...is the inducement in our possession?"

"It is and in its box. Once Beyarov has established the final programming link...her cage will be impregnable. This team will stay on and protect the facility against...undue attention." Cedric concluded, allowing himself a rare and unpleasant smile at the thought of another effectively executed operation.

"Excellent...we'll continue to explore other prospects...but some instinct is telling me they will be redundant. This extraordinary woman holds the key to the fountain of youth Cedric...I can feel it in these rotten bones of mine. Our only question remains....will she keep our assignation in Paris?"

3

Mary Langdon found that she was unaccountably nervous as she stood on Isobel Greavy's doorstep. After ringing the bell, she allowed herself the fleeting luxury of closing her eyes and turning her face skyward, basking in the sunshine that was still pleasantly warm for this late in September. October, with its nearly daily rain and chilling breezes lurked just around the corner.

_'And with it comes the dreary prospect of another long winter alone, Mary,'_ an inner voice pointed out, causing Mary to scowl and question the source of these maudlin musings of late. Just then, the door swung open and Isobel Greavy's housemaid, Esther, gestured for Mary to enter, her face set in that rueful frown of disapproval that Mary recalled from her previous visit. Mary was surprised when Esther led her past the drawing rooms and directly to the door of Thomas Greavy's office. The servant knocked softly and after a muffled response, opened the door and extended an arm for Mary to proceed inside. Once Mary had stepped inside, Esther withdrew and closed the door.

Isobel was seated behind her dead husband's desk, regarding Mary with an unsettlingly frank gaze of appraisal...and puzzlingly, something that may well have been distaste. As always, Isobel was impeccably attired...beautiful and aloof in a black blazer and skirt...though beneath her exterior of tailored perfection, Mary could sense an inner turbulence of which, Mary realized, she was inexplicably the cause.

"I appreciate your punctuality, Inspector Langdon," Isobel began in the erudite British voice that betrayed nothing of its owner's underlying angst.

"The Yard certainly appreciates you getting back to us so soon, Mrs. Greavy...given your tragic circumstances," Mary offered, despising the ring of hollow platitude in her voice.

"Indeed?" Isobel rejoined, drumming her manicured nails on Thomas' teak desk. "Frankly Mary...may I call you Mary?" Isobel inquired with a humorless grin to which an increasingly uncomfortable Mary merely nodded. There was something unsettled in Isobel Greavy's demeanor that reminded Mary of a violent storm that was about to unleash its fury. "Frankly Mary...I am no longer certain just what my circumstances are at this precise juncture. I should be stricken by raw grief. The man I love has been savagely murdered and yet...I find myself feeling disquieted...and realize that you're to blame...which is why I requested that you come alone."

"I'm not sure I understand, Mrs. Greavy," Mary offered cautiously, not caring for the wild glint in Isobel Greavy's cultured blue eyes.

Isobel was up and around the desk with stunning alacrity, startling Mary into taking an involuntary step backwards. She came to stand in front of Mary in three brisk strides, towering over the shorter woman. Mary's mind drew an automatic...and bewildering comparison between Isobel and Cassande as the latter had appeared when she had become livid in the wake of Donald's seemingly innocuous query. "Then let me make it explicitly clear to you, Inspector Langdon...I believe that both you and your partner deliberately misrepresented your intentions during our last interview. I have absolutely no tolerance for scurrilous innuendo or subterfuge. I have been cooperative and you have been sly and deceitful."

Mary could feel her own irritation rising in response to Isobel Greavy's aggression and knew that nothing productive could come of her biting back at the widow. "Mrs. Greavy...my colleague and I want only to catch the monster that did this unspeakable thing to your husband...your family."

Isobel's generous mouth twisted in a cynical scowl. "Generally speaking, I have a keen mind for details...an acuity dulled by shock during your last visit. During the interview, I couldn't help but think that I somehow knew you...that I had definitely seen your face before...in a quasi-professional capacity. On Sunday afternoon, it came to me. Three years ago, a woman's group I sponsor held a seminar for women who were victims of violence...or whose children had been victims of physical or sexual abuse. The seminar took place in Southwark and you delivered a particularly stark and compelling lecture on child abuse...its hidden signs and prevailing costs. I remember being particularly impressed by your well-organized and reasoned approach to dealing with this grim issue...and the passion that lingered beneath the mantle of pragmatism. I also recall that you were a member of Scotland Yard's Child Crimes Branch."

"Mrs. Greavy, I..." Mary attempted to interject, but Isobel forestalled her objection by raising her hand in a brusque gesture for silence.

"Please have the courtesy of permitting me to finish...then you many offer your facile rationalization for attempting to deceive me," Isobel Greavy intoned flatly. "I now find that you have been assigned to this investigation due to your Branch's interest in this case...an interest made apparent by your seemingly casual inquiry after the state of my daughters. Now, you and I are going to have a very forthcoming conversation and if I am satisfied that you have been candid, I will give you access to the materials I recovered from my husband's personal files. If I suspect you are trying to manipulate or deceive me...then be prepared for a protracted legal battle before you ever see this information." Her irritation was further tempered by the fact that Isobel Greavy had spoken the undeniable truth...she and Donald had misrepresented their intentions during their first interview.

"What is it specifically that you require, Mrs. Greavy?" Mary heard herself inquire, resentful of the other woman's heavy-handedness, but knowing full well that she possessed the clout to scuttle this investigation.

"I want to know why Child Crimes Branch has such a keen interest in this case. You have my word of honor that any disclosure will never leave the confines of this room. Thomas was a loving father, who doted on his children. He was also a devoted, attentive husband, who doted on me...passionately...if you take my meaning."

Mary flushed and nodded, knowing this innocuous remark was as close to an explicit comment about her sex life as Isobel Greavy would ever dare venture. Isobel gestured for Mary to be seated and then took the chair behind Thomas' desk. She then leaned across the vast expanse of expensive wood and intoned, "What I need to know is whether this was an elaborate facade...if the man I married was a monster posturing as a cultivated British gentleman. My primary interest is protecting Penelope and Muraday from scandal and the stigma that would come should it be revealed that Thomas possessed...sick proclivities. I can assure you that I will be aggressively protective in insuring that this sorry eventuality does not come to pass. For my own peace of mind, I need to know if the life I've lived has been a hollow illusion. If so, I would still not have Thomas' reputation besmirched...if only for the sake of his children. I will expunge him from my memory and move forward with my life as we all must. I'm not sure if you can commiserate with my situation, Inspector Langdon...but I require your help to decide which path I follow from this moment forth."

For a long moment, Mary Langdon did not respond, weighing her integrity against Isobel Greavy's stark pain...and the potential value of the information she might hold. Spontaneously, she made her decision. "Five of the previous sixteen men who were murdered...were registered sex offenders...a fact that has led my branch to the conclusion that these crimes may be motivated by a festering grudge against pedophiles. That leaves twelve murders in which no obvious connection has been established...so there is a great deal of latitude for the possibility that this angle may be baseless coincidence."

Isobel drew in her cheeks and her eyes narrowed, "Were you being truthful in your account of the surveillance video malfunctioning during the time of Thomas' murder?"

Knowing that absolutely nothing productive would come of disclosing the incomprehensible truth, Mary automatically propagated the previous day's lie. "Yes...the video revealed nothing of value."

Isobel nodded morosely. "I want the person responsible for doing this to Thomas found and so I will show you what I found on this terminal. Yesterday, after the ordeal at the funeral home, I sat both Penelope and Muraday down and spoke at great length about their father's death and their feelings about losing him. Words cannot express how ineffably vile I felt attempting to extract something incriminating about their father from my grieving daughters, Inspector Langdon. In the end, I came away with the unequivocal certainty that they loved Thomas and that he has never done anything inappropriate to either of them. That does not eliminate the possibility that he has not done something inappropriate to other children...or entertain deviant thoughts about children...both of which would be unforgivable transgressions as well as an irreparable breech of the trust that existed between us."

Mary could feel the woman's immense pain lurking just beneath the cultured, poised exterior. "Mrs. Greavy...there is nothing to indicate that your husband was engaged in any manner of illicit activity pertaining to children. The person committing these crimes is clearly insane and may have a dozen incomprehensible motives for perpetrating these evil acts. What matters is that they are stopped. There's something else that I would have you consider. Very often, men will struggle with this particular demon...this illness...their entire lives, never once acting upon it, but being tormented by it every minute of their lives. Because of the nature of their disease, it is easy to condemn such men, but I have come to believe that compassionate treatment would be a good deal more productive."

Isobel seemed to contemplate this for a long moment, her daunting gaze never once leaving Mary's face. "I'm not sure if I consider this comforting or not, Inspector Langdon...Mary...but I thank you for your candor...in return for which you have earned my absolute discretion." Isobel then issued the activation code for Thomas' Virtua terminal and explained, "The vast majority of these files are firm-related, which I cannot, by law, share with you. I have reviewed each of these files and can tell you that they related to corporate transactions and nothing more. The rest of the files were personal in nature and held the standard fare...vacation video and family pictures, etc."

Mary nodded, trying to conceal her disappointment. Isobel held up a long index finger and continued, "There was one file that was...perplexing."

As Mary waited, Isobel activated the file and a series of rather innocuous images of children at play cycled in the open air between the pair...pictures capturing the joy of childhood on playgrounds and in parks. Mary experienced a visceral jolt of electricity as this procession of joyful images scrolled before her eyes...though it required all of her discipline to maintain a neutral expression. Cautiously, she asked, "None of these are pictures of Muraday or Penelope?"

"No...just random images scoured from the web. Why would Thomas create such a file, Mary? So you see, with this one discovery, the pernicious seeds of doubt have been planted in my mind...and this is why I cannot grieve for the man who shared my bed for the majority of my adult life."

"I honestly don't know what to say, Mrs. Greavy. I understand why you are feeling ambivalent, considering the direction of our investigation...but I have to caution you about the danger of extrapolating conclusions to fit what is simple conjecture at this point."

Isobel frowned but nodded thoughtfully, though Mary doubted that anything could ever extirpate the seed of doubt that had been planted. Isobel then reached into what had been the locked safe and retrieved an object, which she then slid across the table to Mary...in the way of someone who is attempting to rid themselves of something unspeakably repulsive. The object was a thin black box composed of shiny metal and durable plastic. On one side of the box, a blue light blinked indolently. With obvious consternation, Isobel explained, "That is what Thomas went to such great lengths to protect. The AI technician who hacked into Thomas's system could find no discernible function for the device. At first, he thought that it might be some sort of holographic peripheral device, but he could find no way of activating it. The system does not recognize it as such. I am going to allow you to take this device for a more thorough inspection. My only condition is that you apprise me of the findings without exception. Is this acceptable, Mary?"

"It is," Mary replied at once, reaching for the device with a surprising amount of reluctance.

Isobel abruptly sat back in her chair and brought an index finger to her cheek...retreating behind a wall of aloof reticence. "Then our business is concluded...I will have Esther show you out."

As if summoned by unspoken communication, Esther appeared and held the door open. Slipping the device into her coat pocket, Mary rose and gravitated to the door, where she paused and offered, "You will hear from me personally, the moment I have more information on this device's possible purpose and contents."

If Isobel Greavy did hear this vow, she made no response, but rather continued to stare at the procession of images that the Virtua console served forth in an endless loop.

4

While an ambivalent Mary Langdon was carrying the baffling shadow box back to Victoria Embankment, Cassande Verhoeven was back in Southwark, standing on the roof of a derelict building not far from where she had incinerated Barney Tate only days before. She was staring down along the street at a squat, crumbling two storey building where a man known as the slug ostensibly made his living selling vintage comic books to children. Cassande's luminous blue eyes were closed and she viewed the street with the odd, three-dimensional percipience that she employed to ferret out the disgusting miscreants that she took such delight in crushing.

She could see them now, slinking in and out of the basement of the building...like repulsive ants waiting to be crushed under heel. It would be a simple matter to sweep across the street and into that sewer, indiscriminately slaughtering everything inside in a blood frenzy...simple, but ultimately unproductive beyond the immediate gratification.

_'Focus Cassande...remember, don't lose sight of the grander objective,'_ she cautioned herself...knowing that her immutable, mindless rage had long been her greatest enemy...even when she had been a mortal, wandering aimlessly across America. _'This is an entirely new game...but rest assured...you'll have the opportunity to unleash carnage soon enough. For now...just watch and understand.'_

To control her simmering outrage, Cassande abruptly changed forms, transmogrifying into her preferred alternate form of a dove. It sat gracefully on the detritus-clogged eves of the derelict building, watching the flow of human filth. To quell her simmering rage, Cassande turned her thoughts back to the previous few days and her new accord with Donald Gansby. The naturally perceptive Verhoeven quickly surmised that it had been Mary Langdon who had somehow made Gansby aware of his mistreatment of his prized girlfriend...a realization that had resulted in his heart-felt plea for forgiveness and a new level of intimacy and trust between the pair.

She had feigned tears of intense hurt and induced him into a promise that he would be forthcoming with the stresses and worries of his precious vocation...a turn of events that would prove most beneficial in her search for the mysterious shadow box...a device she now believed Thomas Greavy had possessed. By earning Donald's trust, Cassande might well have gained access to a crucial wellspring of information that would aid her cause.

As she continued to observe the repository for the depraved, another thought occurred to Cassande's avian incarnation...the elusive shadow box was very probably still in Thomas Greavy's home in Knightsbridge.

Suddenly, Cassande found herself with two venues of exploration. The dove flapped its wings and took to the air. The next several nights would prove very busy...very busy indeed.

5

The metronomic ticking of the antiquated wall clock was Mary Langdon's only companion as she sat alone in the third floor office, pondering a myriad of unpleasant and perplexing questions...most of which eluded her attempts to answer. Upon her return from Knightsbridge, Mary had been greeted by her two partners and her two immediate superiors, all eager to have a glimpse of the mysterious device that she had retrieved from Isobel Greavy. That enthusiasm had quickly turned to bewildered disappointment when they realized that the device seemed to serve no readily apparent function or purpose...certainly not the font of insight they had hoped for.

A bemused Superintendent Coran had personally squired the device to the AI section in hopes that they could divine its purpose, but it was obvious that the group held forth little hope for meaningful results. Not long after, Ewan and Donald had set forth for the first of the follow-up interviews pertaining to the most promising past homicides. All five realized that...should these interviews produce nothing tangible...they would be left precisely where they were on the morning the first body had been discovered just over two years ago...groping blindly while the human detritus continued to accumulate in ever deepening drifts.

Mary shook her head in dismay, recalling the expression of haunted nobility that had adorned Isobel Greavy's exquisite face in the moment before they had parted company earlier in the day. Mary believed that little would be gained by irrigating the seed of doubt that the last few days had planted in Isobel's beleaguered mind and thus she had not shared her insight into the ostensibly innocent collection of pictures that had been found on Greavy's Virtua console. As inconsequential as they might seem to someone unfamiliar with this sick affliction, Mary was experienced enough with the psyche of child abusers and molesters to know...or at least suspect...that this seemingly harmless collection of pictures was symptomatic of a nascent indulgence of a very black affliction. It was highly probable that Thomas had been...at the very least...gazing along a very dark and thorny path. Somehow...someone had found out and killed him for it. Though the benign nature of the device seemed to repudiate the theory, Mary could not help but surmise that his death had been connected to...or motivated by that seemingly purposeless black box.

Had her musings just been confined to the mysterious black box, Mary would not have been experiencing the same sense of stirring anxiety that she was presently feeling as she sat alone in this deserted office. As tenaciously as she willed it not to, her mind kept circling back to her dinner with Donald and Cassande Verhoeven and his stupefying disclosure of the next day...his fatuous obsession. She had chastised him mercilessly...had essentially derided him as a fool. Yet, here she sat, appalled to discover that she was feeling the dark allure of the same inane notion.

On impulse, she switched her console to the antiquated privacy mode and the two dimensional flat screen display slid forth from its recessed compartment...along with an old fashion keyboard. With rusty fingers, Mary keyed in her search entry and sat back, anxiously drumming her fingers on her desk blotter. A brief instant later an enhanced photograph came up on the screen, showing a despondent teenage girl who seemed to be bearing a titanic weight on her shoulders as she stared listlessly back at the camera. Another series of entries conjured the juxtaposed pictures of Cassande Verhoeven and Karnalla Mansley's nameless companion next to the sorrowful girl.

One required only a cursory glance at these pictures to see that they were virtually identical. It was a simple matter to see the progression that would have Cassandra Jasic grow into the beguiling hieroglyph that was Karnalla's ubiquitous shadow...who was a perfect replica of Donald's Cassande Verhoeven.

While Donald Gansby was a superb policemen, Mary Langdon was a superlative officer...separated from Gansby by a degree of intellectual acuity and a tenacious nature that did not easily relent once she had caught a scent.

_'Donald...what have you done to me?'_ she moaned silently, wondering if Gansby had cured his obsession by passing it on to her. Yet Donald had not seen the unconstrained rancor that had burned in Cassande's limpid eyes.

Mary worked for the next two hours...functioning as if from the depths of a trance. Before leaving for the day, she sent an inquiry to the Ontario Provincial Police...requesting all information on a cold case involving the murder of Cassandra Jasic's parents just after the turn of the century.

She then departed for the day, determined to banish all thoughts of Cassande Verhoeven and any arcane links she might have to an impossible past, from her mind. As events of the next few days would unfold, Mary would have several occasions to revisit this macabre avenue of thought.

Chapter Eleven

1

Elizabeth Simpson arrived in Paris two days prior to her dreaded appointment with Sir Ian Barrows. During the intervening days between her arrival and Henry Cyr's arrival in Petalidi, Elizabeth had felt herself slipping deeper into a sepia-toned melancholy. After making arrangements for the disposal of her home in Petalidi and writing a farewell letter to Caralampio Katsaros (who would be the beneficiary of that disposal), Elizabeth had collected a small number of mementoes...a paltry collection of souvenirs from over a hundred years of living...and said her final goodbye to the home that had provided her with such joy and contentment in the few years she had lived there. As she drove to Athens, a sentimental instinct adjured her to eschew air travel and take the train through Europe. A part of her was reluctant to succumb to the urging...it seemed depressingly fatalistic...as if she was making one last pilgrimage before accepting the end.

In the end, she had parked her Jaguar in the central terminal lot, throwing the keys in as she closed the door, and embarked on a train ride that left her with a few days to contemplate her present predicament...and the possible ways in which she might extricate herself from Ian Barrows' snare.

As the European countryside rolled by, filling her heart with a wistful longing, she could not help but wonder what her life might have been like had she never fallen under the shadow of Cynara Saravic. It was entirely possible that she might well have lived her entire life in Semelar, watching contentedly as Nathaniel grew...growing old with David and loving each other...and the grandchildren they might have had. Eventually, she would have died and been buried next to David after living a life that was neither grand nor ostentatious...but was all that she had ever desired. All of this was an exercise in capricious indulgence of course, but Elizabeth had long come to accept that she was a hopeless romantic at heart and these types of contemplations were as natural to her as drawing breath. That inherent truth made her present reality all the more excruciating.

She arrived in Paris and spent the morning wandering idly along the Seine...trying to decipher the exact nature of the hazardous situation in which she now found herself. Whatever manner of miscreant he might be...Ian Barrows was not a demon. She derived this conclusion from two obvious facts. Had Barrows been one of the dark father's puppets, he would have dispatched drones to locate her and confirm her identity...not an aging English rogue. The most compelling argument against the idea of Barrows being a supernatural entity was his extremely advanced age. Though deliberately ensconced in shadow, the timber of Barrows' voice declared that he was a man poised precariously on the edge of death...a fact confirmed by Henry Cyr.

Somehow...and she was inclined to believe his contention that it was as a consequence of invasive surveillance technology...he had found her. What's more, he had divined the perplexing disparity between her appearance and her true age. To Ian Barrows, Elizabeth represented the most tantalizing of riddles...a woman who had evidently found a method to defy age...to defy death itself. In Elizabeth, Barrows perceived a way of defying his own death and having the soul of a plunderer...he had decided that he would harvest her and delve into the mystery of her nature.

She stopped abruptly and leaned against a stone parapet, peering out of the rolling waters of the Seine. Suddenly, Cynara offered her dreaded assessment of her predicament, _'You'll have to kill him, Elizabeth...you know that. The only way to extricate yourself from this trap is to obliterate this Ian Barrows and everyone associated with him...to eradicate every trace of his knowledge from existence. I'm not certain that you possess the wherewithal to actually do what is required, dear...but I most definitely do. Come to me...crawl to me and beg me to do your dirty work...perhaps I might...'_

Elizabeth's beautiful face twisted into a rueful scowl...knowing that it was her subconscious proffering this solution...a solution that she was determined not to enact. Cynara's scornful laughter echoed through her mind in sharp counterpoint to Elizabeth's strident vow that she would not embroil Cynara in her web of woes.

She continued to stroll along the ancient river, drinking in the beauty of the world's most romantic city and reflecting on the many twists and incredible junctures that had swept her to this particular moment in time. As if by osmosis, she began to absorb the natural optimism that the city seemed to exude. Ian Barrows wanted to divine the secret of her youth, did he? She would make it painful clear that not all shining objects conferred a blessing and if she did manage to efface his knowledge from the world...just possibly, she would be free to find another sanctuary...another Petalidi.

Even as this sanguine thought coalesced in her mind, she recalled Henry Cyr's insightful assessment of the aura she seemed to exude. _'You have this...aura about you...a presence that is both compelling and magnetic.'_

This recollection evoked a grimace of pain and Elizabeth offered a fervent wish that it wasn't true. It would not be long before she would be provided with yet another powerful corroboration of Henry's disturbing observation.

2

The sun was beaming a soft, diffuse gold over the timeless streets of Mont Marte, where traffic...both vehicular and pedestrian, were marginally lighter than they might have been just the month prior...at the height of tourist season. Elizabeth had wandered aimlessly through the streets, mesmerized by the resonating echoes of past ages where history's greatest artists and writers had perfected their art and whiled away the hours on these very same streets. It was mid- afternoon when Elizabeth, on impulse, decided to stop at a bustling bistro and spend an hour simply watching the vibrant flow of humanity, while sipping a chamomile tea. The sense that she was embarked on a sentimental journey...a final indulgence in simple pleasures...persisted, but she managed to compartmentalize it, instead focusing upon the people as they went about their ordinary lives.

_'How I wish that David and I could have shared this simple experience...just once,'_ she mused and to her dismay, found that she was perilously close to tears. Chastising herself for being a maudlin fool, she turned her face to the sun that broke through the trees which lined the avenue.

It was then that she was accosted by an intense electric sensation...like a dancing of fingers along the length of her spine. She could feel the weight of scrutiny on her face like a palpable touch. Opening her eyes, she casually scanned the street and then the other patrons of the busy bistro...all of whom seemed focused on their own concerns. Still, the feeling of being observed persisted like an inaccessible itch.

She swept her gaze over the patrons a second time and it was then she spotted her watcher. Despite the closeness of the afternoon, the woman was wearing a full length leather coat with a hood. The coat was adorned by the most unusual silver clasps...like something from another era. The woman wore her jet black hair in a blunt cut that framed her lean, beautiful face which was dominated by high, slanting cheekbones that lent her beauty an exotic aspect. Though her eyes were hidden by round-rimmed glasses with dark red lenses, Elizabeth could physically feel that the woman's smoldering gaze was set fully on her.

Elizabeth quickly averted her gaze to the street, trying to ignore the scrutiny, but suddenly she could not escape the impression that she was alone with the mysterious woman at the other end of the bistro. Elizabeth, despite the cloistered life she had chosen to live, was worldly enough to know that her beauty was captivating and could garner the attention of both men...and women. She was trying to decide if it would be best to simply leave, when she was startled by a hand falling on her right shoulder. Her gaze jerked up to find the woman was now peering down upon her with her full lips twisted into the ghost of a smile. The woman was diminutive and possessed of a beauty that rivaled Elizabeth's...though she exuded a powerful energy that was vaguely...menacing.

She bent and bringing her mouth closer to a disconcerted Elizabeth's ear, asked in a sultry whisper, "What are you?"

She straightened and when Elizabeth offered no response, the woman squeezed her shoulder and intoned teasingly, "Come and play."

After offering Elizabeth a feral grin, she then turned and strode purposefully from the bistro, leaving a thoroughly unsettled Elizabeth gaping after her until she had been swallowed up by the crowd.

For an extended moment, Elizabeth simply couldn't move. This woman had divined her nature...by percipience alone. After several moments, Elizabeth reached for her tea with trembling fingers, trying to assimilate what had just happened. Whatever this creature was...she was most definitely not human. Struggling to suppress the welling panic, Elizabeth summoned the waiter and paid the check before rising to leave on slightly rubbery legs...thoroughly unsettled by this chance encounter. The woman's demeanor had not been overtly threatening...in truth, she seemed distinctly surprised to have discovered Elizabeth. There had been a coy, teasing aspect to the woman's behavior...one that made very little sense to Elizabeth.

Drawing a quavering breath, she stood gazing along the street in the direction which the woman had followed...and then, pivoting quickly, Elizabeth set out in the opposite direction at a brisk stride...intending to return to her hotel and remain there until her assignation with Ian Barrows two days hence.

With each passing block, Elizabeth regained a measure of her composure. She turned down a quiet side street and was half way along the block when a soft susurration issued from the alley that she had just come upon. "Come and play."

She came to a stop and peering into the shadows, saw the woman from the bistro standing some forty meters along the narrow alleyway. She raised her right arm and gestured for Elizabeth to come with a slight waggling of her fingers. Elizabeth vacillated at the edge of the alley, trying to decide if she should simply ignore the summons and hurry away.

_'Not an option, dear...I'm afraid she has your scent and has no intention of letting you slip away,'_ the voice of Cynara informed her mirthfully...as if she found the situation amusing. _'This may well be a test of your mettle dear...you have to find out who she is and what she wants...oh yes, and you may have to kill her!'_

Elizabeth scowled at this, but realized that there seemed no way to evade this woman and a direct confrontation was her only option. Drawing a steady breath to calm her jangled nerves, Elizabeth started into the alleyway. She had taken no more than three steps when the woman abruptly vanished...seemingly into thin air. Undeterred, Elizabeth continued into the gloom, stepping into the intersecting alley that was piled with packing crates and the other refuse of the businesses that lined the alley.

The woman was now standing some twenty meters away, watching Elizabeth intently.

"What do you want?" Elizabeth demanded in a deliberately harsh tone.

"To know who and what you are and then...well then we'll see..." the woman intoned playfully.

_'She extended a clear invitation,'_ Cynara advised. _'I suggest you accept...in emphatic terms.'_

"And should I have no particular desire to share any of that with you?" Elizabeth demanded...her tone belligerent.

The diminutive beauty shrugged, "Then I suppose I'll just have to impose my will on you...a prospect that could prove to be a great deal of fun...for the both of us."

Elizabeth shook her head in disgust and turned to exit the alley, but before she had taken three steps, the woman materialized directly in front of her, blocking her egress. "I'm sorry...didn't I mention that declining isn't an option."

"You're right...it isn't," Elizabeth growled assiduously and released a wave of power that picked the smaller woman from her feet and tossed her back down the alley. Before she could strike the ground, she abruptly vanished into thin air. Elizabeth gesticulated and all points of egress were suddenly blocked by raging curtains of white flame. A canopy of white flame also appeared above the alley, creating a cage of argent fire. "You wanted me...you have me...now, will you run and hide like a little girl...or will you face me."

The woman materialized directly behind Elizabeth and delivered a clubbing blow to the back of her neck that caused Elizabeth to stumble. "Very impressive...my instinct was correct...you are something special."

Elizabeth regained her balance and spun in place, casting a rope of argent flame toward the figure, who again vanished with staggering alacrity. Growing impatient, Elizabeth lifted both arms to the heavens and the confines of this impromptu cage filled with argent flames that created a defeating hiss. After a moment, Elizabeth allowed the pit of flames to drop and stood waiting. Seconds later, the woman blinked into reality, completely unscathed by Elizabeth's lake of fire. She offered Elizabeth a radiant smile and laughed, "Again, a pretty awe-inspiring display...but I'm afraid it just isn't going to do the trick. Why not simply give in to me. I certainly don't have any intentions of hurting you." She seemed to reconsider this and then hold her thumb and index finger slightly apart, amended, "Well perhaps only a little bit...but I think you'll quite like it...in the end."

Elizabeth snarled and raised a gyre of detritus that swept over her tormentor from all sides. Watching closely, Elizabeth saw the woman quickly draw up the hood of her bizarre coat and disappear. _'It's the coat!'_ Cynara observed excitedly. _'That's how she's evading your attacks...by drawing up the hood of her cloak she's stepping out of tangible reality somehow...becoming invulnerable. You'll have to draw her out...prevent her from escaping somehow.'_

Elizabeth recognized the prudence of this advice, correctly surmising that game could go on indefinitely...that this unexpected adversary would derive enormous pleasure if it did. _'Provoke her into revealing herself and then let her think she has you when she reacts.'_

Elizabeth smiled, feeling Cynara's approval of this ruse. Coloring her tone with as much derision as she could conjure, Elizabeth intoned, "I understand...you're petrified. I can only wonder how you managed to muster the audacity to approach me in the first place. Now you're desperately seeking a way out."

As Elizabeth had anticipated, the woman reacted like a petulant school girl, who was easily goaded by an obvious taunt. She strode toward a stationary Elizabeth with her exotic face set in a mask of indignant anger. "So you think I'm afraid of you, do you? Perhaps this will change your perception.

_'A demon...a very young and immature demon,'_ Elizabeth surmised as the smaller woman bore down upon her like a juggernaut. The raven-haired assailant waved her arms wildly above her head and the entire alley came alive with a storm of flying crates and debris. One of the heavy wooden crates struck Elizabeth across the back and she allowed it to bowl her over, crying out in pain repeatedly as she was struck by dozens of heavy objects...none of which made the slightest impression on her invulnerable flesh. Elizabeth lay prostrate on the ground, panting in apparent pain as the woman came to stand over her. The woman uttered an incantation in a language Elizabeth did not recognize and in an instant, metal packing straps slithered across the alley like serpents and twined their way around Elizabeth's firm legs, while pinning her leanly muscled arms to her torso.

In the next instant, Elizabeth found herself jerked into an upright position by invisible hands. The woman gazed up at the immobilized Simpson...her full lips twisted in a smirk. "I believe I have you at a disadvantage...of which I intend to take every advantage. Frankly, I thought you'd pose more of a challenge."

She came to stand directly before Elizabeth and was forced to peer up at the taller blond, who stood a full head higher than her captor.

"I am so tired of these statuesque women peering down their noses at me," she intoned with a rueful frown. Stalking behind Elizabeth, she pressed the sole of her heavy leather boot into the back of Simpson's knees, forcing her into a kneeling position. She came back around the kneeling Elizabeth, who glanced submissively up at her with trepidation now flickering in those impossibly lovely eyes. Gripping Elizabeth's chin, she bent forward until their faces were only centimeters apart and reiterated, "Now that we've established who has the upper hand in our burgeoning relationship, I believe I asked you two questions."

Elizabeth's wide mouth twisted into a baleful, predatory smile, "Who I am is none of your business...what I am is a mistake you really never should have made."

With this, Elizabeth effortlessly shattered the heavy strapping that restrained her and swiftly ensnared her startled assailant's right wrist in a bone-crushing vice. She rose and simultaneously struck the woman across the face with a heavy open-handed blow that sent her glasses spinning across the alley. The woman attempted to reach for her hood with her free hand, but Elizabeth swiftly pressed an index finger to the hollow between her collarbone and shoulder...immediately paralyzing her entire arm which dropped to her side like a millstone.

With her eyes blazing the telltale orange of imminent fury, Elizabeth twisted the woman's ensnared arm and forced her to her knees, before delivering another resounding slap to her upturned, moon-eyed face. The blow seemed impossibly loud within the confines of the fire cage and sent a fan of blood spraying from the woman's mouth. Elizabeth drew back her hand, which had now curled into a flaming fist as her inner keeper implored her to unleash the full weight of her fury on her vanquished opponent.

The woman gazed up at Elizabeth with great dark eyes that were clouded with pain, but no perceptible sign of fear. To Elizabeth's shock and dismay, she offered up a bloody grin from a face that was beginning to swell rapidly and Elizabeth stammered, "You're...you're mortal?"

"Quite obviously...you're not'" the woman responded with a mix of exasperation and something that might have been misguided admiration. Despite her apparent pain, the fallen woman quipped, "You can hit me again if you want...I rather liked it...but perhaps not quite so hard...that really did hurt." She shifted her gaze to her dangling arm and inquired, "What did you do to my arm?"

"It's temporary," Elizabeth intoned roughly and dropped her fist, instead gripping the hood of the woman's coat to prevent a reprise of her vanishing feat. Twisting the hood in her fist, Elizabeth shook the fallen woman vigorously and growled, "Who sent you?"

The woman blinked slowly and with a slight shake of her head, replied, "Sent me? No one sent me...ours was a delightful meeting of chance...a crossing of destinies."

She offered Elizabeth another bloody grin. Elizabeth glared down at the smaller woman, but sensed that she was being truthful. Somehow, disturbingly, she had simply divined Elizabeth's nature. "Why did you want to lure me here...and attack me?"

The woman's swollen face twisted as if she had been grievously affronted by Elizabeth's allegation. "Excuse me but I never wanted to fight you. It was you who came at me like a puffed up rooster spoiling for a fight. I only wanted to play with you...to see what exactly you were made of. I do have to say that our little tussle was...arousing...though I've never really played the role of submissive before. Still, I'll willingly give it a go if it's what stokes your fire!"

_'This woman is deranged,'_ Elizabeth realized with no small degree of exasperation, wondering how she should end this bizarre encounter.

The woman suddenly extended her right arm and offered, "My name is Judith Ranzman...and despite the fact that you have me in this rather compromising position, I really am delighted to meet you."

Elizabeth regarded the extended hand, her jaw muscles bulging in anger. Abruptly, she slapped the hand away and clutching Judith's throat, pinned the smaller woman to the ground before pressing her right knee into her solar plexus. She then bent forward until their faces were only a small distance apart. "I want you to listen carefully Judith...I have no real desire to harm you. I sense that you're not threatening. Still, I'm going to walk out of this alley and should I ever set eyes on your face again...I'm going to destroy you."

She glared menacingly at the fallen woman, who had gone utterly still, her dark eyes regarding Elizabeth in an incisive, speculative way that held no fear. Elizabeth squeezed her throat slightly and then rose with a liquid flexing of thigh muscles. Judith continued to lay supine at her feet, peering up at Simpson with the same disconcertingly frank gaze of appraisal. Elizabeth shifted her uneasy gaze to Judith's numb arm and offered, "The sensation in your arm will return shortly, but you should ice that jaw."

"Please, don't go," Judith intoned softly, causing Elizabeth to shiver. Gone was the mocking, irreverent tone and in its place was an unexpected vulnerability that pierced Elizabeth's heart. Shaking her head, she began to stride away, but Judith's right hand snapped out and grasped Elizabeth's ankle, gently caressing the ankle bone with the pad of her thumb.

Elizabeth stiffened as a subtle force pierced the fabric of her mind, swiftly rummaging through the chambers of her thoughts and memories. Grumbling in irritation, she pulled her foot free as Judith peered up at her and intoned with an inexplicable delight, "I have you now."

Elizabeth stooped down and pressed her right index finger into the hollow of Judith's temple. She then unleashed a burst of puissance that caused the fallen woman's entire body to spasm and her eyes to roll up in her head. As Judith lapsed into the void, Elizabeth stood over her, her full breasts rising and falling in agitation. As she studied the unconscious woman, Elizabeth was assailed by a profound sense of guilt. It was obvious that the woman had meant her no harm...that she was simply a misguided creature in search of diversion. In repose, Judith appeared angelic and lovely...her beauty marred by the reminder of Elizabeth's beating.

Shaking her head in bemusement, Elizabeth bent down and effortlessly lifted the smaller woman into her arms, carrying her over to a recessed rear entrance to one of the adjacent buildings. Setting the unconscious woman into a sitting position, she returned to the alley and collected Judith's glasses, which she then carried back and folded into the fingers of Judith's slack right hand. She then pressed the flat of her palm along the side of Judith's distended cheek. Immediately, the hand was cocooned in golden effulgence. When she withdrew her hand, Judith's face was restored to its former exotic perfection.

Not wanting the unconscious Ranzman to fall victim to opportunists, Elizabeth drew up the hood of her macabre coat and watched in utter amazement as Judith vanished from the tangible world.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Elizabeth then exited the alley, believing that she would never see the mercurial Judith Ranzman again.

3

Elizabeth followed a meandering, circuitous route back to her hotel in the heart of Mont Marte and it was just after four o'clock when she found herself standing outside the door to her suite, still struggling with the complex and disturbing ramifications of the afternoon's macabre encounter.

Upon entering her suite, Elizabeth was immediately jolted out of her preoccupations and back into the sudden exigency of the moment.

Someone was in her suite...she sensed it viscerally and saw evidence of an intrusive presence. The double doors to the suite's bedroom were now closed and she could see a muted yellow glow through the frosted glass. Closing the door quietly behind her, she strode across the room as her eyes erupted in the blazing orange of rising fury. She threw open the doors as her extended hands erupted in blinding balls of argent flame...only to be confronted by the most improbable of sights.

"Hello, Elizabeth...welcome home!" Judith Ranzman declared blithely from where she lay in the suite's king-sized bed with the Egyptian cotton sheets pulled up to her chin. "Before you charge over here and beat me to a twitching pulp or incinerate me in a fiery blaze, I'd ask that you notice my cloak draped over the chair of that absurdly fragile writing desk."

Livid with fury, Elizabeth nonetheless allowed her gaze to shift to the indicated chair, where the extraordinary cloak was carefully folded over the back of a chair. Judith's worn leather boots sat next to the cloak, their buckles tarnished and soles worn by hard use. "That cloak is my most precious possession...in fact, along with those boots, it's my only possession. Without it, I pose no threat to you at all and we both know that there is nothing I can do to stop you from taking it. That is the gesture of trust I'm extending to you."

Elizabeth moved over to the cloak, considering its glossy fabric and shining silver buckles. She waved her hands and the silver flames vanished and though the orange drained from her blue eyes, her expression was still one of extreme displeasure. She trailed her fingers over the fabric, unsettled by the indescribable sensation that touching then cloak evoked. Crossing over to the bed, she growled darkly, "You know what I told you would happen if I ever set eyes upon you again, Judith...why have you invaded my privacy?"

Judith offered Elizabeth a decidedly sardonic grin, "Firstly, I don't actually believe that you would follow through with your rather grim threat. You exude a golden aura...not an emanation that one would usually associate with a person who would kill a defenseless woman...which, without that cloak...I am."

A teasing smile replaced the sardonic grin and Judith allowed her left arm to fall out from under the sheets and wrap around Elizabeth's long right leg. Slowly, she let her index finger carve a tantalizing trail up the inside of Elizabeth's taut right thigh. As Judith's smile broadened and her huge dark eyes flashed encouragingly, that teasing finger disappeared beneath the hem of Elizabeth's skirt and gravitated upward, until her nail began to stoke Elizabeth's womanhood through the thin satin fabric of her panties.

With a flourish, Judith threw back the covers to reveal a very naked body that was a vision of nubile feminine perfection. "Secondly, I was hoping to entice you into bed and get the better of you in an entirely different contest than the one we shared in that alley."

Though Judith's skilled fingers were driving her to distraction, Elizabeth managed to maintain a stern countenance. Reaching down, she roughly pulled Judith's hand away and spun around...taking a stepped away to conceal the extent to which she'd been affected by the beauty's overture.

_'If you succumb...this woman will shake you to your very foundations, Elizabeth...how long has it been...three decades. In the face of all that confronts you...why not accept what she's offering.'_ Elizabeth shook her head with her breath coming in ragged gasps and her nipples becoming turgid beneath her thin blouse. As desperately as her body wanted to let Judith draw her into an intimate interlude, Elizabeth knew that this was a distraction...an emotional entanglement that she could not afford. There was a second reason to reject Judith's overtly sexual seduction...though Elizabeth was loath to consider it. A part of her mind kept insisting that the day was coming when she would need to turn to Cynara...and Cynara would never accept that Elizabeth would give her affection to anyone else...ever.

_'Does she not have Cassandra, Elizabeth...who has filled you needs...held you, when you required comfort and reassurance in these last years?'_ Elizabeth's heart contracted painfully at this reminder of the sterility of the life she had led over these last dozen years, but she recognized that this argument was shallow and facile. In a voice made husky with desire, she intoned, "Get dressed and get out Judith...before even my golden glow can't protect you."

"Well if I can't seduce you into bed...the least you can do is take me to dinner," Judith quipped lightly, but then her voice assumed a pleading edge that she had revealed in the alley. "Please Elizabeth...I have nowhere to go!"

Her voice was fraught with such sorrowful need that Elizabeth turned back to her, studying Judith's beautiful face closely. For the first time, Elizabeth discerned fear in Judith's dark limpid eyes. Not the fear of pain or death...but the undisguised dread of loneliness. Recalling how she had first come upon Cassandra Jasic, she told herself ruefully, _'You always had a penchant for collecting strays.'_

Fetching an elaborate sigh, she conceded, "Very well Judith...I'll take you to dinner...but then you really do have to find your way home."

Judith's disarming smile became ebullient, but then a shadow slipped across her face and she admittedly sheepishly, "I don't really have any money...and I don't have any clothes...other than that cloak and those boots."

Elizabeth's eyes widened and she shook her head as if she had misunderstood. Gesturing toward the two items of clothing, she remarked incredulously, "These are all of your possessions...seriously?"

Judith shrugged and offered Elizabeth a crooked grin. "I suppose I'm the world's oldest and most powerful hobo...dust in the wind. That cloak is my home...and has been for the last seventy years."

"The last seventy years?" Elizabeth stammered in unconcealed astonishment. "Just how old are you Judith?"

Judith smirked and replied, "That would depend on your perception of the concept of age...I was born over a hundred years ago." Her eyes twinkled like polished diamonds and she gushed, "You and I have so much to talk about Elizabeth...such tales to tell each other."

Elizabeth flicked a glance at her watch and said, "There is still time and this street is lined with boutiques." She passed her gaze over the expanse of Judith's exquisite body and declared, "I can pretty much guess your size and if you're willing to trust my taste, I'll slip out and buy some appropriate clothing for a proper restaurant. Amuse yourself and I won't be long."

Retrieving her clutch purse, Elizabeth turned to leave and Judith called, "Make sure to drape me in the kind of clothing you find irresistible, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth shook her head in consternation and retorted, "You're utterly incorrigible, Judith."

"That's the one allegation to which I freely admit," Judith shot back cheekily. Elizabeth shook her head again and left. Judith stretched languorously, like a tawny cat and settled back into the pillows, scheming about how she might ensnare this magnificent creature that fate had imposed in her path.

4

Elizabeth returned over two hours larger, laden with bags from several different shops. Still naked, Judith flounced out of bed...evidently unabashed by her nudity...and glided over to Elizabeth, relieving some of her burden.

"You look like the world's most beguiling pack horse," Judith laughed flippantly. "I'm beginning to think that I'm lying on a park bench near the Seine and having the most vivid and delightful dream."

An expression of acute pain rippled across Elizabeth's face then, inspired by the thought of the kind of tragic life this woman seemed to be living.

_'Ward that bleeding heart of yours Elizabeth...this creature is a skilled manipulator,'_ the voice of Cynara admonished and Elizabeth gleaned that her former mistress offered this cautionary advice with the voice of experience. If the world had ever produced a more adroit manipulator than Cynara Saravic, Elizabeth had yet to meet her.

Regarding the collection of bags at her feet, Elizabeth raised a bemused eyebrow and intoned, "Perhaps I did get somewhat carried away...but it's been a long time since I was able to indulge the urge to shop with abandon...for someone else."

Judith began to rummage through the bags with her eyes alight like a small child whose has awoken to realize that it's Christmas Day. Excitedly she turned to Elizabeth, and prompted, "I've always thought that I resembled a delicate porcelain doll...fragile and beautiful. I want you to dress me up...for just tonight...let me be that doll for you."

Elizabeth hesitated, recalling her keeper's stern warning that this woman was dangerous, but the eagerness in Judith's large dark eyes compelled to her acquiesce. Smiling, she began to select items for Judith to wear...glossy black pumps, and a blood red dress that fit the diminutive beauty like a second skin. Elizabeth took Judith's right hand and slipped a pearl and gold bracelet over her wrist. She then moved behind the thoroughly entranced Judith and gathering up her shiny black hair, dropped a teardrop emerald pendant over her head. Judith shivered perceptibly as the cool stone nestled in the deep valley between her breasts. She then handed Ranzman a set of matching earrings that Judith put on with trembling fingers. Elizabeth then took Judith's hand and led her to an ornate Chevalier in the suite's large closet.

She stood behind Judith, privately stunned by how radiant the shorter woman looked when draped in elegant finery. Judith considered her reflection impassively, but Elizabeth was alarmed when the raven-haired beauty abruptly covered her eyes and burst into tears. Concerned, Elizabeth placed a hand on the woman's shoulder and inquired urgently, "Judith...what's wrong"

The diminutive beauty shook her head adamantly and took several stumbling steps away, brushing tears from her cheek with the heel of her hand. "I'm sorry...you must think I'm a flighty fool. I honestly can't remember the last time I actually shed a tear." She hesitated and Elizabeth could tell by the hitched cadence of her breathing that the woman was tottering on the brink of an emotional breakdown. "When I saw that woman standing in the mirror...it's like looking at a reflection of a person that I can scarcely remember. It's been so long since I've been able to look at myself and sense...normalcy. Elizabeth, this is the first time in seven decades that I've actually had more than a passing interaction with another person. Seeing my image...and how it represents what I've given up...it was traumatic. I'm sorry if I seemed...ungrateful."

Elizabeth strode over to the raven-haired beauty, touched by her unexpected display of vulnerability...even if she could not grasp its essence. As she gently brushed tears from Judith's upturned face, Elizabeth was jolted by an intense burst of crystalline insight pertaining to the initial dream that had heralded the onset of her dark odyssey. The statue that had forever immortalized a moment of mutual self-immolation shared between her and another woman...whom she assumed was Cynara. Offering comfort to this enigmatic creature...and experiencing an intense moment of pure empathy that had flowed between them...was it possible that she had misconstrued that dream portent? Was it possible that her end would be met with this woman...that they could well be kindred spirits forged by common experience?

_'Augury is an imprecise science, Elizabeth...best not to lose sight of that and jump to hasty conclusion,'_ the voice of Cynara Saravic reminded her with bristling disapproval and perhaps the first swirl of the green-eyed monster of jealousy.

Still, Elizabeth could not escape the feeling that this meeting with Judith Ranzman was significantly more than a random crossing of two eclectic life arcs. It suddenly seemed exigent that she come to know everything about the diminutive beauty standing before her...every nuance and facet of the deep and complex personality that dwelled beneath the irreverent facade. On impulse...if only to staunch the flow of the distraught woman's tears...Elizabeth bent forward and bestowed a lingering kiss on Judith's tear-stained cheek. She felt Judith stiffen and then go limp against her as her anxiety seemed to drain away like water through a grate. Finally, Elizabeth stepped back and regarded the wide-eyed Ranzman with a radiant smile. "Judith...you are stunning beyond words...so no more tears. You wanted to be my porcelain doll for the evening...generally speaking, porcelain dolls don't have bloodshot eyes."

Judith inclined her head and her mouth twisted into a smirk. "Could it be that the noble Elizabeth actually has a sense of humor...will wonders never cease? Thank you...for all of this. It's extravagant...you must be...well off?"

"Obscenely," Elizabeth admitted candidly, "More than wealthy enough to make sure that you no longer have to wander the streets of Paris like a pauper."

Judith's tone became sober and she averted her eyes to her hands. "I also want to thank you for not keeping the vow you made back in the alley...the one about destroying me if you set eyes upon me again. I can't define exactly what you are, but I know you're immeasurably more powerful than I am." She gripped Elizabeth's slender wrists and glanced up, searching the statuesque blonde's face with an intense and earnest gaze that was unsettling. "When I saw you sitting in that bistro...appearing so aloof and surrounded by that corona of golden light...I knew that my days of wandering aimlessly were over...that whatever purpose I'm intended to serve would be found in your presence. That is why I couldn't allow you to drive me away...why I had to risk coming here."

For a long moment, Elizabeth could not respond; robbed of the faculty of speech by the immense gravitas of Judith's impassioned disclosure and its possible connection to her own portentous dream. When she could finally trust herself to speak, Elizabeth intoned huskily, "Whatever perception you might have of me, Judith...I think you'll find the reality disappointing."

Judith offered Elizabeth her customary impish grin, rife with playful irreverence, and retorted, "I sincerely doubt you could ever be disappointing."

Elizabeth inhaled sharply and stepped back, retreating from the nascent emotions that were goading her into what might prove to be an ill-advised entanglement. "Let's find a comfortable place where you can tell me all about who you are and how you ended up on that bistro."

Judith could discern the other woman's roiling discomfort and correctly deduced its cause. _'Ah...I nearly have you where I want you, dear...my own Amathera...after so long.'_

Trying to constrain her welling excitement, Judith quipped, "Very well then...wine me and dine me...and whatever else you might plan to do with me. I can be incredibly pliable...given the right inducement."

They started for the door, but as Judith's gaze fell on her cloak of shadows, her step faltered and she might have fallen had Elizabeth not clutched her arm and kept her upright. She could see that Judith's gaze was locked on the cloak and every muscle in her compact body was rigid with tension. She immediately guessed the source of Judith's extreme angst. "It will be fine here...or is there something I don't fathom...is it the source of your power."

Judith gazed at her with eyes as large as dark saucers brimming with apprehension. "Yes...no...maybe. I only know that I can't live without it."

"Do you want to take it with you?" Elizabeth inquired...feeling the intensity of Judith's obsessive need.

Judith shook her head and intoned fiercely, "No...I need this respite. Just allow me a moment to protect it."

Elizabeth agreed and watched in fascination as Judith collected the coat, absently caressing its fabric, and carried it over to a settee, where she laid it flat. She fell to her knees before the cloak and extended her hands over garment and closed her eyes. Elizabeth could see her lips moving in what she deduced was a wordless incantation. As she watched, the cloak became translucent and then diaphanous...before completely vanishing from sight.

In an awestruck voice, Elizabeth exclaimed, "Judith, that was utterly amazing...what exactly did you do?"

Ranzman shrugged as if her act of vanishing magic had been boringly mundane. "I displaced it into a...a parallel reality I suppose. Technically, it's still here, but only I can retrieve it."

Elizabeth glanced back to the empty settee and wondered, "It's daunting to think what else you can do."

"Then I suppose you'll just have to keep me with you to find out," Judith beamed cheerfully.

The two women laughed and then Judith linked her arm in Elizabeth's and the two extraordinary creatures set out into the night.

Chapter Twelve

1

"How have you become like this, Judith?" Elizabeth inquired in earnest bemusement. "Please don't construe this as offensive...or judgmental, but what brought you to a juncture where you are homeless and alone...with only that cloak for a possession?"

Judith reached for her Pinot Noir and took a demure sip, though Elizabeth could sense that she was trying to gather her thoughts. The restaurant was full to brimming, but Elizabeth had employed a measure of extraordinary persuasion to secure a quiet table in a relatively secluded section of the building. Around the pair, the world seemed to flow with the vibrancy and delicacy that only Paris could evoke, but for both women, their perception seemed to have been reduced to the woman on the other side of the table. "I came into possession of the shadow cloak seventy years ago...and it radically altered the course of my life, though in truth my life changed completely when I met the woman to whom the cloak actually belonged...for whom it was made."

"This woman became your friend...something more?" Elizabeth inquired, realizing that the question was perhaps too frank, but fascinated by the implications.

Judith met the query with an indecipherable smile tinged with an intimation of pain. "Actually, she found me with the intention of killing me." She uttered a mirthful chuckle in response to Elizabeth's shocked reaction and said, "Yes...I know how confusing that must sound. I've started my tale from the middle...or more accurately the end. You asked what molded me to the person you see now and I think the most accurate way to describe it would be to say that I've become the woman who intended to kill me...that our lives became so intertwined that I begin where she left off...though even that perplexing explanation is a gross over-simplification." She fixed Elizabeth with a speculative gaze and in beneath the muted lights, her great dark eyes appeared to shimmer like diamonds. "If you had a year to spare, I could tell a skeletal version of the story of who Amathera was and the forces that shaped her life...and by extension mine, but I can sense an urgency in those blue eyes. If you trust me...I can share my story in another way...but I must warn you, the experience is...disconcerting in the extreme."

Elizabeth arched a tapered eyebrow and regarded Judith closely. She could glean no malice in the other woman's offer and so she acquiesced with a resolute nod. "What do you want me to do?"

Judith smiled slyly, "Just give me your hand, close your eyes, bow your head and open yourself to the flow of images I'm going to relate. The other patrons might think we're sharing an intensely intimate moment...which we are...but let them have something to fantasize about."

Elizabeth smiled uncertainly and as Judith nodded encouragingly, she slowly extended her right hand. Judith covered Elizabeth's hand and began to massage the sensitive webbing between the thumb and index finger. "Now, close your eyes and open your mind to me. I'll be as gentle as I can, but if the deluge becomes too much, just pull away."

Elizabeth nodded with a resolve she did not feel and then closed her eyes and bowed her head slightly. As she opened the aperture of her consciousness, her mind was assailed by a tidal wave of excruciatingly intense images and their corresponding emotions. She was cognizant of having uttered a sharp gasp and then clamped her jaws shut as her senses were completely overwhelmed by the raging flow of Amathera's epically tragic life. Time seemed to stretch out to the very limits of infinity...though in truth, Elizabeth absorbed the flow of Amathera's unprecedented existence over the span of a few short minutes. The events came to an apocalyptic climax in which humanity tottered on the edge of this sorrowful creature's abyss...only to be pulled back from the brink by four intrepid souls of whom the woman across from her was one. The unfurling of Amathera's life left Elizabeth feeling small and infinitesimally inconsequential. She sat gasping softly as Judith's life after that moment played itself out like an epic search for some measure of redemption...or insight. Elizabeth moaned softly when the flow terminated with the vision of how she had appeared when Judith had first set eyes upon her on the bistro.

Judith reluctantly let go of her hand and sat back...waiting silently while Elizabeth struggled to regain her equilibrium. For her part, Elizabeth slumped back in her chair, staring vacantly into the middle distance. Softly, she murmured, "Such heart-breaking pain and sorrow...to witness so much misery and experience such needless cruelty and ugliness. How could any living vessel contain what this poor woman was forced to endure? That someone would willingly subject this beautiful, ingenuous creature to such incessant torment...is incomprehensibly cruel and unconscionable beyond words."

Judith nodded gravely. "She was once the most pristine soul that ever graced the world...and I helped kill her. She once asked me if it was possible to regain the lost innocence...to find the beauty that had once shaped her perception of the world. When I stood back and allowed her to be undone, I resolved that I would change...that I would seek the answer to that question on her behalf. I've spent seventy years traversing the back roads of Amathera's memory...trying to find the resonating echoes of the things that she had witnessed...the things that vitiated her heart. Amathera came to kill me, but in the end, she saved my life...she was my salvation in more ways than I can properly articulate."

"I'm not certain I understand, Judith," Elizabeth replied weakly, still deeply disquieted by the experience of absorbing twenty-three centuries of an epic life in the course of five minutes. Amathera's lingering torment made Elizabeth's plight seem trivial by comparison...the embarrassing plaintive whining of an over-indulged child.

Judith looked at Elizabeth and quickly averted her eyes to her trembling hands. "I deliberately shielded the portion of my life before Amathera found me...because I'm ashamed to show you what I was...afraid that you would reject me...that you couldn't suffer the sight of me considering what you are."

Elizabeth reached across the table and squeezed Judith's small hand in reassurance. "Believe me Judith when I tell you that I have no right to judge anyone."

Judith met this with a surprisingly sour frown. "That sad part is I know that you truly believe that. Before Amathera, I was a decadent, depraved monster...a vessel of malicious evil that seemed to serve no purpose but to indulge my own madness. I had everything, Elizabeth...I was rich by the standards of the day...and feared, which I misconstrued for respect. There are things that I won't tell you because I couldn't bear to have you look at me with revulsion, but let it suffice to say that I killed people and reveled in doing it. Amathera changed me...expunged that blackness from my soul and set me off on a search to discover who she was...and who I was as well...and why I did the unspeakable things I did. I have given up everything I falsely believed was important...my wealth, my identity...to find answers to Amathera's questions."

"Did you find what you were searching for during those years, Judith?" Elizabeth heard herself ask, mesmerized by the other woman's engrossing tale.

Judith peered directly into Elizabeth's limpid blue eyes and intoned solemnly, "Until this morning, I would have said no, but then I saw you sitting quietly by yourself on that bistro, surrounded by that golden light...and Elizabeth, I saw Amathera...the ingenuous embodiment of innocence that she had been before fate warped her soul. I knew...without equivocation...that I had been brought to the place I was intended to be when I left Quinsett seventy years ago."

Elizabeth did not respond for several moments. Instead, she searched Judith's winsome face for the slightest hint of embellishment or fabrication...and discerned only that the other woman was being perfectly sincere in this effusive declaration of adoration. "Judith...there's an intrinsic danger in embracing this kind of insight on face value. I'm just an ordinary woman who was....cursed, if I'm being candid...with a false blessing I never wanted. Amathera was an extraordinary creature...so much so that she could have no true place in an imperfect world that could only...inevitably...sully who she was. I, on the other hand...am the diametric opposite. I wanted only to live an ordinary life...to embrace all of the trappings of a typical life, with its small and unremarkable joys and sorrows...and to eventually die surrounded by the ones I loved. That is hardly the inspiration for eternal devotion. In me, you will come to find that your faith has been badly misplaced."

Judith gazed at Elizabeth, a knowing glint in her luminous dark eyes. "Elizabeth, you also possess the one quality that is unique to extraordinary creatures...genuine humility. Would you do me a favor...would you let me experience your life in the same way I've allowed you to experience mine?"

Elizabeth inclined her head slightly, leery of allowing a stranger unfettered access to her mind...her memories. Coyly, she replied, "Judith, you weren't entirely forthcoming with the entirety of your own life..."

"And I was being truthful when I explained why...I don't want you to judge me on the basis of what I was. If you allow me to stay with you...to become your friend...I'll let you plumb the depths of my black and stained soul if that's what you require." There was a desperate, imploring edge to Judith's soft tone that surmounted Elizabeth's reservations. How long had it been since she had confided in another living soul...allowed someone else to share the essence of who she was? Slowly, she extended her right hand, tensing slightly when Judith gently enfolded it in her own and again began to caress the tender flesh in an evocative rhythm that induced the most intensely intimate sensations. "Envision your life as a slow moving river...wander along its length toward its source...back through the flow of your memories. Open your mind and take down all barriers and restrictions. Let me immerse myself in your being." Judith instructed and Elizabeth could sense an eager anticipation couched in the other woman's mechanical tone. "Once you've reach as far back into your memories as you can recall, simply allow yourself to float along the river of your life...slowly....lazily."

Elizabeth complied, tracing the chronological flow of her memories back to her childhood in Semelar. When those memories became fragmented...disjointed snippets from early childhood, Elizabeth simply surrendered herself to the current. She could feel a barely perceptible presence on the periphery of her awareness and knew that Judith was experiencing her life...not vicariously, but viscerally...living it along with her. She could hear the other woman's barely audible reaction to the intense moments of trauma and anguish that had characterized her life when Cynara's imposing presence had descended upon her. When the river reached the days immediately prior to her dream in Petalidi, Elizabeth spontaneously terminated the contact, pulling her hand away with more force that she had intended. Judith frowned and glanced at her askance. Feeling slightly embarrassed by her uncharacteristic curtness, Elizabeth explained, "I'm sorry, Judith...there are things about these last few weeks that I have yet to come to terms with..."

Judith merely nodded and glanced away, she propped her chin on her small fist and Elizabeth could see that her dark eyes were misted with tears and correctly surmised that she was struggling to regain her composure. When she finally returned her attention to Elizabeth, her expression was mournful and subdued, "My evaluation of who you are...of what you are was eerily correct. What this...this monster did to you was horrible beyond words." She reached across the table and gripped Elizabeth's hand tightly. "If I could find her, I would tear her throat with my teeth...just to feel her hot blood on my tongue. She stole everything you cherished...but in the end, she couldn't take your light. In many ways, your life has been like a condensed version of Amathera's...except you never truly succumbed to the darkness that eventually infected Amathera's heart."

"Don't lionize me, Judith...and don't condemn Cynara. She was a victim of the same exploitation that she visited upon me," Elizabeth intoned softly. Then, with an ominous note, Elizabeth added, "Believe me when I tell you...you would not want to confront Cynara."

"Despite what she did to you...the suffering she inflicted upon, not only you, but your family as well...you gave up your identity...the normalcy you so desperately crave...so that she could be safe...so that the people you love could be safe. Elizabeth, the kind of self-sacrifice is beyond my sensibilities...and certainly beyond hers. Why did you give up Petalidi Elizabeth...you were happy there. There was a melancholy edge to that contentment...but it was contentment nonetheless."

A pained expression rippled across Elizabeth's beautiful face. As Judith watched her, she could feel her own hardened heart contract and was shock to find that she could ever be so profoundly affected by another person's lingering sorrow. _'You're traversing some unfamiliar territory, Judith...and if you're not extremely careful...you might find that you are the one who ends up being ensnared.'_

"I've been...found out, it seems...by a man who covets what he believes I have," Elizabeth divulged, clearly pained by the revelation.

Judith squeezed her hand in reassurance and prompted, "Tell me...everything?"

After a brief internal debate, Elizabeth did...providing Judith with a selectively edited version of the things that had prompted her to abandon every vestige of her quiet life of solitude. She deliberately omitted any mention of her dream...unable to ascertain her motivation for doing so. Did she fear that Judith would see the dream as a validation of her claim that theirs was a predestined meeting...or that the eventual fate of a shared death would frightened her away? Elizabeth could not speculate with any degree of certainty.

Judith absorbed Elizabeth's tale with mounting anger...her lovely face darkened like a stormy night sky. When the blond beauty fell silent and waited expectantly for Judith's reaction, Ranzman offered Elizabeth a predator's grin and declared resolutely, "You have to let me help you!"

"Judith...I just can't let you do that...can't let you become embroiled in this mess," Elizabeth countered with equal determination. "Until the day after tomorrow, I won't know the specifics...but I can reasonably predict that this man is looking for the fountain of youth...a way to preserve his life. Don't you see, Judith...your situation would be every bit as appealing to a man such as Ian Barrows. I simply won't expose you to that."

"Elizabeth...if this Barrows had fixated on me...I can assure you that we wouldn't be having this conversation. I have dealt with men like Barrows before...I was Ian Barrows before Amathera saved me. Despite what you did to me in that alley...I am still this man's living nightmare. In truth...if I was determined to hurt you...I have abilities that would give even you pause," Judith insisted, her countenance ablaze with a zeal that was frightening.

Elizabeth merely shook her head. "I will find a way to handle Ian Barrows, Judith...one that will not jeopardize you."

Judith frowned in exasperation, but persisted, "Elizabeth, you're not equipped to deal with this kind of man. I am...and I will...emphatically. Please, let me protect you...extricate you from his snare."

Elizabeth again shook her head. Firmly, she reiterated, "I'll deal with Barrows on my own terms."

"Elizabeth, this kind of man will not relent...ever. He sees you as a commodity...one that he needs to survive and he won't simply abandon his scheme to have you because of a heart-felt appeal or a logic argument. He has a pirate's soul and given the extremity of his situation, he can't allow you to walk away. He has nothing to lose and the only way to stop such men is to kill them...which I know you can't. I have no compunction about crushing such men like the insects they are."

"You will harm no one on my behalf and if you refuse to accept that, then you and I part ways here and now!" Elizabeth rasped, displaying ire for the first time.

Judith raised her hands in a gesture of placation. "All right. Still, let me help you in other ways. The shadow cloak allows me to pass through the world undetected. Let me accompany you to this hotel...I can scout the hotel and insure that you're not being drawn into any kind of trap. It is impossible to predict what this type of man might have the audacity to do...I can at least forewarn you if I see something untoward. After you learn exactly what he wants...we can revisit this conversation...if you wish."

Elizabeth's incisive gaze bore into Judith, who met it unblinkingly. With a sigh that suggested she might well come to rue her choice, Elizabeth relented. "Very well, Judith...on the condition that you do precisely what I tell you...nothing more. I want to discourage Barrows first and foremost...make him see that I have nothing to offer him and I need your vow that you're going to respect that wish."

The irreverent Judith returned then. Holding up her hand with folded fingers, she intoned with mock solemnity. "Scout's honor dear...I will be an extension of your will."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but offered her unexpected new ally an affectionate smile, "Judith...something tells me you would have been the undoing of the Boy Scouts...but if you are willing to do only what I ask, then I accept your offer."

Judith sat back in her chair and clapped her hands jubilantly. "I believe your annoying problem is well along the way to being solved." Her mood abruptly became somber and she ventured tentatively, "If we do succeed in discouraging this bastard...what will you do then, Elizabeth...go back to Petalidi?"

Elizabeth shook her head, her face contorted in a mask of wistful regret. "Petalidi is lost to me. If I can dissuade Barrows...it will not efface his knowledge. If he can find me...others may as well. Even if I was to change my appearance, you have demonstrated that it is not enough...that I could be found...in time."

"What is it that you're afraid of Elizabeth?" Judith inquired.

Elizabeth glanced at the other woman...with whom, despite having known her for less than a day...she was more intimately acquainted that anyone she had ever known. "If Cynara's former master discovered that I was alive...they would seek to destroy me...never stopping until I was obliterated, but that isn't what frightens me." She cast a haunted glance at Judith. "To find me...they would destroy everything even remotely associated with me...including you, should I allow you to stay in my company."

Judith's face twisted in a malevolent scowl. "It all comes back to that malevolent bitch...doesn't it? You are right about one thing...there is an emanation about you, like a beacon that draws the prescient to you...both good and evil. When I immersed myself in your essence...I experienced the truth...first hand and more concisely than you ever have. You account this aura to your transformation, but Elizabeth...you're wrong. The minute you were born into this world, Cynara became cognizant of your existence, though it may have taken her nearly thirty years to hone in on your location...you exuded a light that she detected from a half a world away."

As Judith made this staggering disclosure, Elizabeth's face twisted in horror and her elegant right hand fluttered to her mouth. When she gleaned the truth of Judith's claim, that horror became bitter resignation. "If that is true, Judith...the there is no sanctuary left to me and the people whose lives I touch can never be safe!"

"Bullshit Elizabeth!" Judith growled, causing Elizabeth to blink in surprise. "Enough of the fatalism...first I'm going to help extricate you from this sick bastard's clutches and then we going to find a way of muting that corona of yours." Judith arched an eyebrow in a decidedly lascivious leer and intoned, "Even if I have to tarnish that golden glow by making you wallow in a bit of decadence to do it. I can never be what you are, Elizabeth...I've inflicted far too many indelible scars on my soul to ever achieve that...but I can protect you." Her voice faltered perceptibly then, but she managed to add, "From people exactly like me."

"But why would you want to, Judith...in light of the enemies I have and the risk to you...what would motivate you to do anything but get as far away from me as this world will allow?" Elizabeth inquired sharply.

"Amathera saved my life...saved my soul. I couldn't reciprocate in any meaningful way that would have mattered...in finding you, I've been given a second chance. Look at the parallels in our lives...small town Washington girls who grew up less than two hundred miles from each other. Then there are the cataclysmic changes that shaped our lives. I search behind every tree and beneath every rock in Greece for lingering echoes of Amathera, never knowing that you lived there in your happy exile. Now, we're sitting across from each other...each laying our souls bare before the other. Can you honestly say this is mere coincidence, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth could find nothing to refute Judith's eloquent, impassioned argument and so she replied solemnly. "Judith, I'll let you help me with this Barrows situation...but beyond that, I simply can't make any promises."

Though her disappointment was readily apparent, Judith nonetheless conjured a smile and replied, "Fair enough...and I'll warn you...once you've spent a short time in my charming company...you'll be thoroughly captivated."

Elizabeth greeted this with a hearty laugh, suspecting that this irrepressible creature just might make good on that warning. Judith offered Elizabeth one of her limpid, incisive glances that could be so unsettling and Simpson could sense Cynara grumble in disgust from the shadows of her mind. "Tomorrow let's you and I spend the day wandering through Paris. We can go to crowded bistros and into small shops and stroll along the Seine...arm in arm like life-long friends. Let's peruse the street painters' wares and sit on park benches and sip espressos like two women who have known each other since childhood. Let's spend an entire day feeling normal and being normal...like each of us has craved to be for most of our lives...please Elizabeth. Next day, we'll deal with Ian Barrows."

Judith underscored this surprising request by caressing Elizabeth's hand as if trying to convey her desire through tactile sensation. "Judith...there isn't anything I would care to do more...let's be two normal women...old friends on vacation in Paris.

The two sipped wine and reveled in the fantastical details of each other's lives. Even as she could feel herself being drawn to this pristinely beautiful creature like a moth to flame, Judith vowed that...despite her promise...she would do everything within her formidable power to insure that Ian Barrows did nothing to harm Elizabeth Simpson.

2

It was slightly after midnight, when Elizabeth and Judith disembarked from a cab in front of Elizabeth's hotel. They stood in silence for several moments on the quiet street, both gazing up at the starry night sky, where the destiny of unknown worlds unfolded in a beguiling celestial ballet, and reveled in the late September breeze. Finally, Judith fixed Elizabeth with a longing glance and intoned, "Then I'll collect you in the morning?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes in exasperation and gently caught hold of the shorter woman's right hand. "Really Judith, do you honestly think I'd let you sleep on a park bench. The sofa in my suite is a fold-out and you can take my bed for the night."

Elizabeth began to guide Judith toward the stairs, but Judith tugged the taller woman's long arm and forced her to turn her attention back to her new companion. With her great dark eyes shining gravely, the raven-haired beauty offered, "I promised to be you porcelain doll for the night...you can take me if you want, Elizabeth...I'll give myself to you gladly and without reservation."

For a protracted moment, Elizabeth could not speak as a rising, long dormant heat suffused her taut body. When she finally found her voice, it quivered tremulously. "I...I can't Judith...not now...please understand..."

Clearly wounded by Elizabeth's rejection, Judith still managed a wan smile and remarked, "I do...but I'm taking the sofa bed...no argument."

Feeling herself hovering perilously close to tears, Elizabeth nodded and led Judith into the hotel.

3

The room was utterly dark, save for the hovering luminous display of the antique digital clock...the red numbers of which hovered like demon's eyes in the darkness of her suite. Elizabeth was suddenly drawn up from the state that passed for sleep with an audible gasp. She lay in the darkness for several moments, keenly aware of the sleeping creature in the other room. With her preternatural hearing, Elizabeth could clearly hear the beating of Judith's strong mortal heart and the shallow, even meter of her respiration. Her body was suddenly suffused by an urgent warmth...a strident need...that exhorted her to take the raven-haired beauty up on her offer.

Elizabeth sat up and buried her face in her hands, drawing in a deep, quavering breath.

"You judge yourself too harshly, sweetheart...you always have," a familiar voice intoned softly. Elizabeth recoiled back against her pillow to discover that she was no longer alone. A figure coalesced out of the inky darkness and sat in the chair where Judith had first offered her gesture of trust. Though obviously ephemeral and cast in an eerie, iridescent blue, there could be no mistaking the man who now appeared before her.

Seeing David Stillman's mild expression and handsome face, Elizabeth abruptly began to weep...her long-repressed loneliness and grief welling up to consume her in a flood. The man before her was not the skeletal facsimile that she had buried in Romania...but the David Stillman with whom she had spent those scant few precious days in Semelar before Cynara had descended on her like a funeral shroud. He was regarding her with that benign expression that she recalled so well, but behind his mild eyes, Elizabeth could discern a deep anguish. She wondered if this beautiful specter was yet another manifestation of the turbulence that had overwhelmed in life in recent weeks. "David...is it really...you?"

"It is, Liz...I've been with you since the day you left Romania...watching over you," he declared, smiling that endearing smile that she missed and yearned for so desperately.

"You have no idea how much I've missed you!" she sobbed and tentatively extended a hand toward this beautiful apparition.

"I think perhaps I do," he contradicted quietly. "I have felt your loneliness and sorrow over the course of these last twenty five years. I felt you mourn for your son and watched with soaring jubilation when you decided to heed his advice and seek out a life of happiness...fulfillment. Still, it saddens me that you have lived your life like a ghost...floating aimlessly along the fringes of life...an eternal spectator who will not risk participation."

Elizabeth shook her head, her tears spattering her bare thighs. "David...you have to see why I can't risk emotional involvement...the danger I pose to anyone who might grow to care for me."

David's mild expression became somber. "I do dear...but could it also be that you will not embrace the future because you cannot relinquish your grip on the past?"

Elizabeth gasped as he had astutely and succinctly given voice to a truth that she refused to acknowledge. "Why have you come, David...and why have you not come before? Just your company could sustain me through any ordeal."

David tilted his head in that thoughtful way she had always found so endearing and his expression became regretful. "The demarcation between the living and the dead exists for good reason, Elizabeth...I've come to understand that in the years since I crossed over. This dispensation I've been granted is rare...if not unprecedented...and it speaks eloquently of the regard in which you are held by those who have dominion over this place. You find yourself standing at a fork in the road...contemplating two paths into the future. One will inexorably lead to the vision you experienced, while the other will take you to along a path that is steeped in shadow, but I sense will be wondrous beyond our ability to imagine. One of those paths runs through the woman whom fate has placed before you. The other may be accessed through the woman to whom you may turn in the near future." His smooth brow furrowed and he concluded, "I cannot tell you which woman leads to which path...I have not been granted that particular insight. While the choices may seem immediately evident...I would caution against hasty judgment."

"I don't know what to do, David...I don't want to harm the few people who are left to me!" Elizabeth whispered...her voice strident with confusion and misery.

David rose and floated across the room, before sitting on the edge of the bed and embracing her bare shoulders. Elizabeth shivered and moaned at the subtle intimation of his cherished touch. The whisper of sensation was a poignant reminder of all that she had lost. "Elizabeth, there is no right or wrong path...each is merely a way into a possible future...a journey that will carry you to the place you were ultimately intended to be. I have been granted the permission to disclose that...whichever path you chose...when your journey has reached its end, you and I will be reunited...eternally."

The fall of tears distorted his image then...though now her tears were an outpouring of undiluted joy. In an emotion-choked voice, she sighed, "You have no idea how important that is to me...how comforting."

He smiled that beguiling smile, but then his tone became solemn. "Whichever path you chose, I would implore you to fully embrace life as you travel its course...immerse yourself in living and the emotional investment that living demands. Give of yourself and take freely, without guilt, fear or shame. Especially, give yourself completely and unreservedly to whichever of the two women you allow to accompany you along whatever remains of your life's arc."

"You're asking me to be open...receptive to unconditional love?" she stammered, wondering if she could ever be so magnanimous had the situation been reversed.

"Yes!" He declared with more vehemence than was his custom in life. "Take what they are offering and find comfort in its warmth. Nothing would fill me with greater delight because I know we will be together...in time. In the interim, I hope that my wait is a long and that your life is an enduring and joyous one...which ever road you should choose. I have to go, Elizabeth...and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to come to you again this way. Take solace in the fact that we will be together someday...and strive to be happy."

Even as he offered these terrible and final parting words, David Stillman began to gutter. Frantically, Elizabeth inquired, "David...where you are...are you happy there?"

David did not answer, but departed with a fond smile, leaving Elizabeth weeping in the darkness. She did not know how long she remained in this position of unbearable sorrow, but in time the flow of her tears ceased and her gaze shifted to the doors of her suite. Suddenly, her path forward seemed startlingly clear and the imposing burden of the imminent future felt significantly less...onerous.

Now, she saw that...whatever trials and hardships she would suffer...there awaited a remuneration that would compensate for all she had and would endure. All that remained was to insure that the few people she cherished did not pay the price for her recompense.

She quietly waved the doors open and stood in the doorway, peering down on the slumbering form of Judith Ranzman. Sometime during the night, Judith had shrugged off the blankets and covered herself with her shadow cloak. In the near total darkness, Elizabeth saw that sleep had bestowed an aspect of innocence upon the diminutive beauty that was lost upon waking. Gazing down on this exquisite drifter, Elizabeth came to an impulsive decision...one that she would embrace without her customary anxiety or regret.

She crossed over to the sofa and removed the shadow cloak, not surprised to find that Judith's nubile body was naked beneath. Even as Judith stirred from the grasp of sleep, Elizabeth bent down and gently lifted her into her arms.

"Elizabeth?" Judith inquired blearily, not entirely certain what had befallen her even as her nipples rose into tight knots and her arms slid around the taller woman's neck and her face settled onto Elizabeth's right shoulder.

"I have need of a beautiful porcelain doll," Elizabeth offered, her voice a husky whisper that she scarcely recognized.

Judith emitted a gasp as Elizabeth tenderly laid her on the bed, before stepping back and pulling her satin camisole over her head. She shook out her long blond hair and came to stand over the beguiled Ranzman with one knee on the bed. The cadence of her own breathing was accelerating in response to the heat of Judith's need. Judith's large dark eyes roamed slowly over the inebriating topography of Elizabeth's body and she extended her arms in a gesture of invitation. "Please...Elizabeth...don't hold anything back!"

"Oh believe me...I won't Judith!" Elizabeth promised...her blue eyes smoldering with an impassioned promise. Judith's eyes widened at the unexpectedly brazen light that burned in those lustrous blue depths. She waved a hand and the pair was suddenly cocooned in a muted green sphere of diaphanous light. Elizabeth raised an inquisitive eyebrow and Judith growled wickedly, "It's been seventy years...this is likely to be long and get extremely loud."

Elizabeth smiled and slowly lowered herself onto the perfection of Judith's body and both women gasped as their breasts pressed together and Judith parted her legs to take Elizabeth into her embrace. Elizabeth peered into Judith's beautiful dark eyes and taking her slender right wrist, firmly pulled the smaller woman's arm above her head. As Judith encircled Elizabeth tiny waist and began to let her hands roam freely over the majesty of Elizabeth's firm body, Elizabeth moved her head in slow circles, tantalizing Judith with the feathery whisper of her long hair as it passed teasingly over her breasts and face. When Judith was moaning and sighing in ragged gasps, Elizabeth lowered her face and began to chart the landscape of her lover's face...delicately placing lingering kisses on the angle of her jaw, her nose and eyelids. Judith surrendered completely to Elizabeth's carnal artistry...falling under the spell of the blonde's slow and gentle lovemaking.

For her part, Elizabeth consumed Judith like the most exquisite of delicacies...slowly and gently. She recalled how David had said that he was with her always and the thought made her feel deliciously brazen...knowing that he was watching as she lost herself in the glory of Judith's flesh. There was something wanton in the knowledge that he was near and she hoped that he could somehow experience the pleasure of partaking in this intimacy that she was sharing. The erotic thought fuelled her ardor and she began to make love to Judith with increasing fervor and urgency.

As Judith had anticipated...their lovemaking became long and very loud.

4

In the hour before dawn, a totally satiated and deliciously tired Judith lay nestled in Elizabeth's embrace, with her back to the taller woman. Elizabeth's long left leg was draped over Judith's thigh and her left index finger traced a meandering path over the sweeping curve of the smaller woman's tight hip. Elizabeth brushed back Judith's silky black hair and ran her tongue over the nape of Judith's neck. Judith's entire body shivered in Elizabeth's embrace and she twisted her face toward the woman who had so thoroughly devastated her. When she spoke, her voice was a dreamy, distant match for her glazed eyes. "What you did to me in this bed tonight...I have never been made love to before with such delicacy. It was beautiful beyond my words to express...it made me ashamed of what I've been. I know you said that you could promise me nothing...but what you did to me tonight...you gave me the Amathera I've been searching for...and taken my fealty in return. Do you understand what that truly means...what you've done to me, Elizabeth? I can never let you push me away...be apart from you...not after this."

She began to weep then and Elizabeth kissed her eyes and then her open, pliable mouth. Then she drew back slightly and promised, "Don't fret Judith...regardless of what might come...or how long I have left...I'll keep you with me and make sure that you are never harmed for being by my side. Now sleep for a time."

Judith smiled in contentment and Elizabeth drew her tighter, relishing the sensation of their intermingled bodies as Judith nestled against her and passed into sleep.

Chapter Thirteen

1

A subtle whisper of sound enticed Isobel Greavy up from the tentative grasp of a fitful sleep. She came awake with the alacrity of one who sleeps in a permanent state of apprehension...her breathing coming in ragged gasps and her eyes bulging as she searched the impenetrable darkness of her room for the source of the noise. _'My room...how quickly I've made the transition from a partner in a happy union to a widow, whose bed is empty.'_

She shook her head in bemused and issued the verbal command that flooded her large bedroom with diffuse yellow light. The sound came again...a barely perceptible whisper issuing from somewhere below...all stealth and furtive purpose. Isobel could feel her heart begin to accelerate as she slid nimbly out of bed and donned the silk robe that she had folded neatly on the chair next to her bed. It suddenly occurred to her that this was the first time in nearly ten years that she had actually spent a night alone in this house. The children were still with her parents in the country and she had given Esther a few days off...thinking that the solitude would be more conducive to coming to terms with her grief and picking up the threads of this new and empty life that now loomed before her. She would miss Thomas, who she had loved wholeheartedly, but eventually, she would move forward...as she must...for the sake of the children and for herself as well.

Isobel Greavy had long subscribed to the belief that the true measure of a person's character could be gleaned by the way they overcame...or failed to overcome...adversity. She would mourn...but would not allow herself to wallow in self-pity and grief...it simply wasn't fitting for a person of her station.

When the sound issued a third time, Isobel quickly moved over to the room's state of the art security console, which informed her that there had been no detectable breaches in any of the windows or doors of her lavish townhouse. A deeper, more atavistic instinct still insisted that there was someone in the house and so she strode over to the large standing armoire and removed a metal strongbox from its upper shelf. After entering a five digit code and pressing her thumb to the blue light scanner, Isobel watched as the lid sprang open...revealing a nine millimeter handgun that Thomas insisted they acquire just the previous year. Isobel recalled how she had been appalled by the idea at the time, but the sense of exigency in Thomas' eyes had overcome her reservations. Isobel had gone so far as taking shooting lessons at an upper class gun club, becoming surprisingly proficient in the weapon's use. Never once had she entertained the possibility that she would have to actually wield it with violent intent.

Prudently keeping the safety engaged and eschewing slippers, Isobel exited the room and began to make her way downstairs. The house had assumed a brooding, hostile character as she crept down the winding staircase...making sure not to stray from the runner carpet.

_'There's someone in Thomas' office, Isobel...we both know that,'_ the voice of her inner keeper informed her dispassionately. This was the guide who insured that Isobel never strayed from the path of aristocratic decorum...the keeper of propriety and the vaunted stiff upper lip that Isobel so cherished...which made its next disclosure all the more baffling. _'You'll have to face this alone Isobel...the authorities will be of no value in this situation. What you're about to discover will alter your perception...of everything.'_

Isobel grimaced at this uncharacteristic bout of cryptic nonsense. Still, she never once contemplated ignoring its advice and returning to her room to summon the authorities. Holding the gun before her like a talisman, Isobel made her way down the hall and came to a halt directly before the door to Thomas' office. She listened closely, but no sound issued from the interior, nor could she discern any trace of light spilling from beneath the door, but the unsettling sense of intrusion persisted.

Reaching for the handle with a hand that trembled perceptibly, Isobel pushed the door open and stepped into the darkened interior of what had suddenly become inimical territory. She issued the appropriate verbal prompt and the room's lights blazed to life.

Her heart wrenched painfully in her chest at the confirmation of intrusion, but she retained the presence of mind to raise her weapon and level it at the figure sitting behind her dead husband's desk. "Don't even think of moving."

"Don't be tedious, Isobel," the woman remarked with a sigh that suggested boredom. In the next instant, the gun was torn painfully from Isobel's hand. It sailed across the room and slapped into the outstretched palm of the red-haired, extremely beautiful woman who now occupied Thomas' chair. Isobel cried out in surprise and alarm and an invisible force pushed her roughly into the room and slammed the door behind her.

Isobel came to a stumbling halt and stared in wide-eyed terror as the woman behind the desk turned the weapon over in her hands, regarding it with a perturbed frown. She gestured to the chair on the opposite side of the desk and instructed calmly, "Sit Isobel."

Groping for the chair, Isobel slumped into the padded leather seat, never once taking her gaze from the flame-haired woman, who exuded a palpable aura of menace despite her elegant beauty. Summoning her wavering courage, she managed, "Who...are you?"

The woman leaned forward and peered at Isobel with large eyes of the deepest blue that she had ever seen. She waved a hand around her head and every light in the office simultaneously exploded, plunging the room into utter darkness, before a tensor lamp sprang to life, casting a large circle of muted light over the desk and the room's two occupants. "My name is irrelevant. What I am would be the more pertinent question, Isobel."

With this, she pressed the muzzle of the gun into her left side and pulled the trigger. Isobel recoiled in horror as a muffled sound of the discharge filled the air, followed by the acrid smell of cordite. To Isobel's horrified astonishment, the woman grimaced, but otherwise gave no outward reaction to the fact that she had just deliberately shot herself. The intruder smiled in reaction to Isobel's incredulous dismay. "Firstly, I am quite obviously not human. Secondly, I am the woman who dismembered your husband on the common of the green space the other night."

Isobel attempted to scream and bolt from the chair, but found herself immobilized and gagged by an unseen force. She required only one glance into those inhuman blue eyes to know that this monster had spoken the unembellished truth in a cool, dispassionate voice...as if describing something insufferably menial. Her body went utterly rigid, but Isobel retained the presence of mind to realize that further struggle was futile.

The woman leaned forward and smiled, "I think you've deduced the salient realities of this situation...and that is just as well, Isobel. This need not be a hostile dialogue. You and I are going to conduct some mutually enlightening business. If you are receptive...cooperative...then I guarantee that you will live to see morning. If not, the police will find your ravaged corpse splayed across this environmentally unfriendly desk. Do you understand, Isobel?"

Isobel signified her understanding with a vigorous nod. Again, the beauty offered Isobel a decidedly cruel grin. "Now, I'm going to remove the gag and if you scream, your tongue will follow suit."

Isobel felt the sensation of something being pulled from her gaping mouth and though the feeling of violation was repulsive, she gave no expression to her revulsion. Isobel Greavy had long since been blessed with an extraordinary grasp of prevailing circumstances and she fully recognized the precarious situation in which she now found herself. A deeper perception informed her that this creature might hold the answers to the questions that had plagued her since she recalled the situation in which she had first met Mary Langdon. With as much restraint as she could muster, Isobel demanded, "Why did you kill my husband?"

The woman raised her elegant right hand in an odd gesture for patience. "All in good time Isobel. First, you will answer my questions and if I'm convinced that you've been forthcoming with my questions, I will reciprocate. If not, you'll be dead and your query will be moot."

"Ask your questions," Isobel retorted with a defiance that caused her captor to arch an eyebrow.

"I am looking for something called a shadow box...though that may be a dramatic moniker that could be misleading. I know that Thomas had one in his possession and I need it." The woman fell silent, her predatory gaze boring into Isobel, who remained silent for several moments, weighing the prudence of making her disclosure. Seeing nothing to be gained by conjuring a lie, Isobel spoke the truth...as she understood it.

"The name is unfamiliar, but in the safe in this desk, I discovered a small black box with a blinking blue light. Thomas had gone to extravagant lengths to conceal this box...from me, it seems. The technician who opened the safe could offer no explanation of what purpose it served. It seemed to be just what it appeared to be...a fabricated plastic and metal box with a flashing blue light." Isobel fell silent, her lovely face inscrutable.

The woman pursed her lips and seemed to consider this rather puzzling disclosure for several moments. Finally, she demanded, "Where is this box now?"

"I turned it over to one of the inspectors who are investigating Thomas' murder...earlier today."

"And does this investigator have a name?"

Isobel was suddenly reluctant to make this particular disclosure, but there was a glint of madness in the woman's eyes that announced that she would brook neither deception, nor evasion. "Mary Langdon."

Though it was there for a fraction of an instant, Isobel saw the recognition in those frighteningly intense blue eyes. Somehow, this monster knew exactly who Mary Langdon was. "Did the inspector offer any comment on the nature of this supposedly purposeless device?"

Isobel shook her head. "She did not...saying only that she would contact me once the device had undergone analysis at Scotland Yard. Do you know what this device is?"

The woman regarded Isobel with a disapproving scowl. "I don't...though I have suspicions. Now, you asked why I murdered your husband, Isobel and because you were forthcoming with me, I'm inclined to provide you with an answer. I could tell you, but that would leave a great deal of latitude for...mistrust and if we are to bring our business to a mutually satisfying conclusion, it's imperative that you know I have not deceived you."

With this rather cryptic utterance, the woman rose and came around the desk to stand before a wide-eyed Isobel Greavy, who despite her resolve to remain composed, shrank back in her chair. "Rather than tell you why, I will show you why...though I forewarn you, this disclosure will be...disconcerting."

Without affording Isobel the opportunity to comment, the woman gripped the frightened Greavy's forehead, painfully digging the thumb and index fingers of her long, slender hand into the hollows of Isobel's temples. Immediately, the world around her seemed to dissolve and a disoriented Isobel found herself peering through unfamiliar eyes, while around her, images and emotions swirled like a rampant vortex...hot and unspeakably vile.

"This is what it feels like to reside within the cesspool that passed for Thomas' depraved mind...how he viewed the world and experienced the events of his facade of a life." The images assailed her in a frenetic deluge...unspeakably vile fantasies that sickened Isobel." After a time, she found that she was peering down into her own limpid eyes...eyes which were glazed with passion...and understood that she was seeing how Thomas perceived her during their moments of intimacy. Suddenly, the vortex of rampant thoughts became an argent pyre and it was no longer her face that she was looking down upon...but rather the sweet, innocent countenance of Penelope. The argent flames intensified as she could feel her host approaching explosive release and that face transmogrified to become Muraday.

In the tangible world, Isobel threw back her head and screamed in inarticulate negation until it seemed inevitable that her throat would burst. Still the images did not relent. Before her fevered eyes, the visage of an angelic blond child materialized and the name Persephone whispered in the confines of her host's lust addled mind.

"Please...please...merciful god...make it stop!" Isobel wailed and the woman withdrew her hand and retreated into shadows. Isobel pitched out of the chair and tumbled to her knees, moaning in anguish as the room swam and her head spun like a gyre. She groped blindly for a garbage can and pulled it over just in time to regurgitate the entire contents of her roiling stomach. When she was done, the cultured beauty slumped onto her face as her entire body was wracked by convulsive shudders and sobs.

The woman knelt down beside Isobel and gently stroked her honey-blond hair in commiseration, though her words were as excruciating and incisive as a rapier. "So you see Isobel, whenever Thomas slid into that erudite shrine of yours, it was actually Penelope and Muraday that he was fantasizing about...that roused him to a state of primitive lust. Your entire marriage was a carefully cultivated lie...a facade of normalcy to conceal Thomas' black perversion. I discerned the truth of his nature and I emphatically ended him...before he could destroy your beautiful daughters."

"Did...did he ever touch them?" Isobel croaked and the woman could hear the dread couched in the query.

"He did not...but you felt the intensity of his lust...that relentless need. Inevitably, he would have harmed them...or others just like them." She ceased her caressing and stood, her voice becoming cold and intractable. "Now Isobel, there comes the matter of what I am to do with you."

Isobel glanced up at the statuesque beauty, whose cruelly slanted cheekbones lent her face an imperious air. Warily, she rose to her feet and met the other woman's cold gaze unblinkingly. "What do you want from me?"

"Only your oath of absolute silence. I have obliterated seventeen men...most far more evil than Thomas and have every intention of continuing to do so...to protect children like Penelope and Muraday. I believe this shadow box is a device intended to feed these miscreants' foul addiction and I intend to find those who purvey it and rip them to twitching shreds. If you vow on bended knee that you will never utter a word of what has passed between us...or do anything to further aid the authorities in their efforts to find me...I will leave here and never trouble you again. I will devote my considerable power to insuring that children are never victimized by this monstrous evil...a benevolent act for which you may privately claim a portion of the credit. Believe that I'm not indulging in hollow aggrandizement when I tell you that the authorities cannot stop me, Isobel. I sense your strength and you considerable intellect...you know what I am doing is justified. Don't squander your life on loyalty to a man who betrayed you in the most heinous manner imaginable...please."

Isobel Greavy's blue eyes hardened and she grasped the essential truth of what this terrifying creature was conveying. Thomas Greavy was reprehensible...had violated the most sacred of trusts...in spirit, if not in actual deed. She also sensed the veracity of this woman's desire to protect the most innocent and vulnerable. It was also true that she would never permit her children to be scarred by the scandal that would follow should it become public knowledge that their father was...a deviant. The woman's eyes widened in genuine surprise when Isobel clutched her hand and intoned fiercely, "This is what I intend to do...if you leave me alive, I'm going to strive diligently to expel Thomas Greavy's memory from my mind. After a proper period of time, I will have every vestige of his existence purged from this house...save for the few that my daughters will require...only so they never learn that their father was a monster who coveted their innocence like a vile leech. When the authorities return, I will display only the amount of interest necessary to convince them that I am a grieving widow wishing to see her husband's murderer made to atone...nothing more. You have my oath and I am a woman for whom a personal oath carries an immense weight."

A moment of pure empathy passed between the two women and the red head nodded and smiled, "I believe you, Isobel...and so I will let you live and our business is concluded. You have my oath that I will find those men who brought this filth into your home and make them suffer...before I tear them apart."

Isobel Greavy...the bastion of British civility...nodded with a feral grin and the adjured, "Please, tell me your name...so that I can know who to thank when I pray at night."

Something in the other woman's entreaty touched a long dead portion of the woman's vitiated heart and she revealed, "My name is Cassandra Jasic...and I was once very human. When I was a girl...not much older than Penelope, both of my parents subjected me to an ordeal of rapes and beating that lasted for three years...until I finally found the courage to run away. Years, later...after I became the creature I am today, I returned home and slaughtered them both. I have become an engine of retribution, Isobel...that is precisely what I have become."

As Isobel's watched, Cassandra dissolved into swirling red particles and swept through office's only window...vanishing into the night sky beyond.

Isobel Greavy crossed over to the window and stood staring out into the darkness for several hours, grappling to come to terms with the macabre experience and its ramifications on whatever should follow this moment.

Finally, she left the office and climbed the stairs to her bed, resolute in her determination to keep her oath to her unexpected deliverer. Within moments, Isobel was sound asleep and dreaming of the stronger woman that would emerge from the ashes of the ugly lie she had lived over the course of her years with the monster whose name she refused to utter.

2

Mary was the first one in the office the following morning and after retrieving a cup of tea from the fourth floor commissary, she returned to her desk and activated her console. As she waited for the virtual screen to coalesce out of the purified air, she reflected on the odd dream that had intruded upon her restful sleep last night. _'Dream would be a misnomer, Mary...what you experienced last night was better described as an extremely lucid nightmare...and a clear sign that this case is beginning to get to you in very personal and disturbing ways.'_

She shook her head in open bemusement and drew the heel of her right palm across her eyes, which seemed irritatingly dry and had been unsettlingly red as they gazed back at her in the bathroom mirror this morning. In this incredibly tactile dream, she had been wandering through the crowded streets of London...struggling through the sea of humanity that surged around her. In every eye and upon every face, there had been an oddly disconnected expression of people locked in the embrace of somnambulism. She had no concept of where she was exactly or where precisely she was going and that oddly discordant feeling of being swept along left her feeling increasingly anxious...gravitating towards open panic.

She forced her way through one street and along one thoroughfare after another and as she did, Mary was left with the sense that she was the only sentient being in the city...that the others were mindless robots, oblivious to everything but an ingrained need to move...without genuine purpose. Every unblinking eye seemed to see through her and when she came to a sudden stop, the press of humanity merely pushed her forward in an oddly passive-aggressive way. Growing frantic and cloying claustrophobic, Mary desperately attempted to make her way to the roadway. After a protracted struggle, she finally stumbled to the curb, where she came to an abrupt halt. Standing on the curb directly across the road was Cassande Verhoeven...though now her features were anything but sanguine and amicable. Her luminous blue eyes glared balefully and when she opened her generous mouth, a sibilant hiss filled the air causing Mary to clamp her hands over her ears and grit her teeth against the strident shriek that filled the air like an air raid klaxon.

Cassande stepped off the curb and began to march across the pavement. There was something menacing in her purposeful stride as if her intention was to visit serious violence on the bewildered Mary. Her broad mouth twisted into a feral grin and a forked tongue snaked between pointed teeth that gleamed wickedly sharp beneath the ineffective autumn sunshine.

Believing that this abomination intended to harm her, Mary cried out and forced her way back into the stream of people, allowing herself to be pushed along like a child's boat in a rushing stream.

"Go on then, Mary...I do so enjoy a good game of cat and mouse. Run if you wish, but I'm onto your scent," the Cassande-thing called out with mock levity.

And so Mary fled...growing more frantic and more enervated as the masses crushed in upon her. She would occasionally glance back to see the statuesque Cassande peering at her, blue eyes glittering with the indolent mirth of a hunter who knows that the moment of the kill was inevitable and is simply relishing the chase.

Mary had come awake with a breathless gasp, her conservative cotton nightshirt soaked in perspiration. She stared into the dark, waiting for the atavistic terror to abate and wondering just what had inspired this bizarre nocturnal terror excursion. Wide awake, she had gotten dressed and simply sat in a chair...waiting for the coming of dawn in a semi-stupor. Like a demented British Bulldog, a part of her mind had seized upon Donald's paranoid obsession with Cassande's past and stubbornly refused to relinquish its grip on the issue. Normally a dyed-in-the-wool pragmatist, Mary just couldn't fathom why she had developed this peculiar...and obviously ludicrous fixation.

As the hovering screen resolved into being, Mary saw that she had two waiting notifications...both of which would do little to banish the macabre contemplations that were presently plaguing her.

The first of these was a video message from a Sergeant Richard Douglas of the Ontario Provincial Police...requesting a call back on her request for information on a cold case double homicide. She quickly downloaded the message to her PDA with the intention of responding to the call when the opportunity permitted later in the day. A small voice admonished Mary that she would come to rue any decision to pursue this anomaly, but she pointedly ignored the warning and consigned the issue to her subconscious for later consideration.

She opened the second notification and immediately sat up, her mental haze dissipating even as she read the short briefing note. Her substantiative superintendent had passed along the information that Barney Tate...a particularly nasty pedophile she had once arrested...had been found dead in his Southwark apartment. She re-read the final words of the message with mounting disquiet. The circumstances surrounding Barney Tate's death are unusual in the extreme.

Mary's smooth brow furrowed at this rather cryptic qualifier. Intrigued, Mary directed her system to place a call to Donald, who she reached in transit. After apprising Gansby of the still vague situation, she added, "Don't bother coming up...I'll get the car and collect you in the parking lot."

On her screen, Donald's face contracted in a feigned expression of horror and he quipped, "You mean you actually expect me to let you drive...lead foot and all?"

"Donald, I'm warning you..." She retorted darkly, though she shot the screen a broad grin. Signing off, she again allowed how Donald Gansby was an extremely easy man to like.

Hurrying down to the garage level, Mary collected the sedan and made the short drive over to the visitor's lot, where Donald was in the process of parking his Cooper. Donald climbed into the passenger seat and made an elaborate show of buckling his seat belt, to which Mary rolled her eyes in exasperation and snorted laughter.

"I'll let Ewan know that we're off then," Donald announced and placed a quick call to the senior inspector, who greeted the news with a quizzical frown.

"Are they of the opinion that this is connected to our case?" he inquired and Donald deferred to Mary...a habit he was slipping into easily and without rancor.

"Based on circumstances of his discovery alone, I surmise," Mary replied and then repeated the cryptic summary of the known details surrounding Barney Tate's death. McGowan absorbed this thoughtfully and then remarked, "Let's meet back here once you've given the scene a going over. In the interim, I'll see what the techs have gathered regarding Thomas Greavy's mysterious little box."

As they drove across the bridge to the south side, Mary suddenly asked on impulse, "How is Cassande?"

Something in her tone was slightly off center, causing Donald to glance at his new partner sharply. He noticed the dark circles around her eyes and correctly gleaned that her night had not been restful. "Actually, I didn't see her last night...she rang earlier in the evening to let me know that she would be running about for most of the night and would see me this evening."

Mary greeted this rather mundane disclosure with a puzzling frown and then lapsed into reticence for the remainder of the ride. Donald considered asking if something was wrong, but refrained, deciding that she was obviously in no mood for a dialogue.

Not long after, Mary pulled into a narrow lane and coasted the vehicle to a halt behind Metropolitan Police car. A few of the neighborhood shadows were lurking about as Donald and Mary disembarked. Donald noticed a tall, lean figure, whose face was obscured by a deep hood, abruptly turn and move hurriedly into the shadowy recesses of the alley. There was something eerily familiar about the figure's ramrod straight posture and purposeful stride, but then he reached the entrance to Tate's pitiful flat and the figure was banished from his thoughts.

Donald paused before the door, his eye drawn to the vulgar declarations of hate that adorned the entrance to Tate's squalid hole. Gravely, he intoned, "This is certainly ugly."

"It's an ugly crime Donald...and Barney was a particularly nasty example of this type of criminal," Mary commented in a voice that surprised Donald with the intensity of its aversion.

They ventured inside and after the obligatory introductions and the jurisdictional wrangling, the two Inspectors were afforded their first incomprehensible glimpse of what remained of Barney Tate. Donald gaped in open incredulity and shifted his moon-eyed regard to Mary, "That...that just isn't possible."

It required only a brief surveying glance at the other officers and the forensics team to glean that Gansby's opinion was unanimously shared by everyone on site. Mary's gaze shifted from the pile of blackened ash to the two severed fingers that sat on the sofa like dead slugs. There was a livid edge around the flesh where the digits had been severed. Turning to the one of the forensic teams, Mary asked sharply, "Any notion of what was employed to remove those fingers?"

The technician bit his lip and bent down for a closer inspection. "The cut is precise, but judging by this puckering of the skin, my first guess would be that some source of extreme heat was employed. Judging by the state of the remains, I would hazard that is not such a wild leap."

Mary nodded her concurrence and again turned her attention to yet another impossible sight. Somehow, Barney Tate...assuming this was Barney Tate and the prints for the two fingers would determine that...had been reduced to ash...without even incinerating the filthy sofa on which he sat. Shaking her head in dismay, she turned back to Donald and suggested, "I think this alley should be cordoned off and a request be made for a complete forensic inquiry on the condition of these remains."

"No argument from me...this is Thomas Greavy all over again. Not to be a pessimist, but I really don't think a plausible explanation will be forthcoming for whatever has happened here. Still, I'll call Ewan and submit the request." Donald then moved off a short distance and sent a call to McGowan, while Mary paced around the dreary flat, searching for a further insight on what might have transpired here. Her mind kept circling back to the two severed digits and their possible implications and by the time Donald had completed his call, Mary's racing mind had already produced a very loose scenario on the manner in which Tate had met his baffling demise. Donald's countenance was grim upon his return and his first utterance did little to rouse any optimism that matters were likely to improve any time soon. "Ewan is going to muster the forensics cavalry and be along in a bit. We're to stay here until they arrive. He also mentioned that the preliminary results are back on Greavy's little treasure. In keeping with everything else that's happened over the last week, it only generated more questions...none of which are offering easy answers."

Mary arched an impatient eyebrow and prompted, "And what exactly was the result?"

Gansby could sense Mary's vexation and apologized, "Sorry Mary...I'm letting my frustration bleed through. The box is just that...a box with a flashing blue light. When they took it apart, the techs found a retractable button inside, but no micro circuitry of any kind, except for the wiring and battery that power the light. The button had no function and the device has absolutely no connectivity capacity at all. It's almost as if it was a...decoy."

"And yet Thomas Greavy valued it enough to install a special safe to house it in his office...to conceal it from his own wife," Mary observed, clearly troubled by the disparity between the box's apparent worth and Greavy's extravagant effort to keep it secure. "Okay, I'm going to take a considerably large hike down the road of wild conjecture, so bear with me. The box obvious had value to Thomas...whatever esoteric purpose it might serve."

"So you still believe that it does actually have a function?" Donald inquired, clearly skeptical.

Mary nodded assertively. "Definitely, though it may not be readily apparent. I'll go one stride further and say that it does something that pertains to the reason that Greavy was slaughtered. Now this is where I take an incredible leap of faith...could it be that Thomas was killed because of this shadow box?"

"You're right Mary...that is a considerable leap of faith indeed and when you factor in that Isobel Greavy had no knowledge of this placebo...is it likely that his murderer did?" Donald retorted with a furrowed brow.

Mary wagged a finger and pointed out, "True enough, but obviously he got it from someone...and ascribed a high value to it. It's not inconceivable that someone else did as well...which brings me to our present puzzling situation." She gestured in the direction of the detritus that had once been Barney Tate. "Indulge me for a moment because I know I'm taking some huge liberties with creative thinking. We know that Tate is a convicted pedophile. We also know that this was not an accident...the two severed fingers corroborate that. The same fingers also suggest that Tate may have been tortured before he was killed...not for sadistic pleasure...but rather with the intent of extracting information."

"That progression is a fairly large assumption, Mary," Donald interrupted. "I will agree that it appears Tate was tortured first, but we cannot conclude that he was tortured to obtain information...much less information specifically regarding the shadow box."

"Nor can we discount it," Mary countered heatedly, her ice blue eyes flaring in a manner that Donald privately found fetching. "Let's allow our imaginations to run rampant by making the following assumptions; Tate and Greavy were killed in baffling fashions by the same person...a person who considered both to have tendencies toward pedophilia...and that person also assumed that both men knew something about that innocuous black box presently residing in our tech lab."

"As you say, that is indulging in some very creative thinking," Donald allowed neutrally. "Obviously, you going somewhere specific with this, Mary...but I confess that I'm just not following your train of thought."

Mary drew a quavering breath, but the intensity in those arresting blue eyes was palpable. "I agree with you Donald...this is another crime that will yield absolutely nothing of value and actually only add more confusion to an already murky picture. I think we should concentrate on tracking down the source of Thomas Greavy's mysterious and seemingly pointless box and see if we can distill something tangible from this convoluted mess. We can still pursue the pedophile connection with past victims and try to track down the origins of this device at the same time."

She fell silent and waited expectantly while Donald pondered her admittedly tenuous chain of progressions. "Mary, if you'll excuse my vulgarity...this investigation is seriously fucked...and has been from the outset. Still, the first sixteen murders were just that; sixteen graphic and ugly, but normal homicides. What we've seen in the last week has sent this investigation careening into the twilight zone and I don't care one bit for this detour into the macabre. If Ewan is willing to run with your idea, I'm certainly willing to do the legwork. I must confess that I honestly have no idea of how we would begin the process of tracking this thing down. Ewan confirmed that the device has absolutely no identifying features...impress stamps or manufacturers identification. It's all very clandestine."

"I would have expected no less," Mary remarked with a crooked grin. "We'll have the tech reassemble the box and you and I can use it to squeeze the sub-culture that surrounds child sex abuse."

Donald's expression was one of shock and repugnance. In a voice colored with revulsion, he blurted, "There's actually a sub-culture surrounding this perversion? I would have thought this was a very...private obsession....that those with the affliction would never share."

Mary offered Donald a humorless flash of teeth. "Again, Donald...you're looking at this strictly from the perspective of it being a shameful disease and that those afflicted are stricken by guilt. While that may be true in many cases...it certainly isn't always the case. I can assure you it certainly wasn't with Barney Tate. These kind of people would seek each other out...establish a community that would feed off of each other's dirty disease. Also, for every addiction, there is an exploiter to gleefully feed it...and that is who we have to find and pressure. I have some ideas on where we can begin...assuming Ewan is amenable."

Donald appeared noncommittal and thus Mary was pleasantly surprised by his next remark. "You have my backing because I've admitted all along that I'm well out of my comfort zone on this topic and so I'm more than happy with deferring to your lead on running down these tangents. Basically, I'll defer to your obvious expertise...happily.

Mary offered Gansby a warm smile and remarked thickly, "Thank you, Donald...you have no idea how much that actually means to me."

"Mary, that is really what you think we're dealing with...someone has been...disseminating filth of the most odious kind using this box...and someone else is trying to track it down and leaving a slew of mangled bodies in their wake. Is that a fair assessment?"

Mary nodded vigorously, "That summarizes what I'm thinking rather succinctly."

Gansby's expression became grave and he suggested, "Then that would put Isobel Greavy squarely in our killer's crosshairs."

3

While the grandmother she had never met prepared to confront her nemesis, Imirya Merin sat in the relative quiet of her office at Massachusetts General Hospital staring vacantly at her video display terminal, vacillating over the call she knew she had to place, but dreaded nonetheless. In the two days since the impromptu dinner with her daughter, Imirya had taken the first steps in keeping the vow she had made to Rebecca during the course of their evening. She had begun the process by writing and actually submitting her resignation from her position as head of the hospital's neurosurgery department. The facility's director had greeted this totally unexpected news with the expression of a grievously wounded sheep and it was apparent that he regarded her sudden resignation as an act of desertion and betrayal of unconscionable proportions.

The next day, she had accepted a teaching position at Harvard along with the added incentive of a substantial research opportunity. The final step in her metamorphosis from work-obsessed exile to a diverse, life-embracing free spirit had been her application to have her name legally changed from Merin back to Simpson. In a complex way that was too painful to articulate, this had been a more incisively painful and challenging step than surrendering her vocation as if she was consciously conceding that the past was irretrievably lost...primary because of her neglect and self-absorption. Still, Rebecca has been irrefutably correct in stating that Imirya must move forward aggressively if she wished to salvage a measure of personal happiness...of intimacy...from what remained of her life.

This next step, however, would be the most difficult...the reconciliation and exchange of mutual forgiveness with her mother...a woman whose nature was often alien and frightening to Imirya. Despite her apprehension, she had sworn a solemn oath to Rebecca that she would make a sincere effort at rapprochement with Contayza and it was a promise she was determined to keep.

_'Let's face it, Imirya...as averse as you are to admitting it...your own mother now scares the shit out of you,'_ an inner voice challenged and Imirya conceded that the prospect of coming face to face with the woman who had come close to opening her skull with a vase filled her with trepidation. There was a dark and primitive aspect to Contayza's nature that had always frightened Imirya...even as a child...as if she could discern a core of belligerence within the woman's heart that might be capable of...anything given the right circumstances. Contayza had never once raised a hand against her daughter (at least, not prior to the other day's debacle). Even when it became apparent that Imirya had somehow disappointed her mother in a way she could not fathom, Contayza had always treated her with a manner of reserved kindness.

Beset by this kind of ambivalence, Imirya knew that she must still test the waters prior to the Saturday intervention that Rebecca planned. She wanted desperately to insulate her daughter from the ugliness that had exploded during her last meeting with Contayza and this call might well help forestall a recurrence of that lamentable episode.

Contayza had long been a living anachronism...who stubbornly refused to embrace the constantly evolving technology of the day. Imirya sighed in exasperation and instructed her terminal to activate its antiquated voice-only mode and then place a call to her mother. The phone rang several times and Imirya was on the verge of terminating the call, when the connection was made and her mother declared flatly, "Hello Imirya...I can honestly say that I didn't expect I'd be hearing from you any time in the foreseeable future. It seems we both made our feelings explicitly clear last time you were here."

For an excruciating moment, Imirya simply couldn't find her voice. Contayza's tone was beyond glacial...it was stunningly indifferent...as if she was speaking to a total stranger whose call was an annoying intrusion. Only by conjuring the image of Rebecca's earnest expression when she had proposed this meeting was Imirya able to conjure the will to respond. "Hello Mother...about my last visit..."

"There's no need, Imirya...to apologize, to elaborate...or to even interact," Contayza interrupted, lancing Imirya's heart with her callousness. "I am your mother and you are my daughter...but in spirit, where such bonds are granted their true meaning, you and I are separated by a void that cannot be bridged. Accepting that truth, while painful, will ultimately be better for both of us."

This stinging and dispassionate assessment of their dysfunctional relationship pushed Imirya to the brink of tears and she could only wonder how they had allowed matters to deteriorate to this woeful state. Summoning her inner strength, she insisted vehemently, "That simply isn't acceptable, mother. I know that I have been a constant source of disappointment for you, even as a young girl. Rebecca has helped me understand why...and I want to...to make amends."

"And why would you ever want to do such a thing...now, after all of these years?" Contayza demanded, but for the first time, her tone was colored by a nuance other than glacial indifference.

"Because I want Rebecca to have a normal relationship with her mother and grandmother...and not have to feel like she's a referee in an unending battle between two bitter old women." Imirya fell silent for a moment and then made her next desperate utterance, her voice wavering precipitously as she spoke, "I'm also doing it because I want my mother...to care about me...to love me...the way it's supposed to be."

There followed a painful and interminable silence and even through her silent tears, Imirya could hear Contayza's bemusement conveyed over the distance between them...both tangible and emotional. "Love is a reciprocal emotion, Imirya."

"I do love you...why do you think I'm making this plea? You frighten me and I often don't understand you...but I understand now that the fault is as much mine as it is yours...perhaps more. Rebecca has helped me to understand that...it's why she wants us to meet this Saturday and come to a rapprochement. She refuses to have two women she loves embittered and divisive."

"Rebecca was always a wise girl," Contayza commented with an obvious pride that she had never displayed toward her own daughter...a fact that hurt Imirya beyond her capacity to express. "So you spoke to her about our disagreement?"

Imirya arched an eyebrow and pawed absently at her tears. There was something decidedly odd about Contayza's response, but she could not immediately pinpoint the discrepancy. "Yes, I recounted our argument and its underlying cause. I was brutally candid and did nothing to whitewash just how ugly our fight was. She made me divulge the cause of our longstanding discord...and I did. She feels that I was unfair in attempting to insulate her from your...our heritage...and mother, I now see that she was absolutely right. That is why I want to be there when you share the story of your family's history...and the abilities you've inherited. I wanted to call you so that you would understand...I'm coming on Saturday with an earnest desire to reconcile the differences between us...or at least start the process. I've resigned from my position at the hospital and I want to refocus my priorities...to make more time for Rebecca...and for you, if you'll let me. What exactly did Rebecca tell you when she called two nights ago?"

There followed a distinct silence and Imirya could suddenly feel an icy chill course along the length of her straight spine like a serpent poised to strike. After a moment, Contayza revealed in a voice rife with burgeoning exigency, "Rebecca did not call me this week, Imirya."

With her mind reeling, Imirya stammered, "She...she was going to call you as soon as I left...to make arrangements for the three of us to meet at your house on Saturday morning. I was supposed to collect her on Friday evening and have dinner together in Boston tomorrow night. I..."

"Have you heard from her since?" Contayza demanded and though her voice sounded composed, Imirya could clearly discern the anxiety lurking just beneath the surface, which only fanned the flames of her own mounting panic. Contayza was not a woman to surrender her grip on her composure without good reason.

"No...I haven't. I did send her a v-mail late yesterday, reminding her of our date, but..." Imirya activated her PDA and saw that the v-mail had not been opened by the recipient, "she hasn't opened it...which isn't like Rebecca at all."

"Imirya, I want you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to say and I don't want a protracted debate. You are going to come and collect me at once and then we are going to drive to Cambridge. Do you have an access card for Rebecca's townhouse?"

"I do...Mother, you're frightening me...what do you think this is about?" Imirya demanded as her voice quavered on the edge of overt panic.

In a voice as cold as a January storm, Contayza retorted, "I warned you that Rebecca was in imminent danger, but you obstinately refused to even hear me out. You said that I frightened you, Imirya...if some ill fortune has befallen Rebecca because of your intransigence, you will discover just how frightening I can be. Leave now...I'll be waiting."

With this menacing vow delivered, Contayza broke the connection, leaving an utterly disconcerted Imirya staring at her terminal in horror. Racked by ambivalence, she remained immobile for several minutes, but then the recollection of her mother's dispassionate threat roused her into motion.

4

The trio of inspectors assigned to the serial murder spree that had claimed the life of Thomas Greavy, sat in total silence, all wearing comically similar expressions of dejection as they stared at the shadow box. The decidedly unimposing device sat on the desk between the three and if it held some secret purpose, it was well-concealed behind a facade of apparent worthlessness.

"So you really believe that this lump of plastic could be the catalyst for this string of bloody carnage...even though it has no function that anyone can determine?" Ewan inquired of Mary in an atypically sour tone, though Donald could not be certain if the older inspector was more displeased by the box's evident pointlessness or Mary's persisting view that it was the key upon which they should focus their future efforts.

"My instinct is telling me that it is," Mary returned with her normal unflappable poise. "If you're asking for tangible proof, then I have none to offer...other than to point out that Thomas Greavy went to extraordinary lengths to protect it from his own wife."

Ewan grunted and fixed the box with a rueful scowl, "How did Isobel react to the news that we could find no apparent purpose for her husband's toy?"

Here, Mary's brow furrowed and her expression conveyed an uncharacteristic perplexity. "She scarcely reacted at all...as if the matter was of little consequence to her...one way or the other. There was something desultory about her reaction...as if she was simply going through the motions. The carefully constrained outrage that Donald and I saw during the first interview...was conspicuously absent today. She made all the correct noises about wanting us to catch Thomas' murderer, but they lacked...conviction. When I further suggested that she remain cognizant of the neighborhood and keep a watchful eye for anyone simply hanging about...she seemed entirely unconcerned."

Donald and Ewan exchanged puzzled glances and Gansby offered, "It could just be that Isobel was simply masking her disappointment or observing that long standing British tradition of stoicism in the face of adversity. She is, after all, a product of that culture."

Mary, who had not shared Isobel's knowledge of her background with her partners, was inclined to think that the explanation for the widow's suddenly reticence was considerably more complex...and sinister. She nodded distantly and then recalling the matter of returning a call to the OPP, remarked, "Gentlemen, I have a rather important call I have to place...if you can allow me a few minutes. Ewan, I can see that you're less than enthusiastic about pursuing this black box angle and I will admit that it is a stretch, but I still think it's worth while exploring, if only for a short time."

Ewan studied her for a moment and nodded, though it was evident that he was dissatisfied by the direction the investigation was taking. "Very well...you and Donald can run with the black box angle and I'll carry on with reviewing past victims files. If by the end of the week, our efforts fail to yield anything concrete...we may have to go back to the drawing board on our approach."

"That's fair," Mary remarked, though her face remained inscrutable. "If you'll excuse me, I'll place that call now."

The two men nodded and watched in silence as Mary rose and strode from the room with her customary purposeful stride. When they were alone, Donald observed, "You seem...displeased."

Ewan glanced sharply at his partner and then sighed, "A trifle...yes. Mary is clearly an extraordinarily gifted woman, but I can't escape the feeling that we've allowed ourselves to be side-tracked by this entire pedophilia connection." He gestured toward the black box that seemed to mock them from the desk and intoned, "Mary's intuition regarding this piece of plastic is nebulous at best...and I won't permit us to expend a great deal of time trying to establish a connection to a possible motive. Time is the one luxury we no longer have."

Donald frowned and asked distantly, "Ewan, what if what we are actually dealing with has...changed? What if it isn't about offing child-diddlers and wankers anymore, but has evolved to something far more...involved and sinister."

Ewan inclined his chin quizzically and gestured for Donald to continue. Gansby sat on the desk next to McGowan and intoned softly. "We can ignore the growing number of white elephants, but sooner or later we will have to confront the fact that both Greavy and Tate were murdered in ways that could only be described as supernatural. These are blatantly impossible, but if we look back at the other cases, did we miss something? How is it possible that someone could go on a sixteen person murder spree...all committed in fairly public places...and yet not leave the smallest shred of evidence. It defies reason...if we're being entirely truthful. I'm not particularly eager to confront these questions, but if these very tentative threads don't produce anything of value...we may find ourselves left with no other recourse." He stopped, oblivious to the shadow that had slipped over McGowan's normally placid countenance and remarked, "I really could use a cup of tea."

Mary left her two partners, gleaning that Ewan was quickly growing impatient with her excursions into increasingly tenuous territory. She understood that, should he lose complete faith in her ability to make a meaningful contribution, she might quickly find herself back in her old assignment. A deeper instinct informed her that this was a turn of events that she must somehow forestall.

' _You are the key, Mary. If there is ever to be a resolution to this deepening nightmare, it must come through your insight.'_ An inner voice insisted with a certitude that bordered on prescience. _'You are the only one willing to make the progression into the dark territory where this mystery's solution lies hidden.'_

The idea, on first consideration, seemed patently ridiculous, but when Mary considered the call she was about to place, it became virtually impossible to refute.

_'Mary, if what you're contemplating is even remotely identical to the truth, you're going to find yourself treading a very lonely path,'_ an inner voice predicted. She strolled over to the barrier and stared out across the dark waters of the Thames as she waited for her video connection to be made. Finally, the serious visage of OPP staff sergeant Reardon filled her screen, his expression darkened perceptibly when she identified herself. After a brief introduction, she submitted an electronic verification of her credentials and then briefly reiterated what she was hoping he could provide by way of documents and case history on one Cassandra Jasic and the murder of her parents."

"Inspector Langdon, I must say that this is an unprecedented request and I am frankly mystified why a Scotland Yard Inspector would be interested in a double homicide that occurred in a small Ontario town that the rest of the world has never heard of...and fifty-three years ago to boot?" Reardon inquired and though his tone was polite, Mary could clearly discern the inherent suspicion in his voice. Mary fell back on her agile mind to produce a plausible explanation for her interest, carefully weaving a blend of truth with fabrication.

"That is a fitting question, sergeant and I will be as forthcoming as my situation allows. Our departmental facial recognition software has established a connection between your runaway and a woman who may...and I stress the word may...have been involved in a series of unsolved murders that took place here in London some thirty years ago. Strictly cold case material, but we now find ourselves faced with another series of unsolved murders that bear an eerie resemblance to that first set of unsolved homicides. Obviously, there is no connection between Cassandra Jasic and our present set of homicides, but I want to emphatically close the door on the remote connection between your runaway and the first set of murders from the twenties. It is my intention to review the file and then enter it into our electronic log, demonstrating that every lead has been followed...irrespective of how absurd that lead might be," Mary explained, sounding appropriately apologetic for having imposed upon the sergeant's valuable time.

Her performance must have been convincing because Reardon pursed his thin lips and observed tartly, "Well, inspector, you will never be accused of not being thorough. I've packaged everything in the file, including the notations and comments of the officers investigating the homicides. The information regarding Cassandra is fairly anemic...in keeping with many cases of runaway teenagers. She was never found of course, but the file did mention that she was evidently spotted twice...both times in the United States...in the company of a woman who is wanted for questioning with multiple homicides in 2001. Beyond that, there is nothing. The mother and father...Yolande and William Jasic...were some unsavory pieces of work. There was some speculation that their murders were drug-related...but that remained unsubstantiated. That pretty well summarizes the contents of the file...other than to warn that the photographs in this file are some of the most disturbing and frankly sickening things I've ever set eyes upon. These two weren't just killed, Inspector Langdon...they were dissected."

Mary did not react to this final revelation, but her mind made the automatic association between this statement and the condition in which both Thomas Greavy and Barney Tate were found. The pair spoke for a few moments longer during which Mary profusely thanked the sergeant for the inconvenience. She then waited patiently for the attachment to be transmitted.

When the PDA announced that the download was complete, Mary sat against the barrier and scanned the text. As Reardon had warned, the photographs were a graphic depiction of unspeakable savagery.

_'These two weren't just killed...they were dissected,'_ Reardon had said and the photographs were confirmation that he had not embellished how gruesome these homicides had been. Then she proceeded to the section of the file on Cassandra Jasic and again, as Reardon had stated, there was a paucity of information on the missing girl...nothing to indicate what might have motivated this poor child to run away from her home and risk the dangers of an unknown world beyond. Staring into her pretty, but clearly troubled face, Mary felt her heart twist painfully in her chest, knowing she was seeing yet another victim about whom the system cared little and whose pain and suffering would forever remain an unknown commodity.

The three photos then relented to a technology generated composite of what the girl might have looked like five, ten and fifteen years after she had vanished. It was the second and third of these projections that caused Mary to gasp and nearly fumble her PDA into the Thames.

Gazing back at her was the unsmiling countenance of Cassande Verhoeven.

5

The drive to Cambridge was undertaken beneath the pall of an excruciating silence. As she drove, Imirya would often steal furtive glances at her mother, whose face was a tight mask of inscrutability. For her part, Imirya was beset by burgeoning fear and it required every last vestige of self-control not to simply break down and give in to hysterics. She had worked calmly to save thousands of lives in operating rooms over the years, but there had always been an aspect of emotional detachment...a distancing from the patient that had allowed her to perform without the often debilitating impact of emotion. Now, confronted with the possibility that something horrible might have happened to her beloved daughter, Imirya found that she was barely able to function. She glanced at her mother again, and wondered how she could possibly maintain this facade of composure in the face of such a terrible prospect.

_'You can't possibly image what her life was like, Imirya...there was a time when situations such as this characterized her daily existence. Your mother lived in a constant state of fear and conflict...and it vitiated...her heart.'_ It had been the voice of her father, Nathaniel, who had delivered this mild rebuke. In a flash of crystalline insight, it suddenly occurred to Imirya that his mild criticism was stingingly correct...somehow, she had never taken the time to truly know the kind of life her mother had lived before she came to America. Either through self-absorption or indifference, she had never bothered to explore the formative experiences that had made Contayza the woman she was today. She reached across and surprised Contayza by squeezing her hand. How small and fragile they seemed and it suddenly dawned on Imirya that the woman beside her...for her youthful appearance and cold beauty...was still over eighty years old. The day would come when her mother would be lost to her and whatever resentment continued to fester between them would never be banished. Should that day come to pass and should Imirya not have made the effort to plumb the depths of her mother's formative pain, the defining junctures of Contayza's life would be forever lost to her.

"I'm so sorry mother...for the things I said to you earlier this week...and for everything..." Her words trailed away to an inarticulate moan. Contayza fixed her with an unfathomable gaze, but remained silent. She did not return Imirya's sentiment and after a time Imirya sighed and relinquished her grip on her mother's hand.

When they arrived at the complex of townhouses where Rebecca lived, Imirya quickly rushed into the parking area, to find that Rebecca's vehicle was still in its designated spot. She and Contayza both went back to the front step of Rebecca's townhouse and rang the doorbell, waiting anxiously in the late September sunshine. After several attempts, Contayza uttered a grunt and instructed, "Use your access card...she's gone."

There was an aspect of fatalism to that flat declaration that provoked Imirya to glare at the shorter woman, but she nonetheless complied.

Imirya opened the door and pushed inside, coming to an abrupt halt and gasping in dawning horror. Everything was precisely as it had been when she had left Tuesday evening. The dishes were still in the sink, Rebecca's purse and keys sat on a side table in the short entrance hallway and her PDA was exactly where she had left it on the kitchen's small island. Moon-eyed with terror and confusion, she turned back to Contayza and cried, "She's gone...but...but everything is untouched from Tuesday night. What...what's happened here?"

Contayza's reply was hard and uncompromising...fraught with a terrible certainty. "Rebecca had been abducted, Imirya!"

"How can you possibly know that?" Imirya shrieked hysterically.

Contayza marched swiftly over to her daughter and slapped her face. Imirya's blue eyes grew impossibly large and she staggered backward, her hand fluttering to her cheek where the imprint of Contayza's hand stood prominently forth. In a low growl, the older woman commanded, "Stop bleating. I warned you that Rebecca was in danger. You said you wished to acknowledge my heritage...to learn more about it...well fate has delivered a nasty occasion in which you can do so. Rebecca's been taken. And somehow, her abduction has something to do with that vile cunt, Elizabeth!"

"Grandmother is dead...how can she possibly have anything to do with...with whatever has happened here," Imirya cried, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.

Contayza's dark eyes flashed menacingly and she warned, "Don't ever use that reference in my presence Imirya...ever! My dreams have been tormented by tangled images of Elizabeth and Rebecca in peril...an imminent danger that was vague, but extreme. Gregory warned me that a storm was coming...and it has broken. Have no doubt that this is partly your fault, Imirya. Had you permitted me to nurture Rebecca's latent abilities, no one would ever have abducted her...and even if they had...they never would have held her for long."

"What do we do...I have to call the police?" Imirya moaned, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Contayza waved a dismissive hand and stalked over to the window, gazing out on the bright street. "Call the police if it gives you comfort. If what I suspect is true, they'll be of very little help. If this does involve that hateful bitch, the things that took Rebecca are well beyond the reach of any authority. If it's any comfort, I doubt they will harm Rebecca...she is a leveraging chip and nothing more...at least not until they establish connection with Elizabeth and declare their terms."

"I'm...I'm going to call the university to confirm she didn't attend classes these last two days...and then I'll call the police," Imirya insisted, despising the incomprehensible woman who had given her birth...but also despising herself for not heeding that woman's warning.

Contayza reacted to this with strident declaration with her customary stoic indifference. In her mind, she had already resolved herself to the fact that she would soon come face to face with the creature that had incessantly haunted her life over the last five decades.

Chapter Fourteen

1

Cedric Drury found himself wide awake in the cold depth of night as September relented to October, turning on the hinge of the seasons...a harbinger of the rains and cold that often characterized fall in London. At fifty-six, Cedric was a specimen of perfect health and fitness who had yet to experience the first sting of advancing age and yet he felt something far more disturbing than the bite of arthritis inculcate itself in his bones as he stared briefly at the reams of paper spread over his desk. This new sensation was every bit as unfamiliar as the gradual loss of physical capability that awaited him somewhere over the not-too-distant horizon. For the first time in his life, Cedric Drury felt the nascent stirring of fear...evoked by the terrifying implications of the puzzle that was spread before him like a drift of dirty snow.

As he had tried to convey to Sir Ian, this Elizabeth Simpson...for all of her serene beauty...had about her the aura of a creature that was infinitely more dangerous than her facade would suggest. Those implications had inspired Drury to defy his nature and delve deeper into the mystery surrounding this living anomaly. With the help of the Russian, Cedric had managed to penetrate the shockingly flimsy firewalls of the American FBI and rummage through their archives in search of information pertaining to the two Elizabeth Simpson sightings in 2001. Initially, Cedric had regarded the interviews with witnesses to an Oregon truck stop disaster with extreme skepticism...dismissing them as trauma induced nonsense. Yet, on subsequent readings, Cedric's skepticism had gradually relented, giving way to confusion and then nebulous dread. Whatever Elizabeth Simpson was, she was not simply an age-related anomaly, whose genetic material could be harvested for the purpose of extending Ian Barrows life. The question remained, just what had Olem Beyarov's insidious snooping program unearthed?

Cedric was a man defined by strict and inviolable codes of behavior...the foremost amongst which was loyalty to those who kept you alive. Sir Ian had rescued Cedric from a violent death...or worse yet, a slow and torturous life of decay in the criminal subculture. He had imbued Cedric with a sense of purpose and self-worth, for which the ruthless pragmatist was eternally grateful. Now, however, Cedric feared that...in his fanatic desire to avoid the inevitable...Ian had become like the Pharaohs of ancient Egypt who would bring everyone around him to the grave with his passing.

He had spent long hours prying deeper into Elizabeth Simpson's darkly compelling mystery...following increasingly murky trails like a tenacious hound that refused to quit on an enticing scent. One of these trails had led back nearly a century to a remote town in Washington where Elizabeth had witnessed a woman named Cynara Saravic nearly beat an attacker to death. Every instinct for self-preservation warned Cedric to renege...to trust that they had engineered a situation where Sir Ian held all of the trump cards and yet some subconscious desire to understand impelled him onward...deeper into an increasingly macabre labyrinth.

At the terminus of his investigation, Cedric found himself with the mad ravings of a sadistic religious zealot named Morgan and a photograph of Cynara Simonovic, juxtaposed beside which was a painting of a monster from the early nineteenth century. Demented Morgan had vehemently insisted that this Cynara Saravic had been an...evil Goddess of some manner. That was patently absurd of course...the most ludicrous sort of bullshit...until one stared for a moment into those amber flecked eyes and discerned the controlled madness lingering behind the mask of erudite beauty.

The chill that now suffused Cedric Drury's still capable flesh was one of atavistic dread...inspired by the certainty that Sir Ian was about to rouse a particularly foul beast that would consume them all.

Cedric emerged from his anxious reverie and slowly trudged up to his suite of rooms, feeling lethargic and strangely vulnerable, fearing that nothing could be done to avert the coming calamity. Perhaps Sir Ian had been accosted by the same misgivings because he was going to extraordinary lengths of protect himself from any possible reprisals...but would these lengths be equally effective in protecting those who served him? Cedric was not naive enough to believe that Ian Barrows regarding his fellow human beings as anything more than commodities to be used...and if necessary, discarded...irrespective of how loyally they might have served him over the course of the long years. An idea quickly germinated in Cedric's mind and after vacillating for a long moment, Cedric changed course and went off in search of the enigmatic Russian.

2

The morning of October the first dawned overcast and cool and Elizabeth could not help but wonder if the inimical turn was a harbinger of her future as she sat on a park bench in the green space, immediately across from the main foyer of the towering monolith that was the Chevalier Hotel. Elizabeth's beautiful face was an inscrutable mask as she stared up at the soaring mirrored glass structure, nervously awaiting Judith's return from her reconnaissance expedition.

By contrast, the previous day had been warm and suffused by brilliant sunshine as she and her new companion had meandered lazily through the streets of the romantic city, arms intertwined like old friends...or perhaps new lovers. Somehow Elizabeth had managed to relegate the specter of Ian Barrows from her thoughts and focus on the elaborate fantasy of normalcy that she had long craved. As she had warned, Judith proved to be a charming and intelligent creature, whose wit and agile mind had left Elizabeth feeling rather dizzy...and enamored.

For her part, Judith had went to extraordinary lengths to propagate this beautiful illusion and Elizabeth came to see that this intrinsic need to feel a modicum of normalcy was as trenchant in Judith as it was in her. As they sat in bistros, Judith would caress her hand gently or suddenly reach across and brush long strands of blond hair from Elizabeth face whenever the wind gusted. As they strolled along sun-dappled street, the other woman would tenderly trace the aristocratic ridges of Elizabeth's high cheekbones. Judith had purchased an ice cream treat from a street vendor and fed it to Elizabeth on a park bench near the Seine, laughing gaily when the rich ice cream dribbled onto Simpson's chin. On the Eiffel Tower's observation deck, she had spontaneously and tenderly bestowed a lingering kiss on Elizabeth's open mouth, gently biting Elizabeth full lower lip before pulling away, unmindful of the whispers of the other tourists, who stole surreptitious glances at the two exquisite beauties.

Elizabeth had reciprocated by whisking the diminutive beauty into exclusive shops and spending extravagant amounts of money draping the raven-haired women in finery that made her sparkle like the rarest of diamonds. Over a long dinner, Judith had gazed unblinkingly at Elizabeth as if utterly entranced by the other woman's golden perfection. Throughout the evening, she had titillated her new companion by running her bare foot gently over the inside of Elizabeth's calves, generating a mounting tension that Elizabeth understood would explode before the night saw its end. Staring into the great, luminous jewels of Judith's dark eyes, Elizabeth gleaned just how hollow her delusion of contentment had been. Her passions repressed and her emotions sequestered, Elizabeth had spent the years after David's death cloistered in a sterile bubble...clinging desperately to the false belief that she was happy in seclusion.

In this revelation, Elizabeth understood that there could be no going back to a life of empty exile. If she did manage to surmount whatever obstacle Ian Barrows might impose in her path, any prospect of life beyond must hold forth the promise of genuine value.

_'And you truly believe that this supercilious little doll can fulfill that promise...can confer upon your life a meaningful reason to which you can devote yourself, Elizabeth?'_ the voice of Cynara Saravic demanded crossly, rudely dragging Elizabeth out of her wistful fancy and back to the inevitable moment when beautiful illusions crumble before bitter realities.

Back in Elizabeth's suite, the two women had surrendered to the simmering passion that had swirled around them during the long and glorious day. Judith had made love to Elizabeth with a skill and devotion that had reduced the immortal to a quivering vessel of tactile sensation. By whatever magic she wielded, Judith had conjured a bath of warm milk and rose petals and the pair had spent hours simply languishing in the intoxicating warmth where Judith had caressed, explored and kissed every nuance of Elizabeth's body, orchestrating the immortal's orgasms to the rarified edge of silver agony, before granting her a release that left her weeping and trembling in the smaller woman's slender arms.

Finally, unable to endure anymore, Elizabeth had cried out for mercy and Judith had enfolded the other woman into her embrace and whispered into her loom-spun golden hair, "I do believe I have you exactly where I want you."

Elizabeth had slid lower into the bath and allowed her head to settle on the pillow of Judith full breasts. Peering up at the other woman through glazed eyes, she murmured, "I believe you do at that."

Judith had dipped her head and kissed Elizabeth, her skilled tongue swirling over Elizabeth's teeth and deep into her open mouth, but then she had abruptly pulled away and regarded the thoroughly hypnotized blond with a somber gaze. In that single moment of withdrawal, the beautiful illusion shattered with the finality of a delicate glass sphere striking unyielding stone.

"Why so suddenly grim?" Elizabeth had inquired with a feigned ease, but a part of her understood that something stark and terrible was about to transpire...that Judith was about to make a disclosure that would forever alter the way that Elizabeth would see her...and herself.

"There is something I have to tell you," Judith declared emphatically, confirming Elizabeth's initial fear.

Matching the enigma's grave tone, Elizabeth had entreated, "Judith...can't it wait until tomorrow...until after whatever happens with Barrows?"

"It has to be now, Elizabeth...please," Judith insisted with an intense vehemence.

"Why, Judith?"

"Because of the way you were looking at me...just before I kissed you. I never had anyone look at me that way...not once in my entire life. The single gaze turned my insides to jelly and made me want to give myself to you in every way it's possible to give myself to another living being. I suspect it's the affect you have on so many people you allow into your presence. I told you that, when I first spotted you on that bistro, I saw Amathera incarnate, but that was not the entire truth. Elizabeth, I set out after you to capture you...to make you my personal Amathera."

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, her expression becoming stern...but not angry. "And that has changed somehow?"

Judith nodded vigorously, "Yes! Now I want you to possess me in any way you would have me. I want to see that expression in those amazing blue eyes of yours and know that I am the one who inspires it. You have no idea how frightened and vulnerable I feel at this precise moment...because this is totally uncharted territory for me. Before I can surrender myself to you, I need you to see what I was...the road I've traversed to become what I am now. I hid that portion of my past from you yesterday...but I want you to share it now...while the emotion that evoked that look is still fresh in your mind," she paused and gently squeezed Elizabeth's up thrust breast before adding, "and in your flesh and bones."

That single touch conveyed the enormity of Judith's perplexing need and though Elizabeth desperately wanted to refrain from this particular excursion into the other woman's dark past, she intuited that some profound epiphany awaited her; one that would define the shape of much that was to follow.

"What do you want me to do?" Elizabeth inquired quietly, her apprehension readily apparent in the grave expression that twisted her full lips.

"Lie back against me, close your eyes and open your mind to me...and remember, this Judith is gone, Elizabeth...please?" Elizabeth nodded somberly and reluctantly complied, allowing her head to settle into the crook of Judith's neck. Judith wrapped her legs around Elizabeth's tiny waist, and drew her tighter. Then she began to gently massage the hollows of Elizabeth's temples with the index and middle finger of either hand.

Simpson luxuriated in the other woman's incredibly delicate touch and was bemused to feel her body reacting to these tender ministrations...and then the essence of Judith Ranzman's incomprehensibly black soul exploded in Elizabeth conscious mind like the detonation of a nuclear device. Judith moaned and tightened her legs around the immortal as Elizabeth's entire body contracted and then arched, until she resembled a drawn bow.

An inarticulate wail of negation tore from Elizabeth's lips as her senses were accosted by images of a very young Judith taking perverse delight in the harrowing screams of the animals she tortured. This image gave way to the perversion she unleashed on her own parents...shattering their sanity before engineering their deaths. There followed a constant stream of vapid and malicious acts of evil...blood-spattered and cruel beyond any fathomable purpose. Elizabeth writhed and twisted as a very naked Judith bludgeoned a man's skull to a pulp of blood, bone shards and brain matter, while laughing hysterically. The years of Judith's monstrous life rolled by in a frenzied kaleidoscope of horrific images in which the dark beauty displayed an insidious creative genius for inflicting pain and suffering. Elizabeth whimpered and pleaded while Judith emasculated a bound man and stuffed his severed manhood down his throat...before leaving him to the devices of shambling flesh-consuming horrors. Behind it all, there resonated a growing madness born of absolute evil...the symmetrical perfection of Judith Ranzman's black soul.

Sickened beyond the limits of tolerance, Elizabeth howled and breaking Judith's grip, surged out of the tub, collapsing onto the tiled floor in a dripping, shuddering heap. She lay on the cold floor, trembling and weeping...only distantly aware that the moaning which filled her ears was coming from her own lips.

Between great gasping breaths, Elizabeth demanded hoarsely, "Why...why would you subject me to this, Judith?"

Judith rose on unsteady legs and stepped out of the tub, kneeling next to the distraught immortal. She placed a tentative hand on Elizabeth's shoulder and begged through the distortion of her own tears, "Please stop crying...I needed to show you the truth of what I was because I want you to see me for what I am...and what I was...in all of my imperfections."

Elizabeth raised her head and regarded Judith with an expression of absolute revulsion that caused the shorter woman to moan. The immortal shook her head and rasped adamantly, "No Judith...that is where you are wrong...you were never imperfect...you were a creature of pristine evil...unmitigated by any faculty of empathy or humanity...black perfection embodied. Don't delude yourself into thinking anything else. You can't even rouse the defense of claiming that a hostile environment or extreme mistreatment molded you into the monster you showed me. I've only known one other person whose heart was so thoroughly corrupt and like you, she could only lay the blame for her wickedness at her own feet. If it's genuine honesty you seek, at least embrace this one truth."

"But she changed...you changed her, Elizabeth." Judith countered passionately and pressed her face into Elizabeth's back. The blond could feel the other woman's intense anguish communicated through the muscles of her back as Judith sobbed. "Amathera changed me...and you could redeem me...banish the core of malign darkness that I struggle with every day."

Elizabeth's eyes flared a menacing orange at this disclosure and she pushed a startled Judith against the tub. "Is that what you want from me, Judith...redemption? Absolution? If so...then you'll be sorely disappointed...because I can't grant it to you. I'm not a saint...whatever misperceptions you want to cling to; I am woman who only wants to live a simple and ordinary life." The terrible epiphany that had hovered resolved itself then in a burst of crystalline insight that drew a strangled moan from Elizabeth. "That's what it is...this thing that seems to draw miscreants to me...Cynara, you...and even Ian Barrows...they discern this false glow and see me as a source of deliverance...an expiation of their sins."

As a miserable Judith stared in dejection, Elizabeth reeled to her feet and cried, "I see it now...no matter where I run...or try to find sanctuary...I'll attract the damned...like a magnet."

Eyes brimming with hot tears, Elizabeth abruptly fled the bathroom with her strident wails trailing behind her. Judith remained in the position where Elizabeth had pushed her, listening to the other woman's disconsolate tears until they subsided into soft whimpering.

She staggered to her feet and stumbled into the darkened bedroom to find Elizabeth still naked and lying face down on the large bed. Tentatively, she ventured, "Do you want me to...to leave?"

For a protracted moment, Elizabeth did not respond and Judith, despairing that she had permanently alienated this sublime creature, turned away with the intention of gathering her cloak and fading into the night and the bleak future beyond.

"Judith...stay," came a soft voice from the darkness. "I know it wasn't your intention to harm me...that you genuinely wanted me to see every aspect of who you are. When this is over...this issue with Barrows...I now understand what I have to do. In the meantime...I want you to stay with me."

Judith frowned, not caring for the fatalistic innuendo in that final cryptic declaration. She fetched a quavering sigh of relief and made her way to the bed, where she knelt next to Elizabeth. She gathered the immortal's thick blond hair in a bunch and draped it to one side before starting to massage Elizabeth's neck and shoulders. The immortal tensed but gradually succumbed to Judith's tender ministrations. After a time, Judith discerned that Elizabeth had receded into the state that passed for sleep. She sat back and drank in the poetic lines of her long, leonine body and then trailed her fingers over the topography of the slumbering woman's exquisite flesh, tracing a meandering path along her spine and over the dune swell of her high buttocks, before mapping the curving sweep of her gorgeous legs.

' _I now understand what I have to do.'_ This forlorn declaration resounded like a death knell in Judith's mind and she offered a silent oath to whatever divines there were that she would do everything within her considerable power to prevent this extraordinary being from succumbing to despair.

Feeling weary, she lay next to Elizabeth and draped a protective arm over the taller woman's lean back and followed her into sleep.

3

Elizabeth snapped out of her reverie and gazed around, feeling a strange sense of disassociation as she awaited Judith's return. She had awoken earlier to find Judith dressed and ready, the silver buckles of her strange cloak glittering and polished in the gloom of the suite's bedroom. Judith had been deferential...almost timid...as Elizabeth dressed and prepared to meet the man who had so thoroughly disabused her of her illusion of contentment. She could feel the other woman's scrutiny as she dressed, but refused to acknowledge it...instead focusing upon her own predicament...the full extent of which had yet to be revealed.

From the shadows of her subconscious, a voice kept attempting to distract her with the consideration of the previous night's epiphany, but Elizabeth refused to grant it an audience.

As Elizabeth stood before the suite's full length mirror, Judith had finally broke the charged silence, "What exactly do you want me to do once we arrive at the hotel?"

Elizabeth regarded Judith with a hard gaze and intoned severely, "Check the hotel for any indication that this Barrows might have prepared a less than amicable reception in anticipation of my arrival. See if you can detect any sign of people milling around the lobby, scrutinizing arrivals too intently. Observation only, Judith...nothing more."

Judith had responded to this caveat with a desultory nod and in the next instant, she found herself being lifted from her feet and slammed into the wall with enough force to make her head swim. With astounding alacrity, Elizabeth had clutched Judith's throat and now held her pinioned against the wall with her feet dangling well above the carpet. Her eyes blazed the malefic orange that Judith had first witnessed during their confrontation in the alley and when she spoke, Elizabeth's voice had become a guttural growl. "You will do only what I tell you Judith...and should I ever have even the slightest inkling that you're reverting to your old ways...I will grant your redemption...by ending you...emphatically!"

She then allowed Judith to simply drop. The smaller woman crumpled to the carpet and sat watching in wide-eyed astonishment as Elizabeth strode away with a beguiling sway of hips, her dove gray dress clinging lovingly to the poetic curves of her ass. After a moment, her mouth twisted into a smile and she called, "This side of you is...incredibly arousing. I love your fangs, Elizabeth...and if you show them to this bastard...I think he'll skulk back to his burrow like a scalded animal." Her tone became sober then and she added solemnly, "I'll never disappoint you Elizabeth."

Elizabeth flashed her teeth at the fallen Ranzman...an expression that was not quite a smile...and retorted, "Not if you know what's good for you, Judith...now, let's be off."

Elizabeth shook her head in bemusement at this recollection of her rare display of aggression...wondering if she could ever actually keep her vow, should Judith ever display the slightest tendency to relapse.

Just then, Judith seemed to materialize out of the very air on the sidewalk before the hotel's entrance. As Elizabeth witnessed the astounding phenomenon, she noticed that the pedestrians seemed completely oblivious to the fact that the woman had simply appeared out of thin air...just another mysterious aspect of this woman's incredible abilities.

Judith marched across the street, unmindful of the traffic that swerved to avoid her and came to stand before Elizabeth. "I could see no sign that anyone was actually watching for your arrival. I took the liberty of perusing concierge's terminal and saw that you've been assigned a small conference room. My suspicion is that you're not going to make contact with this Barrows here. Instead, I think he's intent on making you jump through hoops."

Elizabeth greeted this with a sour grimace and climbed to her feet and remarked, "It's time to find out just what this pirate wants."

Judith pushed her round glasses down her nose and peered at Elizabeth from over the rims. "Let me come with you...I'll hang in the spectral rafters and be your second pair of eyes."

When Elizabeth appeared hesitant, Judith gripped her right wrist tightly and intoned fiercely, "I'm intimately familiar with this type of marauder...you know that from personal experience. I may well be able to read him...discern a weakness."

Elizabeth regarded the diminutive beauty thoughtfully and then signified her agreement with a tacit nod. The pair proceeded across the street, but before they had reached the stairs to the hotel, Judith drew her hood and vanished from sight, leaving Elizabeth wondering if she would ever grow accustomed to this disconcerting trick.

_'It won't really matter, Elizabeth...in what remains of your future, you won't have the time to grow accustomed to anything.'_ Elizabeth blinked. It had been the voice of Contayza...her adversarial daughter-in-law, who had delivered this bleak prediction.

The foyer of the Chevalier was a lavish expanse of opulent excess, designed to convince the customers that the hotel warranted the one thousand euro a night price tag. Elizabeth spent several moments scanning the congested area for some sign of surreptitious scrutiny, but could see no indication that her entrance had attracted undo attention.

She suddenly felt apprehensive and the compulsion to simply turn and flee welled up with a fury. Something touched her hand then and she glanced down in surprise to see a diaphanous hand folded over her own. In the interior of her mind, Judith's voice whispered, "Be calm, Elizabeth...I'm with you."

"Thank you, Judith," Elizabeth replied through the same medium, grateful for the other woman's company. Gathering herself, Elizabeth decided that she would spend the night making reparations to the other woman for the rough treatment she had inflicted upon her early in the morning.

Scanning the collection of desks on the far end of the lobby, Elizabeth located the concierge's station and strode briskly across the lobby before her resolve could evaporate. She presented herself at the desk and the young man glanced up from his display, his expression of set-upon impatience giving way to interest when he saw the exquisitely beautiful woman standing before him.

"How may I help, Madame?" He inquired in accented English.

"My name is Elizabeth...Simpson and I have an appointment here in the hotel today...though I'm not sure precisely where," she replied in a neutral voice that successfully concealed the near paralyzing extent of her anxiety.

The concierge consulted his video display and then nodded purposefully. Perhaps it was paranoia, but Elizabeth intuited that he knew precisely who she was and had been expecting her arrival. "Ah yes...Ms. Simpson. A conference room has been reserved in anticipation of your arrival. If you'll accompany me, I will show you to the room and explain how the video conferencing equipment may be activated."

Elizabeth nodded and followed the concierge through a short labyrinth of halls to a comparatively isolated room. He opened the door and standing back, gestured for Elizabeth to step inside.

Drawing a shallow breath, Elizabeth stepped inside and was confronted by a comparatively nondescript room that was devoid of any furnishing, save for a desk, chair and Virtua Console. The concierge followed Elizabeth over to the console and explained, "The terminal is set to establish your video connection...simply touch the flashing icon and the transmission will commence, Madame."

"Do you have the name of the individual who arranged for this rental?" Elizabeth inquired, trying to affect a casual tone.

The concierge arched an eyebrow and glanced at the statuesque beauty rather askance. He then dutifully consulted his PDA and returned, "The contact name on the work order is a Cedric Drury, Madame."

Elizabeth did not respond to this disclosure, but smiled internally. She now had a first connection beyond the instigator...a piece of information that might prove useful in what was to follow. The concierge inquired if he might be of further assistance. Elizabeth dismissed him along with an antiquated ten Euro note and stood silently as he made his exit. Once she was alone, Elizabeth removed her full length coat and folded it onto the desk just as Judith threw back the hood of her cloak.

Elizabeth faced Judith and on impulse kissed the shorter woman and drew her into a hug. She then pushed her to arm's length and intoned gravely, "Judith...if anything goes wrong...either now or at any time in whatever is to follow...I want you to run...to fade into the woodwork and be gone...do you understand? I won't have you jeopardized by associating with me!"

Judith arched a thin eyebrow and smirked, "Is that what you would call what I did to you last night...association? I know you promised to punish me for not following your instructions to the letter, but if you think I'm going to abandon you in the face of a decrepit pirate and his gang of thugs, you're delusional. If that's an affront to your noble nature...well, you'll just have to give me a severe chastising once we're back in your hotel suite."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes in consternation, "Judith, you truly are incorrigible."

"So you keep saying...now let's see what this evil old fuck wants." With an embellished gesture, she drew up her hood and was gone.

Elizabeth shook her head affectionately and sitting in the chair, crossed her long legs and touched the activation icon. Settling back into a casual posture, she waited for the connection to be made.

The wait was not a long one and the image that filled the screen drew an involuntary shudder of revulsion from the beautiful immortal. The thing hovering in the air before her was little more than a living skeleton...all atrophied muscle and paper thin, gray skin that hung in loose flaps...giving the skeleton's hideous countenance the appearance of a desperately emancipated Shar Pei dog. A few gossamer strands of hair covered the liver-spotted pate and its lips had drawn back from his gums to give the man a revolting permanent grin. Only the blue eyes...sunk deep in hollow sockets...conveyed any impression of vitality and intelligence.

The skeleton was attired in a hospital gown that was open at the torso to reveal a gruesome and pitifully emancipated chest. Elizabeth noticed a three centimeter incision on the man's withered and sagging left breast...raw and livid as if very recently sustained.

The man was ensconced in what appeared to be some manner of life support pod and the room beyond conveyed the impression of being a medical facility of some sort.

_'This man has lived well beyond the ability of his flesh to sustain him,'_ Elizabeth realized and could not suppress the grimace of revulsion that twisted her lovely countenance.

"Unsettling, isn't it, Ms. Simpson. Yet, as horrifying as the sight might be, you have no conception of what it is to actually exist within what is...for all intents and purposes...an expired vessel," the skeleton croaked in a frail voice that was grating and papery thin. "As you have already surmised, I am Sir Ian Barrows and I am extremely grateful that you have decided to keep our appointment today, Elizabeth."

"I'm completely indifferent to your gratitude...and I'm only here to discover exactly why you violated my privacy," Elizabeth retorted, her tone surly.

"Yes, I sensed that privacy is a commodity you hold in high regard, Ms. Simpson...not surprising considering your rather colorful past. Unfortunately, life is a commodity especially dear to my heart...and as you can readily see from my condition, it is a commodity that I have nearly exhausted. I want you to see my current state in all of its terrible finality...for two reasons. The first of which is to impress upon you the dire exigency of my situation. I am going to die, Ms. Simpson...in the very near future and I find that fact entirely unacceptable. I have exhausted every medical option and now I am living on borrowed time...to coin the annoying old adage."

"Then why not simply face your end with grace and a measure of dignity?" Elizabeth interjected sharply.

Barrows uttered a cackling laughter that degenerated into a fit of coughing. Elizabeth viewed his obvious torment dispassionately. "Now you see, Elizabeth...that is something I am simply disinclined to do. I have not become who I am by meekly accepting the limitations imposed upon me. Furthermore, I frankly find it insulting that you would sit before me...brimming with vitality and beautiful beyond words at an age that matches my own...and still suggest that I should accept the cold embrace of the earth with grace. That opinion smacks of hypocrisy and is an insult to my intelligence."

"What exactly do you want?" Elizabeth growled, trying to maintain a tight rein on her temper before this odious monster.

"Down to business...excellent. You will travel to London, where you will find your way to the Barrows medical institute, which is a private facility just north of the city. There, you will undergo a series of routine and quite harmless genetic sampling tests. Once you have completed these tests...you will be free to go...a considerable sum of money to the better, I might add. What's more, you have my personal assurance that all data pertaining to your existence will be expunged from my records...and as further inducement...from the records of the originating databases from which it was gathered. You will be free to submerge back into the waters of anonymity with the added assurance that you never be found again."

Elizabeth offered the hovering image a sardonic frown. "You know full well that I am wealthy beyond the needs of dozens of lifetimes. As for your assurances...given the circumstances of our meeting, you can hardly blame me for being extremely skeptical that you would actually honor your word."

Barrows offered her a lame shrug. "Your lack of trust is a personal choice that has no factor in this equation Ms. Simpson."

"Just what is it that you think I am, Barrows?" Elizabeth inquired brusquely.

"I will be perfectly candid and confess that I honestly don't know...but you can rest assured Ms. Simpson...that before our association is finished...I will find out," Barrows croaked, his awful eyes flashing with menace.

Elizabeth leaned forward, her exquisite visage a portrait of cold promise. "I can assure you that your tests would yield nothing of value. Even if I was inclined to impart the aid you require...which I am unequivocally not...you would find the end result disappointing in the extreme. The decrepit shell of a man you are now...this desiccating husk...is what you would be...eternally."

Barrows eyes widened and Elizabeth felt her spirit plummet, knowing that she had just committed a grave error. In his obsession to defy death, Barrows had absorbed only the prospect of eternal life...and not the horrific circumstances under which it would be lived.

"Ah, but alive nonetheless...with infinite time in which to remedy inimical circumstances...a bargain I will readily accept, Ms. Simpson." Barrows watery blue eyes shone with an avarice that Elizabeth discerned was immune to all reason.

Shaking her head in disgust, Elizabeth rose and gathered her coat. Staring daggers at the hovering image, she intoned, "Our business is done. I'll leave you with this parting warning...should you attempt to find or contact me again...I will show you another aspect of my nature...one that will make you invite death as if it were a blessing."

"Sit down Elizabeth!" The command was feeble and tremulous...but beneath the infirmity there resounded the implacable authority of a man who holds all of the advantages. Elizabeth turned a quizzical glance upon the holograph as Barrows raised a horribly frail arm and gestured toward the chair. Sensing that a horrible revelation was imminent, Elizabeth settled back into her chair. "I had hoped that ours would be an amicable discourse, but as I feared, you have decided to be intractable...a posture I don't have the luxury of tolerating. Very well...if you would reject the carrot...let me apprise you of the stick. Should you reject my invitation...I will have your compelling story and file disseminated to every scandal rag and conspiracy website on the planet...and also to several government agencies that might find your continued existence rather intriguing. Should you remain unimpressed by this particular threat...I would ask that you watch this next video feed very carefully."

Elizabeth's taut body was suffused by gnawing tension and welling panic as the floating image gave way to a view of a large circular chamber, the walls of which were floor to ceiling glass. The chamber held the full array of furnishing that one would expect to see in an open concept apartment...though the toilet and shower allowed for absolutely no privacy. The area beyond the glass partitions was steeped in impenetrable darkness. Slumped in a chair beneath the harsh light was a despondent figure who stared vacantly at the unadorned concrete floor of the enclosure.

Upon seeing the face of the figure, Elizabeth emitted a strangled gasp and rose slightly from her chair, though logic dictated this could not possibly be the person her frazzled mind suggested she was seeing. Like a disembodied god speaking ubiquitously, Ian Barrows' papery voice spoke above the image. "Yes Elizabeth...I see that the face is eerily familiar...though I surmise that the actual person is not. My rather sharp instinct for such things tells me that while you recognize the face of this very beautiful young woman...you don't actually know who she is. Then allow me to enlighten you. I would guess that whatever inspired you to fade into obscurity also compelled you to distance yourself from your family...to protect them...to protect yourself...who can say? The lovely and very dejected young woman you are seeing would be Rebecca Merin...your great granddaughter. It might interest you to know that she is an honors medical student at Harvard. Her mother is your granddaughter...Imirya Merin...one of the United States most prominent Neurosurgeons...a most impressive pedigree. You might have been so proud...had you permitted yourself the pleasure of making her acquaintance. Young Rebecca is presently my guest in a very secret facility I own...that could be frankly...anywhere in the world."

"You fucking bastard...if you harm her, I'll find you and rip you into twitching pieces!" Elizabeth exploded, her eyes flaring the telltale orange of unconstrained fury...knowing that this display was only aggravating the situation, but powerless to restrain herself in the face of this outrage.

"That is a most daunting...and fascinating trick with your eyes, Ms. Simpson," Barrows observed with a mirthful chuckle. "I'm beginning to suspect that you would be capable of doing precisely that. Instinct warned me that I might have to go to extraordinary lengths to protect myself against your wrath and so I would draw you attention to the rather imposing construct in the center of the ceiling above Rebecca's cell."

Elizabeth forced herself to be calm and focus on the circular panel that was composed of overlapping segments resembling shark fins. Something about the ugly construct was intensely terrifying. "What you are seeing is a titanium aperture portal. There is a chamber directly above Rebecca's cell that holds a volume of concrete slurry that is kept in a constant state of agitation to prevent it from solidifying. The volume of slurry being held is precisely equal to the void of Rebecca's chamber and therein can be found the reason that you are going to be a good, complaisant bitch and do precisely as you are instructed."

The hovering image split and now Sir Ian appeared on the right side of the display. Elizabeth forced herself to gaze back to the reprehensible monster. "I first mentioned that there were two reasons that I elected to present myself in all of my inglorious decay. If I may direct your attention to this rather painful incision on my chest, I will now explain the second. Yesterday, I underwent a procedure to implant a rather ingenuous heart monitor. It is a simple enough device that monitors my heartbeat and relays it to a computerized terminal on the aperture portal. The man who designed this device is inimitable genius in the field and he has created an inviolable circuit between my beating heart and the portal's monitor. Should my heart stop beating for more than sixty seconds consecutively...the circuit will be severed and the aperture's computer will open the portal and fill Rebecca's chamber with liquid concrete. Even if she is not crushed to death by the initial deluge...the slurry will solidify within two minutes and your lovely great granddaughter will be immortalized in concrete."

Between gritted teeth, Elizabeth vowed, "Should that happen, I will destroy every trace of your existence, Barrows...every member of your family, every associate...everything you've ever known...I will devote my existence to grinding them to dust."

"I have no doubt you will, but frankly I am totally indifferent to your threats. I am utterly unencumbered by sentiment, Elizabeth. Once I am dead, what I have...who I know...these things mean absolutely nothing to me. You see Elizabeth, I am the center of the universe, but once I am dead...what do I care if that universe should wither and crumble to dust...along with everyone of its inhabitants? Is that not the true quintessence of selfishness...a quality of which I am quite proud?" Barrows went off into a peel of weak laughter...while an ashen-faced Elizabeth could only stare at his horrible face, knowing that she was seeing the very embodiment of true evil.

"Now, I think we've established the salient realities of your situation in very explicit terms. Despite the exigency of my need, I am still able to be magnanimous. To demonstrate this...I will give you until the twenty-first of the month to present yourself at the facility in London. If you have not arrived by the end of that day, darling Rebecca with undergo the surgical amputation of three fingers on her left hand. Should you still refuse to comply with my demands, two days later, she will lose the same three fingers on her right hand. This admittedly gruesome process will continue until your exquisite great granddaughter has been reduced to a carnival freak. If my estimate of your character is correct, I sincerely doubt that you will permit that to happen. Also, I would strongly advice against searching for either me or the facility in which Rebecca is being held...either would be a futile waste of time. With this, I will leave you to ponder your situation Ms. Simpson."

The projection abruptly terminated and Elizabeth stood there, her body rigid with horror and immutable rage. After a moment, she raised both fists and brought them crashing down on the Virtua console, reducing the device to slivers and demolishing the desk upon which it had sat.

Judith coalesced out of thin air and stood regarding Elizabeth uncertainly. Her lovely face was pallid and confirmed just how thoroughly...how artfully...the sadistic Barrows had ensnared Elizabeth. Simpson raised an elegant hand to her eyes and began to weep silently, her entire body trembling in misery. Judith was beside her in the blink of an eye, cradling her against her shoulder. She tried to conjure words of solace...of reassurance, but she had traversed the path of Elizabeth's life and understood just how effective Barrows' choice of coercion would be against this noble creature. "Let's get out of here Elizabeth...go back to the hotel. We'll contrive some way to extricate you from this noose...I promise."

Elizabeth merely nodded morosely and allowed Judith to take her hand and lead her toward the exit. The door to the room burst open and the concierge stepped inside just as Judith evaporated from view. His gaze settled on the ruined remains of the Virtua Console and the shifted to Elizabeth, fixing the blond with a baleful glare. Belligerently, he declared, "Madame will have to pay for the damage."

Elizabeth opened her purse, withdrew a large collection of Euro notes and threw them over her shoulder, brushing the smaller man aside and stalking from the room. Still sequestered in the Shadow Cloak, Judith stopped directly behind the man and thrust her spectral hand through the back of his skull...immediately discerning his duplicity in engineering this disgusting act of coercion. His eyes widened in shock as Judith savagely withdrew her hand, swiftly threw back her hood and gripped the sides of his head in powerful hands. She gave his skull a petulant twist to the right and then left, grinning at the resounding snap. The Concierge crumpled to the carpet and Judith delivered a titanic kick to his face that shattered his nose and extruded his left eyeball. Grinning at the carnage she'd unleashed, Judith bent down and gesticulated over the body, which abruptly vanished from existence...very much as a Catholic Priest named Crimmon had done almost seventy years before.

She then stood and closing the door, hurried after her distraught companion.

Chapter Fifteen

1

Judith followed Elizabeth back to their hotel, growing increasingly concerned as the other woman withdrew behind a wall of uncommunicative silence. Though her beautiful face was impassive as she strode through the gloomy streets, Judith could perceive the intense turmoil and anguish behind those exquisite blue eyes. She had intimately gleaned the essence of this creature's extraordinary soul and feared that Barrows had crafted the perfect snare from which Elizabeth would not be able to extricate herself.

_'Which is precisely why you're going to have to use your considerable cunning to do it for her,'_ she told herself resolutely. She had spent nearly seventy years searching frantically for a purpose...a means by which she could forestall succumbing to apathy...or worse still, the demons of her old nature...to allow a dying psychopath to wrestle it from her grasp. _'Ah, but this clever bastard has designed a snare that would have made the old Judith grin approvingly.'_

In the privacy of her suite, Elizabeth sagged into a chair and propped her chin on her fist, staring vacantly into space while Judith regarded her anxiously. Finally, unable to endure the spectacle of Elizabeth's intense torment any further, Judith inquired, "What will you do, Elizabeth?"

The blond raised her gaze to Judith as if surprised that she was there and in her lusterless eyes, Judith could clearly see the woeful signs of defeat. "I honestly don't know...though my first instinct is simply to give Barrows what he wants...to submit to his tests and demonstrate that I have nothing of value...no solution to his problem."

Judith was over to Elizabeth in three brisk strides. Kneeling before the other woman, she clutched Elizabeth's biceps and shook her vigorously. "Elizabeth that is the worst possible thing you could do...the absolute worst. You heard this man...saw the avarice burning in his eyes. He has the soul of a pirate and you are the plunder that desperation won't allow him to forego. I've been inside your soul, Elizabeth and I know that the essence of men like Ian Barrows is simply beyond your sensibilities. Do you truly believe that this man will simply allow you to walk away if his genetic testing yields no useful information? This man will cage you like an animal until he can contrive some way of extracting your essence."

Elizabeth glanced stubbornly away, but Judith firmly gripped her chin and dragged the blonde's gaze back to her. "I know how you were created...and I also know that you can bestow this same dubious gift on someone else...if you choose. Are you willing to impart this gift to Ian Barrows, Elizabeth?"

The expression of dawning horror on Elizabeth's face eloquently provided the answer before she could even speak. "Never! This man has the soul of a ravager and to endow him with this degree of power would be to become duplicitous in the evil he would unleash."

"You're absolutely right...but if you surrender yourself, it might well come to that. Be honest Elizabeth...could you stand to have Rebecca dissected before your eyes...and then Imirya? Eventually, you would capitulate to his demands if only to alleviate their torment...you know I'm speaking the truth!" Judith concluded harshly, shaking Elizabeth for emphasis.

Elizabeth regarded Judith in a sullen silence for several moments and then offered the kneeling woman a sullen sigh and smiled wanly, "Perhaps you know me better than I know myself. It seems that Barrows has maneuvered me into a hopeless position...and what does clever Judith recommend I do?"

Now Judith frowned, her brow creasing in obvious consternation. Quietly, she conceded, "I haven't quite figured that out yet...but I will."

Elizabeth's smile became wistful and then she shrugged off Judith's grasp and stood. Crossing over to the windows, she gazed out into the afternoon drizzle and in a voice roughened by grim resignation, "I do...perhaps I have from the first moment I had the nightmare in Petalidi."

"What nightmare?" Judith demanded sharply even as a stiletto of icy dread was driven into her heart.

"It really doesn't matter Judith. I'll be taking this evening's train to London."

"London...Elizabeth, you can't seriously be considering keeping this appointment with Barrows?" Judith exclaimed, feeling her anger mounting in the face of what she perceived as the other woman's vapid intransigence.

"I'm not going to Barrows, Judith," Elizabeth declared distantly and Judith raised an eyebrow at the fatalistic note in Elizabeth's dull tone. "I'm going to find Cynara."

2

As Imirya Merin gazed unblinkingly around the congested confines of her daughter's neatly maintained townhouse, she was overwhelmed by a wave of surrealism or perhaps the possibility that she was entrapped in the midst of a particularly lucid nightmare. It had been more than an hour since the police had departed and perhaps less than two dozen words had been exchanged between the four occupants who remained to grapple with the ugly reality with which they now found themselves confronted.

Rebecca...her Rebecca...the one source of unflagging, refulgent joy in her life...was gone, abducted for no discernible reason that Imirya could fathom. The bleak truth caused Imirya to shudder and she was scarcely able to contain the shriek that wanted to burst from her lips.

Her call to the university had confirmed that Rebecca had not attended her scheduled lectures over the past few days or submitted her assignments...a breech that Rebecca never would have permitted under any but the most extreme circumstances. The detectives who had responded to her call had hid their feeling behind a carefully contrived mantle of professional detachment, but Imirya could discern the underlying sense of pessimism that both had concealed as they had viewed the facility's security footage.

Just the mere thought of the horrifying event that had been captured on the surveillance video caused Imirya's tears to fall afresh. A masked figure could be seen approaching the door and as an unsuspecting Rebecca had imprudently responded to his knock, he had discharged something into her face and whisked her away. An instant later, the surveillance devices had been disabled by what the detectives surmised to be a short range EMP device. This had transpired just short minutes after Imirya had left to return to Boston. She was perceptive enough to discern that Rebecca had eschewed her normal caution and opened the door in the belief that her mother had changed her mind and decided to stay for the night. This insight provoked an incisive stab of guilt that left her breathless. This disappointed expectation was a microcosm of the many ways she had let her daughter down over the course of her life.

She had placed a call to her former husband and informed a distraught Charles Merin that his precious daughter...the one perfect consequence of their imperfect union...had vanished. He had arrived with his new wife, Hudson, just as the police were viewing the disrupted video footage of his daughter's abduction. Imirya glanced up at him now, through the distorting lens of her tears, to be confronted by a pallid man who appeared as if he had just been swiftly and cleanly eviscerated by this perplexing act of evil. Hudson Merin wore an identical expression of shock and dismay that declared just how profoundly her extraordinary step daughter had touched her life. In that moment of extreme anxiety, Imirya was genuinely grateful that Charles had found someone to help him face this hellish ordeal.

The detectives had refused to offer any speculation on why Rebecca might had been taken...other than to state that her abduction did not seem random. The precision and swiftness of the abduction spoke of both forethought and a level of competence that could only be ascribed to professionals. They had intimated that this might be a cause for some degree of optimism in the sense that Rebecca had probably not be taken by a psycho for the purpose of filling some sick fantasy. Imirya supposed that they had offered this snippet of insight as an intended form of comfort. If so, it had missed the mark by a considerable margin.

Imirya's despondent gaze finally strayed to her mother, who concealed her feelings behind a mantle of taciturn inscrutability. She had remained aloof and apart from the detectives and their barrage of questions as if disdainful of their efforts or efficacy to solve Rebecca's abduction.

Charles had asked the detective why the kidnapper would not have employed the EMP device prior to approaching the door. The veteran's brow had furrowed as if he, too, had been groping with the same question. It had been Contayza who had suddenly emerged from her silence and provided her startling assessment. "They wanted us to feel their disdain...to demonstrate that they are invulnerable. As the detective so astutely observed, these people are professionals and they wanted us to understand just what we are dealing with."

After delivering this incisive evaluation, Contayza had stalked away, leaving a befuddled collection of detectives staring after her.

Gazing at her mother's inscrutable face, Imirya was again assailed with that black loathing that Contayza often managed to provoke. How was it possible to remain so composed in the face of this horrible nightmare? Was the woman simply too inured to feel anything beyond this incomprehensible hatred she harbored for a woman that Imirya had never met?

As if cognizant of her scrutiny and the emotions that inspired it, Contayza abruptly stood and demanded, "Imirya, I'll have you drive me back to Boston now." Turning to Charles and Hudson, she suggested, "Go home, Charles...nothing can be accomplished by languishing here."

Charles regarded the old woman for several moments. He had always been daunted by Imirya's mother, who frightened him in an undefined way that was no less intimidating for its baffling nature. Finally, he squeezed Hudson's knee and nodded gravely, "I suppose you're right. The detective did say that...if we were going to be contacted, it would likely be at our homes."

Contayza nodded, though her expression was cold and pitying. Charles and Imirya exchanged promises to call each other the instant they received any news and then they embraced. Holding the former husband she had so casually ostracized, Imirya felt the futility of her life crash down upon her like an avalanche. She stepped back and then Hudson came forward and hugged her tightly. Even though the young woman now shared a bed with the husband she had lost, Imirya could conjure no rancor or ill-will toward the woman, who had evidently given Charles the wife he genuinely deserved.

Then they had shuffled away, looking very much like survivors of a bombing, leaving her alone with Contayza.

She turned to find her mother regarding her with that insufferable expression of detachment...of smug certitude that she understood precisely what was transpiring around her. Suddenly furious, Imirya erupted, "How can you be so fucking clinical...don't you understand what's happening? Have you grown so cold that you're indifferent to everything, goddamn it?"

Contayza was clearly vexed by Imirya's scathing condemnation. Her mouth contorted into a bloodless slash, but when she spoke, her voice was remarkably composed. "I know, precisely what's happened...just as I'm aware that your hand wringing and plaintive bleating won't bring our Rebecca back to us. The police won't be of any help, nor will sitting by the telephone...praying for a ransom demand. This isn't about money...it's about Elizabeth and any demands will be presented to her."

This final declaration, delivered in a calm, reasonable tone or one who believes that their lunacy is perfectly logical, incited Imirya to shriek, "How can you continue to spew this fucking shit? Elizabeth has been dead for more than fifty years...it's time to get that through your thick fucking skull! This is about Rebecca...nothing else."

Contayza reacted to Imirya's hysterical diatribe with a slight arching of her right eyebrow. "Because I know how traumatized you are, I'm going to forgive that outburst, but if you ever speak to me in that manner again, I'm going to give you a very painful lesson in the nature of the gift our heritage had bestowed upon me. Now, do you know why I hate Elizabeth as passionately as I do?"

Imirya raised her arms and offered her mother a sardonic shrug. "How could I mother...you never even permitted me to speak her name in your presence."

Contayza fetched a bemused sigh. "True, a decision which I now realize was a misjudgment on my part. If I would have allowed you to see just what that monster was, perhaps you and I would have enjoyed a far happier relationship. Still, I am not entirely to blame. Your father was equally adamant that I never share the story of who...and more significantly, what Elizabeth was. I vowed that I would never utter a word of this story to you, but the world often forces us renege on our most solemn promises. It's time that I rectify that misjudgment and maybe then you'll realize exactly what we're confronted with." Contayza then pointed to a chair and commanded, "Now sit...and listen to the real story of the lives that Nathaniel and I lived before you were born."

Imirya glowered at Contayza's authoritative tone, but complied nonetheless. Contayza's gaze seemed to lose its customary sharp focus and Imirya correctly discerned that she was peering back into the past...to the unfathomable procession of events that had forged the woman she was today. Imirya listened and despite her skepticism, she found herself becoming engrossed...enthralled by the tale that her mother spun...a story of demons and revolutionaries and soaring passions and tragedy that even the most creative writer could never have woven.

Imirya's heart clenched in bitter resentment, when Contayza spoke of a man named Jimmy Simms...her hard eyes become wistful and then inconceivably sad as she recalled the love she held for the man and the gruesome death he had supposedly suffered at the hands of this demonic priestess. She had never once seen her face bear that expression for her father as fervently as he had loved Contayza. She continued to weave this incredible tale for the next two hours, concluding with the final bitter parting with Elizabeth in the city of Seattle before a portion of that city had been consumed by a catastrophe that remained a mystery even today.

Finally, Contayza fell silent and Imirya could clearly divine how extravagant the price of recounting this painful story had been for the old woman. Shaking her head in consternation, she rasped, "Do you really expect me to believe most of what you've just told me?"

Contayza sighed and shook her head, "You really do have an aptitude for being tedious, Imirya. Frankly, what you believe is immaterial. The truth is immune to our delusions however tenaciously we try to cling to them. I will pose a simple question...have you ever wondered why you never once saw your father without a shirt?"

"That's ludicrous...of course I saw him without his shirt. I..." She came to an abrupt halt, her eyes widening in reaction to the realization that she had indeed never once seen her father without a shirt...not in the muggy depths of summer...even when they were gathered around the family pool.

She turned an inquiring, puzzled gaze upon her mother, who smiled in apparent vindication. "The man named Jurgen Gerchnau carved the letters of her name into your father's chest...at least, the majority of them...until he gave the murderous bastard the only means to kill that demon-spawned bitch. Unfortunately, for all of us, Gerchnau was not equal to the task. In the end, we thought that Elizabeth was killed by the monsters that sent him and for over fifty years, I rested in the contentment of knowing that the whore was ash." Contayza shook her head in self-disgust. "I suppose that...being who I am...I should have known that curses are not so easily dispelled and Elizabeth Simpson is the most pernicious curse of all...and now her shadow is back to fall upon everyone with the misfortune of being even remotely connected with her vile legacy. That is why you and I are going to go back to Boston and wait...not for the things that took Rebecca to contact us. No, we will wait for that hateful bitch to make her appearance and explain just how her very existence has again jeopardized my family."

3

"Elizabeth, you...you can't be serious?" Judith inquired sharply and in her tone, Elizabeth thought she could detect the slightest hint of...jealousy.

Shaking her head, Elizabeth turned away from her study of the dull Parisian afternoon and fixed Judith with an incisive gaze of appraisal. "I'm being perfectly serious, Judith. If there is a way to extricate me from this situation...and to save Rebecca...Cynara will find it."

Judith crossed over to Elizabeth and settled her hand on the taller woman's right shoulder. Peering directly into Elizabeth's eyes, she implored, "Do you really want to go this route, Elizabeth? Do you really want to reopen this entanglement with this woman? I know what you're feeling, Elizabeth...I can sense the intensity of the despair this man has plunged you into, but turning to Cynara is not the answer!"

Elizabeth eyes narrowed as she gently removed Judith's hand from her shoulder and stepped away from the shorter woman. In that small gesture, Judith Ranzman experienced a piercing pain that lanced her heart, knowing that the bond she had established with this exquisite creature had frayed and disintegrated to dust with bewildering swiftness. Elizabeth's next utterance only confirmed Judith's worst fear. "I think you presume too much, Judith. Yes, it's true that I permitted you to experience the flow of my life...to feel it on a visceral level, but it is still only a vicarious experience. My relationship with Cynara is...not easily categorized. Even I really don't understand many of its nuances and I actually lived them. She and I are connected in ways that may be unprecedented in all of history."

Judith grimaced, feeling her frustration and anger start to stir and knowing that nothing productive could come of venting either. Struggling to remain calm, she intoned, "Elizabeth, it's you who doesn't really grasp the true dynamic of your relationship with this woman. I told you that she was drawn to you long before she ever came into your life...but that isn't the entire portrait..."

Elizabeth raised a quizzical eyebrow and grumbled with uncharacteristic surliness, "Judith, I have no patience for guessing games at this moment...if you have something specific to say...then say it plainly."

Judith inhaled deeply and forged ahead, "As much as Cynara has an overt attraction to you...you are drawn to her...though in a far more complex and subtle way that is no less binding. If you turn to Cynara now, she may well find a way to spring you from Burrows' trap and to save your great granddaughter...but the price will be exorbitant. I'm just asking you to consider that you may well be trading one entrapment for another."

Elizabeth pursed her full lips, her features set in a rare expression of rueful bemusement. "And of course, you see yourself as an alternative...a woman who has freely admitted that you saw me as something to be possessed? Does your help come entirely free of strings, Judith?"

The wounded expression on Judith's face was a glaring thing that made Elizabeth immediately feel ashamed of the caustic and hurtful barb. "I'm sorry, Judith...that was entirely uncalled for and cruel. You're absolutely right about Cynara...she does pose a very intricate danger to me, but my instinct is telling me that I need her in this situation..."

"And beyond?" Judith inquired in a tone that was at once hopeful, but apprehensive.

Elizabeth smiled fondly, but her remark was fraught with a fatalism that lanced the other woman's heart. "I can't imagine what beyond this looks like, Judith...let me survive this and then we can deal with whatever might follow, okay?"

Judith expression became somber and when she responded, it was with a gravitas that evoked a shiver in Elizabeth and conjured the recollection of David's nocturnal visit. "If it's what you must do, then I have little choice but to accept it. I'm beginning to fear that, for creatures such as Cynara and me, being drawn to you is very much like the proverbial moth being attracted to the most beautiful and deadly flame...but we are helpless to resist nonetheless. If what I surmise...what I dread...is true, then I believe you are being compelled in a very specific direction...towards a very specific end. I can help you avoid that end, Elizabeth...if you'll let me...if you'll trust me. Given what I was in the last incarnation, I know how laughable that notion must be, but I'm offering you an alternative...Amathera's path...without the terrible weight of obligation she was forced to carry. We can wander the world...like free spirits or specters. An eternity on the fringes is not so lonely, if you have someone to share it with you. I can promise you, Elizabeth, that you will never regret giving me the opportunity to show you just how gratifying...how fulfilling our life could be. I've divined your fears and I understand why you've been so averse to committing to a new life...but in me and the life I can offer you, those fears could be permanently banished."

Judith fell silent, her olive complexion suddenly flush, though with intense passion or a measure of embarrassment, Elizabeth could not be certain. She took the raven-haired beauty's small hand and intoned softly, "Judith...you're asking for a promise I just can't give you...at least, not now."

Judith nodded morosely and inhaled deeply. "When will you leave?"

Elizabeth smiled and drew Judith against her, bending her head to kiss the startled woman's soft, pliable lips. After relishing in the tingling heat of their intermingling, Elizabeth pushed the dizzied Judith to arm's length and remarked, "You mean to say...when do we leave? I told you that I would keep you with me through this and I'm not a woman to give her word lightly. Let's pack and we'll take the evening train."

Judith averted her eyes and muttered, "I don't have a passport or any type of identification...actually."

Elizabeth was again struck by the dust-in-the-wind life that Judith had lived, but squeezed her shoulder in reassurance. "Then you'll just have to perform your cloak magic until we get to London. I'll reserve a compartment and that way, we can spend time together once the train actually begins the journey. Once we're in London, we may have to begin the process of establishing some type of usable credentials for you. I suspect Cynara might actually be able to help in that respect."

Judith shook her head, clearly dubious, "Elizabeth, do you really think that Cynara will be readily accepting of me? For that matter, how do you suppose she will react when she discovers that you're still amongst the living?"

Elizabeth's smile faltered momentarily, knowing that Judith had expressed her deepest misgiving. Bringing these two creatures together...in light of the dark proclivities they once shared...was very much like tap dancing with a beaker of nitroglycerin on her head. She could not bring herself to think what form her first meeting with Cynara might assume. Mustering a smile that she doubted would fool the perceptive Ranzman for an instant, Elizabeth offered, "Judith, leave managing Cynara to me."

Despite clearly being unconvinced, Judith nodded her acquiescence and the pair quickly began to pack. Elizabeth then arranged for passage on the next train and the pair began to leave. They had come to the threshold of the room, when Elizabeth suddenly turned and swept the room with a decidedly melancholy gaze. A deeper instinct told her that she would never return to Paris again...that the days she had spent here...aside from her encounter with Ian Barrows and his impossible demands...could well be the last whimsical and capricious days she would be granted in what remained of her life.

Keenly attuned to her new companion's emotions, Judith inquired, "Are you alright, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth shifted her liquid-eyed gaze to the shorter woman and that moment of fatalistic prescience was gone...but not the poignant emotions it had aroused. Not trusting herself to speak, she offered Judith a wan smile and the pair set out toward Elizabeth's terrifying reunion.

4

A furtive whisper jerked her out of the fitful doze into which she'd fallen...earlier. Rebecca could not say with any degree of certainty how long she had slumbered. She had first awoken in this ominous chamber to discover that she had been stripped of her watch and jewelry. In the intervening time, she had lost all sense of perspective and could not say with any degree of accuracy how long she had been imprisoned in this terrifying place.

_'Two days...three at the most,'_ she told herself with a degree of confidence she did not really feel. She rose on unsteady legs and stumbled over to the glass of her circular enclosure. Whatever lay beyond the glass was steeped in an impenetrable darkness that reminded Rebecca of ink and resisted her every attempt to discern even the most minute detail of what it might conceal. During the time of her confinement, she had been given not the slightest glimpse that there was anyone in the darkness, but she could not escape the disconcerting impression that her every movement was being scrutinized. That impression was corroborated by the fact that an automated tray would slide forth from the small segment of wall that was entirely composed of glass, carrying food and beverages three times daily.

When she had first awoken, Rebecca had been seized by a panic so immense that it had reduced her to screaming like a shrew and pounding fruitlessly on the thick glass. Even this display of hysteria had failed to summon someone...to at least explain where she was and why she'd been seized. When her hysteria had exhausted itself, she had lapsed into a bout of sobbing that seemed to last for hours. Eventually, she had expended the last of her tears and had fallen into a torpor of resigned despair.

Rebecca had never known the woman after whom she'd been named, nor was she aware of the crucible of grim events that had forged her hard, intractable grandmother. Had she been cognizant of either of these things, Rebecca might have recognized the source of the glacial calm that descended upon her, allaying her panic and dejection...at least temporarily. She began to study the environment into which she'd been thrust...an exercise that caused her to feel both anxiety and a small measure of encouragement in equal turns. The place reminded her of a fully furnished, open concept condominium, hardly the kind of cell one would expect if they had been abducted for a particularly nasty purpose. She further reasoned that the fact her abductors had deigned not to show themselves was also a moderately positive sign that they might allow her to survive beyond this confinement.

Her bleary gaze was drawn to the large aperture door at the center of the ceiling above her cell and that sense of reassurance dissipated like mist before a gale. There was something decidedly sinister about this apparent portal...one which reminded Rebecca of something out of an old science fiction movie that her grandfather had so adored.

Rebecca fetched a tremulous sigh and tried to maintain a positive outlook. No doubt, her mother would have noted her absence and it was not inconceivable that the police were searching for her even now.

_'Don't subscribe to false hope, Rebecca...they'll never find you...not in this place...and time is running out,'_ a voice informed her gravely. _'If you are ever to see the outside of this cell, you're going to have to keep your wits...and look to the thing that lies dormant within you.'_

Rebecca shook her head, mystified by both the unfamiliar voice and its cryptic message. She sighed in frustration and standing, began to meander around the room. She caught an unpleasant scent of stale perspiration and realized that she had not showered in the entire time she had been confined here. Her eyes strayed to the glass enclosure and she grimaced, knowing that it would afford her absolutely no privacy just as the open toilet left her feeling utterly exposed.

_'There's little to be served by modesty, Rebecca...especially if you're going to be here for awhile. It's bad enough that you've been forced to survive in a cage like animal...without actually starting to reek like one,'_ she told herself, judging that her perilous situation made the idea of being unsettled by being seen naked rather absurd. Her gaze swept the room and settled on the large wardrobe that stood next to the small bed where she had first awoken. Crossing over to the wooden piece of furniture, she threw open the doors to find that if was virtually bursting with clothing, underwear and towels. There was even a shelf that held a full array of shampoos and soaps, confirming the notion that her captivity here might be a lengthy one.

Selecting a bottle of shampoo and a fragrant soap, she made her way to the shower and turned the water on, stripping out of her clothing while she allowed it to reach the desired temperature. She ventured inside and closed the compartment door, taking some solace in the fact that the steam would partially obscure her from scrutiny. She spent an interminable length of time with her eyes closed and her face turned into the comforting spray, feeling the corruption sluice from her dirty flesh also helped to restore her equilibrium and she spent several moments trying to grapple with the puzzle of what might have motivated her abduction. While it was true that both her parents were wealthy, theirs was hardly a fortune to substantiate going to the lengths her captors had evidently gone to keep her hostage. This place in itself seemed to suggest a level of wealth that would far exceed anything that either Imirya or Charles Merin could provide in exchange for their daughter's freedom.

_'Perhaps it's a simple matter of your beauty, Rebecca...it's exquisite and could easily induce the right type of sociopath to...collect you,'_ an inner voice theorized, causing Rebecca to laugh aloud at the preposterous idea. She was a beautiful woman...though not on a level to match her mother, whose refined pulchritude could melt glaciers if she paid it even marginal heed...but it was certainly nothing that would inspire this level of obsessive madness.

After discounting both money and obsession, Rebecca could not produce a single plausible explanation as to why someone would go to such lengths to abduct and hold her. Feeling that smoldering frustration nibbling at the edges of her resolve...and it's dark twin, panic, capering in the shadows...Rebecca rinsed the soap away and exited the shower. She reached for the towel and dried herself, before wrapping the wet towel around her torso and returning to the wardrobe, where she selected a change of clothing that reminded her of something one would expect to see in a gaudy woman's prison drama.

Rebecca's heart virtually leapt into her throat when the tray slid open with a low whisper. She regarded the empty tray dumbly for an extended moment and then realized that she was expected to place her soiled clothing and towel in the tray.

Good god...in-house laundry service...I'd actually be impressed...if this wasn't so fucking creepy,' she thought, but nonetheless bundled up the clothing and deposited in the drawer. This was further affirmation that she was under constant and intense surveillance by her unseen captors.

Not sure what motivated the spontaneous sardonic quipped, Rebecca called, "Have a care with those jeans...they cost me a small fortune."

She turned away from the drawer and was on her way back to the sofa, when the dormant Virtua screen abruptly blazed into life. The screen was filled with a silhouette of which she could distinguish no features and a weak, scratchy voice seemed to fill her chamber. "I'm glad to see that you've retained your sense of humor, Rebecca...an admirable quality in the face of the difficult circumstances in which you now find yourself. I'm also delighted to see that you are making...shall we say...an accommodation with those circumstances."

"Who are you and what do you want?" Rebecca demanded truculently. She understood that she was hardly in a position to make belligerent demands, but her temper was making an extremely rare appearance that she was finding difficult to suppress.

"Rebecca, believe me when I tell you that it is entirely within your best interest that you know nothing about who I am...or even where you are being held. If you were to discover either...it would be a most unfortunate turn of events. This is why I have gone to such great lengths to insure that you could see only what is strictly necessary to make your circumstances more bearable." The speaker paused for a moment, allowing Rebecca to absorb the menacing implications of what she had just been told. She could hear a troubling wheezing and correctly deduced that the speaker was delivering this message with a great degree of difficulty and effort. She was surprised to discover that the thought filled her with a spiteful delight.

After a moment, the unseen speaker resumed his discourse. "As to the second question of why you are being held...on this matter, I can be more forthcoming. Someone you don't really know...but who has a keen interest in you...has something that I need...urgently. To insure that they are pliable in surrendering that commodity, it became necessary to use you as a...a bargaining chip in our negotiations; a distasteful, but sometimes necessary facet of commerce I'm afraid."

"I have no idea who or what you're talking about," Rebecca returned angrily. She could feel trepidation warring with outrage, but knew that it was imperative that she display neither in front of her captor. "Does my mother or father know why I've been taken?"

"They do not," the shadowy figure disclosed flatly. "As they are not the primary player in this transaction, I have no interest in apprising them of your situation. Frankly, in these circumstances, knowledge is a dangerous commodity and they would be far better served by remaining ignorant."

"What will you do to me if this...this other person won't give you what you want?" Rebecca inquired hesitantly, though the answer was probably redundant.

There was a distinct pause and then the man replied evenly, "Let us hope that reason will prevail and it doesn't come to that. In the interim, I will do everything necessary to insure that your stay is as trauma free as possible. If there is anything you require to pass the time...to distract you from the reality of your situation...you need only ask. Good day, Ms. Merin."

The screen again went quiescent and Rebecca murmured, "The only thing I need is to go home."

This single doleful utterance brought with it a rolling wave of fear and misery that raged through the chambers and alleyways of Rebecca Merin's nubile body like a rampant infection. As her face contorted into a mask of anguish, every small item that was scattered across table tops and other flat surfaces in her enclosure abruptly leapt a full six inches into the air, hovered there for a brief instant, and fell back to their original surfaces with a clatter.

Rebecca's amber-colored eyes bulged in astonishment as her disbelieving gaze swept over the large enclosure. With intense satisfaction and excitement, the voice of her grandmother declared, 'It's been awakened Rebecca...the thing that has always lain dormant within you has been roused. It will be your salvation!'

5

The next morning found Elizabeth and Judith ensconced in the new Edenbridge Arms Hotel in Mayfair, discussing possible routes forward. Elizabeth was delighted that Judith, after her initial vehement objection to her proposal for soliciting Cynara's help, had come to accept Elizabeth's decision. She understood that it was critical that she not lose sight of this woman's history or her possible ulterior designs, but Elizabeth found that she was developing a rapidly burgeoning affection for the complex creature, whose desire to help her seemed genuine.

"Judith I don't know how I can begin to thank you for the help you've given me thus far."

Judith arched an eyebrow, offered Elizabeth a suggestive grin and growled, "When time allows, perhaps I can offer a few very specific suggestions...if you're at a total loss." Her grin became wanton and she added slyly, "Perhaps we could let your old acquaintance watch while I have you...that would certainly be interesting."

Elizabeth's expression became severe and she gripped Judith slender right wrist, but when she spoke, her tone was not chastising, but rather pleading. "Judith, if I should manage to convince Cynara to help me...you have to promise me that you won't do anything to deliberately antagonize her...please!"

Judith's large dark eyes widened and her irreverent countenance became sober, "I'm not afraid of Cynara Saravic."

"Then you're a fool, Judith. I know that you possess formidable powers, but if you provoke a confrontation with Cynara, you will quickly find yourself in the same position as you did in that alley in Paris." She shook Judith for emphasis and intoned, "Cynara will show you no mercy, Judith and I can't bear the thought of seeing you harmed. Please...for me...be deferential this one time."

"Deferential?" Judith echoed with a comical blink. "Now there is a role I've never played...not even for Amathera. Still, just for you, I'll be meek and respectful. I shudder to think how deep in my debt you're going to be when this thing is over," she remarked and threw back her head with a feigned sinister laugh and a lascivious leer.

Elizabeth smiled and shook her head, but when she released Judith's wrist and stepped away, Judith pressed forward and crowded Elizabeth against the large oak writing desk, gripping the other woman's shoulders. Intently, she challenged, "You are afraid of her...aren't you?"

Elizabeth studied Judith lovely face and finally confessed, "Yes...in many ways and for many reasons."

Judith pressed against the taller woman as if trying to convey her sincerity through physical contact and clutched Elizabeth's face in the surprising strong fingers of her right hand. "Are you afraid she'll actually hurt you...because I won't stand idly by and let her do that...no matter how ruthless or powerful she is."

The tenacious determination in Judith's voice affected Elizabeth like a raging fire and she suddenly understood the subtle danger into which circumstances had led her. As if the menace posed by mad Ian Barrows wasn't daunting enough, she now realized that she might find herself caught in an emotional tug-of-war between two incredibly dominant, incredibly desirable creatures. The thought was not without its dark and erotic appeal, but the eternal pragmatist in Elizabeth cautioned her against the potentially disastrous consequences of this untimely distraction. Still, another more discreet voice insisted that...through this contest of opposing influences, Elizabeth would find her deliverance...or her emphatic undoing. The prospect made her dizzy and she gently, but firmly disengaged Judith's hand and stepped away.

"Cynara would never hurt me, Judith...at least, not physically. As I've asked, let me concern myself with Cynara...just don't aggravate matters by goading her...which would only make an already untenable situation only worse...for both of us."

Judith continued to regard her with that grave, possessive expression, but finally sighed and relented. "All right, while you go to recruit your demon, I will try to be helpful in other ways. I'm going to ask that you open those considerable coffers of yours and buy me a few things."

"Whatever you need, Judith," Elizabeth declared quite seriously.

"Why does my miscreant mind insist on interpreting everything at comes out of that noble mouth of yours mouth in the filthiest way imaginable," Judith wondered with a rueful sigh. "I want to purchase a compact Virtua console and a top end PDA...along with all the encryption software that is allowed for public use."

"You have something specific in mind?" Elizabeth inquired, encouraged by the wicked sparkle in Judith's beguiling eyes.

"I want to spend the time you are away learning everything I can about this Ian Barrows...his public persona, the source and disposition of his wealth...and more importantly, the people he surrounds himself with...the primary sycophants who do his dirty work," Judith explained with obvious excitement.

"To what end?" Elizabeth asked, but already she could sense the vague shape and direction of Judith's thinking and already realized that the other woman had been correct in her assertion that she was far better equipped to confront the present situation than Elizabeth, herself, could ever be.

"Barrows' greatest advantage...in truth, his only advantage...over you is his belief that he has nothing to lose and is thus invulnerable to any threat you might pose. He's wrong of course and if I had more time...and your permission, I could demonstrate the error of his ways to him in the most excruciating ways imaginable. I could show the evil bastard that there are things infinitely worse than death...eternal suffering that would make death seem like the sweetest of blessings."

Elizabeth shivered in response to the dark gleam in Judith's eyes and understood that she was referring to the heinous fate she had inflicted upon the Catholic Priest during her blood-drenched reign of terror in Quinsett. "Judith, I've warned you about exactly this type of behavior..."

That terrifying gleam guttered and died, but Judith intoned sourly, "You did and I've taken that warning to heart...but you may come to recognize that you can no longer afford these great and noble moral constraints...not if you want to rescue Rebecca and escape Barrows' clever trap. Still, that will be your choice to make when the moment comes. In the interim, I want to know everything about this bastard. The key to beating Barrows will come through those with whom he surrounds himself...like this Cedric Drury who you mentioned. Barrows may be at the very end of his rope and believes he has nothing left to lose...his circle of bootlickers may not share the same fatalistic opinion. If we can show them the error of their ways in very emphatic terms...we may induce them to betray their master. Also, knowing what type of assets Barrows controls and where these assets are located...may give us an insight into where Rebecca is being held. If we can rescue Rebecca...then Ian Barrow loses his leverage and becomes a very vulnerable turkey in a cage. We can then dissect him at our leisure."

Elizabeth shook her head vehemently, that exasperating stubbornness stealing into her blue eyes. "No...if we recover Rebecca, I will do what is necessary to protect them...and demonstrate to Barrows that there is nothing to be gained through me. I will not engage in a campaign of retribution."

Despite the overwhelming compulsion to slap that intransigent cast from Elizabeth's exquisite face, Judith willed herself to remain calm. "Elizabeth, it is exactly this fairy tale nobility...this stubborn adherence to the idea that everyone can be shown the error of their ways that makes you so vulnerable to exploitation by men such as Barrows. Even Amathera...for all of her pristine innocence...became Jeniah Lightcrusher in time. Ian Barrows will never stop hunting you...until you give him what he wants or until he is dead. If you rescue Rebecca...he will hunt her incessantly and take her again...probably along with every other member of your son's family. There are only two possible ways this can end Elizabeth...and if you believe anything else...then you are being obtusely naive."

"Enough Judith...please!" Elizabeth mumbled and in those limpid blue eyes, Judith glimpsed a misery of such mammoth proportion that she fell silent despite the unequivocal certainty that hers was the only viable path forward.

"All right, Elizabeth. Let's purchase what I need and I can begin researching Barrows, while you find Cynara. I'd like to take an inside look at this research facility of his, but I will wait until you return before doing that...and I won't do anything without your permission...I promise," she concluded, suddenly loathing the smile of relief that dawned on the immortal's face in response to her vow. Something suddenly occurred to Judith and she asked, "Do you even know where to find Cynara?"

The crease in Elizabeth's smooth brow informed Judith that her new companion might well be grasping at a particularly nasty straw, but she replied, "I'm not entirely sure...but I at least know where to start."

Collecting her purse, Elizabeth withdrew a chip card and handed it to Judith...and then, on impulse, thrust the entire purse into Judith's arms. "You might as well hold onto this...it will only be a hindrance for the time being. I would recommend that you either take it with you when you leave or have it locked in the hotel safe. That purse has the primary access cards to my entire financial portfolio...if it vanished, we'd both be paupers."

Judith stared unblinkingly at the expensive Italian leather bag, her face set in an inscrutable expression. "What's to prevent me from simply taking this and disappearing?"

Elizabeth discerned the quaver of emotion in the other woman's voice and wondered if Judith had ever been entrusted with anything meaningful in her entire life. She tilted Judith's chin with her thumb and tenderly kissed those pliable lips...holding the kiss until the shorter woman's breath came in ragged gasps. Then she stepped away and offered a dazzled Ranzman a scintillating smile, "The promise of that kiss and my absolute faith in you, Judith."

Then she was gone, leaving Judith tumbling in a vortex of powerful and confusing emotions that she had not felt since the day Amathera had entered her life seventy years ago.

Chapter Sixteen

1

**Chelyabinsk, Russia:** The long corridor down which the entity known commonly as Peytor Estrovich now strode, was lined with concrete cubicles...the fronts of which were protected by floor to ceiling glass. Everything about this underground facility near Chelyabinsk was functional...coldly utilitarian in keeping with its iniquitous purpose. Humanity or compassion had no stock here for indeed this was a repository for exploitation of the ugliest kind...the kind of environment where Peytor Estrovich felt most at home.

Estrovich stopped before one of the glass walls and peered through the gloom which partially concealed a contained living pod similar to the one that was presently sustaining the living corpse of Ian Barrows. Each unit was a highly sanitized, environmentally controlled space that was intended to prevent the spread of infection or any other form of contamination that might threaten the precious cargo each pod held. Along the far wall of each cubicle there hummed a fully automated life support and monitoring computer that vigorously monitored the vital stats and the key genetic markers of the pod's occupants.

Peering through the smoky glass of the pod lid, Estrovich recalled the face of Gregori Trescu...the discolored and mottled cheeks rousing a moue of disgust on the entity's hard, angular face. The child was an insufferably ugly blight. 'Yes, but his insides are pristine enough and for the purpose he now serves...that is all that's required.'

Dismissing the comatose child from his thoughts, Estrovich resumed his trek down the impossibly long corridor of the central harvesting chamber, taking inventory of the living harvesting vessels that were held within this factory of enduring nightmares. Like the concentration camps of the last century's grim war, Chelyabinsk was a breeding ground for man's sickest perversion...though unlike those enclaves of horror, this facility was not conceived for the purpose of mass eradication. Quite the contrary, Estrovich knew...this harvesting facility was conceived with a mind to propagated and sustain pure evil and its designers' vision to see it grow...like a rampant cancer that would never truly kill its host.

Here, the lost and unwanted...the disenfranchised children of the world...those who had not been granted the dubious luxury of beauty or prowess and had been cursed with the indelible stamp of deformity...were gathered. Their number grew daily and soon it would be necessary to construct another repository of sustainable cruelty. Here, mad bio-geneticists had perfected the still shunned science of tissue regeneration, insuring that these wastrels would serve as growing boxes for organs that would be sold to the ruthless, rich and desperate in every corner of the slowly-dying globe.

The fools who ran this a facility and all those who provided the fodder for the containment pods all subscribed to the notion that Chelyabinsk had been constructed for the purpose of black commerce. In truth, the crime perpetrated here was evil of the most immaculate sort...so pure in its corruption that it would permanently stain anyone with even a passing hand in its proliferation. Everything that Chelyabinsk touched would be fouled beyond any hope of redemption...so absolute was the evil it perpetrated here.

Here...in this forgotten corner of the Urals, children who had been cursed with physical deformities and abandoned by those who were obligated to care for them, were entombed in a permanent state of unconsciousness, while their organs and even limbs were extracted or amputated for transplant. Their only purpose would be to serve as fertile soil for this diabolical harvesting operation...where they would languish until the last of their genetic viability had been expended. Then...perhaps in an act of the coldest of mercies...they would be fed to an incinerator.

Estrovich stopped at the last pod where a blond-haired girl with a horribly misshapen cranium and a hare lip twitched and spasmed in the depth of her medically induced slumber. Even in unconsciousness, the waif seemed haunted...tormented by the cruelty that had characterized the harsh fate she'd been given. As he watched her, his hard blue eye narrowed and his angular face contorted into a scowl. He searched the dark chambers of his dead heart and attempted to ascertain if there had ever been a time when this poor creature's plight would have touched a raw nerve of poignant emotion in his soul. He finally came to the conclusion that such considerations had always been beyond his sensibilities...even when he had walked the earth as a mortal man.

He had grown up in the dreary shadows of a dying empire, where the only perceptible futures held inescapable poverty, crime and pernicious despair. For men, there were two possible avenues of escape...crime or the military, though at times, it was difficult to distinguish between the two. Women, of course, were faced with even less palatable options...making Estrovich eternally grateful that he had not been born a woman. Strong, agile and unencumbered by a conscience, Estrovich had made a perfect soldier and it had not been long before his superiors recognized his unique talents. In the Russian Special Forces, Estrovich had found a home with the small insertion teams that specialized in rapid search and eradicate mission...where collateral damage had never been seen as a concern or impediment.

It had been during one such mission in Chechnya that Estrovich had come to the great and defining juncture in his life. The mission organizers had gravely underestimated the disposition of a local warlord's forces and the subsequent strike to eradicate this particular viper had rapidly turned into a debacle. Seriously outgunned, Estrovich's team had been forced to flee into the forest and hope they could reach a friendly zone before being captured or killed...the latter of which would have been a mercy considering the savage tendencies of the enemy.

During the chaotic initial gun battle, Estrovich had taken a round in the left thigh and though the wound had touched neither bone, nor major artery, it had bled profusely. After three days of straggling through the woods, the Russian found that he was weak and delirious with infection. Not long after, he had collapsed near a small stream, where he had lain, peering up into the monochrome gray clouds and thinking that his life was about to end in this hellish bog of a country.

When the woman manifested beside him, Estrovich had been certain that she was the fabrication of a badly ailing mind on the verge of death. She was exceptionally tall and possessed of the most austere beauty that the Russian had ever set eyes upon. She was attired in a rough-spun black cassock adorned by four jagged red slashes that remind the dying Russian of claw marks. The ice blue eyes that gazed down upon him were as hard and cold as eternal judgment.

Only later would Estrovich realize how chillingly appropriate that metaphor was.

Lifting his head with great effort, he had croaked, "Are...are you real?"

The woman had greeted this with a scornful scowl and then demanded, "Do you wish to live?"

Surprisingly, Estrovich had been a long time in replying as the arc of his possible life beyond this terrible moment played out in the span of a dozen heartbeats. The future beyond him was unrelentingly dismal and the dying Russian could see little value in prolonging what had, in truth, been a wretched life. The figure seemed to divine his inner ambivalence for she smiled a knowing smile and intoned, "You understand the hollow futility of the life you live and rightly so. If you agree to submit to a new master...to pledge eternal fealty...I can deliver you from this hollow existence...grant you immortality and clear purpose in the service of one who is worthy of your loyalty. The choice is yours...death or deliverance."

Peering into those inexpressibly cold eyes, Estrovich had gleaned neither deception nor guile and so he had agreed. She offered the dying Russian a vulpine smile and then held forth her long right hand, which began to glow and then run like melting wax. When this incredible transformation was complete, the woman's long, elegant hand had become a perfectly crafted knife.

"A moment of exquisite pain for an eternity of dark purpose," she had growled and before Estrovich could even raise a hand, she had driven the molten blade through his heart, which had exploded in a massive gout of boiling blood.

When Estrovich had awoken, he had been transmogrified into the creature he was now...an eternal entity pledged into the service of the greatest tyrant of all. It was a servitude that Peytor Estrovich had embraced with the sum totality of his dark soul. Now he had been given direction over an insidious campaign of global scope...designed to eternally stain the souls of anyone tempted to indulge in the perversion it proffered. Peytor Estrovich knew all too well that...irrespective of how pernicious a poison might be...there were no shortage of those who would willingly drink from its chalice.

He glanced back at the severely deformed child and frowned. In the end, perhaps Chelyabinsk was her deliverance...as horrible as this place was, she would still find far less suffering here than she would have been forced to endure in the world beyond.

He turned away and hurried back along the central corridor, pleased that this facet of the operation was progressing smoothly. The next leg of his journey would see him stop in Eastern Europe and then back to London...the world was an enormous farm and the seeds of corruption must be diligently tended if they were to germinate.

2

An ashen-faced Donald Gansby slumped behind the wheel of their assigned vehicle and fetched a weary sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his thin nose as Mary settled into the passenger seat. The pair had just completed their fifteenth interview in the last three days and like its fourteen predecessors, this latest session had yielded nothing of even remotely tangible value. Donald surveyed the surrounding Soho neighborhood and shook his head in consternation. "That was unproductive...not to mention, incredibly disturbing."

Mary, who now seemed to wear a perpetually distracted expression, merely nodded her concurrence. Finally, she remarked, "I'm not really certain that there is much point in persisting beyond today with this particular tangent. Going back to the drawing board is likely to earn us some stern and disapproving stares from those above us, but I think there is nothing to be gained from chasing down this particular shadow."

"So you think this box doesn't really have a purpose after all?" Donald inquired, rather shocked by this sudden and uncharacteristic streak of defeatism.

Mary flashed a humorless grin and returned, "Oh it has a purpose I'm certain...just not one that you and I are going to be able to fathom in this fashion."

"Ewan is having the same dreary result in trying to establish a connection between any of the homicide victims and possible links to child exploitation," Donald observed feeling those same tendrils of defeatism worm their way into his mind like burrowing insects. On impulse, he withdrew the box from his jacket pocket and held it up for closer inspection, privately baffled by its apparent pointlessness. Murder was at least a fathomable crime...people killed out of avarice, anger, envy...or simple madness. This small device was a mysterious gateway to a world that existed far beyond the grasp of Donald's rigidly controlled sensibility. "Mary, do you think it's possible that this thing is only part of the equation...perhaps a key that activates something else. I mean...I know I'm reaching here, but could it be that the blue light triggers a connection to this missing device and this button initiates that device...like an access key?"

Mary regarded the device with a speculative squint and looked away with a noncommittal shrug. "Anything is possible I suppose, but without that connecting device...or someone to identify and confirm the purpose of this box...it remains an unsolvable conundrum."

Donald frowned and glanced sharply at his partner. Tentatively, he ventured, "Mary...you seem distracted and I can understand how frustrating this must be for you...Ewan and I have lived with two full years of being made to look like keystone coppers...except no one is laughing at our hi-jinks anymore."

An expression of vexation flashed briefly across her face, but then she sighed and admitted, "Not so much distracted as thoroughly discouraged. I felt certain that this child crimes connection would yield immediate and tangible results once we started down the path...but I see now that it may not. Worse yet, I'm beginning to think that nothing concrete will come from this line of investigation...that perhaps those five homicides were simply random. Once we remove this factor from the equation...then I serve very little purpose in this investigation's future."

Donald's eyes widened in dismay, concerned that she had fallen into a state of dejection. "I'm not one for motivational talks, but I still feel compelled to say that this situation is the most bizarre either Ewan or I have ever had to deal with...being perplexed and bewildered is just a natural reaction I think."

Mary pursed her lips, but still mustered a wan smile of gratitude, "Perhaps, but if this is merely a horrible spree of random homicides, there is very little I can contribute. As I mentioned when I first came on board, I was in the formative stages of what promised to be a huge investigation into a possible Europe-wide child smuggling ring. I really should get back to that."

Donald averted his gaze to his hands and Mary could glean the inner conflict raging behind his placid eyes. At last he began softly, "Mary...could I ask that you persevere for a while longer...as a personal favor to me?"

She fixed him with a frank, inquisitive stare and could feel his discomfort increase exponentially. "May I ask why?"

"I'm not sure I could provide a coherent answer to that question...but...but my instinct keeps telling me that you'll be the key to solving this investigation."

"I'm not sure that I've done anything to warrant that level of confidence, Donald," Mary intoned, touched by this unexpected expression of faith.

"Then modesty is occluding your judgment," Donald retorted firmly and seemed to blanch at his own assiduous tone. "I believe that your theories are correct...that pedophilia is an aspect of what is motivating this lunatic to slaughter these men and this box is an integral aspect of that slaughter. Our shortcoming is that we've failed to validate the connections."

"Which still leaves us mired in the same rut," Mary pointed out.

"True...but I still think it's the right rut," Donald contended. "And if you withdraw, I suspect this particular focus will vanish with you...and we will be in this exact same situation a year from now...and then two."

Mary remained silent for a long time and then turned slightly in her seat to face Gansby. "Is that the extent of it Donald...you think I'm on the right track and that I'm stubborn enough to push this agenda to its bitter conclusion?"

Again, the extent of Donald's unease was evident as he shifted his gaze to the busy October street were the flow of life rolled on just as it had for twenty centuries or more. "I don't know how to say this without sounding daft...or just plain weird...perhaps because it's just that; weird. It's not easy for your typical bloke to admit this, but being partnered with Ewan was the best thing that ever happened to me. He inspired me to be more than a simple plodder. In you...I see the next step in that evolution. You're clever and incisive...and I can see how keen and fluid your thought process is when you turn your attention to a specific aspect of a problem. You possess a certain intellectual deftness...a natural acuity that even Ewan can't match. Just the way you approached the Greavy homicide is a clear indication that you have a non-linear method to things that isn't constrained by rigid thinking...but doesn't entirely lose sight of pragmatism. I recognized that in the way that you refused to get bogged down in the macabre aspects of Greavy's murder. I can learn an immense amount from you...if only by osmosis," he concluded and then added quietly, "not just in the matter of being an investigator...but everything else beyond."

For a long moment, Mary could conjure no appropriate response to this incredibly effusive praise. It seemed that in this shy admission, Donald was subtly extending...an invitation or perhaps inquiring if a doorway existed. Perhaps that was absurd as Mary's chosen path had not allowed for occasions to gain a better understanding of such things. Violating her long-held principle of never being tactile, Mary reached across and placed a hand on Donald's shoulder and said, "Donald, what I said to you about Cassande...was inappropriate. I'm the last person who has the qualifications or the right to offer any form of life advice. In terms of the job...I came to the conclusion that by imposing trenchant boundaries on my thinking, I was really putting definitive limits on my growth. It was especially important in approaching the type of crime I've come to specialize in. It would be easy to regard the men and women who commit these crimes as being nothing but sadistic monsters...but it would also be a grave error. Experience has shown me repeatedly that predisposition is detrimental. If there is any secret to my method...that's it...keep an open mind...hardly the arcana of a great sage. To be honest, working with you has hardly been a burden...and if you're not quite fed up with me, then maybe I'll delay submitting my request for re-deployment for a while. Frankly, you're a rather easy fellow to pass the time of day with."

Later, when the dust of tragedy settled over Gansby like the falling residue of guilt and misery, he would reflect on this single moment and bludgeon himself with his culpability in Mary Langdon's tragic death. At the time, Donald's elation reflected clearly on his handsome face "Then this day hasn't been a total loss, has it?

Mary laughed and then Donald joined her before the pair settled into a slightly awkward silence inspired by the birth of the new dynamic that existed between them. Mary's expression became sober then and she inquired, "Donald...what does Cassande do all day?" Gansby fixed her with a puzzled frown and she added hurriedly, "That sounds like an odd sort of question...but I've often wondered how someone from her lofty heights spends her idle time."

Donald continued to gaze at Mary for a moment, struck by the certainty this facile explanation was entirely contrived...and not motivated by casual curiosity. Still, he replied, "As she is so fond of saying...she just flits about...shopping and galleries and the sort. It's kind of odd...as gregarious and affable as she is, Cassande hasn't seemed to have made any friends in London and I sometime think she is actually rather lonely. I know you lectured me on exactly this topic, but I can't help but wonder if she'd have a richer social life if she was attached to someone from her own strata..."

Mary offered no immediate comment, but after a pregnant silence, she added, "Her life does seem rather peculiar. Simply living in a hotel...apart from being extravagantly expensive...isn't exactly conducive to establishing a normal life. She seems to sparkle when she looks at you...has she ever suggested getting a flat together?"

Donald pursed his lips, perplexed by this sudden and uncharacteristic interest in his relationship with Cassande. Despite, his bemusement, he understood that she was actually raising questions that had been troubling him over the last while. There seemed to be a disparity between the affection she seemed to exude for him and her willingness to move toward any manner of deeper commitment. He had naturally attributed this to the differences in their social stature, but Mary's question seemed to be hinting at...something else. "No...she hasn't...and I think both of us, by unspoken agreement, are comfortable with that. I know you told me that I should be grateful for having her in my life...and I genuinely am. Still, you spoke of tempering being open-minded with being practical and I can't help but feel that there is a transitory aspect to our relationship...that both of us are aware of...even if we're reluctant to acknowledge it."

"Wise perspective, Donald," Mary remarked, though her reply held a surly edge that Donald could not decipher. The remark also seemed to contradict her previous advice on embracing the good fortune of having Cassande in his life.

Something occurred to him then and he blurted, "Speaking of Cassande...I almost forgot...she wanted me to ask you if you were available for dinner tomorrow night. She wanted me to tell you that she knows it's short notice, but she really has her heart set on a girl's night out...dinner and a drink or two. She hasn't stopped talking about you since last Friday."

Mary's reaction to this unexpected invitation was every bit as peculiar as the slant of their conversation. Her eyes narrowed in what seemed to be suspicion and when Donald felt certain that she would decline, she offered him a crooked grin and intoned, "If it doesn't interfere with your Friday night plans...why not?"

"I could really use a night of mindless telly...and I really think it would be great if you and Cassande could become friends," he declared seriously...a remark that he would later come to rue.

"Then tell her we have a date," Mary replied with the same discordant tone that Gansby simply could not credit.

"She'll be delighted...she said that she'd pick you up at the embankment at the end of the shift tomorrow."

Mary offered Gansby an inscrutable grin fraught with secret meaning and suggested, "Let's get back to this list. Once we finish with this lot, we can perhaps head back to the Yard and knock craniums with Ewan."

Donald nodded his acquiescence and pulled out into traffic, heading toward their next destination in Redbridge, while Mary retreated into what had become an increasingly disjointed and troubling interior landscape of macabre contemplation.

As fervently as she might wish to, Mary had been unable to suppress the desire to pick up and follow the thread that her admiring partner had first drawn from the weave. Each night she would return to her flat in Islington, where her only company was the emptiness and two cats, who if truth be proclaimed, cared only about her ability to provide for their needs. Mary had struggled with grim determination to ignore the siren song that seemed to issue from her quiescent Virtua console...but invariably, she would eventually succumb to its subtle call.

As she dug through the confusing layers of virtual clay and mire, Mary Langdon had slowly unearthed the vague shape of a mystery that threatened to erode her prevailing perceptions of...of everything...and perhaps her sanity in the bargain. Despite his self-perceived inadequacy, Donald Gansby's investigative instincts were especially keen and in his reluctantly accrued file, he had constructed the framework for a far-reaching puzzle that Mary felt certain was exerting a vague, but definite influence on this current campaign of savage slaughter.

What had Mary gleaned from the esoteric scattering of clues and vague connections? If she allowed herself wide latitude for speculation and extrapolation...it was possible to chart a linear course from the disappearance of Cassandra Jasic in the last years of the twentieth century...to the appearance of Cassande Verhoeven here in present day London. The deeply ingrained pragmatist in her nature decried this connection as baseless conjecture and extrapolation of the worst sort...verging on madness if she was being entirely honest. Still, for all of this strident condemnation, Mary could not divest herself of the notion that the woman with whom she had agreed to dine tomorrow night had once been the desperate girl who had fled her home for the terrible uncertainty of life on the road.

And then there was the truly perplexing connection to the enduring mystery known as Elizabeth Simpson...and it was here that this darkly compelling investigation took an abrupt left turn into territory that was truly macabre. Last night, Mary had remained awake until the small hours of the morning, fervently rummaging through page after page of decades old links...hoping for a small glimpse of this elusive specter. She had finally printed out a photograph of the woman and stared at her beautiful countenance until every exquisite detail of her face had settled into an indistinguishable blur. Elizabeth Simpson had been missing and presumed dead for more than twenty five years by the time she seemed to resurface in Colorado and then at a truck stop on the border between Oregon and Washington state. Somehow, she had emerged from the grave in the company of a girl who matched Cassandra Jasic's description. Simpson had been wanted in connection to violent deaths at both locations...and then the pair had abruptly vanished from the radar...never to be seen again.

It was here that Donald Gansby had given up the effort...or at least skipped ahead. Mary, her studious and nimble mind not easily satisfied with gaping holes, had cast about for a possible course through the darkness...and had conjured a most intriguing possibility. Less than two days after the incident at the truck stop, the city of Seattle had been partially devastated by an explosion that remained unexplained fifty-five years later. In the days immediately preceding that inexplicable tragedy, the city had been beset by two horrifying episodes of social unrest. It was the second of these that had kept Mary burning the midnight oil...pressing stolidly forward even as her own mind derided her as ridiculous.

The demented religious zealot, Gregor Ingram, had led an army of similarly mad zealots to the city of Seattle with the intention of destroying a satanic emissary he had labeled the golden witch. He and his army of the religiously deranged had evidently been incinerated in an explosion that had leveled twenty percent of the city. This had spawned the first of Mary's wild projections...Elizabeth Simpson was Gregor Ingram's Golden Witch and their paths had converged in Seattle with lethally explosive results.

As much of a liberty as this extrapolation was, it was Mary's next excursion through the darkness that stretched credibility to a screaming extreme. Somewhere between the cataclysm in Seattle and her first known appearance at Karnalla Mansley's side in London, Cassandra returns to her hometown and dispenses some incredibly barbaric retribution on her two parents. She then lives the life of a stoic, decidedly inaccessible fixture until Karnalla Mansley makes her exit from the world fashion stage. Earlier this year, the now reclusive Mansley leaves her London cloister for parts unknown and Cassande Verhoeven...the mirror reflection of Mansley's irascible companion sails into Donald Gansby's life. Gansby, by enormous coincidence, just happens to be the unattached investigator on a series of baffling murders that has plagued the city for the past two years. It was in the minutia of this progression that Mary conjured a possible formative motivation for Cassande's campaign of bloody mayhem. She understood that her theory was tentative and forged by a chain of very tenuous assumptions, but in the context of this disturbing puzzle, they seemed plausible enough.

Cassandra Jasic had fled her home and while there could be any number of reasons for her desperate flight, Mary worked backwards to connect the slaughter of the girl's unsavory parents with the prime cause of Cassandra's escape. Employing this bit of speculation as a foundation, Mary had allowed that it had been Cassandra who had returned to extract her gruesome revenge on the parents who had so horribly abused her.

Langdon then followed a simple thin thread through the bizarre and murky labyrinth, along a time line that stretched over fifty years. The hieroglyphic figure at Karnalla Mansley's side is suddenly cut loose and set adrift by her benefactress. With no mollifying influence, Cassande...or Cassandra, more properly...reverted back to her old habits...turning her accrued wrath on pedophiles and child abusers in a visceral reaction to the abuse suffered at the hands of her parents. This theory was absurd of course and as flimsy as a house of cards in a hurricane, but her sharp instincts (which had nothing to do with pragmatism) insisted that it was correct nonetheless.

_'What you're thinking is insane, Mary?'_ her inner pragmatist grumbled in a plaintive voice dripping with scathing sarcasm. The sardonic query was valid enough and there was little denying that...on the surface...Mary's extrapolations were preposterous to the point of warranting concern over her sanity. _'Insane...until you consider the fact that Thomas Greavy was killed by an invisible assailant...or that Barney Tate was reduced to a pile of ash that would have made the most efficient crematorium green with envy, all without burning the sofa his ashes were found on. No pragmatic, light-of-day explanation could ever be produced for either of those inconvenient anomalies.'_

While those contentions were true enough, was she then compelled to emulate religions and concoct her own explanation for seemingly inexplicable events? It was here that Mary stumbled over the illogical facets of her extrapolations and the wild conclusions they seemed to suggest. Mary was unaware that she had fetched a deep sigh, which drew an inquisitive glance from her partner.

"Are you okay, Mary...perhaps we could stop for lunch before getting on with the next bunch?" Donald inquired in his earnest, concerned fashion. Not wanting to risk being drawn into conversation for fear it might gravitate toward her new private fixation, Mary simply offered the explanation that she hadn't slept well the previous night. Donald accepted this but the expression of concern remained on his open face.

Mary went back to her private contemplation, deliberately trying to maintain an outward facade of inscrutability even as her inner thoughts grew more turbulent...more decidedly strange. She had made no attempt to clearly define the culmination of this peculiar exercise...because she feared the shape of that culmination as if it would force her to travel over an alien terrain that she was wholly unequipped to negotiate. Still, as all viable alternatives emphatically vanished, Mary was astute enough to understand that she would eventually have to confront the terminal point of her progression and the horrifying things it implied.

She was also wise enough to grasp that...should the notion she was entertaining even remotely resembled the truth...she had attracted the attention of a very, very deadly species of predator.

3

Old Southwark was a very different creature once the sun set on the city of London. Raw-edged and daunting enough during the daylight hours, the neighborhood became an entirely different beast when darkness laid claim to this part of the world. To be on foot in this section of the city alone at night was a testimony to a person's fortitude...and their lack of good judgment. Here the disaffected and disgruntled descended to relieved their frustrations or ply their shadow trades of which there were no shortage.

That a woman possessed of the beauty such as the one now ensconced in the shadows of the alley directly across from Hector slug Gentry's domicile, would be alone and on foot in this part of the city, demonstrated a lack of judgment that could only be characterized as suicidal. In truth, the flame-haired beauty was easily the most deadly creature presently stalking these hostile streets.

Cassande stared fixedly at the crumbling brick building that served as both home and livelihood to the repulsive slime that lived there...a miscreant with the appropriate sobriquet of slug. Before she had reduced him to ash, Barney Tate had claimed that this Gentry was party to a new fever that was sweeping the deviant subculture and while Cassande could not be certain that this fever was the shadow box, the possibility warranted further investigation. She smiled in jubilation, knowing that the dawn would see one less perverted miscreant drawing breath...even if it brought her no closer to the shadow box.

The cold drizzle had driven many of this area's roving denizens to seek diversion inside and Cassande crossed the empty street at a leisurely stroll as her incisive gaze swept the row of second storey windows that resembled the eyes of corpse. On the crumbling sidewalk, she turned north and made her way along the edge of the building and turned into another trash-strewn alley. About ten meters further along, she spotted the rusting iron railing and stairs that led down into the basement where Gentry moved his illicit filth. She briefly contemplated starting her search there, but decided that it was improbable that she would find anything pertaining to the shadow box there. If there was anything of value to be garnered from this place, it would come through Gentry himself.

Allowing her chin to settle to her chest, Cassande closed her eyes and let her consciousness slip its moorings and drift upward. An instant later, she was peering through the darkened window directly above her. Not seeing her quarry, Cassande willed her projection to the next window near the east end of the building...which was positioned directly above a garbage-filled dumpster. Peering through the filthy window into the near total darkness, she discerned an indistinct sleeping form and knew that she had located the slug.

Immediately, her physical body rose up into the rainy air and came to hover directly outside the window with the tips of her leather boots perched on the edge of the severely fragmented casing. With a rueful scowl, she whispered, "I do hope you're ready to sing, fucker."

Cassande then seemed to burst apart, quickly coming together in a swirl of dull red light that swept under the poorly fitted window frame and into the musty interior of Hector Gentry's bedroom.

Hector jerked awake like a veteran soldier who has spent the vast majority of his life on the front lines of an unending war. Cursing, he looked around owlishly for the source of the sound that had drawn him up from his fitful slumber. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Gentry uttered another tired expletive and flopped back to the pillow, staring blankly up at the water-stained ceiling.

The soldier analogy had been an appropriate one Hector would have readily attested because growing up in Southwark could be compared to living in a war zone in many ways. Gentry had lived in this impoverished London neighborhood his entire life and in those sixty two years, he had never once seriously contemplated moving on to greener pastures. Even laying in the darkness of this ramshackle building, the life-long loner scoffed at the idea of living anywhere else. At an early age, Gentry had come to glean the salient forces that governed what passed for life in this squalid repository for the permanently disenfranchised. He recognized the catalyst for what it was...desperation...and also discerned how he might shrewdly turn that catalyst to his own advantage. Though Hector had not flourished by any means...he had survived as well as a man with his talents and limitations might reasonably expect in such an inimical environment.

In this bastion of hopelessness, the slug had found a measure of contentment...all because he recognized the driving force that fuelled the machine here in Southwark...desperation. It was desperation that filled the need for the drugs that poisoned the minds and souls of the hopelessly entrapped. It was desperation that provoked the violence that ran rampant in the streets like a savage frenzy that no amount of liberal pity could quell. The muggings, the robberies and home invasions...these acts were all symptomatic of a sense of despair that had inculcated itself deep into the bones and marrow of this withering husk called Southwark.

Desperation brought the kids to his store in droves, all seeking temporary deliverance in ink and paper fantasies from another age to carry them away from the harsh realities of their wretched existence. Desperation manifested itself in a far more sinister way in the basement of his establishment, where men came to stoke their dark proclivities like smoldering fires that must be fed...if only sparingly...lest they erupt to consume those who tended them. That was precisely how Hector Gentry had come to perceive himself...a purveyor of wards against desperation. He was fully cognizant of the inherent dangers in allowing these afflicted predators to congregate in such close proximity of those they would abuse...but the slug had long ago learned that coming between a man and his desperation was a most precarious position one could take.

Another lesson that life had imparted to Gentry along the way was that desperation was a fickle, two-headed serpent that could quickly turn upon those who looked to exploit it to their own advantage. To that end, Hector had long since embraced the prudence of taking every precaution against this serpent's bite. In the encounter that was about to follow, that prudence would serve him well.

A furtive whisper came to his ears and he lifted his head in time to see a figure literally resolve into being as if the darkness had been granted tangible form. The figure glided lithely to the foot of his bed and stood watching him silently. He could feel its keen regard on his doughy face like a palpable touch. Pushing himself to his elbows, Gentry spat belligerently, "All right...just who the fuck are you then?"

The figure shook its head and spoke...a smooth, feminine voice that was edged with exasperation. "Is everyone in this reeking sty a vulgar swine? Now, I take it that I have the pleasure of being in the charming company of the slug?"

"Like I would fuckin' tell you...now get your arse out of my house before I break a cricket bat over your thick fuckin' skull, bitch!" Gentry bellowed even as he began to inch toward the side of the bed beneath which there sat something far more lethal than a cricket bat. Gentry had always subscribed to the notion that there was only one posture to take when confronted by the aggressive side of desperation...and that was indignant fury.

There was a flicker of movement in the darkness, the scarcely perceptible folding of shadow, and then something blazing molten gold was protruding from Gentry's left foot. Pain followed hard on the heels of shock and then Hector's frantic wails of agony tore the silence like a frenzied beast. There followed a petulant twist and then the offending blade withdrew, leaving a gaping hole in the flesh between the bones of the writhing Gentry's foot.

In a blithe, reasoned tone, the intruder promised, "Another vulgarity or vapid threat and you'll find yourself without toes on that foot...an unimaginably painful injury, I can promise you. Now, are you prepared to listen or does the prospect of wearing two different size shoes fascinate you?"

Straining and sweating against the nauseating agony, Gentry managed to still sound defiant. "Whaddya want?"

"Information of course...what else could a grubber like you possibly have that would be of worth to anyone else. Now, let's not squander precious time...you run a nasty little business concern out of the basement of this cesspit...catering to a particularly vile form of filth...isn't that right, slug...and I would caution you against the wisdom of slipping into the automatic denial default that all you slime seem to have," the figure admonished and though her tone was mild, it held a faint trace of menace that the perceptive Gentry recognized all too well.

"And even if I do, what would you care?" Hector challenged.

The woman held up a finger in the darkness and Gentry gasped despite his resolve to show this insane bitch no fear. The long digit glowed a sinister molten gold and hissed and crackled in the charged silence...replete with the promise of agony. "You would be astounded to discover just how much I care. Now let's cut to the chase because the noxious stench in here is turning my stomach...what do you know about something called a shadow box?"

Gentry remained silent for a long moment and Cassande could hear his labored breathing in the darkness...and the accelerating of his clogged heart. In response, she felt a burgeoning excitement of her own. _'This pig actually knows something,'_ she thought excitedly. _'The fact that he is unwilling to share even in the face of what I've already done to him only confirms that it is something huge...and terrible.'_

Holding up her right hand, which started to glow...it's blinding magnitude promising horrific pain...she snarled, "Don't try my patience!"

For his part, Hector was engaged in a frantic internal dialogue...weighing the consequences of playing dumb with this terrifying intruder against the consequences of dishing dirt on the man who might have the knowledge she sought. Even as this debate raged, Hector continued to make his way to the edge of the bed by tiny increments. Loyalty amongst thieves and snakes was a much over-rated commodity and Gentry quickly opted on the side of self-preservation. "All right then...just keep your knickers on...I don't know what a shadow box is...but there has been a...a buzz amongst the diddlers."

"Precisely what kind of buzz?" The woman demanded impatiently.

"It's being quietly put about that there is a man...who can hook you up with a way to indulge all of your fantasies...no matter how...exotic. This is probably a load of goat shit, but the word is that this indulgence is risk free. It sounds too good to be true...because it probably is...but it's got the deviants in a lather." Gentry abruptly stopped...knowing the question this disclosure would inevitably spawn and wondering if he could make his play before being forced to divulge the name...that would spell his death sentence one way or the other.

"And does this mythical man have a name...again; think very carefully about the circumstances in which you now find yourself."

"Pipson...Roger Pipson is the name that's been given about," Gentry croaked, loathing the tone of desperation in his voice.

"And how does one go about finding this Roger Pipson?" the harrowing creature inquired sharply, though now her tone also resonated with a distinct note of satisfaction.

Again Gentry hesitated and Cassande could hear his over-taxed heart cycle up yet another notch. When he began to speak, Hector's voice resonated with earnest confusion. "Here's the thing that is so daft...them that's interested don't find him...he finds you. That's what the boys are claiming...me personally, I think it's all blather."

In a distant, distracted tone, Cassande disagreed. "I think you're wrong slug...not blather at all. Now...one final question...do you personally know of anyone who has spoken to this man...received his black sacrament...so to speak?"

Gentry shook his head emphatically. "No...which is why I think it may be nothing more than an appealing yarn."

The terrible woman raised her two hands, which simultaneously burst into blinding flame. "You've done well, slug...though not quite well enough to warrant me sparing your miserable life. To actually allow pedophiles to gather in the basement while you make your living selling tripe to children just one floor above...that is beyond unconscionable...and certainly unforgivable."

Hector feigned a wail of terror...which did not require a great deal of acting...and rolled to his right as if trying to turn away from his would-be executioner. Reaching under the bed, he drew the vintage Corsican shotgun in one fluid movement and rolled onto his back. The report of the subsequent blast was deafening in the small confines of Gentry's flat.

The flare of light surprised Cassande and before she could react, the double-barreled discharge took her square in the chest, lifting her from her feet and slamming her back into a full length, warped mirror. She went down in a hail of mirror fragments while the smell of cordite hung heavily in the air.

"How's that for unforgivable...you fucking cunt!" Hector bellowed triumphantly as he rose to his feet, still clutching the empty shotgun in his meaty hands.

In the alley outside his window, a Metropolitan Police Car came to a screeching halt, its lights bathing the room in alternating waves of red and blue.

From the shadow where the woman had been thrown there arose a soft laughter...fraught with amused disdain...that chilled Hector Gentry's vitiated heart. Incredibly, the woman climbed to her feet, absently brushing slivers of broken mirror from her clothing. "Now...that was unexpected...very good...now allow me to reciprocate."

Without the slightest hint of consideration for the consequences of this rash action, Hector turned and charged toward the room's single window. Preparedness had been his mantra for most of his life and now it served him to good effect. He raised and crossed his arms to shield his face and threw himself through the window, tumbling ten feet into the refuse dumpster. Perhaps in a burst of prescience, he had arranged to have the dumpster positioned just beneath his window and was vigilant in insuring that it was always full of stuffed refuse bags.

Cassande's sardonic laughter turned to a howl of frustration as her quarry surprised her by doing the unexpected. She reached the window in a single bound, just in time to see two police officers pulling a babbling Gentry from the dumpster she'd first noticed before entering his hovel. Cassande retreated into the shadows just as Gentry began to scream about robbers and one of the officers directed his high intensity beam toward the top window.

Cursing, she began to spin in place, erupting into a twisting column of writhing flame that quickly ignited the room's flammable contents. With a primordial howl, Cassande became a living vessel of flame that exploded through the ceiling and up into the pouring night sky...before swiftly transforming into a dove and winging her way toward the northwest.

As she flew through the intensifying downpour, Cassande understood that she had been met with a spate of misfortune that would eventually come back to haunt her.

Chapter Seventeen

1

Elizabeth maneuvered her Jaguar to the edge of the narrow lane, directly across from the imposing wrought iron gates that seemed to glare balefully in the most uninviting fashion. _'This could well be symbolic of the reception you might expect...fifty-five years, Elizabeth...do you genuinely think she will forgive what she is bound to perceive as the most grievous slight?'_

Drawing a tremulous breath, Elizabeth opened her door and stepped out into the late afternoon gloom. She inhaled deeply and turned her face skyward, dismayed to find that even the slate gray sky seemed forbidding. She peered along the length of the deserted lane and realized that she was subconsciously delaying what was to come. Through the convoluted tangle of emotions that seemed to be riveting her in place, Elizabeth could discern one that stood forth from the rest...cold, marrow-deep fear.

Though she had tried to don a confident facade for Judith, Elizabeth could feel her trepidation growing with every kilometer that brought her closer to the moment of reunion. Every effort to envision a possible shape this meeting might assume had been met with defeat, leaving her to conclude that there was truly no way to gracefully rationalize the decision that had kept her away for these past five and a half decades. _'Go Elizabeth...before it's too late. Nothing of value can ever grow in the dark soil of an entanglement with this woman...for you, she is the essence of dissolution and despair.'_

Elizabeth blinked, recognizing this voice as the one belonging to the narrator of the dream that had spurred her along this bleak path. There was an inherent contradiction in the advice it had just offered, but in her disconcerted state, Elizabeth was far too agitated to flush it out. Still vacillating, Elizabeth leaned against the car and bowed her head, trying to evaluate her capacity to confront what awaited her on the other side of that uninviting gate. Perhaps her mind had subconsciously prepared for some form of conflict, as the attire she'd purchased after leaving Judith suggested. She had eschewed her customary feminine attire for jeans, knee high leather boots and a simple tee shirt and a supple leather jacket. Her honey blond hair was tied back in a single pony tail that hung down to the small of her back.

_'You've selected these clothes because a part of you anticipates that this will not end well and you may actually have to fight to leave this place,'_ the melodic voice of Judith Ranzman suggested with the slightest hint of vexation. _'Why not simply avoid the possibility completely...comeback to London and we'll solve this together...afterward, I'll show you such wonders. I'll give you back the life this bastard stole from you. Let Cynara remain what she is...a bitter memory from a past life best forgotten.'_

Elizabeth drew a quavering breath, feeling herself being torn between two opposing destinies and suspecting that her forward path might lead between the two diametrically opposed attractions. Shaking her head, she chastised herself with this perceived distraction. _'How can you even dwell on this when your son's only granddaughter is in the clutches of an amoral psychopath...focus on the only thing that truly matters...getting Rebecca safely back to her family.'_

Marching purposefully across the road, Elizabeth came to a halt on the shoulder of the road, studying the spiked top of the antiquated fence. A mechanical whir whispered against the prevailing afternoon silence and Elizabeth gaze was drawn to the small camera that discreetly swiveled in her direction.

Before it could settle upon her, she bent at the knee and leapt vertically into the air, easily surmounting the three and a half meter fence and landing lithely in the center of the crushed gravel driveway. Sparing the lane one final longing glance, Elizabeth started resolutely forward...before her anxiety could master her determination and send her scurrying back to London. Thick stands of trees occluded the view of the estate from the road and Elizabeth did not garner her first glimpse of Cynara's home until she rounded a long sweeping curve, where she came to an abrupt halt, flabbergasted by the sheer enormity of the sprawling structure that Karnalla Mansley's beauty had procured for the woman who had usurped it.

Elizabeth was suddenly assailed by an incisive stab of guilt, realizing what she was asking her fellow immortal to risk by helping her confront Ian Barrows. _'Perhaps, but does she not owe me some measure of recompense for the life she stole from me,'_ Elizabeth wondered with an uncharacteristic hint of petulance. _'She took my son from me...my family...any prospect of normalcy that my life might have had...all to strut me about on her chain like a well groomed pet. Is it really so much to ask that she would now reciprocate?'_

Even as she posed this internal rationalization, Elizabeth understood that her argument was self-serving distortion. While it was true that it had been Cynara who had fell upon her with the intention of possessing Elizabeth, it was equally true that it had been the older immortal who had fallen under Elizabeth inadvertent enchantment...an attraction that, if Judith's assessment was correct, Cynara had been ultimately powerless to resist. Cynara had defied her egocentric nature and allowed her to live in Chevru...had given up her own life so that Elizabeth could live. Once reanimated as Karnalla Mansley, her former mistress had done everything in her power to help her escape the noose that their former masters had reserved for Elizabeth's neck. Cynara had made every possible effort to atone for her transgressions against Elizabeth and Elizabeth had absolved her of her sins. The slate had been wiped clean after Seattle and turning to Cynara for help in this grim predicament had nothing to do with balancing the scales.

Elizabeth was incapable of the act of self-delusion that would be necessary to portray what she was about to ask of Cynara as anything other than a selfish plea that did not take the other woman's well being into account.

_'Only someone who loves the other person unremittingly and would reciprocate without hesitation or qualification should ever ask what you are proposing to ask of Cynara Saravic, Elizabeth.'_ Elizabeth came to a stumbling halt and emitted a strangled groan as she peered up at the estate that stood gray against the tumbling sky of the same monochrome color...the color of quiet despair. _'Are you willing to proclaim your unequivocal love for Cynara Saravic, Elizabeth...for the sake of a woman you've never met? If not, how could you possibly ask her to dive back into the waters of her own corruption and become the ruthless entity she once was...are you capable of such ignoble manipulation? Don't dare paint it with the veneer of palatable euphemism...you're asking Cynara to become a monster again...'_

In that moment of crystalline comprehension, Elizabeth felt as though she had been struck by a celestial hammer. The shame of what she was about to do drove her to her knees and she pressed her face into the manicured lawn and groaned in self-loathing. She remained this way for a long time, rocking herself with her face pressed into the damp grass...trying to find an incentive to rouse herself from her debilitating torpor. Another voice spoke then and it was a moment before she could identify it as the voice of the venerable creature who had spared her life...both in Chevru and again in Seattle when it had seemed that her demise was inescapable. In a strangely nuanced voice, Alexandria remarked softly, _'Rather than flay yourself with your perceived faults, perhaps you would be better served by examining your true feeling for the woman from whom you've come to solicit aid. It's not an easy matter to admit that you have come to love a creature who stands as a symbol of all that you have lost...the catalyst for all of your miseries...both real and imagined. You question your divinity, Elizabeth but is to forgive and embrace those who have wronged you not the very quintessence of divinity?'_

Elizabeth sat back on her shapely haunches and absently brushed moisture for her eyes as she contemplated this final startling notion. The subject of her feeling for Cynara Saravic had long been anathema for Elizabeth, who went to great length to repress any thoughts of giving them audience. Turning her mind to the serious consideration of how she felt about the woman who had exerted the greatest...and often most cataclysmic impact on her life was the emotional and spiritual equivalent of marching into a mine field replete with all of the hazards that entailed. Still, she could not shake off the certainty that Cynara Saravic was the only one capable of delivering her from this dark moment and so she permitted herself to traverse a road that had long filled her with the blackest dread.

She rose and made her way to the foot of the stairs that led up to the main entrance, stumbling over the vast expanse of pristine white crushed stone on legs that were stiff and unresponsive. The vast structure seemed to hunch forward, but the aura it projected was not predatory, but rather bleak and depressingly sterile...as if life and all of its trappings had no place within these cold walls.

Shaking her head, Elizabeth backed away from the stairs, deciding that she would first perambulate the building, while trying to conjure the nerve to march up to the front door and ring the bell. The urge to flee back to the less intimidating mystery represented by the mercurial Judith Ranzman returned with a renewed sense of urgency. There was something brewing in the air of this place like the stirring of an unseen energy that might very well prove fatal. She reached the west end of the building and turned north, following a wide stone path that led through the thinly spaced trees to the rear acres of the property.

Her frazzled mind seemed to derive intense pleasure from taunting her with a succession of vivid images, juxtaposed stills of the two raven-haired beauties who were perhaps flip sides of the same haunting coin. Her fate...and the fate of everyone she knew...would be settled by the face that would shine forth when that coin came to rest. She recalled the ghostly incarnation of David telling her that there was no wrong choice between the two paths now confronting her, but Elizabeth could not divest herself of the certainty that he had been wrong. One of these women would lead to her emphatic undoing, while the other held forth the prospect of...of something else.

In this state of preoccupation, the normally perceptive Elizabeth failed to detect the shadow that was hastening across the manicured expanse of lawn like a wraith. A hand closed about her long braid and jerked her head back with enough force that Elizabeth lost her balance, falling to the grass with a startled cry. In the next instant, Elizabeth found herself lying on the manicured lawn, peering up into a face she had not seen in sixty years. The dark irises, marred by tiny speckles of the purest gold, provoked a torrent of intense memories that left Elizabeth Simpson gasping.

"You're trespassing on priv..." Cynara Saravic snarled and then her mouth snapped shut with an audible plop. Her exquisite eyes gaped open...impossibly large...and she took several stumbling steps backwards as her right hands fluttered to her mouth. Losing their integrity, her long legs folded, spilling Cynara onto her pert bottom.

A profound silence descended upon this dramatic juncture of reunion then...as the two immortals gaped at each other...rendered inarticulate by the gravitas of the moment. The two women remained locked in nearly identical positions of incredulity and the four meters between them suddenly seemed like an infinite void. As Elizabeth watched the other woman, Cynara appeared on the verge of apoplexy. Her mouth worked frantically as a steady torrent of emotions rippled across Cynara's beautiful face; shock and incredulity, euphoria, intense pain and misery...and finally, frighteningly, unbridled fury.

"Cynara?" Elizabeth ventured tentatively, even mustering a weak smile in the hopes of defusing that rage.

The other woman exploded from the ground and flew toward Elizabeth as if she'd been shot out of a cannon. In the next instant, Elizabeth found herself lying flat on her back with Cynara straddling her chest and her powerful fingers clutching at Elizabeth's throat. "You dare...you DARE BE ALIVE?"

Cynara's cheeks had turned a high, hectic red as she posed this frantic query and then she commenced slamming Elizabeth head against the mercifully soft grass. Elizabeth gripped Cynara's leanly muscled forearms and attempted to dislodge the other immortal's hands, but outrage had endowed Cynara with a strength that Elizabeth could not match. Seeing no other recourse, Elizabeth unleashed a controlled burst of energy that tore Cynara's from her chest and sent her rolling across the grass in a tangle of long limbs.

Elizabeth scrambled to her feet, left hand massaging her throat, and retreated several paces, watching warily as the other immortal climbed to her feet, her great dark eyes blazing like twin suns. "So you want to test me, do you Elizabeth?"

"I've only come to talk Cynara...please stop this!" Elizabeth begged, deliberately making her tone adjuring and deferential.

Cynara's eyes widened and she shook her head in disbelief, "Talk? Do you have any idea what you've done to me...you self-possessed bitch. I don't think you do...but I'll show you...oh yes...I'll show you in painfully explicit terms."

Cynara twisted her torso, extended her long arms and swiftly rotated her body. From the periphery of her vision, Elizabeth could discern an odd thickening of the damp air and could smell the faint, acrid aroma of burning ozone. The invisible force struck her broadside and literally picked her off the ground as if she was no more substantial than a pile of dead leaves.

Elizabeth was propelled across the grass and landed ten meters away, face down and momentarily stunned by the impact. Cynara materialized beside her and smartly kicked her in the ribs, before flicking off the flat shoes she wore. Elizabeth grunted in pain and attempted to roll away, but Cynara gripped the back of her leather jacket in both hands and tore it in two as if it was paper. The air filled with the cloying stench of burning leather and the torn remains of Elizabeth's jacket burst into argent flames in Cynara's hands. She discarded them with a snarl and stomped down on Elizabeth's back, pinning the tall blond to the grass like an impaled bug.

Cynara railed at the fallen woman and even through her tirade, Elizabeth could hear resonating echoes of the infinite misery that her decision to stay away had inflicted on the aggrieved creature. "For fifty-five years I mourned your loss...wondering if the day would ever come when the grief would subside...the anguish would relent...if only marginally, but it never did Elizabeth. Instead it ravaged my heart like a thresher...growing more acute with the slow passing of years. This is what you've inflicted upon me, bitch! Let me give you a taste of just how that kind of sorrow feels to bear after this day is done."

Elizabeth heard a sibilant hiss the instant before the electric flail materialized in Cynara's right hand. The enraged immortal stepped back and delivered a half-dozen swift, savage stripes to the back of the fallen immortal's calves, thighs, buttocks and back. The air hissed and sizzled as the flail tore through the heavy fabric of Elizabeth's jeans and the flimsy cotton of her tee shirt. Elizabeth threw her arms protectively around her head and howled in agony as the flail bit deep into the flawless flesh of her body, raising angry welts...that nonetheless did not bleed.

Finally Cynara stepped back; panting with rampant emotion as the flail abruptly vanished from her hand. "That is but a pale facsimile of the suffering I've lived with...the agonizing sense of loss that I carried...wondering if you suffered when they took you. Before I'm finished with you, Elizabeth...you will know what it was to endure my torment."

She reached down and wrapped Elizabeth's long braid in her right fist, but before she could haul the battered woman to her feet, Simpson twisted to face her and her eyes blazed the iridescent orange of mindless rage. Bursting from her supine position, Elizabeth encircled a startled Cynara's tiny waist and carried her high into the air before plummeting back to the crushed stone pathway, landing on top of the dazed Immortal. Gripping the folds of Cynara's blouse, she tore the thin fabric from her body and began to rain heavy, wild blows on the immortal's exposed torso, having surrendered completely to the visceral emotion of the moment.

A clubbing blow from a nearby tree limb caught an unsuspecting Elizabeth across her shoulders and Cynara shrugged her off with a feral snarl. The two women rose to their knees and regarded each other intently. Cynara offered Elizabeth a humorless grin and intoned menacingly. "That's it Elizabeth...show me your true face...show me your hatred. You do despise me don't you? How else could you possibly have done to me what you have? It's just as well...it will make it far easier to kill you if you fight me this way...rather than beg and plead like a whining brat."

Hearing this impassioned declaration, Elizabeth's rage dissipated like fog before the blazing sun. "I don't want to fight you...I never wanted to hurt you...ever!"

This earnest declaration only seemed to infuriate the older immortal further, who seethed in disbelief, "It's impossible that you could be so...so fucking oblivious to the affects of your actions. How could I ever have loved something so shallow?"

She rose to her feet and stripped off the tattered remains of her ruined blouse, throwing it aside as a wicked gleam dawned in her dark eyes. With her full breasts heaving, Cynara advanced on Elizabeth with her arms weaving an intricate pattern around her head. There followed a guttural rumble and the ground beneath Elizabeth's feet erupted, tossing her backward in a dervish of stones, sod and earth.

Again, she found herself flat on her back, dazed and staring up at the roiling sky. In that moment of perfect clarity, Elizabeth realized that she was not condign to the daunting task of defeating Cynara Saravic in a contest of raw, hate-fuelled violence. The best possible outcome she could engineer was to find a method of strategic withdrawal, which considering the enormity of Cynara's fury...might not be so easily achieved. She offered a desperate entreaty and allowed her arms to fall to her sides in a gesture of absolute capitulation. "Please, Cynara stop...please. I submit...just hear me out...and then you can do to me whatever you want."

Cynara's eyes narrowed in suspicion as she stalked over to the prostrate woman who had roused such intense pain and vast love in her cold heart. She straddled Elizabeth and settled heavily onto her chest, peering down on the beaten immortal along the deep valley of her breasts. "You wish only to talk...really? To have a reasonable, civilized dialogue after subjecting me to decades of torture...of pining for the only thing that I've ever found it in my soul to love. Every time I gazed in to a mirror, I saw the shadow of your loss lying across my heart...marring that vaunted Karnalla Mansley beauty. And yet, I look into your eyes...so limpid...so breathtakingly exquisite...and I don't see any trace of sorrow. You are unsullied by an incessant anguish...a longing that never diminishes...never goes away. That is what your death did to me, Elizabeth...it transformed me into a vessel of living sorrow...without even the cold prospect of eventual death to ease the burden of my suffering. Finally, you materialize out of thin air and I can discern not the slightest hint that our separation has caused you even a moment's sorrow or grief."

She suddenly caught Elizabeth's throat in a vice grip and raised her right fist above her head. Elizabeth inclined her chin as if offering Cynara a clear invitation to unleash her anger. Cynara's eyes widened as silver light began to coalesce around the brandished fist. She began to pummel Elizabeth's face with a succession of slow, heavy blows that elicited a grunt of pain from the blond immortal, who nonetheless made no effort to defend herself. As each blow landed, Elizabeth's taut flesh was assailed by a rolling jolt of electricity that caused her muscles to quake and spasm. The punches transformed her face into a gruesome landscape of distended, bruised flesh and when Cynara sat back on her haunches to survey the carnage, Elizabeth was scarcely recognizable.

Cynara's body convulsed and she wailed, "Look what you've made me do. Won't you even defend yourself...damn you?"

Through swollen lips that garbled her words, Elizabeth muttered, 'I've earned your outrage...maybe once you've expended the last of it...you'll...listen to me."

Cynara threw back her head and howled in primal anguish. "Shut up!!! Your words sting worse than daggers. I can't bear to hear them anymore!"

With an inarticulate expression of pure fury, Cynara drove her fingers into the manicured lawn and tore up a great divot of sod. She then thrust the root and dirt entwined mass into Elizabeth's horribly abused face, grinding it remorselessly into the face she had so adored, but which had inspired her to this level of ineffable cruelty.

Elizabeth had meekly accepted Cynara's retribution, reasoning that it was warranted in light of the obvious torment she had inadvertently inflicted on the immortal. Feeling the wet earth being ground into her mouth, nostrils and eyes, Elizabeth was suffused first by consuming panic that quickly relented to indignant outrage of her own. With a primal howl, she unleashed the full, unconstrained weight of her telekinetic puissance that slammed into Cynara like a tornado out of clear air, gathering her up in a swirl of long limbs and flinging her into the air as if she was no more substantial than a sack of feathers.

She struck the side of the nearest stone wall with enough force to dislodge mortar in a spill of dust and then sank to the ground in an unmoving sprawl. Her body convulsed and quivered and then went utterly still. Elizabeth stumbled to her feet and stood swaying for a moment as her vision swam in and out of focus. The pain in her head was a massive, throbbing thing and she felt certain that Cynara had shattered every bone in her face. Her bleary gaze settled on the unmoving immortal and she stumbled over to her, one good eye blazing a malevolent orange, with the intention of simply kicking Cynara's skull to an oozing pulp.

She coughed and sputtered, pawing at the dirt that stung her nostrils and mouth. Reaching down, she intertwined her long fingers in Cynara's raven mane and jerked her head up. Cynara's eyes were glazed and she stared vacantly up at Elizabeth, whose face was stained by earth and the tracks of her hot tears. Sobbing and snarling, Elizabeth raged, "You had no right to do that to me...to humiliate me like that. I stayed away because...because I wanted to have the life that you stole from me in Semelar with David. When he died, I stayed away because I didn't want to jeopardize the reprieve you had been given with my apparent death. I wanted to give you an opportunity to live a life free of the stigma I carry. I see how badly I wounded you...hurt you...but it was never my intention to cause you pain...just to keep you safe." She turned her head aside and spit a glut of saliva and earth. "How could you do this to me?"

She raised her hand and delivered a half-hearted slap to Cynara's slack face, before allowing her head to drop to the grass. Ravaged by abjection and despair, Elizabeth promised, "I was wrong to come here...I'm sorry...I..."

Unable to express the complex blend of discordant emotions that were ravaging her like steel claws, Elizabeth turned and began to stagger toward the main gate.

She had gone no more than twenty paces, when Cynara shrieked hysterically, "Elizabeth where are you going...get back here...I'm not finished with you...Don't you dare walk away from me!"

Refusing to acknowledge Cynara's frantic command, Elizabeth kept stumbling toward the lane, throwing back her left arm in a curt gesture of dismissal with the sound of her own unabashed sobbing ringing in her ears. There was no mistaking the admonition in Cynara's voice when she cried, "Elizabeth...I'm warning you...don't you take another step."

Shaking her head in negation, Elizabeth tried to quicken her pace, but came to an abrupt halt, gazing down in horror as a lancing pain tore through her abdomen. A jagged shard of ice, the approximate circumference of her wrist, protruded from her left side, just beneath her rib cage. With her mouth wide in a mask of disbelief and agony, Elizabeth attempted to turn back to Cynara, but her legs suddenly lost all sensation and she collapsed to the grass, face first. She lay upon the grass while her entire body was assailed by a series of violent spasms that made her jerk and twist like a marionette under the control of a hopelessly ungainly puppeteer.

She could hear shuffling footsteps as Cynara wobbled over to where she lay, but she was powerless to raise her head or give voice to her pain and outrage. Cynara fell upon her in an uncoordinated sprawl. Elizabeth attempted to reprise her previous feat of blasting Cynara free, but the more experienced immortal had erected a protective ward that reflected Elizabeth's magic back on its wielder. Elizabeth issued a muffled grunt as her mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

Snaking her bare arm under Elizabeth's chin, Cynara buried the peak of her lean bicep in the blonde's exposed throat, ensnaring her in an inescapable choke hold. She then rolled onto her back and dragged Elizabeth's slack body on top of her. She crossed her long legs under Elizabeth's rib cage and began to apply a crushing pressure to both her throat and torso. Bringing her full lips to Elizabeth's left ear, Cynara whispered, "I warned you not to leave...I'm going to enjoy this...immensely."

The two battered women lay on the grass of Cynara's sprawling edifice to opulence, both peering up into the teeming sky as Cynara began to strangle the life out of the only creature she had ever truly loved.

With Cynara panting and sobbing in her ear and the pain a distant thing on the periphery of her awareness, Elizabeth receded into the beckoning void. As the gray skies faded to total darkness, her final conscious thought was that she had failed Rebecca.

2

Judith Ranzman pushed away from the new Virtua console and fetched a deep sigh of consternation. As much as she wanted to focus her attention on the task of fleshing out Sir Ian Barrows, her mind kept straying to the window, beyond which a premature dusk seemed to have settled over the sopping city of London. Elizabeth continued absence gnawed at her powers of concentration as she tried to construct an accurate portrait of the power-addled mortal who had marshaled the temerity to attempt to coerce a goddess. The label might have seemed an exaggeration, but Judith had sensed the enormity of Elizabeth's power when she had first confronted her in that Parisian Alley...and had experienced it even more intimately while she had tasted the other woman's essence in their shared bed.

Judith scooped up a ream of printed pages and randomly scanned the chronology of Ian Barrows' ascent to the mantle of fiscal predator. She recognized the blueprint of his success all too well...having employed it to dizzying success in her old life.

"Ah, but nothing rivaling the scope of this man's piracy," she conceded with just a hint of grudging admiration. Ultimately, Ian Barrows was revealed to be excessively rich, savagely ruthless and morally bankrupt...a combination that bred arrogance of the deadliest variation. Still, for all of this, Elizabeth Simpson could obliterate Barrows with the casual ease of an elephant crushing an ant...if she was not encumbered by unassailable nobility...an impediment that had left her completely vulnerable to Barrows' ruthless manipulation.

Judith shook her head in exasperation and crossed over to the floor-to-ceiling bank of windows, peering down on the sea of umbrellas that flowed through the later afternoon streets. _'What have I gotten myself into,'_ she wondered, with a mixture of dismay and irritation. For more than seventy years, she had divorced herself from the clinging entanglements of the world, while she had pursued Amathera's search for deeper understanding...for a measure of spiritual...what...validation? Judith could no longer say with any degree of certainty.

Growing frustrated, Judith had abandoned the effort of trying to find the inherent truth in Amathera's long soul-rending search. She had drifted through Europe for the better part of a decade, witnessing the unfolding of life with a rather detached interest, while wondering how she would spend whatever life might remain to her. As she had told Elizabeth...she had become an invisible vagabond, adrift and purposeless in the stream of humanity. On that bistro in Paris...all of that had changed with the stunning alacrity of a woman who was blind and suddenly finds her sight...her integral purpose...restored. Suddenly, in a stellar burst of epiphany, Judith had found the solution she'd been seeking when she had first walked away from Tamara Hood back in Quinsett seventy-five years before and the purpose of her journey had resolved itself with a single glance at the glowing creature on the opposite side of that crowded bistro. Hers had not been a quest for the spiritual enlightenment, but rather a search for Amathera herself. Driven by exigency, Judith had unwittingly set out to traverse the backwaters and byways of the world in search of a pristine soul who could continue to guide her on her own path to spiritual reclamation.

In Elizabeth Simpson, Judith now believed she had found that incarnation...a living personification of everything she was not...pristine, noble and humble; qualities that Judith had never possessed...but had come to covet.

She had skillfully implanted a tether in Elizabeth's essence...a soul-link of which the ingenuous immortal was completely unaware. It had been Jeniah Lightcrusher who had taught this skill to Judith...but Ranzman had refined this astounding skill to a device of such subtle delicacy that she could now link to any soul of her choice and experience their life vicariously...viewing their perception of the world from the shadowy recesses of their subconscious. She had inculcated the tether with Elizabeth during their pseudo conflict in the Parisian alley and had refined and fortified it when Elizabeth was at her most vulnerable...writhing in the throes of the orgasms that Judith had bestowed upon her over the past few days.

She now had unfettered access to Elizabeth's very soul...whenever she desired. When she had skillfully manipulated Jeniah Lightcrusher into a corner of disadvantage, Judith had not wasted a second before plundering the vast repository of esoteric knowledge the ancient creature possessed, but that particular incarnation of Judith had been a ruthless exploiter.

_'And what exactly are you now dear?'_ she wondered morosely as she glimpsed her lovely countenance reflected like a diaphanous thing in the suite's windows. Judith was reluctant to ponder the matter of her transformation, but she did know that she was extremely reluctant to utilize the tether and venture into Elizabeth's mind...as if to do so should be to violate the sanctity of the trust which the immortal had demonstrated toward Judith. She shook her head in bemusement, frowning at the perplexing thought that she would value another living soul's regard to the extent that she would actually defy her natural inclination...to take full advantage of what now stood open and unencumbered to her.

To her eternal incredulity, Judith was forced to admit that she did not want to possess Elizabeth...as she had Amathera, whom she had desired as a beautiful, guileless toy for her amusement. She felt the exigent need to be subservient to Elizabeth...to protect her from predators like Ian Barrows and ward her against the pervasive ugliness that the world seemed to contrive with endless variety.

_'And like you,'_ a voice whispered slyly in her mind. This last though evoked a groan of consternation and Judith began to pace through the lavish suite, trying to come to terms with the irreconcilable disparity between her nature and this new compulsion to embrace a path of selfless devotion to another living being.

_'If you truly intend to protect this ingénue, then you must recognize her greatest vulnerability,'_ Jeniah Lightcrusher advised in her cold, aloof voice. _'Her intransigent adherence to her sacred ideals will be her undoing. If she is not willing to deal with those who would prey upon her on their own terms, her future will be bleak. You have always been a devious creature, Judith...and though you've supposedly embraced the path of reform...we both know that yours is a sly embrace. If you want to bask in the radiance this creature exudes...then you must do for her the distasteful tasks she is disinclined to do for herself.'_

The prudence of Jeniah's advice was incontestable...but to betray Elizabeth's trust...to breech her strict edict would be to risk permanent banishment...something Judith was loath to do. Judith groaned in frustration...her plight further exacerbated by Elizabeth's stubborn insistence that she must turn to Cynara for aid that she, herself, was more than willing to impart.

Gazing at herself in the mirror, Judith beamed a devious grin and whispered, "Since when did Judith Ranzman ever permit anyone else to dictate the course of her actions...I'll protect Elizabeth...but in my own inimitable way?"

Bolstered by this new resolve, Judith crossed to the suite's bed and sat cross-legged on the expensive comforter. Bowing her head, she delved into the labyrinth of her complex mind and opened the tether to her immortal companion. She willed herself to lift from the moorings of her own body and soon found herself speeding along the diaphanous tether into the far corner of Elizabeth mind...and a raging vortex of silver agony.

Judith's physical body was picked off the bed and slammed into the wall, before rolling onto the floor where her feet beat a spastic tattoo on the thick carpet and her back arched, contorting until it seemed inevitable that her spine must shatter.

Elizabeth...her precious Amathera...was being thoroughly devastated. Though the pain was a vast thing that was nearly incomprehensible, Judith gritted her teeth and forced herself to the forefront of Elizabeth's reeling mind. She found herself peering up through eyes that had been reduced to narrow slits...gazing through a haze of agony into dark eyes ablaze with flecks of living gold and narrowed in immutable fury.

The heavy blows fell with the cruel deliberation of a mallet. Whimpering, Judith fled the confines of Elizabeth's besieged flesh and came back to herself with a strangled moan...the horrible truth of Elizabeth's plight resolving itself with disheartening clarity.

Cynara...the monster that Judith had encountered during her excursion through Elizabeth's life...was savagely brutalizing the precious creature, who seemed unable or unwilling to raise a hand in her own defense.

Frantic, Judith leapt to her feet and quickly gathering up her precious cloak and Elizabeth's purse, swept from the suite at a dead sprint. Cursing herself for never taking the time to master the art of transmogrification, Judith drew up the hood of her cloak and took to the streets, racing along the watery avenues at an indefatigable sprint.

She knew that she was woefully inadequate to the task of physically confronting Cynara, but was startled to realize that she would make the attempt nonetheless. She would try to save Elizabeth...even if it meant her own demise...an inclination toward self-sacrifice of which Judith would have thought herself utterly incapable.

A portion of her frenzied mind understood that she would, in all probability, be far too late to intervene but savagely thrust the dismal thought from her awareness, unprepared to consider how she would react to the reality of Elizabeth Simpson's horrible, needless death.

3

Upon her return to cognizance, Elizabeth's first bleary view was of a high, dove gray ceiling, delineated by a crown molding into which had been scrolled the most delicate gold filigree. As recollection filtered through the fog of disorientation, the second thing she noticed was the conspicuous absence of pain. She glanced about to find that she was lying on a carmine red leather sofa in the middle of a lavishly appointed drawing room.

Turning her head slightly, she saw Cynara Saravic leaning against a marble fireplace, watching her intently through eyes that were narrowed in concern.

"You...you didn't kill me?" Elizabeth marveled in a voice that was hoarse from being choked by the enraged Saravic.

Cynara grimaced and intoned gruffly, "Don't be obtuse...I could no more kill you than I could make the moon do figure eights in the night sky. I couldn't kill you when the pale facsimile that inhabited your body turned on me in Bucharest. I couldn't kill you when you betrayed me in Chevru and left me with a choice of taking your life...or my own." Her beautiful visage twisted into a fierce scowl and she growled, "Oh but Elizabeth, you have no idea how viscerally thrilling it was to feel you go limp in my arms beneath the falling rain!"

Elizabeth's eyes widened in response to the malefic glee in Cynara's eyes as she spoke of the pleasure of nearly killing her, though she remained silent.

Cynara shook her head in apparent self-contempt and recalled, "After I finished you, I rolled you onto your face in the grass and then turned my face up into the cold rain and waited for the euphoria to suffuse my soul, knowing that I had finally shattered the sway you hold over me. When it did not come, I turned you onto you back and stared at the ruins of your beautiful face...and I began to weep like a small child who has smashed a beloved toy in a fit of spiteful pique. It occurred to me...in painfully explicit terms that...if you were to die, I would want to simply lie down beside you and die as well. Sobbing like a baby, I crawled across the grass on my hands and knees and healed that perfect face while blubbering pleas for your forgiveness. More than anything else...this is the poignant truth of your hold upon me, Elizabeth...a hold that I will never break...no matter how much I might deceive myself into thinking I want to."

Elizabeth's right hand drifted involuntarily to her face and she traced its familiar topography. "I'm so sorry, Cynara...I had no right to come here after so long. Will you let me leave?"

She shook her head, her mass of raven tresses shimmering fetchingly in the subdued light of the drawing room. "I would hear why you've come...then I'll decide."

Elizabeth grimaced and attempted to rise, but her effort was defeated by a dizzying wave of pain that racked her body and drove her back down to the cushions.

"Don't try to get up...I've healed your face, but your body is still badly injured. I'll heal those injuries...but I need to recuperate first. You weren't exactly gentle in defending yourself and I need a short time to heal before I can restore you to your customary state of perfection," Cynara disclosed with a tart hint of sarcasm.

Elizabeth nodded and offered the other immortal a tentative smile of gratitude. The flicker of a distant memory came back to her then...a recollection of the first time Cynara had come into her life. It had been in Semelar and she had fainted after first being introduced to the exotic beauty. She had found herself lying on a sofa...very much as she was now...peering up into the exquisite eyes of a woman she had believed was Cynara Simonovic. A moment of intense empathy had passed between the two women then and Elizabeth recalled how she had been struck by the unaccountable but powerful certainty that this woman would forever change her life. That impression had proven to be astoundingly accurate...though in ways the naive ingénue could never have possibly imagined. Here she was in almost the same posture as if time had circled back on itself.

"Cynara, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am for the pain I've caused you...for the wounds I've obviously ripped open by coming here. If you believe nothing else, I hope you believe that one thing. I suspect that isn't much comfort...but I'm being perfectly sincere. I never wanted to hurt you...ever...only to see you safe and happy...with Cassandra."

Cynara's smooth brow furrowed then and an expression of bitterness rippled briefly over her face...one that Elizabeth misconstrued. "I won't speak about Cassandra. Why have you come...now after so long? My cynical side is insisting that you're here...not because you want to be...but because you feel that you need to be...am I wrong?"

Elizabeth's complexion flushed in intense shame and she averted her eyes for a moment and again repeated, "I should go...I've already done enough harm."

Cynara pushed away from the mantle and came slowly over to the sofa, her lurching gait declaring that she had not exaggerated in her declaration of how badly she been hurt during their battle. She settled on the sofa next to Elizabeth with a grimace and gently tilted Elizabeth's chin to face her. "Tell me why you've come, Elizabeth. For fifty-five years, I've mourned your loss. That's truly the curse of immortality...the thing that tears the immortal heart asunder...the pain and grief that comes with loss are always as vivid and excruciating as the day they were first suffered. Yet, here you are...as beautiful and beguiling as you were the first time I set eyes upon you in Semelar. I never told you this, but on the night I turned you...just before I buried that forged blade in your heart...I was assailed by an augury...a presentiment that warned how you would be my undoing...but I did it anyway...fully cognizant that you would be my eventual obliteration. In retrospect, I've come to see that it was you who claimed me that first night in Semelar...I set out to cast a spell over your soul...but ended up being ensnared by my own dark magic."

She laid her palms flat on Elizabeth's taut abdomen and abruptly, golden effulgence radiated from the point of contact, cocooning the blond immortal's throbbing body in an ameliorating glow of soothing warmth. After a time, Cynara smiled at the astounded Elizabeth and withdrew her hands. The throbbing pain in Elizabeth's torso was effaced without a trace. "How...how did you learn to heal?"

Cynara offered Elizabeth a grin steeped in bitterness. "Yet another life altering reality that I can attribute to your hold over me..."

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow in puzzlement and Cynara explained, "The turning endows each of us with a measure of power unique to our essence...the strength of our nature. I've come to discover that this magic is malleable. As our nature changes, so too does the nature of the magic we hold...gravitating from dark to white or white to dark, depending on the direction of the change. When you...reclaimed me in Los Angeles...I was granted access to entire new facets of power...healing being the foremost amongst them. So you see, darling Elizabeth...through your influence...I've become positively saintly."

"Those fists you hit me with hardly seemed saintly," Elizabeth declared with a wry smile. "Thank you for healing me...and sparing my life."

Cynara shook her head, her face twisting into a doleful frown, "Elizabeth...if only you would open yourself to the dormant power that resides in that unique soul of yours...you would see that you could eradicate me with the snap of a finger." She glanced at Elizabeth flatly and murmured, "I'm sorry for what I did to you...with the sod...you were right, it was petulant and needlessly cruel and I can't tell you how ashamed it makes me feel...knowing I sullied you like that. Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me...for that despicable action at least?"

Elizabeth could feel the depth of Cynara's contrition and simply nodded, gently squeezing Cynara's hand. Those dark eyes met hers and she reiterated her question, "Tell me why you've come?"

Still, Elizabeth was ambivalent...and not simply because she believed that Cynara would not be receptive to her plea. This particularly nasty confrontation with her former mistress had opened Elizabeth's eyes to the unforeseen consequences that her actions often carried...as unintentional or well-intended as those actions had been. She had failed to discern the strength of the affection...no, the love...that the immortal held for her and with that failing, she had inflicted a lingering wound on the immortal's heart. If she embroiled Cynara in her conflict with Ian Barrows, she risked exposing her to something perhaps worse. "Cynara...I was wrong to bring this to you and not just because I've stayed away for so long. The situation that I'm in poses an extreme danger to anyone who would attempt to help me...and I see that I have no right to impose this upon you."

Cynara pursed her full lips and arched a tapered eyebrow, clearly perturbed by Elizabeth's persisting stubbornness. "If you actually think that explanation is going to make me desist...then you really have forgotten just how inflexible I can be. Now, unless you would welcome the prospect of being chained up in one of my utility rooms until you become a bit more cooperative, how about you give me enough credit for being able to decide what is in my best interest...and bloody well tell me why you're here?"

Elizabeth's eyes widened in surprise and she realized that the immortal was being entirely serious. Finally, doubting that she could face the prospect of another go around with the powerful Saravic, Elizabeth relented. "Very well...but I want you to put your self-interest first...if you think it is too hazardous to embroil yourself in my tribulations...then promise me you'll walk away...or throw me out on my posterior."

Staring unblinkingly at Elizabeth, Cynara raised her hand and offered the bemused immortal an antiquated gesture of honor...though his dark eyes remained inscrutable. Elizabeth began to tell the tale of all that had befallen her since the night she had first been plagued by the portentous dream. This, too, she decided to relate, reasoning that Cynara had the right to be fully appraised of what she might be facing, should she elect to lend her aid.

Cynara listened and as Elizabeth provided her account of the web into which this mortal spider had so skillfully entrapped her, a dark shadow fell across her beautiful countenance. Elizabeth concluded her story and fell silent. Cynara frowned and rose, turning her back on Elizabeth and stalking over to her original position by the fireplace. Without facing Elizabeth, Cynara remarked, "So once again, you find yourself in a position where your moral constraints won't allow you to do what quite obviously must be done...the unflagging noble Elizabeth will not sully her virtue by staining her hands with blood. Do you really think that abdicating that responsibility...foisting it off on someone else...makes you any less duplicitous? Really Elizabeth...I know you're not capable of that level of self-deception. As for you augury...I think you know me well enough to know that I don't particularly give a fuck about portents...even if they do forecast my ruin."

Elizabeth blinked and levered herself into sitting position, feeling wretched for having come and recognizing the validity of Cynara's condemnation of her hypocrisy. "I'm sorry...as I've said I was wrong to come...and you're right, I do recognize the blatant hypocrisy in what I'm asking. Desperation has eroded the last of my delusions I suppose. Please, I'll go now and find another way of dealing with Barrows."

Cynara spun about and strode quickly over to Elizabeth, where she gripped Elizabeth's chin and forced her back down into a horizontal position. With her hand still clutching the startled blonde's face, she knelt on the soft leather cushion and gently shook Elizabeth's face. "I never said I wouldn't help you. I can't envision the circumstances where I would ever reject you when you needed me. I simply wanted you to admit precisely what it is you are asking of me. I want to hear you say it...clearly and unequivocally...what do you want from me?"

Elizabeth shook her head in confusion, perplexed by the intense emotion shining in the other woman's limpid eyes...an emotion she could not define precisely, but appeared to be a discordant mixture of eagerness and dread. Cynara huffed in frustration and shook Elizabeth's face more roughly. She then pushed her left knee between Elizabeth's long legs and pressed it into her groin. "A part of your mind understands exactly how Barrows must be dealt with, but also is cognizant of the fact that your moral integrity won't allow you to do what is necessary...and so you are here....petitioning someone who is far less...encumbered. That is why you've come to me. You're asking me to become something that I have worked six decades to expunge from my nature...to embrace the darkness that made me the monster I was before I allowed you to extinguish my soul in Chevru. Is that not so, sweet Elizabeth?"

A low moan escaped Elizabeth lips and Cynara flashed her teeth in an expression that was positively feral. She drew Elizabeth's pouting lower lip down and exposed her bottom teeth. She then bent closer until her gold-speckled eyes filled the limits of Elizabeth's vision like burning stars. Growling deep in her chest, Cynara demanded, "Say it, Elizabeth! I want to hear your plea...no euphemisms and no latitude for ambivalence. What do you want from me?"

Their eyes locked and Elizabeth could glean the nascent stirring of a dark force that had long been quiescent behind Cynara's beguiling eyes. Succumbing to the intensity in those compelling eyes...just as she had once done in Semelar...Elizabeth whispered, "I need the old Cynara."

Cynara's expression became grave and she lightly slapped Elizabeth's upturned face. "Louder!"

Elizabeth eyes widened, but when she spoke, her voice was clear and free of any hint of equivocation. "I need the old Cynara...to help me fight Ian Barrows and help me save Rebecca!"

A smile of triumph spread languorously across Cynara's face and she closed her eyes for several moments as if savoring Elizabeth's surrender. When she reopened her eyes, there was a new and terrible gleam burning in their immeasurable depths...one that evoked a quiver from Elizabeth. Cynara's hand slid from Elizabeth chin to her throat where her thumb and index finger began to caress the tight flesh even as she began to move her knee in a circular rhythm against the blond immortal's groin.

Growling, she gripped Elizabeth's right wrist and pulled her arm above her head, before pressing her mouth roughly against Elizabeth's parted lips. Cynara's passion was a hot and aggressive thing as she ran her tongue over Elizabeth's teeth and gripped the immortal's exposed throat...her probing fingers constricting and then loosening...constricting and loosening. Finally, she sat up, but did not relinquish her grip on Elizabeth's throat. The raven-haired beauty's breath came in ragged gasps and her turgid nipples poked prominently through the thin fabric of her blouse. Elizabeth squirmed beneath Cynara, but could not draw her gaze away from the other woman's eyes...mesmerized by the darkly primitive light that reminded her of the feral expression that had heralded Cynara at her absolute worst. "I can see that you recognize exactly what you've awakened, Elizabeth...which is just as well as you'll be complicit in anything I choose to do from this moment forth," she intoned with a throaty growl that made Elizabeth shiver. "I will free you from that decrepit fucker's clever snare...but there is one condition to which you must first agree. Decline and I will never suffer your face in my presence again...the next time I see you, I will finish what I began today..."

"What do you want?" Elizabeth demanded, surprised by the challenge that echoed in her voice or the odd emotions that were besieging her thoughts as she lay beneath Cynara's taut body...leaving her feeling intensely aroused like a wanton that desired only to be ravaged.

Cynara beamed a predatory grin that never touched her frigid gaze. "You! From this day forth...you belong to me...absolutely and completely. There will be no more partings...no more melodramatic crossing of paths and goodbyes. You're mine...emotionally and physically bound to me in whatever way I would have you...eternally. In return, I will deal with Ian Barrows and anyone else who has the audacity to look at you with a gleam of avarice or menace."

Something alien compelled Elizabeth to tilt her head and goad the other immortal defiantly as if something foreign had usurped control of her will. In a husky voice, she rasped, "So you would have me as your slave then...a fixture like the demon you once created?"

Surprisingly, Cynara did not succumb to the bait. Instead, her gaze softened and her eyes grew moist. When she spoke, her voice was tremulous with emotion. "Never a slave...but the other half of who I am...because I will give what I take...reciprocate without reservation. Elizabeth, you are my one love...my only passion...and I will give myself to you...any way that you would have me...eternally. That's my vow to you...a promise that nothing could make me violate. I've spent these last years contemplating the life I've lived and I came to see that, from the instant I first discerned your presence...like a spark of pure golden light in the darkness...the trajectory of my life has brought me to this exact moment. You are the perfect light reflection of my darkness and only together...can we become what we were intended to be...perfectly balanced equals...bonded in every aspect of our existence. That's what I'm offering to you here and now." Her gravitas gave way to an irreverent roguish grin and she quipped, "Of course, if it becomes necessary to give you the occasional spanking...just to keep the arrogant orange gleam out of those lovely blue eyes...I'd feel duty bound to oblige."

Elizabeth greeted this with the ghost of a grin, but her expression remained solemn as she searched Cynara's face...brought face to face with the truth of her feelings for this immortal enigma by exigency. Fiercely, she demanded, "You do understand the implications of my dream Cynara...if I give myself to you and forge this union...I could well be leading us both down a road to our self-destruction?"

Cynara's response came in the form of an ardent kiss that left Elizabeth panting with the need of the other immortal. Reluctantly, her eyes glazed with fever, Cynara pulled back and rasped, "I won't suffer losing you again and if you're destined to die that way...it won't be alone. Time has painfully demonstrated that without you...I have nothing worth living for anyway. Having said that, you had better believe that there is nothing I won't do to prevent that portent from ever coming to pass...even if it means tearing an endless procession of Ian Barrows into bloody ribbons."

Gravely, Elizabeth offered her agreement...knowing that her course forward was now inexorably set. She experienced a momentary pang of guilt over the hurt this would inflict on Judith and on impulse, offered a condition of her own. "Then I'm yours Cynara...just as you would have me...just as it was perhaps always intended to be from that first moment in Semelar. Now, there is something that you will promise me..."

Cynara sat back, her right hand straying to the promise of Elizabeth's full right breast. "This is about the other woman...don't look so startled...I can smell her on you. Her scent is sweet but it burns my nostrils like an acrid smoke. You want me to promise that I won't tear her heart out...am I right?"

Elizabeth merely nodded, shocked by the other immortal's prescience. "Her name is Judith...and you won't harm her, Cynara...not so much as a scratch. She's an extraordinary creature...and in many ways, fundamentally no different than us...especially you."

Cynara raised her chin and asked quietly, "Did she have you?"

"Yes," Elizabeth declared flatly, her gaze not faltering an iota. Cynara's only discernible reaction was a slight inhalation...a flaring of nostrils that was more than sufficient to convey the full extent of the anguish this declaration evoked.

"And do you care for her...love her?" The question had been poised in a calm, composed voice, but Elizabeth could feel that the other immortal was poised on the brink of eruption.

Elizabeth reached up and traced the ridges of those high, aristocratic cheekbones that endowed Cynara's beauty with an imperious edge. "I do care about Judith...and I want her to stay with us...but from this day forth...my heart is yours and yours alone...please, Cynara...let that suffice."

Cynara's taut jaw muscles bunched and she glared at Elizabeth...but as had been the case since the earliest moment of their days together, Cynara came to grasp that she could deny the blond beauty nothing. "Very well...keep your pet if you have need of a reclamation project...but be forewarned...if she so much as bats an eyelash at you..."

Elizabeth placed a long index finger on Cynara's lips. In a husky whisper, she teased, "I've just given myself to you eternally...after fifty-five years of being apart...I would think that you could think of better ways to spend the night than allowing the green-eyed monster to sour your mood." The levity evaporated for her voice and she urged, "Take me, Cynara...show me just how desperately you've missed me all these years...you did it with your fists and rage earlier...now do it with your body and your accrued passion."

Cynara's eyes widened and then she snarled deep in her heaving chest. She sprang to her feet and reaching down, roughly hauled Elizabeth into her embrace. Elizabeth draped her long arms over Cynara's shoulders and wrapped her legs around the immortal's tiny waist. Gripping Elizabeth's left thigh and the curving sweep of her ass, Cynara carried the other woman through the halls of her sprawling manor...which had been an edifice to her loneliness for so long. The two women kissed fervently...their nimble tongues dancing and dueling...as Cynara carried Elizabeth up the stairs and into the cavernous master bedroom, where she had been beleaguered by sleepless nights...pining for the woman she believed she had lost.

She literally kicked the arched doors from their hinges, the heavy oak exploding into shards beneath the force of the passion-fuelled blow. Elizabeth gasped in surprise and throwing back her head, laughed with an abandon she could not recall ever having felt before.

Cynara threw her onto the large bed, her face twisted into a wicked grin, and began to tear the clothes from her own body, while promising, "I'm going to ravish you darling Elizabeth...make you whimper and moan...I'm going to make you beg me to stop...implore me to go on forever."

Elizabeth raised herself on both elbows and taunted, "You were always one for lofty threats, Cynara...don't tell me what you're going to do to me...show me...if you think you can."

Cynara snarled like a hunting cat that has cornered its prey and rasped, "Oh, you genuinely are asking for a lesson I promise you'll never forget."

With this, she fell on Elizabeth and virtually tore the clothes on her taut body into rags. Elizabeth squealed in utter delight and submitted to the other immortal's aggression. Yet when Elizabeth had been completely divested of her clothing, Cynara knelt above her, seemingly transfixed by the other woman's exquisite body. Elizabeth gaped in mounting alarm, when hot tears began to stream from the corners of Cynara's eyes as they roved over the beguiling topography of the blond immortal's body.

Reaching up, Elizabeth traced the track of Cynara's tears. "No sorrow...no tears, Cynara please...unless they're tears of joy. You've yearned for me for fifty years and now I'm lying here...giving myself to you without reservation. We're about to make love for the first time...without that miasma of deception or hidden purpose hovering over us. You and I...honestly and openly...motivated only by the strong emotions that always seem to draw us together. I want to lose myself in that joy...even if it is only for a fleeting moment. So please...stop crying and take me..."

Cynara inhaled deeply and nodded emphatically. She then straddled Elizabeth's right thigh and then pulled the blond toward her until the confluences of their womanhood were pressed together. Slowly, she began to move her hips a circular motion. In response, Elizabeth closed her eyes and threw her arms above her head. She arched her back, thrusting her full breasts into the air...her rigid nipples extending a clear invitation.

"Open your eyes, Elizabeth...and look at me!" Cynara commanded gruffly and Elizabeth did, staring up into Cynara's great dark eyes...her eyelids fluttering as Cynara's gentle undulations sent tremors of electric sensation coursing through her taut flesh. Despite the insistent urging of her own need...a need fed by more than five decades of yearning...Cynara restrained her desire to simply ravage her beloved Elizabeth. Instead, she broke over of the writhing, sighing immortal like gentle waves on a tropical shore.

Never taking her eyes from Elizabeth's glazed face, Cynara raised the other woman's right foot to her mouth and delicately traced the shape of her arch with her skilled tongue...dancing maddeningly over the supple flesh between Elizabeth's toes. Time slowed to a crawl for the beleaguered Elizabeth...sweet and torturous in the same intoxicating instant. As Cynara had promised, Elizabeth begged for release, while proclaiming her wish that the pair could pass an eternity in exactly this fashion.

When Cynara finally permitted Elizabeth her moment of argent-edged release, she threw back her own head and joined her, their cries of ecstasy reverberating through the sprawling mansion and intermingling like the howling of wolves on a winter night in the mountains of Cynara's ancestral home.

While Elizabeth trembled and moaned in the swaying aftershock of her epic moment of release, Cynara snuggled next to her, drawing the other woman's body against her protectively. As she watched Elizabeth tremble and shiver in the wake of her orgasm, Cynara studied the immortal's distracted face. _'What is it that draws me to you so irresistibly...that steals my volition and reconfigures my very nature to suit your fancy? What hold do you so effortlessly exert over me that I would abandon everything to simply bask in your presence...to be by your side no matter what might stand before us? I can only truly live through you and though this should be an affront to every delusion of fierce independence I've ever harbored...should fill me with festering resentment...I find that I'm suffused with only joy...perfect contentment.'_

Watching the way Elizabeth's eyelids fluttered like butterflies over a field...filled Cynara with a delight the completeness of which bemused the immortal...who had once lived only for her own gratification. The arrhythmic rise and fall of Elizabeth's breasts was too enticing to resist and Cynara could not help but dip her warm mouth to the erect pink nipple and swirl her tongue over the majestic landscape of the taut golden flesh...until Elizabeth was once again panting and twisting beneath her.

Cynara abruptly leaned away and propped herself up on her left elbow...her generous mouth twisting into a sinister grin when Elizabeth groaned in frustration. "Patience dear," Cynara intoned wickedly. "After fifty-five years...I'm not letting you out of this bed until I've wrung every last scream out of this magnificent body of yours. I've spontaneously decided to impose another condition of our...arrangement."

Elizabeth head lolled toward Cynara and her eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Don't toy with me, Cynara...don't ruin this moment...please."

Cynara feigned indignation and pressed her fingers to her breast, but then began to roam the landscape of Elizabeth's body with her fingertips. "I have every intention of toying with you at my leisure...but not emotionally. When this is done...and I've sent this pirate to the hell that he so richly deserves...you and I are going to be married. We're going to stand before a magistrate...in the most extravagantly lavish wedding gowns imaginable...dripping with pearls and diamonds...and you are going to become my wife."

Elizabeth smiled at this capricious image, her pristine blue eyes twinkling indulgently. She turned to Cynara and began to caress the curve of the other woman's hip. Immersing herself in this wistful fantasy, she inquired, "And exactly what name would you have me take?"

Cynara pursed her lips and inclined her head in a gesture of contemplation. Then she shifted her gaze back to her beloved, a notion blooming in her dark eyes. "I would have you be Mrs. Elizabeth Simonovic...I want to finally give you the genuine promise that I enticed you with in Semelar all of those years ago."

The raven-haired immortal watched expectantly as Elizabeth considered this offer and then fixed Cynara with a radiant smile. "Mrs. Elizabeth Simonovic...I do believe that would please me enormously...when this is done, I'll gladly be your wife."

Cynara threw back her head and laughed with an unadulterated delight...a rare expression of innocence that was almost child-like in its purity. Elizabeth laid her palm along the angle of Cynara's jaw and tenderly kissed her mouth. She then allowed herself to fall back onto the bed and splaying her long left leg to one side, intoned huskily, "I do believe I'm ready for more of that magic of yours...and you did make a rather bold boast about wringing every last scream out of this enticing body of mine..."

Cynara conjured an evil grin and then fell upon Elizabeth with a throaty growl. She consumed her beloved immortal slowly, like the most precious of delicacies and time became a blur of soft sighs, ardent cries and silver-edged sensations.

As night passed in a languorous flow toward dawn, neither woman could imagine that this blissful interlude would be the last that fate would grant to either.

4

Judith Ranzman sprinted through the city of London like an indefatigable juggernaut. Unconstrained by the rules that governed the physical world, she passed through buildings, concrete, steel and vessels of flesh as if they were no more substantial than the air. Drawing on the puissance of numerous schools of magic, Judith consumed vast chunks of territory like a streaking comet. Finally, in a section that was composed primarily of dreary warehouses and industrial storage facilities, Judith came to a skidding halt and threw back the hood of her shadow cloak.

During the course of her headlong charge, she had been assailed by a swirling collage of disjointed images that seemed to have no discernible association or context. She saw Elizabeth as a pale, diaphanous thing...floating in the inky darkness like a specter...unseeing eyes staring vacantly into the void. Next she saw an old woman with black and silver hair, her posture rigid and her beauty still substantial despite her advanced age. In this woman's strange amber eyes there burned such lingering resentment and hatred that a bemused Ranzman could not help but wonder what might have inspired both. Intertwined with these two images came the indescribably beautiful visages of two flame-haired women and at first, Judith mistakenly assumed that the pair might be twins. The first of these red heads was statuesque with piercing blue eyes. On her face there shone an expression that Judith had come to associate with the chronically hypnotized...zealots whose fervor would justify any action, however reprehensible or heinous. From the purloined repository of Elizabeth's memory, there slid forth the image and name of Cassandra Jasic...the teenage runaway whom Elizabeth had attempted to help nearly six decades before.

Judith's face contorted into a sour frown as she watched this specter suddenly transmogrify into a bloated spider with chattering mandibles and virulent poison dripping in viscous drops. The repulsive creature began to spin a web...the fine gossamer strands dripping with venom. Judith bent forward with her hands on her knees, drawing in great gulps of air in the pouring London dusk. Though endowed with enormous arcane abilities...Judith was nonetheless still mortal and thus subject to the same limitations that afflicted all humans. This unrelenting blitz through the city was extracting a heavy toll and she would not be able to maintain this frenetic pace for much longer. The spider metaphor defeated Judith's ability to frame it in a comprehensible context...did this girl pose some specific threat to Elizabeth? The idea seemed rather fatuous...but considering all that had happened thus far, nothing could be taken for granted.

As her powerful heart settled back into a normal rhythm and her respiration became slow and even, Judith conjured an image of the other flame-haired beauty. This one was diminutive, perfectly proportion with eyes of the deepest green like tropical seas beneath cloudless summer skies. Her face was timeless as if it had borne witness to the flow of ages. In that regard, she reminded Judith of Jeniah Lightcrusher sans that cold and intractable aspect of damning judgment. Gazing upon the countenance of this beguiling creature was like looking upon the face of a deity...leaving Judith feeling both awe-struck and daunted.

"You're wasting precious time!" She reprimanded herself, her harsh voice breaking the prevailing silence and echoing along the deserted streets. "All of these obscure allusions won't mean a fucking thing because that crazy bitch is killing her...if she already hasn't!"

This last horrifying thought caused Judith to grimace. After she had abruptly terminated the tether link, Judith had not dared to venture back into Elizabeth's mind. Now, with the vortex of discordant and confusing images swirling in her mind like a swarm of hornets, Judith decided that she had to know exactly what might be awaiting her. Retreating into a nearby pool of impenetrable shadow and ignoring the incessant downbeat of the rain that plastered her hair to her head, Judith allowed her chin to settle to her chest and let her eyes slide shut. In instant later, her conscious mind was racing along the invisible tether that connected her to her new found passion.

Though she steeled herself for what she might find at the terminal end...nothing could have adequately prepared her for what she experienced as she emerged into the confines of Elizabeth's consciousness. The deluge of acutely erotic stimuli that greeted her caused Judith to moan an inarticulate expression of lust-fuelled ecstasy as her dispossessed body shuddered with pleasure. She found herself staring up into a black sky through which twirled an infinite number of pure golden stars...it required several moments before her frazzled senses informed her that she was actually gazing through Elizabeth's eyes up at the ineffably lovely Cynara...who was masterfully orchestrating this storm of primal intimate bliss that both she and her host were presently experiencing.

By contrast, the howl that tore from Judith's twisted lips was one of excruciating agony as she gleaned that Elizabeth...her Amathera...was making love to the very monster that had tried to kill her only short hours ago. Suddenly livid with an uncontrollable fury, Judith loosed a blast of spiteful energy and fled the confines of Elizabeth's mind.

Cynara was in the midst of reprising her feat of delicious friction...an aptitude for which Elizabeth seemed insatiable...when the radiant blonde's face had contorted into a mask of argent agony. In the next instant, Cynara found herself sailing across the room, crashing into the wall with enough force to reduce the drywall to dust that billowed around her in a fine cloud.

Cynara quickly regained her senses and bound over to the bed to find Elizabeth lying on her stomach with her arms wrapped around her head and groaning as if in the throes of the world's worst migraine. Trying to stave off the panic that was rising in her insides like hot bile, she tentatively placed a hand on Elizabeth's bare shoulder and turned the other woman over. There was a dazed, disconnected aspect to the immortal's vacant stare that Cynara didn't care for a shred. Then her gaze found Cynara's and she opened her arms to the other woman as if seeking solace. Cynara drew Elizabeth to her and nuzzled her neck while stroking the back of her head. "Can you describe what happened, Elizabeth?"

"There was a tremendous flash of light...followed by an enormous burst of agony. I thought that my skull would simply explode." She glanced at Cynara with eyes that were both confused and...haunted. "This is going to sound crazy, but in the second before this...episode...I felt as if there was a vague presence in my mind...full of malice and spite."

"Do you glean anything now?" Cynara inquired, clearly anxious and concerned by the episode. Elizabeth nodded and the other immortal studied her face for a protracted moment, before offering the blond a ghost of a smile and whispering, "Then let me see if I can make you feel better..."

Judith returned to her own body to find herself kneeling in the center of a puddle in the middle of the empty street, hot tears streaming down her face and intermingling with the rain that dripped from her sopping hair. She raised her arms and slammed her clenched fists into the puddle raising great plumes of water on the surface of which shone Elizabeth Simpson's traitorous face. That fury soon gave way to plummeting dejection and Judith crawled across the pavement and up onto a crumbling sidewalk, where she slumped with her back against brick warehouse wall. She remained in this position of stark despair for an interminable moment, until the stirring of something in close proximity drew her out of her torpor.

She raised her head to find Jeniah Lightcrusher peering down at her with an expression of disgust and absolute contempt. _'How utterly pathetic you've become, Judith...and to think that you once saw me to my end with your skilful web of deceit and guile. Following Amathera's meandering trail of sorry delusions has turned you into a plaintive, whining brat...who weeps when the world does not yield to her desires. Where is the fierce, defiant spirit who cleverly bent me to her own end...who forged the world and did not cower before it? Can you truly have sunk to this piteous level of abjection?'_

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Judith croaked miserably.

Jeniah ventured closer and squatted next to the doleful Ranzman. _'I want you to cast off this weak-willed imposter and be the Judith Ranzman you once were. If this situation is not to your liking...then find the fortitude to shape it to your purpose. If this Elizabeth is truly your Amathera...then manipulate events to bring that outcome to pass. Do not slink away like a beaten cur...ingratiate yourself in both of their hearts. Who's to say Judith, perhaps yours is the skill to emerge with two immeasurably powerful and ineffably lovely immortal pets on your masterful chain?'_

With this incredibly alluring notion firmly inculcated in Judith's frenetic thoughts, the apparition of the would-be world-slayer vanished, leaving Judith alone to contemplate the salient truths of the situation in which she now found herself.

Judith became conscious of the purse that was pressed against her right side beneath her shadow cloak. Contained therein was the access to Elizabeth's vast fortune...password validation cards, sundry accounts...everything that Judith would require to vanish and return to her former life of opulence she had once enjoyed before she had been traduced by Amathera's capricious promise. The old Judith reasserted herself then...the self-serving monster that responded to every spite, real or imagined, with swift and savage retaliation. By simply fading away, Judith could effectively strip Elizabeth of...everything. Hardly fitting recompense for what she perceived as Elizabeth's titanic betrayal...but a start.

_'If you elect to follow this unscrupulous path...to steal this woman's very identity after she's imparted this unfathomable degree of trust to you...what would you become Judith?'_ the lilting voice of Amathera inquired gravely. _'You were never a fool, Judith...and you feel the restive stirrings of those old urges in the dark corners of your flawed heart. If you perpetrate this betrayal, how long would it be before you find yourself slipping back into familiar character?'_

Judith shook her head in negation, but the pragmatist in her nature knew that the haunting voice had spoken the truth...without a guiding influence, Judith might well regress to become the ignoble creature she once was.

Sighing, Judith rose to her feet and drew up the hood of her cloak. Clearly, there was only one path forward...and that was at Elizabeth's side...even if friendship was the extent of the relationship they might share. Jeniah had advised that Judith should do what she could to ingratiate herself not only with Elizabeth...but with that hateful bitch, Cynara as well. Though the thought of the other immortal defiling Elizabeth nauseated her, Judith decided that she would swallow her aversion and make herself indispensable...to both.

Running her hand over the shape of Elizabeth's purse, Judith turned and commenced the return journey back to the hotel, where she intended to finish her research into Ian Barrows, while contriving a plot by which she might bring these two deadly immortals to heel.

Chapter Eighteen

1

As had become customary over the last week, the inspector trio found themselves slumped around a commissary table, sharing morning tea and the penumbra of gloom that had settled over their investigation. Ewan glanced through the floor-to-ceiling windows beyond which Friday was a brooding gray with little prospect for sunshine or warmer temperatures. "Well, we've been chasing this elusive hound for the better part of two years, Donald lad...but I do believe that our time is just about up."

Donald cast a brief glance at Mary, who appeared lost in thought, and then nodded glumly. "It would be hard to argue the point, considering the down dressing we all just suffered."

Mary stirred and with a sour frown, suggested, "I think the lion's share of the blame for their obvious dissatisfaction can clearly be laid at my feet. Clearly, Superintendent Coran is less than enamored with the direction this investigation has taken since I came on board."

Ewan shook his head, his blue eyes flaring slightly. "I don't necessarily agree, Mary. Coran is a seasoned veteran and despite his new bureaucratic leaning, he's still a superlative inspector. I think we're merely seeing his seething frustration with this case...with its myriad of improbabilities. Again, Thomas Greavy's murder took this investigation to a whole new level and attracted the keen interest of the folks upstairs...which translates into pressure to see a resolution to this thing in short order."

Mary inclined her chin...a combative gesture that made Donald wince. Conflict amongst the team was hardly what the situation required now...but Mary was hardly the sort to meekly defer to a dissenting opinion. For some unfathomable reason, she seemed determined to lay the blame for the investigation's failure directly at her feet. "He certainly didn't seem overly receptive when I suggested that we might have to turn our attention to the two anomalies suggested by both the Greavy and Tate murders."

"Again, Mary...can you really blame him. He's a conventional thinker and what these circumstances suggest strays far beyond any logical thinking. We all saw the preliminary report on Tate...no explanation can be given for the condition of Barney Tate's remains. They may be hard realities...but they're hardly realities that we can work with...as you, yourself, have already suggested."

Wanting to avert a potentially acrimonious argument, Donald inquired, "So then where do we actually go from here?"

Ewan pursed his thin lips conveying clearly that their options were limited. "I think the pair of you should spend the remainder of the day cleaning up the last of the names on Mary's list pertaining to the shadow box angle. If that still yields no nibbles, we'll sweep the slate clean on Monday and look for a new route forward. I fear that this investigation is going to be fought on the back foot...like it has since the beginning, if we're being truthful. We'll continue to react and hope that the perpetrator eventually makes a mistake." Ewan sighed at his own depressingly accurate forecast and the rose, gathering up his tea and PDA. "I'll leave the two of you to it then. The chief inspector wants his turn and I'll spare the both of you that indignity and take one for the team."

With this, McGowan hurried off and left Mary and Donald alone. Donald inhaled deeply and then clapped his hands, "Shall we be off then...isn't a gent in Hackney the next stop on your list."

Mary nodded absently and then gathered up her hard copy files. Like Donald, Mary still had a propensity for the old fashion hard copies upon which she could doodle her random thoughts. Just then, her PDA buzzed and she issued the initialization command. Donald watched her as she scanned the new data and felt his attention sharpen in response to the sudden gleam of excitement in her blue eyes. Trying to affect a casual air, he inquired, "Something interesting, then?"

She glanced up, her face suddenly radiant, "I do believe we may have had our first break."

2

After apprising Ewan of what might prove to be a potential break in the investigation, Donald and Mary headed out into heavy Friday noon-day traffic and made their way back to Southwark. Donald remarked casually, "Things seemed to be drawing us back across the river."

"Yes...and away from the posh part of the city...which might actually work to our advantage in terms of providing us with a bit of breathing room. Not to be entirely cynical, but let's be honest...what happens on that side of the river doesn't garner a great deal of attention in the media or on Fleet Street." Mary paused briefly and when she spoke, her tone became somber...almost furtive. "I made a slight detour on the way back to Islington last night...an unofficial visit...that 's left me feeling...unsettled. I wasn't going to mention it actually...but then I recalled our conversation of the other day and I felt that I should. I'm bringing this to you in confidence, Donald, because I doubt that Ewan and the powers would be particularly pleased to learn of my impromptu bit of investigating."

Donald felt no small measure of discomfort at the tone of this rather nebulous opening gambit, but still offered the assurance she seemed to be soliciting. "You and I are partners on this Mary...and if you chose to share something in confidence...then that's how it will remain."

She still seemed reluctant, though instinct recommended that Donald should attribute this more to confusion than distrust. Eventually, she began to convey her concerns, though by the time she had concluded, Donald privately wished that she had chosen to keep them to herself. "I went back to Knightsbridge last night...to follow up with Isobel Greavy."

"Jesus Mary...that is treading on very thin ice!" Donald exclaimed anxiously.

"Perhaps, but my gut instinct kept nagging me that something was seriously awry with the widow Greavy...that her desultory response to the news that the black box served no apparent purpose was...off center somehow. At any rate, I was driving back home and on impulse, decided to take a detour. I presented my unexpected visit as simply a casual follow-up, but the reception I received was anything but amicable."

"She was peeved then?" Donald asked with an internal winced, certain there would be severe repercussions.

"Not precisely...but aloof and incredibly detached as if we were discussing something that was only obliquely relevant to her life...as opposed to her murdered husband. During our telephone conversation, Isobel's attitude had seemed...desultory. This time she seemed completely indifferent as if catching her husband's killer held little real interest for her." Mary fell silent, a bemused expression set on her face as she recalled the peculiar light that shone in Isobel's luminous eyes while they spoke.

"Some people deal with grief in peculiar ways," Donald reminded Mary, "and Isobel Greavy is a part of that stiff upper lip set from the days of British nobility."

Mary responded to this with a noncommittal nod and Gansby could see that she was clearly dubious of this trite explanation for the widow Greavy's sudden apathy. Reluctantly, he ventured, "You don't really think that's the case...do you?"

Again, Donald could feel Mary's intense gaze of appraisal on the side of his face as he picked his way through heavy traffic. "If I disclose my instinctive impression of her behavior, you're going to suggest to Ewan that I be given a long furlough, Donald."

Donald flicked a glance in her direction and smiled encouragingly, "Still...I'd like to hear your idea anyway."

Mary drew a deep breath and forged ahead. "I believe that Isobel has discovered something that has entirely changed her attitude toward finding her husband's murderer...something that she is unwilling to share with us. She's now willing to bury Thomas Greavy and move on. I would make pound to a penny odds that in the not too distant future, she will change her name back to Isobel Murray."

Flummoxed by the notion, Donald shook his head and asked, "Mary, where would she have gotten this...new information?"

In a flat voice, Mary replied without hesitation, "From Thomas' murderer."

In his state of incredulity, Donald very nearly veered the vehicle into oncoming traffic. When he could finally trust himself to speak, he blurted, "Good Christ, Mary...you can't be bloody serious. You're saying that Isobel knows who butchered her husband...but has decided to keep mum on the subject? Why would she ever do such a thing?"

"There are two possible reasons, I suspect...but if you're asking me to substantiate any of this...well, we both know that I cannot. The first reason is that Isobel would rather die than see her name and daughter's exposed to scandal. The second...and probably more compelling reason...is that the murderer has managed to convince Isobel that Thomas' brutal slaying was well warranted."

Utterly astounded by this disturbing proposition, Donald could not hold back his disdain. "Mary...that's...that's utterly insane!"

"Of course it is," Mary concurred; evidently taking no affront over her partner's uncharacteristically scathing condemnation. "Nonetheless, it's what my gut instinct keeps telling me is true. Don't worry Donald, even if I was foolish enough to pursue this idea, there is no way Isobel would ever corroborate my theory...and that's why I'm going to let this sleeping dog lie. Hopefully, this can remain a bit of harmless wool gathering between the two of us. Donald, I feel that you and I have developed a special rapport in an amazingly short period of time; a level of trust that many partners require years to establish...if they ever do. I know what I've suggested is daft, but my every instinct is telling me that Isobel Greavy knows who killed her husband and why. I shared this theory with you because I trust it will remain in total confidence," Mary intoned gravely.

It took a thoroughly disconcerted Gansby several moments to respond, but he final inquired, "There's something more you're not telling me...isn't there? I'm guessing that you may actually have a theory who might be behind this bloody carnage?"

Mary offered Donald an indecipherable grin. "Perhaps, but do you recall what you said when I asked you if something was on your mind the day Thomas Greavy's body was found? You said that you needed a space of time to work it all out. I'm going to make the same request, Donald. Believe me, once I feel certain that I'm onto something tangible...you will be the first to know."

Donald felt out of sorts and profoundly disturbed by the exchange, but he nonetheless agreed to let the matter rest. Mary's absurd theory left him with the unsettling impression that she was tottering on the brink of...of some traumatic collapse...as if her obsession with this investigation had taken an unhealthy turn.

Only later, would Donald Gansby come to realize that her insight had been born of cold and infallible logic that he and the others lacked the courage to embrace.

2

The South London Memorial Hospital was a stark reflection of the community it served...tired, badly frayed and bleak. Donald and Mary were led down the rather dimly lit peppermint green and beige halls to a small room that was reserved for minor trauma patients. On the last portion of the drive, Mary had spoken briefly to the officer who had investigated the dispatch request for a possible burglary attempt at the residence and business of one Hector slug Gentry. While searching the premises for any signs of the intruder, police office had come across an extensive collection of vintage child pornography in the basement of Gentry's dwelling. Mary had grimaced in disgust upon learning that Gentry's primary business was selling collectors comic books...mostly to children.

The possession of the illegal material in addition to the unusual circumstances surrounding the alleged robbery attempt...had led the Child Crimes Superintendent to flag the incident report and send it her way. As Mary related the sparse details to Gansby, Donald had grown visibly excited as if this might indeed be the bit of good fortune they so desperately required...a tangible connection that would substantiate Mary's theory.

Mary's first glimpse at Hector slug Gentry told her everything of value that she needed to know about the man...he was a loathsome wretch. The pair flashed their identification to the officer who had been assigned to insure that Gentry stayed put until he was deemed fit to be taken into custody. Upon stepping inside, they found a slovenly old man with drooping jowls and thick lips, sitting on his hospital bed and watching television. Shifting his gaze to the two inspectors, Gentry rolled his eyes in consternation and moaned, "What's this now...two more suits come to bust my arse with the same daft shite?"

"I'm inspector Donald Gansby and this is inspector Mary Langdon...Scotland Yard homicide branch," Donald began in an affable tone.

Gentry raised a shaggy eyebrow and whistled, "Homicide branch is it...I'll be expectin' Queen Kate next." He shifted his gaze to Mary and his expression assumed an overtly lecherous cast. "Now ain't you a pretty wench...come to give old Hector a kiss and snuggle have you?"

Mary's face remained inscrutable as she stared unblinkingly at the reprehensible old man who continued to leer at her as if she was a piece of desert. With a decidedly unfriendly grin, Mary began, "It seems you had quite the evening last night."

"What of it...I got broken into...in Southwark that ain't news," Gentry observed with a philosophical shrug.

"Would you care to tell us about the interesting collection of magazines the officers found in your basement, Hector?" Mary inquired, her grin widening.

"I have no idea where that shit came from...for all I know, those fuckers planted them there, themselves." Gentry rasped truculently, waving a meaty paw in a gesture of dismissal.

Mary removed the transparent evidence bag, which held the black box, from her coat pocket and placed it on the night stand next to Gentry's bed. "Do you recognize this, Mr. Gentry?"

Hector snapped up the bag, turning it over in his hands several times before dropping it to the sheets near his knee. "Never seen it before...don't know what it is?"

Mary pursed her lips and exchanged a brief glance with Donald, who nodded and stepped forward. In the same affable voice, Gansby asked, "Were you in possession of explosives or other flammable material in your home, Hector?"

Gentry arched a skeptical eyebrow and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Be fucking serious...I own a comic book store. I'm not a fucking terrorist."

"Do you have any explanation for why the roof of your building literally blew off after you threw yourself out the window?" Donald persisted, still smiling.

Gentry shook his head and now there was genuine bewilderment in his watery eyes. "Not a one."

"Do you know a man named Barney Tate, Hector?" Mary suddenly interjected, employing the technique of trying to unsettle a subject by asking non sequitur questions.

Hector blinked, but replied, "Yes...a creepy little bastard that skulks around the store a lot, but I heard they found him dead." His eyes widened and then he demanded, "You said you were from homicide...are you thinking that what happened to me has something to do with what happened to that wanker Tate?"

Gansby merely inclined his head slightly and offered Gentry an indecipherable grin. "Let's just set that aside and talk about what happened to you last night. Your statement says that you awoke and found someone...in your bedroom. Can you tell me what transpired from that point forth?"

Mary stepped forward and leaned over the restraining rail of Gentry's hospital bed, looming over the old man in an adversarial posture that left Hector visibly unsettled for the first time since the interview began. In an even, dispassionate voice, Mary began, "Before you regurgitate the sanitized version you spewed to the other officers...I want you to consider this very carefully...you can deny that the filth in that basement is yours until the cows come home, but the magistrate will know better. When he takes into consideration that you operate a business geared to minors...well that will not reflect well on your situation, Hector...believe me. You'll be sent to a place where men will do to you what the slime who frequent your basement dream of doing to the small boys who buy your dross. If...and I emphasize the word if...you can convince me that you've provided inspector Gansby and I with a full and accurate account of what happened in your flat last night...I will make those boxes go away...and you can go back to the sorry excuse you have for a life. Now, go ahead and answer Inspector Gansby's question."

She then retreated a pace and stood with her arms crossed expectantly beneath her full breasts, pointedly ignoring Donald, who was gaping at her with an expression of open consternation. Gentry regarded her silently for several moments and then muttered, "All right...what do you want to know?"

Mary was scarcely able to maintain her mask of neutrality, knowing that her risky gambit had worked and hoping that it would now yield worthwhile dividends. "Did you see your intruder?"

Gentry shook his head emphatically, "No...I was sleeping...so the room was pitch dark. The voice belonged to a woman...that I know for a fact. The shadow was slender...tall...but the voice was definitely female."

Mary could feel her heart leap in her chest as a thousand inner voices begin to clamor urgently for her attention, but she forced them back into the shadows. From the corner of her eye, she could see that Donald's face reflected her own astonishment. _'A woman, Mary...don't get ahead of yourself...go cautiously!'_

"Was she alone?" she heard herself ask in a tone that conveyed a composure she did not feel.

"Yes...she's the only one that spoke...and I didn't hear no other sounds," Gentry replied, his bluster gone completely.

Mary's gaze strayed to his heavily bandaged left foot. "Did she do this to you...and if so why?"

Now Gentry's demeanor changed radically and he began to fidget...his eyes roving continually. "Yeah...she did this all right...said she wanted information and this was her demonstration that she was fucking serious about getting it."

"Specifically, what kind of information was she looking to extract?" Mary inquired sharply, her eyes boring into Gentry with an intensity that Donald found disconcerting.

"She wanted to know about something called a shadow box," he muttered and his eyes slid involuntarily to the plastic evidence bag.

Now Mary could not repress her grin and she pressed, "And what did you tell her?"

"The same thing I told you...I have no idea what the fuck she was yapping on about!" Hector exclaimed disguising his obvious terror with irritation.

"I would imagine that she wasn't particularly receptive to your response...which is hard to imagine since you're clearly a man of unassailable charm," Donald quipped sardonically, earning a withering glance of disapproval from Mary.

"All right then, Hector...so she didn't necessarily believe you, so you make a bold play for the sawed-off that you conveniently keep under you bed, fire off a blast and make a daring dive through the bedroom window. A Metro cruiser was making a most fortuitous pass down the lane and moments later the roof of your building exploded into kindling. Would that be an accurate depiction of what transpired next?"

Gentry offered Mary a wry smile and with a hint of his former brashness responded, "It's like you was there yourself...that's exactly what happened."

Mary pursed her full lips. "Here is where your account loses much of its credibility. You discharge a Corsican sawed-off shotgun...point blank as evinced by the blast pattern in your bedroom wall...and yet we have no body. How am I to interpret this perplexing anomaly, Hector?"

"How the fuck do I know," Gentry cried, clearly unsettled by the recollection. "I shot directly at where she was standing and jumped out the window. This bitch was clearly fucking crazy and I wasn't interested in sticking around to make sure she was dead!"

"Prudent, Hector," Mary remarked caustically. "Just two further questions. Did she say anything else; ask for further information or give you any indication why she was so interested in this shadow box?"

Gentry hesitated for the briefest instant...but in that small space, the perceptive Langdon discerned the deliberate lie in his next utterance. "No...nothing else. I grabbed the hamburger maker, fired and ran."

Mary did not challenge the statement, but instead asked, "Why do you suppose she would think that you might have been able to provide her with information on this shadow box as she called it?"

"I don't fucking know!" Hector blurted angrily and on this occasion, Mary believed the reprobate.

She looked to Donald and inquired, "Then I think we're done for now...would you agree inspector Gansby?"

Donald was regarding her with an openly speculative expression and now he merely nodded and intoned, "I believe we are."

The pair turned to make their exit and Gentry blurted, "Then you'll keep your promise...about them magazines going away?"

Mary turned back to the despicable boor and nodded thoughtfully. "Yes...but I do believe you can expect a sojourn in protective custody, Hector. This woman is unlikely to leave a loose end such as you represent...untied...if you understand my meaning. You might be wise to reflect upon this carefully for a while...in case there is something else that you've neglected to mention."

Hector scowled, but beneath his contentious glare, Mary could plainly see that he was disconcerted by the thought that his nocturnal visitor might not be done with him.

4

Mary and Donald made their way into a secluded waiting room that had been reserved for family members. Donald shook his head in a gesture of sincere amazement. "Mary...you'll have to excuse my Gentry-ism...but that was fucking brilliant. You played that lecherous old wanker like a violin!"

Mary shrugged humbly and admitted, "A gamble taken out of pure desperation, Donald...hardly brilliant. Still, this is the break we've been looking for. This is a direct connection from Greavy to Tate and then Gentry...and this seemingly purposeless piece of plastic is the catalyst and focal point for everything that's happened in this last week. I'm certain that there was some critical piece of information that Gentry didn't divulge...because he was petrified...though of whom, I can't say."

"So we don't have a simple case of a psychopath living out a twisted fantasy...this is actually about someone with a very specific agenda. They're looking to find the source of this...this shadow box and they have no compunction about killing to do so. I know you're going to accuse me of being a horrible chauvinist....but I still can't wrap my head around the idea that a woman could be responsible for...for all of this carnage," Donald remarked, clearly bewildered by the idea.

"Perhaps we're not really dealing with an ordinary woman," Mary intoned and when Donald cast a questioning eye in her direction, he saw that her gaze was clearly focused inward as if she was seeing something very precise that he couldn't possible see. He would have been utterly flabbergasted to discover that Mary's thoughts were focused squarely upon the cryptic woman with whom he was presently sharing his bed.

"I'm not sure I follow," Donald replied tentatively. Mary offered Gansby a thin smiled and shrugged in a manner to suggest that she was simply woolgathering again. "I'll call Ewan and give him the good news...and see if he can arrange for twenty-four hour guard for our foul-mouthed friend. This is still all so mind-bogglingly incredible...to think that after two years of yielding neither a discernible pattern nor a shred of evidence...we've suddenly uncovered a concrete link and a specific motivation."

Mary nodded and her intense blue eyes narrowed in speculation, "I'm certain that it all comes back to Thomas Greavy, Donald. This is strictly intuition talking again, but I believe that prior to his murder...these were simply targets of opportunity...brutal vigilante justice against men who dabbled in a despicable crime against innocent children. Greavy and this damnable box changed everything...and provided this woman with something specific to focus her infinite rage upon. She's on to the scent of something huge...and if we don't find out exactly what that something is...the city of London is going to be awash in blood."

Donald looked at Mary askance, thinking that her dire assessment of the situation was greatly exaggerated. He considered telling her this, but there was an intense, haunted light in those beguiling blue eyes that kept him silent. Instead, he remarked, "It seems that this inert bit of plastic has become the focal point again. Do you have any inkling on just how we should exploit what we learned today?"

"I do...but I can assure you that not a soul will care for my proposal. Our only concrete connection to this device is through Thomas Greavy. He's obviously of little value...and that leaves the decidedly dispassionate widow, Isobel. My first inclination would be to drag her into the embankment and subject her to a protracted session of extremely aggressive questioning."

Donald's eyes grew comically wide in reaction to this suggestion, which he perceived as tantamount to career suicide. "That would be very much like poking an enraged tiger in the side with a very short and very flimsy stick."

"Nonetheless, I think we're obligated to try...because despite the fact that we've uncovered something critical...we are still nowhere nearer the vicinity of actually settling this investigation. We know that a woman is probably the perpetrator and we know she is now in hot pursuit of the shadow box...which is connected to the pedophile subculture...but if my admittedly unconventional theory is correct, Isobel Greavy may already know exactly who this lethal black widow is."

"Very well, Mary," Donald conceded soberly. "I'll call Ewan and we can both head back to the embankment. We can present your request together."

"While you make that call, I have one of my own to make...I have a favor to call in." Mary intoned distantly, though Donald noticed a sly shadow insinuate itself into her somber expression. She moved off and Donald watched her go, wondering why he was left with the impression that Mary was moving into a dark and dangerous territory from which she might not return. He shook his head in bemusement and the absurd impression dissipated. Activating his PDA, Donald placed his call to Ewan McGowan as the black wind of destiny began to howl.

5

The remainder of the Friday afternoon was a whirlwind of contentious debate, turmoil and mounting excitement. After apprising Ewan of the situation with Gentry, Mary had went on to make her suggestion about Isobel Greavy...providing a rationale for this delicate request that was a skillfully watered down version of the incredible theory she had shared with Gansby earlier in the day. Ewan, while elated with the news that they were seemingly on the correct course, was far less delighted with her proposed course of action regarding Thomas Greavy's widow. Eventually he had relented to Mary's implacable insistence and had promised that he would bring the idea up to both Roger Coran and Reginald Cowley. In a clearly vexed tone, he had cautioned, "Don't expect a quick reply on this...we'd be treading on extremely thin ice here and accusing a well-connected socialite of deliberately withholding evidence...is not something to be taken lightly."

When Donald and Mary were left alone, Gansby inquired tentatively, "Mary, what exactly do you think this shadow box is? On the surface, it hardly seems something worth killing for."

Mary shook her head with her firm jaw set in concentration. To her credit, there was nothing in her demeanor to suggest the I-told-you-so attitude that Donald might have expected from many of the other inspectors whose notions would have been validated. Mary Langdon was a dynamo whose only genuine interest seemed to be seeing justice served without the trappings of office politics and career aspirations to deter her from that goal. He shook his head and warned himself to be wary of the stirrings he was feeling toward the woman he had known for only a week. 'You've taken on that star-struck look in you eye, Donald my boy...each and every time you gaze into those blue eyes of hers...even if they are particularly lovely blue eyes.'

Mary was speaking and Gansby shook his head apologetically then. "Sorry Mary...I missed that."

She smiled and reiterated, "I've come around to your original way of thinking that this thing is some kind of...of key; a token of admission to a very exclusive club that purveys the sickest fantasies imaginable. If that is the case...we won't come across these keys in Southwark or the impoverished part of the city...because these keys are made for men exactly like Thomas Greavy...affluent and discreet...with the resources necessary to indulge and conceal their perversion. This woman has somehow tapped into this network and is ferociously determined to root it out...one mangled corpse at a time."

Donald inhaled shakily and lamented, "If that proves to be the case...the three of us are going to become an extremely unpopular trio."

The pair continued to discuss the peculiarities of the investigation for several moments longer and then a red-faced Ewan returned to inform his two colleagues that supervision would take Mary's suggestion under advisement. Surprisingly, Mary did not react to this with the expected overt displeasure. She merely nodded and thanked Ewan for making the effort...which left Gansby feeling out of sorts and suspicious.

Mary then went on to share her theory on the possible purpose of the shadow box with Ewan, who listened raptly and then nodded, "That seems plausible enough, but does come with its own accompanying host of complications. If the intended target group of this device turns out to be the upper crust with bizarre predilections...then we will find ourselves running into stone walls at every turn."

"I agree," Mary intoned, her voice nuanced by a complex emotion that neither man could quite decipher. "This is precisely why I believe it is critical that we have Isobel Greavy in to see if we can unearth whatever it is she's concealing. Still, that is a decision that the powers will have to make...what would you have Donald and I do in the interim?"

McGowan considered this for a moment and then replied, "Continue to wave the box around as conspicuously as possible. There's a chance that we might attract the attention of who ever made and distributed the thing."

"That might also have the unintended affect of driving the makers and distributor completely underground," Donald observed gravely.

"Perhaps, but it's a risk we'll have to take," Ewan returned with a rare hint of impatience and Donald could see that the mounting pressure was beginning to extract a toll on his long-time partner. "Mary, perhaps you could re-prioritize your list to focus on anyone who might fall into a more...comfortable side of the register."

Mary simply nodded and the trio spoke for a few minutes longer before realizing that the day had reached its end. At Mary's request, Ewan agreed to allow the pair to pull an extra-duty shift on Saturday and the trio gravitated toward the exit. Donald accompanied Mary out into the street, reflecting on how easily Mary had assumed unspoken control of the direction of their efforts. To his surprise, he found the situation roused no resentment...a testament to his regard for her obvious talent. "You're anxious to get back on the list?"

Mary glanced at Donald and offered him a slight grin. "No, I believe the list is essentially pointless. I want to take another long look at Hector Gentry's building...especially the bedroom, if we can still get to it."

They walked out into the late afternoon air, both pausing to gaze up at the sky, where the first hints of blue sky were beginning to peek through the bank of clouds. Mary clapped Donald on the shoulder in an uncharacteristically personal gesture and remarked, "What say we interpret that as a good omen...a sign that we're seeing a break in the clouds in this investigation."

In the river side parking lot, the pair saw Cassande's Jaguar idling directly behind Donald's Mini and both experienced an odd sensation of déjà vu. It was difficult for Donald to believe that it had only been a week since he had first started working with Mary Langdon or that he had developed such a deep respect and admiration for her in such a short span of time.

Cassande stepped out of the Jaguar and quickly came to meet the pair, offering both a radiant smile as she quipped, "My two favorite policemen have been sprung from their cages." She fell in beside Mary and linked her arm through the shorter woman's and pulled her closer with smiling slyly at Donald. "You're going to have to fend for yourself for the evening dear...because this one is all mine tonight."

Neither Donald nor Cassande noticed the shiver that coursed along the entire length of Mary's taut body as the flame-haired beauty took her arm. Nor were they cognizant of the predatory glint that shone in Cassande's arctic blue eyes as she led Mary to her Jaguar, squiring her into the passenger seat before bestowing a lingering kiss on Donald's cheek.

Donald stood near his car and watched as the Jaguar pulled out into traffic, delighted that the pair seemed to be on the way to developing a close friendship.

6

Mary again found herself back in Islington, seated at an intimate table at the Afghan Kitchen and as she listened to the gregarious Cassande speak, flitting from one casual topic to the next like a butterfly lighting on flowers in a garden, she experienced a disorienting sense of surrealism. Was she actually out to a friendly dinner with a woman whom she privately believed was responsible for a spree of the most violent murders she had ever seen...a woman who might well not be a woman at all?

_'Mary, you can't actually believe this rubbish...you just can't?'_ the voice of practicality inquired in clear bewilderment. Yet as persuasive as this voice was, Mary found that she did, at least in part believe that the creature sitting across from her was anything but the shallow, supercilious princess she portrayed herself to be. _'If you genuinely believe any of that...even obliquely...then why are you here...with someone so lethal?'_

As she listened to Cassande's witty chatter and watched the rhythm of her generous mouth or the beguiling twinkle of those large, luminous blue eyes...Mary understood that she was alone...absolutely and unequivocally. What she was thinking had veered far beyond the limits of conventional thinking into a territory where men such as Ewan McGowan and Roger Coran would never allow themselves to be led...irrespective of whatever concrete evidence she might produce. If Cassande Verhoeven was indeed responsible for the campaign of slaughter that was unfolding in a bloody frenzy throughout London...Mary Langdon would have to be the one to bring it to an end. _'Unless, of course, you can convince Donald that his fantasy love entanglement is a murderous monster.'_

The thought made Mary smile and the perceptive Cassande seemed to notice that her dinner partner was...distracted. She reached across the small table and squeezed Mary's right wrist in a gesture of concern. "Mary...are you all right? You seem distant tonight. It could be that I'm simply an incredible bore, but I'm afraid it's something else..."

Her voice trailed off and she searched Mary's face with an incisive gaze that made the inspector want to squirm. Instead, she offered Cassande a shrug of reassurance and smiled. "It's nothing really...it's just been a rather trying week and it seems to have taken something of a toll on me. I'm sorry for being dreary company."

"Don't be silly...and it's me who should be apologizing for making demands on your time. Being a float about...I sometime forget that people have jobs and obligations that leave them feeling spent...knackered, I think Donald calls it." Cassande intoned apologetically.

Unaccountably vexed, Mary's response was brusque, bordering on flagrant discourtesy. "Cassande...stop constantly apologizing for not living a conventional lifestyle...it sounds incredibly insincere. If you're going to slum it with we commoners, then don't feel the need to constantly assure us that you want to understand our circumstances...it's unbearably tedious."

Cassande's large eyes grew as wide as saucers and she recoiled back into her seat as if she's been slapped. In a wounded voice, she inquired stiffly, "Is that what you think I'm doing here with you...and with Donald...making some great egalitarian gesture to prove that I'm not just another privileged prat living off the fruits of someone else's labor?"

Mary shook her head, mortified by her own inexcusably curt behavior. For a brief moment, Cassande became just another young woman trying to be social...to find friendship...and not a cleverly disguised monster. "I'm sorry, Cassande...that was flagrantly rude...unforgivable. It really shows just how tired I am, but that's hardly an excuse...if you want to dump your Perrier on my head, I won't object."

She offered Cassande an apologetic grin that the taller woman did not return. Between gritted teeth, Cassande retorted, "I'm with you tonight because I genuinely like your company and I want us to be friends. If there's an issue revolving around disparity in wealth...it isn't mine, Mary. I'm with Donald because he's an attractive, affable man with a strong sense of values. Yes...sometime I can be a touch...whimsical...but it's just how I try to make people feel comfortable. If you feel I'm being insincere...or disingenuous...then we can leave and I'll never trouble you again. And no, Donald doesn't have to know what you just said to me...however unfair and hurtful it might have been."

Feeling utterly miserable, Mary reached across the table and took the younger woman's hand. Cassande stiffened perceptibly, but made no effort to pull away. "Please forgive me, Cassande...that was a cruel and idiotic thing to say. I don't think you're being insincere, but I was definitely being a bitch. It would be a privilege to be your friend...this investigation I've been working on with Donald...it's driving me to distraction."

Even as she offered this pleading apology, a part of Mary understood that it was crucial that she stay...connected...with Cassande. Cassande glanced away, her shoulders set in a rigid posture of indignation, but when she finally returned her gaze to Mary, her limpid blue eyes had softened. "Apology accepted...because I do so want you and me to be friends. I understand if you want to cut this short and have a rest, Mary."

Mary shook head vigorously and grinned, "Not a chance...and frankly I could use the distraction...in fact, I just might drink enough wine that you may well have to carry me home."

"And undress you and tuck you into bed...now that would be a treat?" Cassande quipped with a mischievous twinkle in those fetching blue eyes. Mary blinked at the nuanced remark and Cassande's smile broadened as she raised the wine glass to her lips. "Drink up darling...to best friends."

Mary raised her glass and drank, privately puzzled by the innuendo clearly conveyed by the off hand remark. Cassande drank deeply and then set her Pinot Noir aside, fixing Mary with a solemn gaze of appraisal. "This case that Donald and you are working on together...it's a difficult one. I can see the toll it's taking on Donald in the pinched expression around his eyes...and I can see it written clearly in your face. I would like him to talk to me about it...or at least talk about his feelings, but he's stubbornly reticent when it comes to his work"

"I know that this will sound insufferably hypocritical...especially considering the nasty things I've just said to you...but that kind of reticence just comes with the territory. Obviously, we can't discuss case specifics...but even our emotions get bottled up...compartmentalized. It's just the way we insulate ourselves from the ugliness that comes with doing what we've chosen to do. It can make the lot of us seem remote and unfeeling." Mary explained quietly.

"I understand the need for discretion...but I'm more than happy to play the roll of Wailing Wall if that's what he needs." Cassande reached across the table and squeezed Mary's hand again, caressing the supple flesh with her thumb, and added, "Or if it's what you need."

Mary tilted her head questioningly and Cassande averted her eyes to the table, her gaze fixed on their intertwined hands. "This is going to sound forward and awkward, but I thought about you a great deal since last Friday. Donald holds you in incredibly high esteem...that is one thing he hasn't been circumspect about...and I certainty see why. There's this aura of...of capability about you...an impression of competence...that he admires. I see that plainly, but I also see something else...something that makes me very sad." Cassande shook her head and uttered a tiny self-deprecating laugh. "My God...I must sound like a total twit...this all sounded so much more witty and insightful in my head."

"Cassande, it really is okay...I'm okay...and you don't sound like a twit in the least," Mary assured her, suddenly feeling uncertain and regretting the litmus test she'd arranged for later.

Cassande shook her head, her face resolving into a mask of determination as if she was intent on giving voice to what she had begun. "I see a very attractive woman who has dedicated her life to her career...and completely neglected everything beyond work. I know how presumptuous that must sound, but I'm a keen observer of people. You live alone in a flat here in Islington with two cats for company. I would hazard a guess that you have some casual acquaintances...but no real friends. Is there a special man in your life...or woman?"

Mary's eyes widened at the last remark, but then she averted her eyes and simply shook her head as if her conscious choice to concentrate her focus on her career was somehow shameful. Trying to stifle her irritation, she glanced up at Cassande and remarked, "This really isn't an appropriate conversation...I'm sure that you're trying to be helpful, but my life is the way I need it to be." The next lie sprang to her lips like a wholly unconvincing defense that even she did not believe. "I'm quite content with the way I live, Cassande."

Cassande's gaze continued to bore into Mary, who could feel an odd soothing warmth radiating from then place where the other woman's thumb described gentle circles on her flesh. That warmth spread along the length of her extended arm and then suffused her entire body with a placating sensation that left her feeling drowsy...as if she was being lulled somehow. Still, despite this knowledge, Mary could not compel herself to withdraw her hand. "Mary, I can see that you've deliberately cloistered yourself...devoted everything to your career...I...just want...to help you. Let me take you shopping...we can buy clothes and get our nails done...and do the kind of things that friends do together. Let me help you break this mold...bring out that beauty you seem so determined to conceal behind this mask of severity. I promise...if nothing else...it could be such great fun...a way to banish the shadow that I see on your brow. You and I can be such great friends...please."

Despite her intention to graciously decline, Mary found herself nodding her acquiescence as if from the depths of a most pleasant trance. Cassande abruptly released Mary's hand and sat back in her chair, clapping her hands in delight. Mary shivered, feeling an intense pang of disappointment at the sudden breaking of contact. She glanced about in confusion, feeling strange disoriented. _'She...she hypnotized me somehow...sweet mother...what have I come upon?'_

Somehow Mary managed to conceal the welling dread that being in Cassande's presence now evoked. _'It's as if she knows that you suspect her...impossible as that might seem...she's toying with you...but why?'_

Cassande leaned forward and in a conspiratorial whisper, announced, "If you let me...I'll transform you into the most scalding hot inspector Scotland Yard ever had. Pick a night and I'll make an appointment for hair and makeup spa session. Just bringing out those phenomenal eyes of yours...they're like a living contradiction of ice and raging fire...my god, you'll have grown men whimpering with just a flashing glance."

Like an excursion into Byzantium, the evening went on...Cassande waxing euphoric over the fun she would have with Mary as her clay...like a sculptor with a muse... and Mary listening to the banter through an increasingly disorienting fog of surrealism. Still, she found herself powerless to resist that sense of being lulled...of being traduced.

Finally, as almost from the depth of a belladonna haze, Mary glanced at her watch and exclaimed, "Cassande, look at the time...Donald and I are pulling extra duty tomorrow and I really do have to be off..."

Cassande frowned, clearly disappointed, but intoned, "Okay, but we're on for next week...night of your choice?"

Mary nodded and even managed to conjure an enthusiastic smile, while wondering how long she could maintain this charade. A tiny, reproving voice in her head whispered, _'If you truly believe that Cassande Verhoeven is a psychotic murderess...how can you possibly allow her to go home to Donald...to go to his bed?'_

The unwelcome thought caused Mary no small degree of consternation...or guilt, but she was astute enough to realize that the situation left her with very few options but to bide her time. Besides, what could she possibly say to Donald that would not sound like the demented ravings of a mad woman?

Cassande summoned the waiter, paid the check and then taking Mary's arm in that disconcerting gesture of sisterly familiarity, she led the shorter woman out into the early October night and into an encounter that would seal the two women into an inexorable juncture of confrontation from which only one could emerge.

In a way, Mary had come to regret the arrangement she had made earlier in the day, after emerging from Hector Gentry's hospital room. She had come to hope that the protracted wait in the cold drizzle would discourage Randall and he would simply wander off. Mary had failed to account for the depth of Randall Cranston's gratitude for the life-saving intervention she had once made on his behalf.

As the two women emerged onto the relatively deserted sidewalk, a man pushed away from the wall, where he had been lingering as evinced by the scattering of cigarette butts at his feet. He was a short, thin man dressed in a scuffed leather jacket and blue jeans with over-sized blue running shoes. He was unabashedly bald and although his face had a weathered appearance, his blue eyes shone with a youthful vitality...an odd pulsing light that imparted a sense of instability, though the man did not appear overtly dangerous.

He started toward the two women and even his gait was a shambling stumble that hinted at long term addiction of some sort. In a high, grating screech, he brayed, "Inspector Mary..."

Before Mary could respond, Cassande imposed herself between the pair and extended her long right arm like jousting lance...her splayed fingers planting on the startled man's chest and stopping him dead in his tracks.

"Not a step closer," she warned in a voice that was fraught with unmistakable menace. In her state of heightened acuity, Mary could sense a force coalescing around the tall beauty like a gathering storm. Randall's eyes popped wide and he looked questioningly to Mary. Clearly, he had felt that radiating menace as well and Mary immediately regretted needlessly exposing him to this danger.

She quickly stepped around Cassande and placed her hand on the woman's extended wrist. Cassande's blazing regard snapped to Mary, who smiled disarmingly and shook her head. "It's all right, Cassande...Randall is an acquaintance of mine."

Ignoring Cassande's scowl of disapproval, Mary turned to the still unsettled Cranston and inquired, "How had you been keeping yourself, Randall?"

The man's eyes whirled and twirled in a perfect imitation of hyper-kinetic madness. Cassande continued to scowl in disapproval, her incisive gaze constantly shifting from Mary to the small man, who she seemed to regard with an unaccountably intense aversion. Reluctantly, she dropped her arm and stepped slightly to the side. Mary also adjusted her position in such a way that she would be able to observe Cassande from over Randall's left shoulder. The bald man nodded vigorously and blurted, "I've been doing good Inspector Mary...right good, I have!"

"You're still attending the meetings...seeing the therapist?"

Randall's head continued to bob obsequiously and he promised, "Oh yes...never miss a one. I've been trying hard to do good...just like I promised you. I'll never forget what you done for me Inspector Mary..."

Randall played his part to perfection, delivering the part of a simpering dullard with incredible conviction. From the corner of her eyes, Mary carefully observed Cassande's reaction during the brief dialogue. As she listened, the flame-haired beauty's eyes widened and then narrowed in dawning comprehension as she stared at the back of Randall Cranston's bald head where droplets of rain glistened beneath the muted light of the nearby neon sign. In those luminous blue depths, Mary Langdon saw a flare of hatred that turned her blood to ice water and she knew...without the slightest equivocation...that Cassande Verhoeven was responsible for the bloody carnage that had plagued the city for the past two years...a path that led inexorably to the shadow box.

She also realized that she had just placed the unfortunate Randall Cranston squarely in this terrifying creature's crosshairs. Trying to maintain an outwardly calm facade, Mary terminated the contrived exchange. Clapping Randall on the left shoulder, she offered, "I'm delighted to hear that...follow the plan and everything will be fine."

On impulse, she opened her clutch purse and pulled out one of her antiquated business card, upon which she quickly scrawled her home number and call me in an hour...before handing the card to Randall. Cranston again expressed his effusive gratitude and shambled off.

As the two women watched him fade into the darkness, Cassande asked, "Who was that man?"

Trying to affect a casual tone, Mary replied, "Just a fellow I'd helped once...wrongly accused of something that would have ruined his life. He's been grateful and goes out of his way to express that gratitude every time he sees me."

"He looks incredibly creepy and frightening," Cassande observed with a perceptible shudder, but as she glared at Randall Cranston's retreating back with an unmitigated loathing that was terrifying to look upon.

"You know the old adage of judging a book by its cover, Cassande...he really is harmless," Mary intoned, taking the taller woman's arm and guiding her in the direction of her waiting Jaguar. Hoping to distract the daunting creature's attention, Mary inquired, "Now, when would be a good night to subject me to this makeover of yours?"

Cassande glanced at Mary sharply, but seeing the shorter woman's eager grin, she smiled and suggested, "Would Thursday do?"

"This all sounds thoroughly terrifying...but I'll put myself at your disposal. Thursday it is!" Mary agreed...though the nuances of her statement were not lost on either woman. The pair drove back to Mary's flat and the nightmarish excursion came to an end.

Mary managed to climb the stairs to her flat and race to the bathroom, ignoring her outraged cats, before she fell to her knees and regurgitated the entire contents of her stomach. The outpouring seemed to go on for an eternity and when it finally ended, she sagged against her tub and let her forehead settle to the cool glazed surface...gasping for breath as black dots blossomed before her eyes.

She had passed the evening in the company of the most terrifying entity that she had ever encountered...a thing that defied her narrow sensibilities to comprehend. Worse yet, she would have to find a way to confront and destroy that entity...alone!

Chapter Nineteen

1

Elizabeth awoke the next morning, stretching languorously and basking in the memory of the passionate night she had spent in the thrall of Cynara's carnal magic. Like a fine mist, that sense of contentment was shredded by the harsh realities that confronted her with the coming of dawn.

She found herself alone in Cynara's large bed. Cynara was nowhere to be seen, but Elizabeth saw that the other immortal had laid out a set of clothing on a divan near the bank of large windows. Naked, Elizabeth padded across the cool teak floor and quickly dressed in gray slacks and a cinnamon sweater with matching shoes. She crossed over to a dressing table and selecting one of Cynara's pearl inlaid brushes, proceeded to brush out her long blond hair.

She peered into the mirror and a memory of Cynara's final demand visited her then, causing her to smile wistfully. _'Mrs. Elizabeth Simonovic....Cynara's wife and eternal companion? David, could you really have foreseen this when you came to me? Could you ever truly accept such an astounding twist of fate?'_

Elizabeth shook her head in bemusement as an icy shiver traversed the length of her straight spine. She had given the immortal a clear invitation to indulge her darkness...to tap into that terrible repository of acrimony and venom that had once made her one of the world's most terrifying demons. The realization made the idea of something as mundane as marriage seem not only preposterous...but utterly selfish and delusional as well.

Feeling the subtle call of bleak dejection gnawing at the edges of her resolve, Elizabeth quickly left the room and descended the sweeping staircase to find Cynara in the same drawing room where they had made their pact the previous night.

_'Is that how you see it Elizabeth...a pact? Or did you simply sell your flawed soul for a second time,'_ the voice of Contayza inquired, dripping with acrimony. _'The son you claim to have loved once risked his very soul to rescue you from Cynara's grasp and now you've willingly submitted to the role of being her lapdog again. What do you suppose he would say if he could see you at this exact moment? If you wished to crush his heart to dust, could you have possibly contrived a better way of doing it?'_

Elizabeth grimaced, wondering why her subconscious seemed to derive so much malign pleasure in tormenting her of late. Cynara was standing near the front window, gazing fixedly out into the dreary fall morning. Elizabeth saw that she was attired completely in black...her raven tresses falling in a heady spill of loose curls to a point at the hollow of her lower back. Watching her, Elizabeth was suddenly struck by the full extent of the aura the immortal exuded. _'For all of her imperfections...her ignoble history and heinous acts of evil...what a truly magnificent creature she has evolved to become. I've awakened something within her...reinvigorated her somehow...but at what cost?'_

Cynara became aware of Elizabeth presence and turned to the blond immortal, a radiant smiled breaking over her face like a fast ascending sun, but it was the light in those majestic amber-flecked eyes that caused Elizabeth's dormant heart to clench painfully in her chest. There was a feral gleam in those eyes that Elizabeth had not seen since the earliest days of her captivity in Chevru...when the demon had yet to be attenuated by her love for her concubine.

That feral gleam spoke of a woman who was anxious to unleash havoc on her new-found enemies...without compunction or restraint. The old Cynara Saravic had been awakened...and the responsibility to insure that she would be contained would fall squarely on Elizabeth's already laden shoulders. Cynara crossed the room in several brisk strides and drew the startled Elizabeth into a dizzying kiss. After several moments, she pushed the blond to arms length and murmured, "The thrill of having you within kissing distance might lose its luster...in a thousand lifetimes or so. Watching you sleep this morning, I was sorely tempted to pounce upon you...but you looked thoroughly ravaged by the end of the night...and so I decided to give you a respite. Instead, I selected some clothes and came down to ponder the matter of your conundrum...and how I am going to resolve it."

"Thank you for the clothes, Cynara...they're perfect," Elizabeth offered quietly, feeling an odd sense of deference settle over her mood in the other woman's presence.

"As is the woman wearing them. Considering how...one way or the other...I literally tore the clothes off your body yesterday, it seemed the least I could do," Cynara whispered without a hint of exaggeration and taking Elizabeth's hand, she led her over to the window.

"Cynara...we really do have to speak about this situation with Ian Barrows...or more specifically...your involvement in this situation..."

Cynara eyed Elizabeth sharply, her dark eyes flaring, "Which means what precisely?"

"I want to resolve this without violence...if at all possible. I want your help, but I also want you to promise me that you'll respect my wishes in what ever is to follow," Elizabeth insisted solemnly.

Anger flared in Cynara's dark eyes like thunder clouds, but finally she smiled and offered Elizabeth a decidedly insincere grin. "I will be as gentle as a lamb dear...until you decide the situation requires something else. At any rate, let's not debate minutiae now. I would like you to drive to London and retrieve your play thing...bring her back here."

Elizabeth eyed Cynara suspiciously and intoned gravely, "I won't allow you to hurt Judith, Cynara...and I have your vow that you won't."

Cynara spread her arms in a gesture of feigned indignation. "I have absolutely no intention of harming a hair on her slattern's head. I'm merely intrigued to meet the temptress that was able to entice the virtuous Elizabeth out of her clothes and into her bed in record time. On a more prosaic note, you mentioned that she possessed some extraordinary gifts...perhaps I can put them to good use in dealing with Barrows."

Elizabeth arched a skeptical eyebrow...not believing that Cynara would be so readily magnanimous in accepting her intimate dalliance with Judith. Cynara pursed her lips and scowled in vexation. "I won't harm her." Cynara quickly brushed her lips across Elizabeth right cheek and added, "You have my solemn word...Mrs. Simonovic...you don't mind if I indulge myself and refer to you that way, do you?"

Satisfied, Elizabeth smiled indulgently, but then on an impulse even she did not fully fathom, inquired, "Cynara...what happened to Cassie...why isn't she with you?"

A storm of discordant emotions rippled swiftly across Cynara's beautiful face then...ranging from anger to hurt before settling into a stubborn defiance that Elizabeth could not recall ever having seen on her face. "I don't want to speak about Cassandra...you have more pressing concerns."

She began to turn away, but Elizabeth snagged her wrist and did not allow Cynara to retreat behind a wall of unyielding reticence. "My concern now is Cassie and you will speak about it because you once made a promise to me that you would take care of her...of which slaughtering her parents was not part of the bargain. That doesn't even begin to address the issue of actually turning her."

Cynara wrenched her hand free and stepped away, her color deepening with anger, "Obviously, you took the time to monitor my life...even if you couldn't be bothered actually being a part of it. As for the sick degenerates who you call parents...they got precisely what they deserved...so don't you dare condescend to me by suggesting that I abdicated my responsibility...which we both knew I was unsuited for in the first place."

"What has happened to Cassandra?" Elizabeth persisted, deliberately emphasizing every word. Cynara's eyes flared and she abruptly clutched Elizabeth's shoulders, her face twisting into a menacing scowl. Elizabeth did not flinch, her unblinking gaze boring into Cynara with terrible promise. "Yesterday, I allowed you to beat me because I frankly deserved your abuse for the deplorable way I had treated you...but Cynara...if you ever raise a hand to me again, I will flay the flesh from your bones until you whimper like a baby...do you understand?"

Elizabeth had delivered this threat in a flat dispassionate voice that caused the raven-haired immortal to blink and drop her hand. She dropped her eyes in the face of Elizabeth's uncompromising glare and nodded. Then she looked up with a sly grin. "Does this constitute our first marital spat?"

She then put her right hand on Elizabeth's hip and let her left stray to the full promise of the blonde's high breast, which she squeezed appreciatively. With a lewd wink, she growled, "Perhaps we can proceed directly to the make-up sex before you head into London?"

Elizabeth gently, but firmly removed Cynara's grasping hand, but then placed the palm of her right hand along the angle of the other woman's firm jaw. When Elizabeth spoke, it was in a soft voice, bereft of judgment. "I know that something's happened that has hurt you...and after all that you and I have been through...it's perfectly all right to display vulnerability before me. Please, tell me what happened with Cassie?"

Cynara's steady gaze faltered and for a brief instant, Elizabeth feared that she might actually burst into tears. Instead, Cynara drew on her inner reserve of mettle and inhaled sharply. In a flat, dispassionate voice, she recounted the tale of the years she had spent with Cassandra Jasic. To her credit, Cynara made no effort to exonerate herself from responsibility for Cassie's gradual descent into the brooding, embittered creature she had become in the days before their final confrontation. "I understand perfectly that I alienated her...drove her away from me with my maudlin reticence. Things were manageable enough when I still had the charade of Karnalla's hollow life to keep me distracted, but even then I was peripherally aware of Cassandra's lingering discontent. She regarded the life we were living as shallow and insufferably silly...though suffer it she did...on my account. She seemed to require something more...some greater consequential meaning that I could not begin to understand...much less actually provide."

"Did you try to speak to her about it...try to have her express the causes of her discontent?" Elizabeth inquired softly, recalling the frightening, brutalized girl she had found on her nightmare ride across America all those years ago.

Cynara's generous mouth twisted into a scowl and she shook her head in obvious irritation. "No...I'm not you, Elizabeth...the kind, compassionate soul who constantly felt empathy with everyone else's pain. I saw Cassandra as a whiny brat who didn't appreciate everything that being the lover of the world's most famous beauty entailed. While my vanity allowed me to bask in the radiance of notoriety...Cassandra cringed from it in the way a vampire would recoil from the sun. I recognized her aversion...but I just didn't care enough to attempt to help her deal with it...and so we became polarized and she withdrew into herself."

Cynara turned away from Elizabeth and gravitated over to the mantle...a simple wave of her left hand conjuring flames in the fireplace. "Upon reflection, I understand that I betrayed your trust...but in all fairness, we are both culpable in that betrayal. You had to know that I was not condign to the task of mentoring...nurturing an emotionally damaged girl such as Cassandra was. I've tried to change...but that demand was one that I was simply incapable of meeting."

She suddenly spun about and now Elizabeth could see the extent of Cynara's misery etched in furrows around her limpid eyes, which glistened with tears. Elizabeth nodded distantly, understanding that Cynara's allegations were not without substance...she had simply foisted Cassie off on Cynara...in deference to her obsession with finding David. Even then, a part of her had known that the other immortal was not equipped to meet Cassandra's enormous emotional needs. Cynara sighed, and now her voice resonated with dejection. "The time eventually arrived when I could no longer maintain the charade of Karnalla Mansley's public persona...the questions would simply become impossible to answer...I'm sure you understand?"

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully...if Karnalla's beauty did not begin to fade with the passing of time; it was inevitable that someone would begin to aggressively question its source. Clearly dispirited by the painful recollection, Cynara resumed her tale. "After I withdrew from the public eye, the situation quickly deteriorated...and not just my relationship with Cassandra...but everything. I became the recluse you found yesterday and with my withdrawal from the world...I retreated into a cloister of memories...colored by regret and melancholy. Can you guess the source of my misery, darling Elizabeth?"

There was a recriminating glint in Cynara's eyes that struck a telling blow in Elizabeth's already guilty heart. In a barely perceptible murmur, Elizabeth replied, "Me."

"Precisely...I began to dwell on you and came to realize that nothing in my life could ever be an acceptable substitute for losing you...nothing or no one could ever fill that void. Worse still, every time I looked at Cassandra...or made love to her...I would see her juxtaposed against you with her every inadequacy and shortcoming shining forth like a malign sun. I tried to hide it from her, but eventually I succumbed to melancholy and withdrew into myself...leaving her alone to brood with whatever darkness haunted her. For years, we floated through this great house...like uncommunicative ghosts...together, but completely isolated...until neither of us could endure it any further. I threw her out...not because she struck me...but because I couldn't stand the accusatory expression that dawned on her face every time we passed each other in the hallways. I know I should feel ashamed of the way I treated Cassandra, but in the end, I'm not even capable of that." Cynara stopped abruptly, her face ashen as she averted her eyes.

Elizabeth crossed over to the other immortal and drew the startled Cynara into a warm embrace. "I'm so sorry for what I've done to you...and to Cassandra. I genuinely thought that, by staying away, I could insure that you would be free to live your life without fear of discovery. I can't even say...with any degree of certainty...that abandoning Cassandra to your keeping wasn't actually my token gesture of compensation for deserting you. Everyone is so quick to bestow this saintly persona upon me, but more and more I see that I am entirely unworthy of the title. Most of my actions ultimately manifest themselves as being insufferably selfish. The fact that I have come to you under these circumstances is proof of that. Perhaps If you had killed me yesterday...we all would have been better served."

Cynara snarled and despite Elizabeth's prior admonition, plunged her hands into the blond immortal's thick hair and yanked her head back. "Don't you ever speak like that to me again...ever. Not once have I ever known you to intentionally harm anything and I won't listen to this self-denigration...do you hear me...I won't!"

Cynara continued to glare at Elizabeth, whose eyes widened in the face of the older immortal's vehemence and finally, she nodded. Cynara pawed absently at her eyes and stepped away, her body livid with emotion. "Irrespective of which of us should bear the greater blame for Cassie's situation, we still have to find her...to bring her back into the fold."

Cynara shook her head and regarded Elizabeth in confusion, "Why?"

Now it was Elizabeth's turn to display consternation as if Cynara was being deliberately obtuse. "We are both fully aware of the emotional miasma that forged Cassie's nature, Cynara. She was completely unstable when I first found her...psychotic, if I'm being totally truthful. By turning her, you've imbued her with powers that, when combined with her volatile nature, give her the potential to be a far greater menace than you were at the height of your evil worst. You have to see that. I can help her...we can help her."

"Again...why?" Cynara demanded in earnest confusion. "In your current predicament, you have all of the woe you can handle...having Cassandra Jasic around will increase that exponentially."

"Nonetheless, I reneged on my oath to her once...and I won't do it again. Now...you're her creator...and so I need you to reach out and locate her." Elizabeth insisted adamantly.

"And to think that you actually don't see yourself as a saint," Cynara muttered, shaking her head in dismay. "Very well...I'll locate Cassandra, but only after you've collected your coquette and we've formulated a plan."

Elizabeth was dissatisfied with Cynara's response, but judging by the obdurate gleam in those amber-flecked eyes, realized this was the best concession she could extract without protracted debate. She nodded, but noticed that Cynara's expression had become flinty as if there was something more she was debating sharing. "There's more, isn't there...isn't there, Cynara?"

Cynara pursed her full lips and raised a rueful eyebrow. "You know, I can't remember you being this assiduous when last we were together."

Elizabeth responded with a crooked, humorless grin. "You said you wanted me for eternity...well that means accepting me...annoying peccadilloes and all. Now, tell me the rest."

"Over the last two years, there have been a series of especially brutal murders in the greater London area...all white males...all savagely mutilated. The first of these took place not long after Cassandra left...less than a year." Cynara disclosed in a somber tone that rang with a note of duplicity.

Elizabeth's face contorted into a mask of horrified abnegation. Here, in blood and graphic detail, was the end manifestation of her abandonment of the broken, fragile creature that she had found in the rain on that Colorado highway. Unlike Cynara, Elizabeth could not absolve herself of that burden of guilt. "She's fallen back into her psychosis...I have to find her...now!"

Cynara firmly gripped Elizabeth's shoulders and shook her briskly. "No! What you have to do is collect this Judith and return here. While you're gone...I'll reach out to Cassandra. We can deal with the problems of Barrows and Cassandra concurrently if we must...but we have to start now...so go and collect your pet."

Elizabeth was clearly not mollified by this suggestion, but Cynara gently pushed her in the direction of the door and though she glowered, Elizabeth nonetheless conceded to the older immortal's wisdom.

Neither of the two could possibly have anticipated that fate would thrust Cassandra back into their paths soon enough...or guessed at the catastrophic consequences this reunion would carry.

2

It was just before noon when Elizabeth tentatively entered her suite to find Judith hunched over her new Virtua console, staring fixedly at the procession of hovering images that seemed to float through the air like disenfranchised ghosts.

Surprisingly, Judith did not turn as Elizabeth entered the suite, nor did she even make any other gesture to acknowledge the blond immortal's presence. There was something morose...almost forlorn...about the diminutive beauty's posture as she gazed at the flickering images and Elizabeth knew instinctively that she had inflicted yet another indelible scar on someone unfortunate enough to have crossed her path.

_'Are you beginning to see a pattern, Elizabeth...an insight in all the detritus you've left in your wake over the years?'_ the voice of Contayza Prowzi inquired with savage glee.

"Judith?" Elizabeth inquired hesitantly.

"I'm glad you've made it back safely..." Judith remarked distantly...her voice a listless monotone.

Elizabeth started across the room, uncertain of her intentions but wanting to do something to banish that morose tone from Judith's voice...wanting to make some manner of amends for what she perceived as a flagrant betrayal. Judith suddenly swiveled to face Elizabeth and offered the immortal a wan smile. Holding up a forestalling hand, she intoned, "It's all right, Elizabeth...I already know what happened...how she hurt you and how you..."

Judith's smooth voice faltered then and the severity of her misery was written clearly in her large dark eyes. Elizabeth came to stand beside the smaller woman and placed a hand on Judith's right shoulder. "That was you I felt...when Cynara and I were...together?"

Judith fixed the statuesque blond with a frank gaze. "Yes...I have many talents. Amathera taught me the tether, but I've since mastered it beyond her wildest imagination. I established the link when I touched your ankle in the alley...and strengthened it exponentially when I made love to you in Paris. I was concerned about your continuing absence and so I reached out to you...and found you being throttled by that monster. I tried to come to you...but when I could bring myself to travel the tether, I found that you had already reached a rapprochement. I am sorry I hurt you though...I guess jealousy got the better of me. I can remove the tether...before I go."

Elizabeth peered down on Judith in silence for several moments before sinking to one knee and placing a long arm around the smaller woman's shoulder. In a soft, but firm tone, Elizabeth declared, "Judith...you're not going anywhere. In Paris, I promised that I would keep you with me from this point forth and that is exactly what I intend to do...if you still want to be with me. Even Cynara believes that you can be of value in this situation with Barrows and she has asked me to bring you back to her estate."

Now it was the normally unflappable Ranzman who looked askance. "You really believe that she won't try to crush me like an insect the moment that she sets eyes upon me...does she...she know we were intimate?"

"Yes," Elizabeth allowed simply. "Cynara and I have reached an arrangement...something that she and I should have done decades ago. She will not harm you...if you don't make a point of provoking her...which you most definitely will not...right Judith? In fact, I would ask that you employ that irreverent charm of yours to winning her over?"

Judith offered Elizabeth a crooked grin and inquired, "And just how do you suggest I accomplish that particular feat?"

"Cynara has always had a weakness for all things that are exquisitely beautiful and I don't believe I've ever come across anything as exquisitely beautiful as you, Judith. You're a clever woman...I'm confident you'll think of something." Elizabeth then offered the nonplused Judith a decidedly suggestive glance and kissed her right cheek. "Now, let's gather up our things...you're finally going to have a new home after living like an itinerant for so long."

Judith rose on unsteady legs, her insides trembling wildly at the incredibly erotic invitation she believed Elizabeth had just extended. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth, but innuendo simply isn't going to cut it...did you actually just suggest that I seduce Cynara?"

Elizabeth's eyelids fluttered and she offered Judith an innocent grin. "Judith, you know that I'm much too virtuous to ever propose something so...utterly scandalous. More to the point, Cynara is entirely devoted to me and I truly doubt there is anything you could ever do to tempt her from that devotion. Still, as you proved with me in Paris, you do have an aptitude for taking a girl unaware and if you should maneuver Cynara into a vulnerable position, could I really condemn you...especially if I was none the wiser?"

Judith's answering grin was positively provocative. "Then perhaps I'll just have to test this woman's resolve...but I feel...since you're being candid with me...it's only fair to warn you, Elizabeth...I still fully intend to make you my very pliable toy before this is done."

Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed gaily. "Now that's the Judith Ranzman I've come to know and love."

After a moment, Judith's deportment became sober and she asked, "Do you want me to remove the tether?"

Elizabeth inclined her head and regarded the shorter woman thoughtfully. After a weighty pause, she remarked, "No...I think I actually like the notion of having you in my head. In truth...it seems like a particularly beneficial skill...can you teach me how to make it reciprocal?"

Judith smiled eagerly. "Of course...though I'm not sure having access to my cesspool of a mind won't harm those delicate sensibilities of yours."

"I'll take the risk," Elizabeth countered tartly. "If she's amenable, I'll have you tether with Cynara...being able to communicate with each other instantaneously might prove especially useful in what's to come."

Judith's eyes widened with something that might well have been avarice and she intoned, "Now having unfettered access to her mind might be a special treat."

"Have you managed to unearth anything of value on Sir Ian Barrows?"

"Yes...and his Inner Circle, but perhaps we should all discuss this together...if I survive the introductions," Judith suggested with the hint of a grin playing at her lips.

Elizabeth responded with a grin of her own and though she tried to project an outward mantle of confidence, she had serious concerns how these volatile creatures might interact. Judith's mood became somber then and she reached for Elizabeth's right hand, though she could not bring herself to peer into those lovely blue eyes. "When I felt her hurting you the way she was, I experienced a welling panic...a dread that immobilized me...took my breath away. Through my entire life, I've never once felt the desire to sacrifice myself for another living being...ever. Amathera taught me the meaning of empathy for others...but you, Elizabeth, have taught me what it means to want to live for someone else...and to die for them if the need arises. I joke about breaking you to my will, but the truth is that I find myself hanging on your whim like a hopelessly infatuated schoolgirl and there is nothing you can't ask of me that I won't do. I just wanted you to know that before we go to meet her."

This earnest disclosure, given so freely, simply robbed Elizabeth of her ability to respond...to articulate the complex array of emotions Judith's admission had evoked. She merely stared back at the diminutive beauty, her eyes misting before she shook her head and turned away. Finally, she sputtered, "I...I don't deserve you, Judith...and while I'm being honest, I don't deserve Cynara either."

Judith smiled a predacious smile and gently settled her hand on Elizabeth's trembling shoulder, "But you have the both of us anyway...so let's make the best of it and see where we all are when we emerge on the other side of this thing."

Elizabeth brushed a warm tear from her left eye and nodded resolutely. They packed in silence and after Elizabeth checked out, the pair departed for Cynara's country estate...the first step on the road to forming the triumvirate that would face Sir Ian Barrows and his band of modern day brigands.

3

They drove back into the English countryside in silence and with every passing kilometer Elizabeth could feel her anxiety growing. She ascribed this to more than simple apprehension regarding how Cynara might react to the irreverent Judith. Today was to be the first step in formulating a plan to extricate her from Ian Barrows' frighteningly clever trap. As they drove out of the city beneath a brooding gray sky, Elizabeth came to discern that there was another obligation that she could no longer ignore...irrespective of how intimidating she found the prospect of confronting it to be.

Cynara might well formulate a workable plan, but Elizabeth was honor-bound to return to America and inform Contayza of what had befallen her granddaughter...and why.

The prospect of coming face to face with Contayza after so many years filled Elizabeth with a trepidation she could not easily define. Her daughter-in-law harbored an intense acrimony for Elizabeth that would only be exacerbated by the news that Rebecca's abduction had been motivated by a desire to obtain leverage over the immortal. It was impossible to predict how the extremely volatile Contayza might react to the disclosure...and then the stark recollection of their horrifying confrontation at that remote truck stop in Oregon exploded in her mind with the force of a detonating bomb.

An audible gasp slid from her slightly parted lips and her hands gripped the Jaguar's wheel with white-knuckled intensity, causing her to veer slightly...drawing a sharp glance from Judith.

"Are you okay...you suddenly have the pallor of spoiled cream?" Judith observed anxiously.

Elizabeth flashed a quick grin that quite obviously didn't fool the perceptive Ranzman for a moment, but was grateful when Judith nodded and settled back into her seat. Her thoughts gravitated back to that awful night where Contayza's emotions had run rampant to lethal effect...only Cynara's unexpected intervention had prevented the night from sinking to far more catastrophic depths than it had. _'Contayza abhors you...despises you simply for what you are...and as grossly unfair as it might be, she will place the blame for Rebecca's abduction squarely on your shoulders. Showing up on her doorstep after fifty-five years is bound to drive her into a paroxysm of rage...you have to know that.'_

Still, as much as she dreaded the thought of standing before the gypsy and delivering the news that she had been the reason for her granddaughter's abduction, Elizabeth understood with equal clarity that this was an obligation she could not eschew.

The gates to Cynara's estate were open and when Elizabeth negotiated the Jaguar into the long, winding driveway, Judith sat up and whistled...displaying animation for the first time. "This is a level of grandeur I didn't expect...just how rich is this woman?"

Elizabeth smiled and explained, "For more than thirty years, Cynara lived in the persona of Karnalla Mansley. Being the international gold standard for feminine beauty certainly comes with its rewards. Even before purloining Karnalla's identity, Cynara was absurdly wealthy. There is something about opulence that just seems to suit the imperious side of Cynara's nature. Remember, Judith...and I'm pleading with you to take me seriously...don't antagonize Cynara. I have more than enough on my plate without trying to referee two alpha females."

Judith rolled her eyes in feigned indignation. "I'll be the very model of deference, Elizabeth...you have my word."

Elizabeth parked the car at the foot of the stairs leading up to the main doors and then led Judith into the cavernous interior of Cynara's home. She wondered obliquely how it must feel for Judith, who had once lived in a scaled down version of this mansion, to be immersed in such lavishness after living like dust in the wind for so long, bereft of every trapping of normalcy.

The pair made their way to the drawing room...which seemed to be Cynara's favorite part of the sprawling mansion...to find the immortal awaiting their arrival. She sat in a wingback near the fireplace with her long legs crossed and her forearms resting lightly on the arm rests. Though her face remained an inscrutable mask, her large dark eyes were ablaze...the tension in the room a palpable thing. Inhaling deeply, Elizabeth stepped in front of Judith and announced, "Cynara, this is Judith Ranzman...she's come to help us with Ian Barrows."

Cynara's smoldering regard was fastened squarely on the woman behind Elizabeth. Cynara could feel herself responding to the other woman's compelling presence the way a predatory cat will respond to the presence of another cat in its territory. Elizabeth watched in mounting alarm as Cynara's long fingers began to rake the delicate material of her wingback's arm rest.

Judith stepped around Elizabeth and strode purposefully toward Cynara, who rose swiftly to meet the other woman's approach, her luminous eyes flaring menacingly. Elizabeth tensed as Judith stopped directly before the much taller woman and stared up into her face in a way that reminded the increasingly alarmed Simpson of the posturing of two prizefighters before a boxing match. Without taking her eyes from Cynara's face, Judith deftly undid the clasps of her shadow cloak and slid it for her shoulders. As a mystified Simpson watched, she folded it over her forearms and offered it to a bemused Cynara. With a rare gravity, Judith intoned, "This coat is the only thing of value I have in this world. It is the foundation of whatever power I possess. To demonstrate my sincerity in wishing to be your friend...I entrust this to your keeping while I am under your roof."

Elizabeth required only one glance to see that this unexpected imparting of trust had completely unnerved the usually unflappable Cynara, who accepted the cloak with an expression of open bemusement. She allowed her thumbs to caress the strange materials of the garment and intoned in a voice rife with awe, "I can feel its innate power...though I can't define its shape."

"If you wish...I could show you when time allows," Judith offered and Elizabeth smiled.

_'This one possesses a subtle and clever mind and both Cynara and you would do well to be wary of her possible ulterior motives for her every act of benevolence,'_ an inner voice cautioned. Still, Judith had always been completely candid in expressing her intentions and desires toward Elizabeth, though how she perceived Cynara remained a potentially troubling mystery.

Cynara shook her head and drew herself erect. After setting Judith's cloak down on the wingback, she stepped closer to the smaller woman and gazed down upon her as though trying to bludgeon Judith with the sheer weight of her presence. Elizabeth was not surprised when Judith gave no outward hint of being intimidated by the immortal. "Elizabeth has told me the story of how you imposed yourself in her path in Paris...and ingratiated yourself with her ever since. I'll tolerate your presence because Elizabeth has asked me to do so, but be forewarned...if I have even the slightest inkling that your intentions are in any way harmful to her, I will incinerate you without the slightest hesitation. What's more...as we're establishing a groundwork for a proper working relationship...Elizabeth is mine and if I see your leering gaze settle on her for an instant more than is proper...I'll pluck those large eyes from your head and feed them to you. Have I made myself sufficiently clear?"

"Explicitly," Judith replied flatly. Then, for the second time in less than two minutes, she proceeded to completely unsettle Cynara by grasping the taller woman's right hand, while falling to her knees before her. She then placed Cynara's open palm on her forehead, "I don't want to waste precious time trying to convince you that my intentions are entirely benevolent and that I'm completely committed to helping Elizabeth defeat Ian Barrows. Open your mind to me Cynara...and I'll show you everything...the sum total of what and who I am. Perhaps then we can dispense with this posturing to establish a pecking order and get down to the business at hand. Simply close your eyes and open your consciousness."

"Judith!" Elizabeth exclaimed sharply, recalling the unsettling deluge that she had been subjected to in that Parisian restaurant.

Cynara raised her free hand in a gesture for patience and the in a sober voice, intoned, "Very well...let me experience that twisted soul of yours."

Judith smiled and then closed her eyes. As Elizabeth watched, the two women were enveloped in diaphanous silver effulgence. Cynara stiffened and her head jerked back, the cords in her neck standing prominently forth in sharp relief. The process seemed to go on for an eternity and as Elizabeth watched the two raven-haired beauties, it suddenly occurred to her that both were almost mirror reflections of the other. _'Do you truly believe that it is mere coincidence that you've attracted these two creatures...who share so much in common?'_

The startling thought staggered Elizabeth, even as the silver aura around the two women vanished and Cynara sagged back into her chair, trembling beneath the aftershock of absorbing nearly twenty-four hundred years of intense history compressed into the span of mere minutes. From her perspective, Elizabeth did not see the lascivious grin that shone on Judith's beautiful face as she stared at Cynara...her expression one of open challenge. Nor could she envision the final image that Judith had projected as she had terminated the flow of her accrued experience.

As Cynara merely gaped at the kneeling woman, Judith mouthed the words, "First we'll save her together...and then...then I'll take her from you...in time."

Cynara finally regained her composure and then rose, extending a hand to Judith, who accepted it will a deferential nod. To the enthralled Elizabeth, Cynara mumbled, "I see that you were quite correct...she is an extraordinary creature...who should prove most useful."

Cynara then effortlessly hauled Judith to her feet and actually put a long arm around the smaller woman's shoulder, before the pair turned and grinned at Elizabeth, who reacted to the pair's decidedly conspiratorial behavior with a suspicious frown. Cynara gave Judith a comradely hug and stepped away, her tone becoming serious. "Now that we're over the introductions, let's talk about just how we're going to deal with this nuisance." Her gaze settled on Elizabeth and the blond immortal could almost hear Cynara's insidious mind begin to cycle up. "Ultimately, this should be an incredibly simple situation to rectify. The three of us could simply descend upon Barrows' little compound and turn it into a glistening slaughterhouse and this drama would come to a swift and satisfying end. Of course, that would mean that this girl...Rebecca...would die. Still, Ian Barrows and his band of pirates would be consigned to the dust bin of history."

Cynara turned to Judith, a smirk playing at her lips, "Here, Judith dear, is where you learn that simplicity will always collide with the insurmountable wall of our darling Elizabeth's moral integrity. Despite the fact that this bastard has threatened her life and abducted a family member, Elizabeth finds the notion of killing him abhorrent. The second option is that she could simply vanish, but that would also have the undesirable consequence of seeing this Rebecca die...without the satisfaction of tearing the bastard to twitching pieces."

"I don't find this lecture in anyway amusing, Cynara," Elizabeth grumbled, her brow darkening as she watched Judith suddenly sport an identical smirk. Not for the first time, Elizabeth wondered if it had been a prudent decision to bring these two creatures together.

Cynara arched an eyebrow and her tone became mordant, "I'm not lecturing you, nor am I being sardonic. I'm merely trying to illustrate that you have put yourself in a needlessly vulnerable position because of a girl who you've never met. As a consequence, you find yourself with very few palatable options."

"I have to agree with the tsarina on this one," Judith interjected, deliberately ignoring the fierce scowl her derogatory reference had earned from Cynara. "I know you're an incredibly compassionate woman, but prior to that meeting in Paris, I doubt you even knew that Rebecca Merin existed...am I correct?"

"You are, but your point is hardly relevant, Judith. Rebecca is my son's granddaughter and thus my blood. Cynara knows all too well how far I will go to protect someone I love. Rebecca is in this situation because she has the misfortune of being related to me...and I will not allow her to come to harm. The both of you are simply going to have to accept that...or I will walk out of here and leave the both of you behind...permanently!"

The two women exchanged exasperated glances and Cynara intoned quietly, "Calm yourself...I'm simply laying out all of your options and then we can discard the ones you find unpalatable. Judith, Elizabeth has told me that you've gathered information on Barrows?"

Judith, nodded and confirmed, "Yes. Just give me a minute to set up this Virtua console and we can go over it as a trio."

Cynara nodded and Judith removed the portable device from its case and began to set it up on a writing table near the bank of windows. While she did, Cynara gravitated over to Elizabeth and made a show of kissing the blond immortal's slightly parted lips. Judith shook her head and forced herself to ignore the immortal's provocation...knowing full well that their subtle game had commenced. When the console had initialized, she summoned the pair to join her and began to cycle through the wealth of data she had accrued, explaining as she went, "On the surface, Ian Barrows projects the impression of a wildly successful, but legitimate business mind with a strong sense of civic consciousness. His charity is, in part, why he received a knighthood. Only if you're astute in the subtext of unscrupulous business...do you start to see certain patterns emerge. Barrows is what I would describe as a corporate carpet bagger...a marauder who capitalizes on the misfortunes of his competitors...most of which he so craftily manufactures. I recognize many of these patterns because I employed them myself...back when such things actually mattered to me. Barrows is ruthless...but also extremely intelligent in his under-handedness. A bribe...a pocketed politician...all help grease the skids and remove the obstacles. His holdings are incredibly diverse and he has wrangled control over a myriad of very lucrative pies. That is just the legitimate side of his business...the portrait I could construct from public records."

"But of course a man such as Barrows has a shadow persona...the dark side that is a closer reflection of who he really is..." Cynara interjected thoughtfully as she leaned over Judith's shoulder.

Judith laid her hand on Cynara's and squeezed it appreciatively, drawing a startled glance from the immortal...who still did not pull her hand away. The nuanced interaction was not lost upon Elizabeth who could only shake her head in the face of Judith's audacity. The long-lived mortal confirmed Cynara's speculation. "Yes, the public persona is only the tip of a rather dark and nasty ice berg. Business and political opposition have developed an amazing habit of vanishing when they come into conflict with Sir Ian, but they do so in subtle ways that can not be traced back to the pirate. Inquiries and investigative committee seem to evaporate like mist in the desert as far as Barrows is concerned.

"Essentially, you're telling us that Ian Barrows is a jackal...with absolutely no compunction about doing whatever is necessary to realize his ambitions," Cynara concluded, her eyes narrowing into glimmering slits. "Now, he's decided his privilege should also make him exempt from death and so he's somehow fixated on Elizabeth as a means of defying his mortal limits."

"Succinctly put," Judith remarked with a grudging hint of admiration. "There is nothing that Barrows wouldn't resort to under the best of circumstances, but faced with the harsh reality of his own mortality...well, need I really elaborate?"

Cynara nodded distantly, that wild light burning in those amber-flecked eyes. "Frankly, Ian Barrows isn't my primary point of interest. He's an extremely fragile bug, clinging to life only by Elizabeth's forbearance. If Elizabeth was indifferent to this Rebecca's existence, Barrows would already be a moldering corpse. Still, I've vowed to respect Elizabeth's constraints and so we'll deal with the situation as it is." She came to an abrupt halt, a perplexed expression settling over her exquisite face. "There is one thing that does trouble me though...Barrows seems to have gone to great lengths to insure that, not only do you capitulate to his wishes...but you also make no move against him directly. The first seems logical, but the second seems excessive. It's almost as if Barrows perceives you as something more than a baffling anomaly...something significantly more dangerous. I can't help but wonder what might have led him to that conclusion, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth could feel Cynara's incisive regard upon her face and struggled to resist the urge to squirm beneath its penetrating weight. She might have conjured a simple fabrication or pleaded ignorance, but she understood that Cynara was risking everything by entangling herself in her tribulations. "I basically confirmed that I was an immortal. My anger got the better of me and my eyes flashed that orange that you find so...endearing."

"The dark father wept...why would you ever do something so obtuse!" Cynara exclaimed, horrified by the very thought.

"I wanted to dissuade Barrows by showing him that the only help I could offer would leave him permanently entombed in a vessel of decrepit flesh. In retrospect, I understand how absolutely stupid that was...but seeing the great granddaughter I've never met in such a harrowing position...unsettled me," Elizabeth admitted honestly without the slightest trace of defensiveness.

Cynara shook her head exasperation and glanced briefly at Judith, who merely shrugged her shoulders. "That blunder has made our position infinitely more delicate. With the prospect of immortality dangling before him, Barrows will never be persuaded to relent. Worse still, if he suspects you are a serious threat to his person...he will find a burrow deep underground and rooting him out will be no easy matter."

Judith drifted over to Cynara and put her small right hand on the taller woman's shoulder. From across the room, Elizabeth could see that she was subtly massaging the firm shoulder beneath and knew that Judith was already well engaged in her sly game. Cynara flicked an inscrutable glance to the gently probing fingers, but made no effort to move away. Ranzman peered up at the raven-haired immortal and intoned, "Unless I've misconstrued those wicked intentions of yours, I am guessing that you intend to ignore Barrows...and focus upon the circle of cronies immediately closest to him?"

Cynara offered Judith a knowing grin and then slid her regard to Elizabeth, "What a clever little fox you've unearthed, dear. Rich and powerful as he may be...I am guessing that Ian Barrows can't wipe his own arse without assistance. How utterly galling that must be for a man with this magnitude of ego...that dark part of me can almost comprehend why he would go to such extraordinary lengths to defy nature. Still, he finds himself in a position where he is completely dependent on his nearest circle of sycophants. Those are who I intend to focus upon. You see, darling Elizabeth, while Barrows thinks he has nothing to lose with this audacious gambit...his minions are likely to be of an entirely different mind...once they've been shown the horrible consequences of allowing your precious Rebecca to meet her rather gruesome end." She turned away from a disapproving Elizabeth and taking Judith's hand...led the smiling woman back to the Virtua console. "Now...let us have a close look at this circle of sycophants."

Judith issued three audible commands and in response, three holographic portraits materialized out of the subdued air of Cynara's study, while Judith provided a brief biography of each. "The man on the left is Doctor Andrew Mcammon...a two time Nobel laureate in the field of bio-genetics. He is the director of the facility where Elizabeth has been commanded to present herself. Barrows has funded this man's research for the better part of his career...and in return, Mcammon has kept the bastard alive. Given the situation, I would suspect that Mcammon has now exhausted the last of his magic. Still...this is likely the man who would oversee the dissection process if Elizabeth was actually foolish enough to submit."

Cynara committed the face to memory, making the spontaneous decision that Andrew Mcammon would be the first to die...when the time came. Elizabeth had drifted over to the pair and Cynara was intensely aware of her scrutiny, but refused to acknowledge it. Judith continued to paint a portrait of Mcammon, while the two women listened raptly. "It is unlikely that Mcammon has any knowledge of the seedy underside of his employers empire...he is strictly a science geek with a single-minded focus. I'm not entirely certain how he might react to conducting experiments on Elizabeth...but as we all know, Barrows can be extremely persuasive when the situation demands it."

"And I take it that the other two are cut from a different cloth?" Cynara inquired as she pondered the two hovering holography.

Judith nodded in affirmation. "The man in the middle is Olem Beyarov. He is seldom seen in public and my guess is that he may not be here entirely of his own accord...at least initially. It is unclear how he ended up in Great Britain, but he is the A.I. genius behind Barrows sprawling business network...probably a man with inimitable hacking skills that Barrows somehow managed to pluck from the Russian swamp. It is probably Beyarov who managed to find Elizabeth in the virtual information ocean...and it is probably Beyarov who designed that nefarious little device that Mcammon implanted in the pirate's heart. Instinct is telling me that Beyarov is nothing more than an exceptionally gifted tool...with very little loyalty to the master who jerks his chain."

Again, Cynara concurred with a tacit nod and a dark gleam that Elizabeth did not at all care for. There was something stirring within the other immortal...someone that had been quiescent for these last decades. _'She's becoming the dark lady...that terrible creature who first descended upon your life in Semelar. The onus for preventing that from coming to pass is strictly yours to bear.'_

"And this last one?" Cynara inquired, her gaze fixed on the cold, lifeless eyes of Cedric Drury...a creature the nature of whom she was intimately familiar.

"This daunting fellow is Barrows' enforcer...the man who enacts the pirate's will. He once was a professional boxer of some minor note back in the Twenties. Somehow, he's ingratiated himself into Barrows service and has become his right hand. This may be the only living human being that Ian Barrows trusts implicitly," Judith concluded.

Cynara contemplated the trio for a moment further and then turned toward Elizabeth, taking the woman's shoulders in her hands and squeezing them for emphasis. "Elizabeth, these are the three men whom we must convince that it would be in their best interest if Rebecca Merin remained alive and was set free. Once we have freed Rebecca...I can deal with Barrows."

"You won't kill Barrows, Cynara...time will do that soon enough and we can all walk away from this with a clear conscience," Elizabeth intoned vehemently. The two women's gazes locked...grim determination dueling with seething impatience.

Cynara's face softened and she tenderly ran a finger over the prominent ridge of Elizabeth's cheek. Pleadingly, she intoned, "You have to trust me, Elizabeth. I have to instill a dread in at least one of these three men...perhaps all. To do that, I have to make them fear us more than they either fear or respect Ian Barrows. As for Barrows...do you honestly believe he'll stop...even if we manage to retrieve Rebecca? He'll simply switch to another family member because his nature will permit him to do nothing less. When you dangled the carrot of immortality before his greedy eyes, you made that intransigence insurmountable. Ian Barrows is a menace as long as he draws breath...to believe anything else is foolishly naive."

"I'll protect Nathaniel's family," Elizabeth insisted, her tone becoming obdurate.

Cynara inhaled deeply, clearly grappling with her temper in the face of Elizabeth's perceived stubbornness. "If the prospect of defending your son's family from hordes of Barrows' mercenaries rouses no concern, then perhaps you might consider his other threat...releasing details of your fascinating longevity to the world. If he followed through on this seemingly innocuous threat...a threat I'm sure you perceive as nothing more than a nuisance...do you really believe that my former masters would remain oblivious to the fact that the reviled Elizabeth Simpson yet walks the earth. Just how do you propose to defend your family from that particular eventuality, darling Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth's expression became ashen and she threw off Cynara's hands and stumbled over to the window on unsteady legs, while Judith glowered at Cynara questioningly. In the confines of Judith's mind, a voice declared emphatically, _'I'll explain later...and don't look so surprised, Judith.'_

Cynara flashed a feral smile and stalked over to Elizabeth, refusing to allow the other immortal to retreat behind a wall of obstinate intransigence. Judith drifted over to join the pair, her respect for the imperious Saravic growing by the second. "Please, Elizabeth...you've come to me for help...now let me help you. You have my solemn vow that I won't do anything that isn't strictly necessary. To begin with...let me acquaint Barrow's sycophants with exactly what they've aligned themselves against...and we can deal with the issue of Barrows once Rebecca is safe."

Elizabeth shifted her gaze to meet's Cynara's and saw Judith nodding her encouragement. Fetching a wary sigh, she intoned, "Very well, handle this the way you think you must...but keep the violence limited only to what is strictly necessary to make your point."

Cynara and Judith exchanged smiles, but those expressions of triumph abruptly faded with Elizabeth's next disclosure. "While you and Judith plot your strategy...I'm going to fly to Boston to apprise Contayza of exactly what's happened to Rebecca."

"Absolutely not!" Cynara exclaimed, her brow darkening. "There is no way I'm letting you within a hundred miles of that crazy bitch!"

"Then you had better prepare for a battle that will make yesterday's seem like a playground shoving match by comparison, Cynara...because I'm going to see my daughter-in-law and tell her what has happened to her granddaughter...and why. Like many of the things that have befallen me during the course of my life...this is an obligation that I simply can't escape. I'll be back in three days and you can detail just how we proceed from here." Her tone became conciliatory and she laid her hand on Cynara's shoulder which felt like a mass of writhing snakes beneath her touch. "Try to imagine how excruciating it must be for Contayza and her daughter...not knowing what has become of Rebecca or why. I know the enmity you harbor for Contayza and her family...but they are also my family and if you genuinely love me...which I believe fervently that you do...you won't try to stop me from doing this."

"Elizabeth is right, Cynara," Judith interjected softly. "This is the compassionate thing to do." Cynara's head snapped to the mortal, her luminous eyes blazing with fury. Judith met that anger evenly and reciprocated Cynara's earlier feat of silent communication. _'Give in to her on this...oh yes tsarina...I'll explain later.'_

Cynara glowered at Judith, whom seemed to retort with an odd smirk that was not lost upon Simpson. Finally, the immortal turned to Elizabeth and with a rare note of desperation in her voice, pleaded, "At the very least, take one of us with you...you know all too well just how violent and irrational this woman can be."

Again, Elizabeth adamantly declined with a firm shake of her blond mane. "And you understand just how Contayza will react to your appearance on her doorstep. Judith should remain with you because Contayza's reaction is bound to be explosive and Judith's presence will be inflammatory. This is something that I have to do alone...a kind of atonement for all that I've subjected my family to over the years."

Cynara frowned at this last remark, troubled by the expression of grim resolve that had rippled over Elizabeth's face as she had given it voice. Still, the set of Elizabeth's jaw made it eminently clear that she would not desist. Cynara shook her head in unconcealed displeasure, but nonetheless relented. "As you would have it, Elizabeth...when do you intend to leave?"

"Immediately...I'll drive directly to Heathrow and catch the next available fly to New York or Boston. Once I've spoken with Contayza...I'll come directly back...I promise. What do you intend to do while I'm gone?"

Cynara's expression was sour and her tone sullen as she replied, "Judith is going to provide me with a demonstration of her abilities by conducting a reconnaissance of the research facility you're expected to go to. I'm going to make contact with one of the three...though I haven't quite decided which will have the pleasure of my company yet."

Elizabeth stepped closer and lifted Cynara's chin. "There's also the matter of Cassie...I expect you to reach out to her during my absence, Cynara."

There was an implacable imperative in Elizabeth's tone that infuriated Cynara, but she somehow managed to repress her anger, resorting to an acerbic rejoinder instead. "You've become gallingly relentless, Elizabeth...like a nattering old woman."

Elizabeth beamed a radiant smile and spontaneously kissed Cynara on the mouth. Tartly, she countered, "Well Mrs. Simonovic...since you're stuck with me for an eternity...I would suggest you get accustomed to it."

She noticed the shadow that had slid across Judith's beautiful face as she had kissed Cynara and abruptly drew the other woman into a hug. Stepping back, she held Judith at arms length and searched her face. "Are you agreeable to remaining with Cynara until I return?"

Judith shot the raven-haired immortal a nuanced glance and offered, "It will give us a chance to get acquainted...but yes, I'll be fine. Something tells me that tsarina and I are going to get along famously."

Cynara stiffened, but Judith uttered a disarming laugh and clapped the bemused immortal on the shoulder.

The two women accompanied Elizabeth out to her waiting Jaguar, where she again kissed Cynara and hugged Judith...though a part of her wanted to bestow a lingering kiss on Judith's lovely, pliable mouth. She was flummoxed to find that she actually wanted them both and wondered where this new wanton aspect of her nature found its source. _'These extraordinary creatures belong to you now, Elizabeth...however the future might resolve itself and whatever life might await you beyond this dark juncture...the arc of their lives have become inextricably intertwined with yours...and each other's. This is the affect you exert upon the lives of the people you touch...an unbreakable bond that cannot be severed by time or experience.'_

On impulse, Elizabeth did kiss Judith's slightly parted lips, leaving Cynara scowling and the diminutive mortal virtually glowing with delight. She then slid behind the wheel of her vehicle and admonished Cynara, "I fully expect to find Judith in one unscathed piece on my return, Cynara."

Cynara's turbulent expression was rife with ire, but she nodded curtly and muttered, "I'll take special care of her...you can be certain. Yes, before you drive me to distraction by mentioning it yet again...I'll reach out to Cassandra."

She reached out and squeezed Cynara's hand affectionately, "Then I'll be back in three days Mrs. Simonovic."

"I'll be waiting...Mrs. Simonovic," Cynara replied gravely and stepped back.

Elizabeth glanced to the rear view mirror, where the unlikely pair continued to watch her until she passed out of sight.

4

Cynara followed Judith back into her mansion, turning her face to the moisture-laden sky and closing her eyes in an attempt to rein in her turbulent emotions before entering. Seeing Elizabeth drive away...alone and heading toward what could only be a maelstrom...had left Cynara tottering on the verge of open panic. As had always been the case...even when she was a young mortal girl...fear had a way of manifesting itself as ugly cruelty and violence. As she watched Judith vanish into the interior of her estate, Cynara could feel that powerful compulsion prodding her to vent her fury upon the infuriatingly arrogant mortal.

Inside, Judith stood in the center of the cavernous entrance staring up at the ornate domed ceiling, where an enormous chandelier cast a muted glow over the expanse of marble floor...making it shimmer like an ice rink on a brilliant winter's day. Without glancing at the approaching immortal, Judith inquired, "Well then tsarina, where do we begin?"

The derogatory reference exploded in Cynara's mind, sweeping away all rational thought and supplanting it with a mindless rage...the killing rage that had once often ruled the old Cynara's thoughts and actions.

In a blur, she was across the expanse of polished marble, where she caught a startled Judith by the throat in powerful fingers. With Judith's feet dangling a full meter above the floor, Cynara surged through the long hallway that led into the rear of the vast manor. When she finally came to an intersection, Cynara slammed the helpless mortal into the wall with enough force to actually embed Judith in the plaster, which tumbled down around her in a cascade of sheet rock and plaster dust. Ranzman uttered a guttural grunt and her eyes rolled up in their sockets. Still, holding the dazed woman by the throat, Cynara slapped her in the face twice...the sound of flesh on flesh resounding along the hallways like the crack of a whip. Blood, shockingly red, began to flows from the corner of Judith's generous mouth and from both nostrils.

The sight of the mortal's blood...vital and red in the gloom of the rear hallway...snapped Cynara out of her murderous frenzy...but still, the urge to tear this insufferable nuisance to pieces was nearly uncontrollable. With her full lips twisting into a feral snarl, Cynara leaned her face closer to Judith and rasped, "If you ever refer to me by that disparaging title again, I'll rip your fucking head off and drink your blood, you grasping little cunt."

With this chilling vow delivered, Cynara slowly ran her tongue over Judith's bloody mouth, collecting the warm blood that had pooled there and drawing it into her mouth like a rare delicacy. She then step back and released Judith, allowing her to crumble at her feet. Judith shook her head and uttered a soft groan, before staggering to her feet, where she stood swaying before the fearsome immortal...her normally limpid eyes glazed. She then thrust herself forward, slamming into Cynara and forcing the surprised immortal to take a single backward step. Her blood-smeared face bestowed an aspect of madness upon Judith as she grinned and challenged, "I'm not afraid of you...I actually respect you...but I'm not afraid of you."

"Then you're truly a delusional fool," Cynara retorted, her eyes flaring menacingly...she could feel something inside of her...yearning to break free of its confinement after an prolonged slumber...and knew that she was in precariously close proximity to committing an irreversibly disastrous act.

Judith again flashed her demented grin and thrust herself into Cynara, who did not budge a fraction on this occasion. "No, not a delusional fool, but a creature with an incredibly precise awareness of the environment in which she chooses to be. The salient reality is that you won't hurt me...you imperious bitch...because if you do, Elizabeth will never forgive you...and if you let that urge that's churning in you right now occlude your good sense and kill me...you'll lose Elizabeth forever."

"You grossly overestimate your importance," Cynara's growled though uncertainty flickered in her dark eyes.

Judith planted her hands on Cynara's shoulders and gave the immortal a vigorous push that sent the statuesque immortal stumbling backwards. Cynara's dark eyes widened in indignation and she balled her hands into fists while her insides vibrated with the urge to lash out. Judith advanced on the immortal and actually seized the lapels of her blouse before jerking her closer. "If so, then kill me, Cynara...make me scream until my throat bursts. I'll open the tether and Elizabeth can share our intimate moment of death...though I have to wonder what shape your next meeting might assume? We both know that inside of Elizabeth resides a power that makes ours combined seem woeful. Yet, even if she didn't return and immolate you, she would banish you from her presence...a fate far worse, if my perception of your need for her is even remotely accurate. When I see your gaze settle upon her...especially when she is not looking...I can see that yearning...that wistful longing like a puppy for its owner. The prospect of eternity without Elizabeth would be your personal definition of hell...and we both know it...so let blind fury overwhelm your good sense and kill me."

She glared at the immortal, supremely confident that her assessment of Cynara's addiction was precise. Cynara reached up and gripped Judith's wrists as her generous mouth worked into a petulant slash of frustration, knowing that this manipulative creature had gleaned here greatest vulnerability and would now exploit it to its limits. "What do you want?"

Judith smile of triumph was blinding in its magnitude as she declared flatly, "You!"

"What?" Cynara stammered...the interrogative exploding from her lungs like air from a punctured balloon.

"I want you...in whatever way I would have you. Ostensibly, I will play the role of deferential third wheel...but in reality, you will dance to my seductive tune...when and where ever I would choose to call it," Judith explained with a solemnity that left no room for equivocation.

Cynara became livid with poised violence, "You would actually dare to extort this from me...to exploit my love for Elizabeth? Do you have any concept of what it is you propose to subjugate...what it is I am?"

Judith gingerly ran her right index finger over her rapidly swelling lips, which still trickled blood. She collected several droplets and gently, but firmly pressed them between Cynara's slightly parted lips. The immortal's eyes widened even as her lips tightened involuntarily and she drew Judith's small finger into her mouth, sucking hungrily at the rich blood. Judith's eyes narrowed and she drew a tremulous breath and when she was able to speak, her voice was somber. "There was a time when I would have taken full advantage of this position...would have reveled in the intoxicating experience of maneuvering a far more powerful creature into a vulnerable position. Fortunately for you time has purged that ruthless predator from my nature...time and the placating affects of Amathera's grace. Still, having something so dangerous...so fraught with power...at a total disadvantage is a visceral thrill that is so fucking exciting. So Cynara...I'm not going to make you my fawning lap dog."

She reluctantly withdrew her finger from Cynara's warm mouth and let her hand settle to the taller woman's firm right breast. "Instead...I want your respect and friendship...and I want to share Elizabeth with you!"

Cynara shook her head in absolute incredulity, flummoxed by the temerity of this devious creature. "You are actually serious...you genuinely expect me to let you continue to have Elizabeth!"

Judith offered the flabbergasted immortal a sanguine smile, "I do...fully and unconditionally. I've spent seventy-five years searching for a purpose...something to which I could devote myself. In the end, I despaired of ever finding it...yet on that bistro in Paris, I found Elizabeth...and knew that my search was over. I would bet my shadow cloak that your story mirrors my own to the letter...doesn't it?"

After a moment's hesitation, Cynara merely nodded, recalling the first time she had ever set eyes upon a very young and ingenuous Elizabeth Simpson. "I spent eighty years searching for the perfect light...smugly convinced that I was motivated by the desire to corrupt something pristine...something supposedly inviolable. From the very first glimpse...a part of me realized that this was hollow delusion and that I would become Elizabeth's creature in time."

Judith reached up and laid her hand along Cynara's right cheek. "So you see, I understand precisely what it is you see when you stare at Elizabeth with the expression of beguiled adoration. I don't want to be a rival for her affection...I just want to share it...because when I first saw you...sitting in that wingback with that imperious glare on that indescribably beautiful face, I felt exactly what I felt upon first seeing Elizabeth in Paris...that you were the dark reflection of her light...irreducible...indivisible. In that moment of perfect clarity...I decided that I wanted you both. Do you understand what I'm offering...a reciprocal agreement? What I take from you, I'll give back in return."

Utterly astounded, Cynara shook her head. "You're proposing that the three of us become...what eternally bonded...lovers, companions. I...I..."

Nonplused, the immortal turned partially away, the unconventional prospect germinating in her mind like a delicate and unexpected blossom. The idea that she would ever share Elizabeth was preposterous, infuriating and yet..."Even if I was amenable, Elizabeth is conservative...prudish in her concepts of love and loyalty, she would never agree to this."

Judith turned the taller woman to face her, a smirk playing at her pouting lips. "It was Elizabeth who first suggested that I seduce you."

Cynara blinked, but when she opened her mouth to speak, she found herself reduced to speechlessness by the sheer improbability of the idea that Elizabeth would propose something so sordid...much less actually become embroil in such an exotic arrangement. When she finally regained her composure, Cynara arched an eyebrow and inquired, "And you would have me as well?"

Judith inclined her head, her sleek ebony hair framing her lovely face as she stood on her tip toes and bestowed an ardent kiss on Cynara's open mouth. The immortal could taste the other woman's blood and her longing...an erotic blend that made her head spin with desire. Judith drew back and nodded, "Yes...because I see the inherent danger in succumbing to powerful enchantment that Elizabeth so unwittingly weaves. Creatures such as you and me...eventually we would completely lose ourselves in that effulgence she exudes. Perhaps together...through each other...in each other...we can retain something of our own identities."

Cynara averted her eyes, beset by inner turbulence and finally she shook her head in consternation and when she spoke, her voice resonated with a profound bewilderment. "What is it, Judith...what is it about Elizabeth that draws us to her...that seems to banish our resolve and throw aside our very natures. Peering into those great, dark eyes of yours, I glean that we are the same...hard, vitiated things, whose hearts have been galvanized in a cauldron of self-serving greed and hatred. Yet, in Elizabeth's presence, we become soft malleable things that she can remold as if we were nothing more than clay. You're terrifyingly accurate...Elizabeth frightens me and yet...the prospect of losing her is insufferable. How has she done this to us?"

Judith pursed her lips, uneasy at this display of bewildered vulnerability. She had reflected on this precise subject often enough in her seventy-five years of being blown over the face of the world in a vain search for Amathera's insight. In Elizabeth Simpson...Judith believed she had found the answer. "I think that we both realize that Elizabeth is the living culmination of everything that you and I can never be, Cynara...something as close to divinity as it is possible for a sentient being to get. We both crave and covet it...even as it frightens us. Perhaps we both see absolution in Elizabeth...something that we both know that we don't deserve and can never attain...but in Elizabeth's company, we both come as close as it is possible for two such wretched creatures to come."

Cynara's expression became grave. "Then I'm afraid for all of us, Judith...because I caught a fleeting glimpse of something in her eyes today...something I've never seen there before...resignation...a grim determination that terrifies me."

Judith gripped Cynara's leanly muscled arms and shook her briskly. "Then let's make a pact...here and now...to do everything and anything that is necessary to banish that expression from her eyes. I don't want to be your enemy Cynara...not at all. I'll do whatever you think is required to protect Elizabeth...and if it means bathing in the blood of Ian Barrows and his circle of boot lickers...then so be it. Just make this one concession...let me in...to your lives...your beds...to every corner of your soul. We can save Elizabeth from Ian Barrows...and herself. Please."

Cynara frowned and turned away...knowing that there was a keen and incontrovertible wisdom in this intriguing mortal's proposal. Distantly, she heard herself ask, "What specifically do you want me to do?"

Judith smiled, though the expression was not colored by the shadow of triumphant avarice. She slid to face the beset immortal, relishing how thoroughly disconcerted she appeared, and pressed an index finger into the resistant flesh of her left breast. "I want you to open yourself to me...every nuance, every thought and emotion. I want to live the sum total of you entire life...to absorb the reality of Cynara Saravic without qualification or selective editing...just as I did with you." She paused and her smoldering gaze intensified...hard and intractable. "Then I want you to show me the thing that you're concealing...this other presence that is growing restive inside of you. I want you to let it out...for me."

Astonished that this mortal could discern the newly-roused presence of her other persona, Cynara stammered, "Judith...that maybe the one demand you come to regret. This thing is a beast of its own volition."

"Nonetheless...I want to see it." Judith persisted relentlessly, radiating madness like palpable head.

Cynara inhaled and replied in a weak voice she detested, "I need time to think...about what you've asked...about how best to deal with Barrows."

Judith plunged her hand into the mass of raven tresses and jerked Cynara's head back. "Very well...I'll be in your study...summon me when you've reached a decision."

With this, she pushed Cynara away and pivoting, strode quickly down the long length of hallway, her heavy soles ringing in the brooding silence.

Stunned by the alacrity with which she had been cleverly ensnared by a mere mortal, Cynara stood in the gloom of the hall for a long time, crestfallen to realize that Judith Ranzman had artfully placed an extremely tight collar around her neck.

Chapter Twenty

1

Donald lifted the reflective police tape that barred the door leading up to the private quarters of Hector Gentry's gutted building and Mary ducked beneath. As they pushed open the doors and began to ascend the charred staircase, Donald admonished, "The fire department chaps didn't advise that we take this sightseeing tour, Mary. They can't guarantee the structure integrity of the floor. Naturally, they still don't have an explanation for how the roof of Gentry's building literally blew off. They found no trace of combustible elements that would have precipitated that kind of explosion...but given all that's happened in the last week, I suppose we shouldn't be particularly surprised."

Mary offered a rather tacit, distracted grunt...an expression that had become a default of sorts over the last few days. Donald frowned, sensing that something was churning just behind the inscrutable mask she now wore. It was incumbent upon him to induce her to open up...to share her concerns...even if he dreaded the shape those concerns were likely to assume. As they gingerly picked their way up the creaking stairs, Donald inquired, "Did you enjoy your outing with Cassande last night?"

Mary stopped and glanced back at him, those large arctic blue eyes narrowed in what might have been suspicion...though that made utterly no sense. She frowned and grumbled, "Actually, I didn't...mostly because I was tired and in a rather surly mood...I think I was rather churlish with Cassande."

Donald arched an eyebrow. "Oh? She stopped by after and seemed rather happy...though she did say that she'd had a bit of a start just as you were leaving the restaurant."

Mary shook her head dismissively and explained, "It was nothing...just a misunderstanding. A fellow stopped me on the street...someone I had helped earlier in my career. He has an unsettling look and Cassande became a bit agitated." She hesitated for a brief moment and then added, "I wouldn't characterize her reaction as frightened though. Frankly, I thought she was about to pounce on this fellow and throttle him when he first approached me."

Donald blinked and intoned, "That is surprising...Cassande doesn't seem to have a confrontational bone in her body."

Mary nodded vacantly. Donald had not glimpsed the expression that Verhoeven had sported on the night the three had dined together. On impulse, she blurted, "Donald, do you spend much time at the Excelsior?"

Gansby's smooth brow furrowed at this non sequitur, but he replied, "On occasion, but Cassande is an out and about kind of girl, so we really just kick around London. She's particularly fond of art and culture and so we spend a good deal of our time in galleries or at exhibits...it's fascinating...usually."

Mary responded with a grin that never quite touched her eyes. "Does she ever talk about her parents...or show you photographs of them all together...family portraits, I guess?"

"That's a decidedly odd question, but come to think of it...the answer would be no to both. I think their deaths are still extremely raw in her mind and she can't bring herself to speak of them," Donald posited, though there was a discordant note in his voice that spoke of both confusion and discomfort.

Mary accepted this with a nod, but Donald thought he could discern a hint of skepticism in her eyes. He was about to pursue the matter, but the pair reached the landing and Mary stepped back, gesturing for Donald to open the door into Gentry's flat. The door stubbornly resisted, but he finally managed to force it open and the pair stepped inside. The interior was a blackened husk and the open sky above cast a disorienting pall over the ruined interior. The pair gingerly picked their way to the bedroom where Gentry had fought for his life.

Mary's intense gaze surveyed the room, registering every small detail, while Donald gravitated to the bed, which was nothing more than a charred wooden frame. He then crossed over to the window through which the old man had made his dramatic exit and peered down into the dumpster...which had been so fortuitously positioned. Whistling, he remarked, "This slug is one lucky sod. Still, he's lucky he didn't end up with a broken back. A shotgun under the bed...and a full dumpster just outside the window; clearly Gentry anticipated that something of this sort might happen...someday."

Mary nodded her head in acquiescence, while gazing at the wall, which despite being badly charred, still clearly showed the blast pattern of Gentry's Corsican shotgun. She then strode over to the window side of the bed and looked back at the wall. "What do you estimate the distance would be from wall to wall, Donald?"

"I'd say about four meters," Donald speculated and Mary concurred with a nod.

"Looking at the spread pattern on this blast...I'd guess that it's nearly three meters wide at least," Mary observed quietly. "Someone managed to break into Gentry's flat...not an easy feat, considering that there are three dead bolts on the door. I would wager that Gentry is the kind of man to throw those bolts without deviation...every night. So somehow...the intruder makes her way into Gentry's flat and goes about torturing Gentry for information on our mysterious black box...shadow box, he calls it. She impales his foot with...something...which means she is standing in close proximity to the foot of the bed. Does my reasoning make sense this far?"

Donald nodded thoughtfully, subconsciously hearing the whir of Mary's keen mind and correctly deducing the direction of this particular line of reasoning. Mary nodded vehemently and continued, "There comes a point in the dialogue when Hector feels threatened enough to make a play for his shotgun. He reaches under the bed, rolls over and discharges the weapon. Four meters to the opposite wall and the spread pattern seems centered on axis radiating out from the bed. So the question begs to be asked...how does he manage to miss? Why is there not a corpse in the morgue?" Mary stared directly at Donald, her eyes gleaming intently. "Perhaps the question should be...did he miss?"

Donald shook his head as if he had misheard and echoed dumbly, "Did he miss?"

Mary strode over and stood directly before Gansby, gazing up into his eyes with an exigent expression that was discomforting in its intensity. "Yes...did he miss, indeed? From my perspective...it seems virtually impossible that he would miss...even if he was visually impaired. So what exactly does that mean?"

"What does it mean, Mary?" Donald asked in a tone that hinted at bemusement.

Mary tilted her head in vexation, trying to retain a grip on her increasingly frayed temper. She was not entirely sure what she had hoped to achieve with this excursion...perhaps recruiting an ally to her cause. Despite having earlier started off down a very peculiar road in his thinking on Cassande Verhoeven, Donald seemed to have retreated behind a wall of conventional thinking; an entity possessed of capabilities that exceed all human limitations.

_'And just who can you blame for that particular change of perspective, Mary?'_ A querulous voice pointed out. "It means, Donald, that as desperately as those who issue our orders would wish to avoid it...we have come to a point where we are going to have to entertain the impossible. What that means specifically is accepting the fact that we are searching for a woman who seems capable of doing things that defy every conventional law of nature. This crime scene alone is irrefutable proof of that. This shadow box...whatever it might prove to be...has attracted the attention of an entirely new breed of miscreant...one that lies entirely outside the boundaries of conventional thinking."

Donald grimaced, clearly uncomfortable with the direction that this dialogue had taken, but seeing that Mary would not desist. "You do realize that the Roger Coran's of the world will never accept what your suggesting...it's simply beyond their sensibilities."

Mary nodded, a humorless grin taking shape on her full lips. "I have absolutely no doubt that you're right...the question I would put to you, Donald...is it beyond yours?"

Donald pursed his lips and his gaze slid to the disconcerting blast pattern and all that it implied, "No...I no longer think it is."

Mary's smile became ebullient, but in her eyes, Donald Gansby thought that he had gleaned a hint of relief. "Then this morning has proven productive after all."

Donald smiled uncertainly and inquired, "Do you want to track down a few more names on the list for the rest of the day?"

Mary shook her head emphatically. "No...the list will serve no real purpose. Now...I would like to treat you to lunch."

2

After a lazy lunch, Donald dropped Mary in the Thames side parking lot, before driving off to park the vehicle in its designated spot. Their lunch had been a surprisingly pleasant affair and Mary came to realize that Donald Gansby was an incredibly easy man to like. Affable and easy going, Donald had a wry sense of humor that never strayed to sarcasm or condescension, qualities that Mary found most attractive. Their conversation had been surprising light once they strayed from the topic of the investigation and she found herself wishing that the pair had met under less...ominous circumstances. Cultivating a friendship with Donald would like be a very pleasing experience. Yet, the black specter of Cassande Verhoeven made a mockery of such wistful contemplations

' _But if we should somehow see our way through this...'_ Mary let the whimsical thought hang.

Throughout lunch, Mary would make peripheral references to the investigation...more specifically, the bizarre anomalies that seemed to surround the events of the last week. She tried to draw Donald out on the matter and while he admitted that something strange was at work, he could not be enticed back to his previous association between the investigation and the mercurial Cassande Verhoeven...as if her harsh castigation of the previous week had extirpated the very thought from his mind. Still, she was relieved to see that he was at least willing to examine the more macabre aspects of the investigation and focus their attention on these facets...at least obliquely.

_'Still, Mary...he's leagues away from your ideas. You're on your own...and if you're being perfectly candid...you have no clue what to do about Cassande Verhoeven...or whoever she is,'_ she understood...a realization that did little to alleviate her growing disquiet. _'Fear, Mary...at least call it what it is. If what you are entertaining is at all correct...this thing took two sawed-off shotgun blasts in the chest and walked away unscathed. If she catches your scent...'_

Mary abruptly terminated this harrowing notion, knowing that she would now have to tread extremely cautiously in Cassande's presence.

After the previous night's debacle with Randall Cranston, Mary had returned home and given the aspiring actor a quick video call. She had circumspectly warned the bemused Cranston that he might want to maintain a low profile for the next few days...a suggestion to which the puzzled Cranston had nonetheless agreed...mercifully without further questions.

Mary had then tried to sleep, but had been plagued by a succession of increasingly bizarre and morbid dreams...all of which had been colored in the slaughterhouse hues of violent death and endless blood. In most of these, Mary had been relentlessly pursued by a nightmare version of Cassande...all of which ended in her gruesome death at the statuesque red-heads' gore-slicked hands. Yes, it was the final variation of this procession of nightmare that had troubled Mary most. She saw herself hunched over Donald Gansby's mangled corpse, grinning manically while she pulled the steaming intestines from a massive, gruesome wound. Cassande Verhoeven hovered over her shoulder, smiling approvingly with eyes that were as red as Donald Gansby's rapidly chilling blood.

Mary shook her head and drew a tremulous breath at this horrific recollection...trying to avoid contemplation of the possible implications of this awful nightmare. She leaned against her car and closed her eyes, briefly considering simply disclosing her suspicions to Donald. She smiled bitterly, knowing that Gansby was not ready to traverse this dark territory...if he ever would be.

There was one person, whom Mary was certain could confirm her dark suppositions...Isobel Greavy. Mary had no illusions that she would ever be granted official permission to interrogate Isobel...and she sincerely doubted that she could ever convince Thomas Greavy's widow to divulge the identity of the woman who had slaughtered her husband.

Just scant few days before her death, Mary Langdon understood that she was alone...like a sheep trapped in a pen with a very hungry wolf.

3

Sunday morning brought with it the worst qualities one might expect in an October day in London. The wind gusted out of the west, pushing sheet of cold rain that swept along the Thames and the relatively empty streets of the city. An aura of despair seemed to hover over the city on this abysmal morning as if...with the coming of this depressingly bleak weather...all hope had been obliterated. People hurried through the streets, hunched beneath umbrellas and sporting pinched expressions, while the docklands to the east of the city were silent beneath the muting pall of low, lumbering clouds.

The entity, that had once been a tragic, abused child name Cassandra Jasic, was recessed in the shadows of two cherry brick warehouses...structures that had stood for more than two hundred years, but were now in the terminal stages of neglect. Cassande was oblivious to the inimical weather, just as she was indifferent to the penumbra of despair that seemed to hover over the old city on this dreary October morning. Her gaze was fixed squarely on the large, modern warehouse that stood some three hundred meters east of where she now was sequestered.

The last forty-eight hours had been particularly eventful for Cassande and it was all that she could do to contain her mounting euphoria that had first ignited in her maladroit encounter with Hector slug Gentry. While it was unfortunate that Gentry had managed to survive their information-gathering session, it had still yielded a critically important tidbit of detail.

_'Two actually,'_ she amended with a wolfish grin. Gentry had confirmed that the shadow box was not an urban legend and more significantly, had given her the next link in the chain that she now felt certain would lead to something...momentous. That something...she now suspected...would be a resounding validation of everything she had been attempting to achieve in these past few years and it required all of her self-control to constrain her burgeoning excitement.

Consulting her Virtua consoles residential directory, Cassande had taken a rather prosaic approached to locating Roger Pipson. In all, she discovered that there were seven Roger Pipson's currently residing in the city of London. Over the last two nights, she had visited two of the city's Pipson's. Both had lived alone and neither had been associated with the shadow box. She experienced an incisive stab of regret over the ends she had visited upon the two men...one of whom was a frail seventy-one year old man, but she could ill-afford to leave loose ends...not in this close proximity to her objective...sacrifices to the concept of the greater good.

_'Really Cassande...and how does that explain why Isobel Greavy still draws breath...or Mary Langdon?'_ An inner voice demanded in a tone that was petulant and grating. Cassande grimaced at the mere mention of the two names, the expression transforming her face into something hideous.

She was confident that Isobel Greavy would carry her secret to her grave and thus there was no need to harm the erudite British noble...confident that her act of leniency would not turn into a venomous asp.

_'But Mary Langdon...Mary was another matter entirely,'_ Cassande thought ruefully as she continued to monitor the distant Volvo wagon that idled before the doors to the warehouse. Reflecting back on Friday night's outing with the lovely inspector, Cassande was increasingly certain that Mary somehow knew that she was behind the mayhem that had plagued London over the past two years. That was absurd of course...with the exception of the debacle with Gentry, Cassande had left behind not the slightest trace of her presence at any of the crime scenes. She sincerely doubted that the Yard's investigative drones would ever make the leap of faith that would be required to ever solve the enigmatic puzzles presented by the last few homicides.

_'Ah, but we both know that Mary is cut from an entirely different cloth...and do you really believe that the supposedly chance encounter with that disgusting piece of filth was random...are you truly that gullible?'_ Cassande glowered again and red effulgence coalesced around her, flaring briefly in the dull light of dawn. The collection of cigarette butts at the deviant's feet made it clear that he had been standing there for a considerable space of time...waiting for them to emerge...but why? There was only one plausible answer...he had been deliberately imposed in her path so that Mary could gauge her reaction. _'Oh but you are a clever one, Mary...but not nearly as clever as you think yourself to be. Your plant is still the repulsive pervert he has always been...but he's just become far more adept at concealing it.'_

Just the though of the man...with his weasel eyes and hawkish nose...caused Cassande to tremble in fury. She had felt his disease pulsing like a low grade infection and she had marked him...his vital essence now pulsing in her mind like an itch that she must inevitably scratch. Irrespective of her ignorance of her dupe's true nature, Mary clearly suspected Cassande...of something. Yet, just what was the extent of her knowledge and was she alone in her suspicion? Like a hammer crashing down upon her out of the clear skies, Cassande realized that she had made an incredible tactical error in becoming involved with Donald Gansby. Initially, she had been of the mind that it would be prudent to be close to a member of the team investigating the aftermath of her labors. Now, she understood that this might well have been a misjudgment. Perhaps it was time to end this charade with Gansby...to recede back into the shadows and see how events resolved themselves.

_'But Mary knows, Cassande...she knows that you are responsible for this trail of bloody carnage. It is not in her nature to renege...you have to see that...and take the appropriate steps. Nothing can be allowed to stand between you and this task you've set for yourself...nothing!'_ Cassande frowned...the contention was valid. She had been empowered with a responsibility...a sacred trust...to save the children...to crush the exploiters and merciless abusers...and she could not allow sentiment for one woman to jeopardize that sacred trust.

Mary had put this deviant in her path as a test of sorts...but perhaps she had also intended to send a not-so-subtle message to Cassande, throwing down a gauntlet of sorts. Since she had first fled that den of monsters in that small Canadian town, Cassandra Jasic had never taken a backward step from a challenge. Mary Langdon had sent her a message, had she? Very well, once she had resolved today's priority...she would reply...in shockingly emphatic terms.

In the distance, a sleek black Mercedes cruised into view, its silhouette reminding Cassande of a sinister predator...with its highly reflective paint and heavily tinted windows. She snarled...a deep, guttural rumble in her chest...as the vehicle coasted to a halt some fifty meters from the Volvo. Almost immediately, the Volvo's occupant stepped into the gloom, squinting against the rain. Even from this distance, Cassande's augmented vision could make out every detail of the man who now strolled toward the waiting Mercedes. This Roger Pipson...her Roger Pipson...was a nondescript middle-aged man of medium height. He wore a light brown topcoat that strained over his paunch and gray dress pants, conveying the impression of a middle class business man slowly receding into the waters of old age.

As he approached the idling Mercedes, the two front doors opened and two very large and very daunting men emerged to greet him. Some aspect of their coiled, expectant postures informed Cassande that these were highly capable, highly trained attack dogs...very likely ex-military. The driver and Pipson exchanged words and then both men nodded and the three returned to their respective vehicles. Pipson then guided his Volvo over to the doors of the warehouse and hesitated, while the two massive doors slid open with a soft whisper. An instant later, the Mercedes followed Pipson's vehicle into the vast warehouse and the doors slid shut.

Cassande drew up the hood of her black jacket and loped across the deserted roadway, coming to stand before the windowless west wall of the warehouse. She then gazed up into the tumbling rain, briefly rummaging through her options of how she would deal with the transaction that was to take place within the cavernous structure. Nodding, she glided back to the front of the building where she examined the two massive steel doors. With a malefic grin spreading over her lovely face, she laid both palms on the juncture where the two steel doors came together, and then closed her eyes.

She became utterly rigid...unmoving like a piece of statuary. After a moment, the unyielding steel of the doors began to transmogrify...the heavy plating bubbling and losing definition in the face of the immeasurable heat emanating from Cassande's hands, which had begun to glow argent in the dull dawn light. She opened her eyes...which were now blood red...and inclined her head to see that her efforts were being rewarded. The radiating heat was quickly and silently melting the adjacent plates, until the steel began to flow together...gradually creating a continuous imperfect sheet of steel. Drawing a tremulous breath...enervated by the astounding output of arcane energy...Cassande staggered a few paces away and considered her handiwork. Satisfied that the two massive doors had been bonded, she stepped forward and again laid her hands again the blistering hot steel, though this time, what emanated from her flesh was a deadly cold that quickly cooled the steel. She again retreated from what was now a single door and bent forward with her hands on her knees drawing in great gulps of damp air. After regaining her equilibrium Cassande again moved back to the west side of the building, content that her quarry would find no egress through the main doors.

Perambulating the building, she repeated the process on all of the secondary doors...until the warehouse became what was essentially a sealed tomb.

_'Though the fuckers inside don't realize they're dead yet...but they will...momentarily.'_ She thought with a wicked grin.

Cassande then spread her arms and reconfigured her density until she was insubstantial enough to actually begin to float. She levitated into the dawn sky and came to land lightly on the slightly sloping roof the sprawling warehouse.

Surveying the vast expanse of corrugated roof, she saw that a series of skylights dotted the rain-slicked surface...providing natural light to the cavernous interior. Cassande hurried over to the central cluster and pressed herself against the thick glass of the nearest skylight. As she peered into the shadowy interior...her body underwent a rapid and drastic metamorphosis. One minute, she was a creature of ligature, flesh and bone and the next she had transformed into a sheet of translucent gelatin that lay thick and viscous on the glass of the skylight.

Below, Roger Pipson was in the process of conducting his ignoble business transaction...oblivious to the nightmare that was about to descend upon him from the heavens...like an inhuman instrument of vengeance.

4

Roger Pipson inhaled deeply, trying to quell his anxiety as he brought the Volvo to a halt at the center of the sprawling warehouse floor. Doing business with men such as the one with whom he had come to meet had always left him feeling incredibly apprehensive. Such men, he understood, were jackals...animals despite the ten thousand Euro suits they wore and the veneer of civility they cultivated for public consumption. Pipson much preferred to conduct his business in a public place, where there were seas of people to keep these animals on their best behavior...but Nassar El Tanari was an extremely cautious man and Estrovich had instructed Pipson that he would have to forego his preference on this occasion...because snaring Tanari was the gateway to a massive expansion of this nefarious operation into which Pipson had been drawn.

Nassar El Tanari and his ilk might have unsettled Pipson...profoundly so perhaps...but Peytor Estrovich terrified the mild mannered Brit and so he had agreed to meet on Tanari's terms.

Drawing another quavering breath, Pipson exited the vehicle and dragged his small brief case with him.

The doors to the Mercedes whispered open and the two hired enforcers climbed out. Then the one on the passenger side moved to the rear door and held it open for Tanari. The Saudi was a tall, thin man with the most disconcerting dark eyes that Pipson had ever gazed into. His posture was ramrod straight and his black hair glistened in a way that reminded Pipson of crude oil. He wore a light off white linen suit that seemed more suited to a desert climate than damp and chilly London, but Pipson correctly presumed that Tanari had flown in especially for this assignation.

El Tanari stepped away from the vehicle and it was apparent that he fully expected Pipson to come to him as a sign of respect and deference. Pipson was more than happy to accommodate the Saudi's ego and marched across the concrete floor, his leather heels echoing loudly in the empty interior of the warehouse. A shadow flashed across the concrete and Pipson glanced up at the distant ceiling to see a dark shape settle onto the skylight directly above the Arab and his lethal entourage. He squinted into the gloom, but the shape seemed to vanish as if melting into thin air.

Pipson felt a chill traverse the length of his spine, but then shook his head and continued toward his waiting client. Nassar El Tanari did not offer to afford the common courtesy of shaking Pipson's hand, but the mild mannered Brit was not offended, knowing that these foreigners had their own unique ways and reminding himself of how wealthy he had grown while learning to suffer them. Pipson stopped one pace from the Saudi and bowed slightly. Quietly, he inquired, "I trust that your flight was a pleasant one?"

"It was," El Tanari allowed simply and without further preamble, demanded, "I take it that case holds the device?"

"Three actually...as per your request," Pipson confirmed, his tone shifting smoothly to a clipped, business-like monotone.

El Tanari raised a thin eyebrow, his demeanor intimating sudden suspicion. "You say there is no initial payment for these devices?"

Pipson offered the Saudi a thin smile that never lighted on his mild blue eyes. "That is correct. Those who hold the device may have a chance to experience its unique appeal...and then they can ascribe whatever value they feel is adequate recompense for what it would offer. The shadow box is a gateway to wonders, but each man ultimately shapes his own paradise...and who but that man could determine the material worth of his dreams."

"Eloquently stated...very well, I shall take your shadow boxes and determine if it suits my...eclectic tastes. If so, then we will progress to the next level of our association,"

"And, if you do not find this tempts your imagination...crush it under heel and all may be forgotten...an arrangement that can only prove pleasing," Pipson concluded, extending the case toward the nearest sycophant.

Just as the hulking bodyguard was reaching for the case, the crack of shattering glass filled the interior...echoing like thunder in the empty chamber. Pipson instinctively lifted his left arm and drew the case back as shards of glass rained down in a jagged hail. One of the guards quickly bundled El Tanari into the rear of the Mercedes, while the other drew an automatic machine pistol from a holster that was strapped beneath his jacket.

Even as Pipson stumbled backward, he could not help but admire the level of composure that the two bodyguards exhibited while trying to protect their client. Pipson careened into his own vehicle and stumbled to his knees, glancing up in time to see a billowing sheet of writhing flame come drifting down from the opening where the skylight had been.

It crackled and hissed as it descended, drifting down like an open sail floating before an eddying breeze. The pistol-wielding guard uttered a curse and fired off a short burst that appeared to pass harmlessly through the falling curtain of flames.

Still clutching his case, Pipson scrambled to his feet and began to stumble toward the rear of the warehouse...not certain of his intentions as he fled, but only wanting to be away from this terrifying anomaly of floating flame.

The body guard stood his ground and fired off another burst, but upon seeing that his efforts were futile, he turned to flee, but the curtain suddenly contracted into a vaguely humanoid shape that resembled a slender female composed entirely of argent-blue flame. Gaining speed, it adjusted the trajectory of its fall and landed directly atop the fleeing guard, wrapping its long, sinewy arms around his thick neck.

The high, shrewish scream that filled the cavernous interior caused Pipson to utter a terror-fraught moan as he reached a door near the end of the warehouse. He gripped the handle and tugged vigorously, but the metal door was sealed shut. He made several more frantic attempts, cursing in frustration as he did, and then seeing that his efforts were futile, Pipson spun about in time to see the two flaming figures collapse to the polished concrete floor.

Roger felt his stomach rebel as the acrid stench of burning hair and flesh reached his nostrils. The flame entity had what passed for its face pressed into the ruins of the guards face as if the pair was engaged in a lethal kiss. The emasculating sound of popping fat and swiftly dissolving tissue reached Roger's disbelieving ears as the living fire amalgam continued to hold the bodyguard in its deadly embrace. Within mere seconds all that remained of the man was a blackened skeleton. The fire amalgam snatched up the machine pistol and held it out toward the Mercedes. An astounded Pipson grimaced as bullets exploded from the heat of the monstrosities grasp and soon the weapon began to run between it's imperfectly formed fingers like molten slag.

The fire amalgam then brushed its hands together in a gesture of someone discarding crumbs, before starting toward the idling Mercedes. The vehicle lurched forward in a squeal of tires that raised a cloud of acrid smoke. As if shot from a cannon, the figure leapt vertically into the air and the Mercedes rocket beneath its feet. Twisting lithely as it floated back down to the concrete, the fire amalgam landed in time to see the Mercedes slam into Pipson's Volvo with enough force to send the wagon skidding thirty meters toward the rear of the warehouse. The clamor of the impact was deafening in the empty interior. The driver quickly reversed the vehicle, but on this occasion, the figure merely remained stationary and allowed the Mercedes to pass through it, before pivoting in place to face the vehicle, urging it forward with an outstretched hand.

As if sensing that this improbable amalgam of living flame was invulnerable, the driver turned the Mercedes in a tight arc and accelerated toward the heavy main doors of the warehouse. The Mercedes was a special model favored by many Middle Eastern moguls and was composed of depleted uranium plating that made it resistant to most conventional small arms fire. Bolstered by this fact, the driver was evidently confident that the Mercedes could actually burst through the doors and carry El Tanari away from this demon. The Mercedes slammed into the heavy doors with a titanic reverberation of metal on metal and though it did actually manage to crimp the heavy steel doors, it also succeeded in literally driving the engine through the passenger compartment and reducing the driver to a mangled pulp of bloody viscera and shattered bone. The back wheels of the Mercedes leapt a full two meters off the concrete as the heavy vehicle actually executed a nose point stand upon impact. A mere instant later, there followed a guttural rumble and the interior of the Mercedes erupted into flame. The agonized screams of Nassar El Tanari were a distant thing in sharp counterpoint to Roger Pipson's own shrewish whimpering.

That whimpering became pleading cries of terror when the amalgam abruptly spun in place and began to converge upon the cowering Brit, who still clung to his briefcase. Extending a flaming right arm, the amalgam began to spin as it moved toward Pipson, the tempo of its rotation gathering momentum the closer it came.

Despite the extremity of his terror, Pipson stared in fixated incredulity as the fire amalgam transmogrified into a statuesque, shockingly beautiful woman, with a mane of fire red hair, who strode toward him like an avenging angel.

"You've caused me a considerable bit of difficulty, Roger," she remarked in a deceptively affable voice. She glanced back over her shoulder to the burning Mercedes where the harrowing screams had mercifully fallen silent and then looked back to Pipson with a feral grin emblazoning her face. "Still, I suppose it's good to flex one's muscles on occasion...to keep the claws suitably sharpened."

"Who are you...what are you!" Roger croaked hysterically as the front of his gray slacks darkened at her stalking approach.

"The first question is immaterial, but the second question is remarkably astute...you see Roger...for you and your reprehensible ilk...I am the fucking angel of death!" Cassande replied, the last phrase offered in an indignant growl. "I won't deceive you Roger...you're going to die here today." She finally reached the quaking Pipson and squatted down beside him, pulling the briefcase out of his grasp and throwing it behind her. "You would be well advised to understand that there is death...and then there is death...the differentiation between the two being a significant matter of agonizing degrees. That choice will be yours to make."

Roger, seeing that she was being perfectly sincere, managed to marshal a reserve of courage he did not know he possessed. "Do what you want to me, little girl...but you have no idea just what it is you've meddled in."

Cassande pursed her lips and nodded in agreement. "True, but before I extinguish your tiny spark of life...I will, Roger...believe me, I will!"

Some misguided instinct for self-preservation induced Roger to lash out. He kicked at her face with his left foot, striking the clearly deranged woman a glancing blow before staggering to his feet and attempting to scramble away. He had always privately believed that Estrovich was cognizant of his whereabouts and while the notion had been disquieting...he now prayed that it was correct.

He had taken no more than ten looping steps when she materialized out of the very air, directly in his path. She delivered a rapid succession of rapier blows that shattered his nose and left cheekbone. Pipson fell to the concrete where he rolled onto his side and spit a glut of bloody saliva.

Reaching down, Cassande gripped his left foot, savagely twisting it left and then right in immensely powerful fingers. Roger's howl of agony shook the walls of the warehouse...a high, argent cry that spiraled up as he gazed at his broken ankle. The foot was twisted at an impossible angle, the gruesome sight only adding fuel to Pipson's harrowing screams.

His tormentor rolled her eyes in frustration and then laid her palm on his injured leg just below the knee. With stunning alacrity, all sensation vanished from the limb and Pipson's cries abated to terrified whimpers. Cassande leaned closer and inquired, "I trust that this sufficiently demonstrates my unwavering commitment to extracting the information I require...by whatever means necessary?"

Roger wagged his head furiously, his eyes bulging and bloodshot. Cassande nodded and pointed toward the brief case. "Does that case contain a Shadowbox?"

Pipson merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak for fear that he would begin to blubber incoherently. Cassande beamed a tight, humorless grin and demanded, "What exact purpose does it serve?"

"It's...it's a key...or a contract...or an invitation," Pipson wheezed, his speech distorted by his shattered nose. "What it is specifically depends on the individual to whom it is being offered."

"The decidedly vague answer doesn't please me Roger...not one bit. In fact, it makes me think that you're being deliberately evasive...which would not at all be wise," Cassande intoned in a voice that was rife with menace despite its reasoned tone. She reached forward with the speed of a striking cobra and pressed her index finger into his right eye, which was suffused by a heat so intense that his eyeball literally exploded with a sickening liquid pop. Pipson's remaining eye rolled up in its socket and he plummeted into unconsciousness, his body doing a spastic jig on the blood and urine fouled concrete.

Cassande sighed and stood, chastising herself as she crossed over to the case. _'Careful Cassande...restraint...this man has critical information that you need if you are to delve deeper into this cesspool.'_

She picked up the expensive Italian leather case and literally ripped it open. Inside, three black boxes were nestled in a bed of black packing foam. Cassande inclined her head at the sight of the devices, which seemed so benign on first glimpse. Frowning in perplexity, she carried the case back over to the unconscious Pipson and allowed it to drop onto his heaving chest.

She then bent down and nimbly snatched one of the devices out of its resting place. With a staggering swiftness, Cassandra Jasic was jerked back in time to a small, stiflingly hot room. In the present reality, the terrifying immortal's flesh became vitiated...like a statue caught in a permanent posture of excruciating torment. Through tear distorted eyes, the teenager she had once been gazed up in stark terror as two naked adults...one hopelessly drunk and the other simply insane...fell upon her. With malicious glee, they began to violate her as she thrashed and struggled fruitlessly to fend them off. She felt something cold and smooth being rammed into her exposed anus even as something hot and throbbing was pushed into her gaping mouth, causing her to gag and choke.

The collage of flickering nightmare images suddenly terminated as Cassande's fist snapped closed, reducing the shadow box to black dust. Through bulging eyes, a gasping immortal watched as a black diaphanous shape curled between her clenched fingers and twisted up into the upper reaches of the warehouse, where it passed through the ceiling like a fleeing wraith.

In the excruciating moment of terrible clarity, Cassande Verhoeven knew unequivocally just what this nefarious device truly was. Invested with the efficacy of vile magic, the shadow box was a corrupting agent, meant to beguile child abusers, pedophiles and other disgusting miscreants into the unbreakable grasp of their addiction. For Cassande...a past victim of this monstrous evil...the device's magic was exposed for what it truly was...an evil of the foulest kind. Someone had created this monstrous mechanism with a notion of spreading this disease...implanting soul-corrupting fantasies in the mind's of those with a natural proclivity for this manner of filthy evil.

Cassande snarled, her body still trembling from the brief excursion back into the hellish existence that had been her childhood, and reached down and jerked Roger Pipson to his feet. His dangling ankle flopped like a fish out of water and the contact with the concrete tore him out of the requiem of unconsciousness with an ear-splitting howl of silver-throated agony.

She shook him like a hound would shake a rabbit and bellowed, "Who supplies you with these boxes?"

When Pipson did not reply immediately, Cassande pressed her right palm along the distorted topography of his ruined left cheek. The crackle of rapidly liquefying flesh was eerily similar to bacon cooking in an extremely hot skillet. Pipson's throat bulged in agony until the hand became traversed the realm from extreme heat to numbing cold. Eyes blazing on the edge of murderous frenzy, Cassande reiterated, "Again, who supplies you with these devices?"

"His name is Estrovich...Peytor Estrovich...I don't know where to find him...he somehow...he somehow finds me." He wailed even as his bowels failed him and the pungent stench of his own excrement wafted up around him.

Ignoring the repulsive reek of Pipson's bodily waste, Cassande pulled him closer until their faces were only centimeters apart. "There's more to this than simply pandering to miscreants...what is the purpose of this box...the end game. Tell me or I swear...I will burn every inch of flesh from your miserable carcass...centimeter at a time."

Tears began to stream down Roger Pipson's face in a deluge and he cursed himself for not anticipating that he would eventually meet an end like this. "The shadow box is...is meant to feed the addiction...of the affluent...with particular predilections. Once they were...ensnared...the idea was...was to sell them children...for an extravagant price."

Cassande's eyes widened and she raged, "You're talking about human trafficking...in children? Where are these children coming from?"

"From...from everywhere that despair and economic decay are...trenchant," Pipson blubbered, seeing the absolute madness behind those exquisite blue eyes and knowing that he was indeed already dead.

"You feed on hopelessness like a bloated leech...preying on human misery. How are the children brought in to Britain?"

"Different ways...depending on where they're from...I don't know them all. Estrovich deals with that end of the operation...I...I just distribute the boxes...please just kill me!"

"I want the location of a place where these children either arrive or are kept to be sold...now!" She growled and held up her right index finger that now resembled a glowing piece of silver which she positioned mere centimeters from Pipson's remaining good eye.

"A container ship...the Baltic Star...arriving soon at the east docklands...but I don't know the exact day." Pipson screeched, his anguished voice degenerating into an inarticulate stutter as he gleaned that he had outlived his usefulness.

Cassande's generous mouth twisted into a grin and she abruptly jabbed the finger into Pipson's bulging eye, pressing it deeper until super-heated steam began to issue from his ears and mouth like an antiquated steam whistle.

When his twitching had stopped, she simply allowed his slack body to slump to the concrete with a gruesome meaty thud. Stooping down, she steeled herself against the anticipated torrent of agonizing memories and snapped up another of the shadow boxes, which she unceremoniously stuffed into Roger Pipson's lolling mouth.

Gingerly collecting the remaining shadow box between the tips of her right thumb and index finger, Cassande shoved the device deep into the pocket of her gore-spattered jeans. Contact with the device was reprehensible beyond the ability of her words to express, but it was critical that she divine the nature of the magic contained within the outwardly innocuous construct.

Peytor Estrovich...the mere utterance had roused a fell dread in Pipson's mind...and it was upon this terrifying miscreant that Cassande would now focus. Two years ago, she had set out to systematically eradicate the city's predators and deviants...those foul monsters who preyed upon the most innocent of victims. Now she found herself confronting an appalling beast of a far more insidious nature and she offered a solemn vow...in the name of every child who had suffered this unspeakable betrayal...that she would have its head.

Cassande walked to the center of the warehouse and falling to her kneels, began to scribe an invitation to this Peytor Estrovich...one that only he could understand. When she had completed her labor, Cassande stood and admired her handiwork. There, inscribed in the concrete by a degree of heat that beggared reason, were the two words that this Estrovich would recognize and interpret for the invitation they were...Baltic Star.

Cassande spared the human wreckage of Roger Pipson one final disdainful glance and then initiated the astounding transformation into a graceful dove. As she rose into the silver morning sky, she turned her thoughts to the one complication that she would have to deal with prior to finding this Estrovitch...the matter of Mary Langdon.

Chapter Twenty-One

1

She sat on a bench, its paint faded and badly scuffed, as clouds scudded across the New England afternoon sky, casting the graveyard in alternative waves of sunlight and shadow. An ethereal blond with arresting blue eyes, she shimmered in the early fall heat like something that seemed total incongruent to her surroundings...this place of wither and loss.

Had it really been nearly thirteen years since last she had sat in exactly this position, tears falling absently as she stared at the freshly turned grave of the son whom she loved beyond the capacity of words to articulate. Nathaniel...a man gone back to earth...a son whom, in truth, she had barely known. Poised on the edge of the abyss of consuming despair...confronted by the prospect of an empty, pointless existence...he had come to her on that March day. His spirit had roused her from her torpor and provided her with the wherewithal to go on...to embrace life beyond that dismal moment of pervasive emptiness.

Now, time had come full circle and she again found herself sitting on this same bench, staring absently at his grave, wondering if she could muster the requisite courage to rise and proceed forward from this awful moment of painful introspection.

"Nathaniel?" She inquired hopefully, wondering if the fates would reprise their dispensation of kindness and allow her to speak with her dead child whose absence gnawed at her like an insatiable hunger that she could not satiate.

Time passed and her summons was met only by the obdurate silence and Elizabeth knew that she was utterly alone to face the ordeal that was to come. It had been her intention to go directly to Contayza, but after landing at Logan airport and stepping out onto the Tarmac...she found herself assailed by a terrible malaise that seemed to rob her of all resolve. Instead, she had come directly here in hopes of finding the resonating echo of that moment of jubilation that had once infused her with the vital energy to go on with her seemingly hollow life.

Instead, Elizabeth found herself confronted by a neglected grave covered with yellow, listless grass and a sconce that held the decaying remains of long dead flowers. _'This is what it truly means to die,'_ she thought morosely, as she stared fixedly at the brown withered flowers that were every bit as dead as the man whom they had been intended to commemorate. _'Even when we die, we still find a semblance of life in the memories of those who love us, who still feel the resonating emotion of what it meant to be touched by our presence. When the last of those memories...of those echoes of poignant emotion have faded...it is then that we truly die...expunged from the thoughts of those who would preserve our memory.'_

Peering over at Nathaniel's grave, with its dying grass, dull tombstone and desiccating flowers...Elizabeth gleaned that Nathaniel had faded from the hearts and memories of those who had once populated his life.

"But never mine, sweet Nathaniel...my beautiful boy...never mine!" She vowed in a fierce, tremulous voice as tears fell freely onto her folded hands. Absently, she brushed tears from her eyes and inhaled deeply. Reflecting on her life, Elizabeth saw that every relationship...save the one she had shared with David...had been fleeting and transitory...painfully brief and intermittent encounters that had left her feeling despondent and woefully incomplete.

Examining her relationship with Nathaniel, Elizabeth was shocked to realize that she had spent less than five days in his company during the course of his adult life. Not once had they spent an afternoon engaged in casual conversation...basking in the radiance of each other's company. This realization provoked a sharp stab of pain that left her gasping and breathless and illustrated just how absurd her life truly was. Her thoughts then turned to her complex, turbulent relationship with Cynara...the creature who had been the architect of her misery, but in whom she had now found her eternal soul mate. She was astounded to discover that she had also spent less than a week in Cynara's company...despite the momentous influence the other immortal had exerted on the course of her life. Other than the three decades she had spent with David in Chevru...Elizabeth had lived the vast majority of her life like a ghost...a specter observing life from the shadows...condemned to exist only on the periphery, experiencing life vicariously.

On the rare occasions she had ventured forward to participate in life, her very presence...the simple fact of her existence...had posed a grave threat to anyone unfortunate enough to make her acquaintance. _'But, if you were willing to sacrifice this vain tribute to a lost life and give up this external manifestation of who you are...perhaps then you could change your fate.'_

A wan smile spread over Elizabeth's face and she chastised herself for clinging to such capricious fancy. Both Judith Ranzman and Henry Cyr had voiced the perfect refutation to this false prospect of exoneration. Both had stated that Elizabeth seemed to exude an aura that drew others to her...inexorably, inevitably. That aura was not contingent upon being possessed of a beautiful facade. Even if Elizabeth was to transform into a crone, she sensed that she would still emanate that inner beauty that attracted others...especially those rooted in the soil of darkness. There was a pragmatic part of her that found this notion of inner serenity...perfect grace...laughable and difficult to accept. She could see her flaws and imperfections shining like a nova...glaringly obvious to anyone who cared to peer beyond this facade of physical beauty...but Cynara, Judith and even Ian Barrows had been drawn to her like dark iron to a magnet. Denying her capacity to attract the denizens of the shadow was pointless and dangerously delusional, just as it was futile to deny the grave and inescapable implications of this cursed attraction.

_'And just what is the purpose of this maudlin exercise in self-pity, Elizabeth?'_ she demanded of herself. _'Should you simply burrow into the earth like a small animal...merely curl up and die because you cannot carry the burden that fate has elected to impose upon you? Ultimately, you are a victim...not a deliberate perpetrator...what purpose is served by this exercise in self- flagellation?'_

Elizabeth shook her head ruefully and rose from her bench with an elaborate sigh, crossed over to Nathaniel's grave and laid her long, aristocratic fingers on the cool granite of his headstone...as if hoping to touch the essence of the spirit who had been interred here. There was only an empty, sterile silence that left Elizabeth feeling dejected. She pressed the fingertips of her right hand to her full lips and then gently touched his headstone, the simple monument fractured by the kaleidoscope of her tears. "Goodbye Nathaniel," she whispered in a voice that was hoarse with emotion and then...on impulse...she added, "We'll see each other soon."

She then turned away and left this particular graveyard for the final time, having uttered words that somehow rang prophetic in the increasingly stark chamber of her mind.

2

Less than two hours later, she found herself sitting behind the wheel of her rental, staring vacantly at the house where her son had lived the majority of his life. She opened her mind to the aura of the home, trying to divine the essence of the lives that had been lived between its walls and beneath its roof. As had proven the case with the grave, the house held no lingering echoes of the man who had lived here for so long, leading her to conclude that perhaps memories were comparable to batteries...both losing their charge with the slow passage of time...until all that remained was an empty repository.

Elizabeth shivered...she could, however, clearly discern the aura radiated by the formidable woman who lived here still. Vitiated and black...like a lump of anthracite...Contayza's essence filled Elizabeth with an atavistic dread. As she contemplated that essence...hard and intractable...Elizabeth knew that the woman posed no physical threat to her, but had the capability to inflict indelible scars on her soul...damning recriminations that would be far more painful than physical blows. She was not particularly surprised to discover that she was actually frightened of this diminutive tempest...of the potentially cataclysmic consequences of this forthcoming reunion.

Yet, she also possessed the empathic faculty to see how her coming must certainly appear through Contayza's eyes. She could easily commiserate with her daughter-in-law's aversion. On the three occasions she had impacted upon the other woman's life, Elizabeth's coming had resembled a fast-breaking tornado that had shattered Contayza's equilibrium and decimated her life...leaving it in ruin. The very fact that Contayza had survived the first two moments of intersection was a testimony to the integrity of her indomitable spirit. For the diminutive gypsy, Elizabeth was like a recurring curse that hovered on the horizon like a black cloud.

There was another vehicle parked in the interlocking stone driveway...a silver BMW that might well belong to Nathaniel's daughter. The prospect of meeting her granddaughter aroused a firestorm of ambivalence in Elizabeth's beleaguered heart. A part of her wanted nothing more than to hug her son's daughter, while the increasingly forlorn side of her nature feared that to do so would only expose her granddaughter to the threat that mere association posed to those who populated her life. _'In the end...has staying away ultimately made any difference, Elizabeth? Disassociating yourself from their lives did nothing to keep them safe from the creatures you seem to attract.'_

The incontrovertible truth of this assertion caused Elizabeth to moan, a wounded sound that issued from deep in her chest. Her mind was drawn back to the portentous dream that had first set this nightmare in motion and something hovered on the fringe of her consciousness...a salient insight that would define her route forward...but before she could drag it beneath the light of examination, a vehicle drew parallel to hers and a senior couple glared at her as if her presence on the street was somehow sinister.

_'Perhaps it is,'_ she thought with a humorless grin, realizing that she had been idling at the curb and staring at Contayza's house for over thirty minutes. Before her courage could evaporate, she stepped out of the rental and hurried across the street, trying to master her burgeoning anxiety.

She hesitated before the main doors and then resolutely reached out and depressed the doorbell button with fingers that trembled ever so slightly, steeling herself for the furor she felt certain was bound to greet her sudden appearance. For all intents and purposes, Contayza believed that Elizabeth was dead...killed by Satanic henchman in Seattle decades ago...it was impossible to forecast how she might react to her sudden...resurrection.

Elizabeth was wholly unprepared for what confronted her when the door swung open. A gasp slid from her open lips and her right hand fluttered to her gaping mouth of its own accord. She found herself face to face with her mirror image...if she had aged another twenty or so years beyond her age at the moment of her turning.

The women standing before her could well have been her mother and not her granddaughter. She was possessed of the same disconcertingly refined beauty, though a very fine network of lines had etched themselves into the skin around her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

The two women regarded each other...a deluge of emotions shaping their expressions as they stood gaping...each rendered speechless by the improbable irony of the moment.

"Imirya, who is it?" A husky voice...most probably Contayza's...demanded from the darkened interior of the house. Imirya attempted to respond, but shock had temporarily denied her the faculty of speech.

Finally, lovely blues eyes misting with tears, Imirya stammered, "Elizabeth...grandmother?"

On the flight across the ocean, Elizabeth had vowed that she would avoid any entanglement...any even formative bonding with Nathaniel's family...reasoning that to do so would only lead to needless pain. Yet, in the face of Imirya's simple query...so fraught with poignant emotion...all of Elizabeth's determined resolve evaporated like dew in the desert sun. Standing before this achingly familiar stranger...a mirror reflection of the woman she might have become had Elizabeth's life been permitted to run its normal course...she was made painfully cognizant of how fundamentally wrong her existence had become. Still, she could not help but surrender to the profound joy of seeing her son reflected in this beautiful face. She opened her arms with tears running in rivers over the majestic ridges of her cheekbones and Imirya went willingly into her embrace, clinging to Elizabeth like a child desperately seeking solace.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and inhaled Imirya's scent...relishing the smell of the granddaughter whose life had flown by in her absence. If there was a silver lining to be had in this nightmare, Elizabeth found it in this intense moment of long overdue meeting.

Basking in Imirya's embrace, Elizabeth began to weep unabashedly and she could feel the other woman's unrestrained sobbing shake her entire body.

Elizabeth opened her eyes and that moment was broken as Contayza Simpson came forth from the shadows. Imirya stepped back and still holding Elizabeth's hand turned to her mother, her lovely face set in an expression of incredulity, and blurted, "Mother...you...you were right!"

Elizabeth was forced to lean against the door frame to prevent from simply keeling over. With increasing frequency, her life seemed to reinforce the exorbitant cost that she had paid for her lapse in Semelar...the moment when she had allowed herself to be beguiled by Cynara. Each day seemed to bring with it yet another appalling reminder of everything that she had surrendered when Cynara had plunged the dagger of damnation into her still mortal heart. How many more of these excruciating moments would she be forced to endure before she was granted the mercy of tranquility?

She brushed away tears with the back of her hand and forced herself to meet Contayza's blistering gaze. She had expected that the diminutive gypsy would greet her arrival with astonishment and fury, but to her bemusement, Contayza acknowledged her arrival with a sour scowl and intoned coldly. "As I told you, Imirya...the family curse is not so easily banished." She shifted her regard to Elizabeth and the enmity that blazed in her penetrating eyes was shocking in its magnitude. "Well, Elizabeth...it seems that your dark shadow has fallen across my life again. Come in and explain precisely how you've managed to bring misery to my family this time."

Imirya's gaze shifted from her mother to Elizabeth, clearly embarrassed by the older woman's belligerence. She offered the immortal a tentative smile and linking her arm with Elizabeth's, closed the door and led her into the house.

3

Seated in a wingback, across from Contayza, who glared balefully at her in sullen silence and Imirya, who watched her with the expression of unconcealed incredulity, Elizabeth felt a twinge of surrealism steal into the moment. Imirya was regarding her as if seeing a younger version of herself...one who had simply manifested out of time and space like a contrivance in a science fiction novel. For a long moment, no one spoke and Elizabeth could feel the cloying tension thicken with each passing second. Unable to endure the silence, Elizabeth fumbled, "You seemed to know I was coming, Contayza?"

"I did," Contayza allowed flatly. "An old acquaintance warned me that you were coming...and that Rebecca was in peril. I supposed I wasn't particularly shocked to learn that you hadn't died that day in Seattle...though I won't even bother to deny that I fervently wish you had."

"Mother...enough!" Imirya blurted, clearly horrified by Contayza's flagrantly rude behavior.

Contayza turned to her daughter and Elizabeth was provided with a glimpse of the disdain that the older woman harbored for her own flesh and blood...and she experienced an intense stab of pity for Imirya. In a scathing, mordant tone, Contayza remarked, "I'm sorry...am I not being appropriately courteous? This...this abomination is the reason that your daughter has been taken...are you so obtuse that it still hasn't sunken in? Our Rebecca is in danger because this miscreant still draws breath." She shifted her scalding regard to Elizabeth and challenged, "Have I exaggerated or misled her, Elizabeth?"

"Your mother is right, Imirya...and she is entitled to her anger. I have unintentionally caused her an enormous amount of grief," Elizabeth conceded quietly. "Can you tell me what happened...and then I'll explain the motivations for Rebecca's abduction?"

Contayza grunted in disgust and gestured brusquely for Imirya to proceed. Haltingly, Imirya described the events surrounding her daughter's disappearance, not sparing herself a portion of culpability for not staying with her daughter the night she was abducted. Wavering on the edge of tears, she concluded, "They haven't contacted us...I don't know why...but I'm afraid...afraid that she might be..."

Imirya broke off and buried her face in her hands unable to articulate the precise shape of her gravest fears. Elizabeth rose and quickly came to kneel beside her, gently squeezing Imirya's shoulder in reassurance...a gesture the evoked a grumble of disgust from Contayza. In a soothing voice, Elizabeth tried to allay her granddaughter's fears...at least temporarily. "Rebecca has not been harmed...and is being treated as well as circumstances will allow by her captors. They didn't contact you because it is me over whom they are trying to gain leverage."

Imirya stared at Elizabeth, her blue eyes clouded by confusion. "You...you've seen her...it's you they've contacted...why?"

"As I said...Elizabeth is a source of eternal torment for anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in her shadow," Contayza interjected caustically. "Tell us, Elizabeth...how have you managed to place your family in the cross hairs this time?"

Elizabeth shook her head, struggling to ignore Contayza's provocation. In a calm, dispassionate voice, she explained most of what had befallen her since Henry Cyr had delivered his message. She concluded by explaining, "The man who ordered Rebecca's abduction is named Ian Barrows...a British industrial magnate who has the ethical sensibilities of a pirate."

Imirya shook her head, her face beset by puzzlement. "What does this man want from you...want with Rebecca?"

Elizabeth glanced at Contayza, who raised a tapered eyebrow and scowled, before giving Elizabeth a tacit nod to continue. Elizabeth stroked Imirya's wrist and intoned softly. "Ian Barrows is one hundred and sixteen years old. He's dying...a contingency that he is unwilling to accept."

Imirya confusion only intensified. "I still don't understand what this has to do with you, grandmother."

The earnest bewilderment in Imirya's voice lanced Elizabeth's immortal heart, but she managed a wan smile. "Did your father or mother ever speak to you about me...not just about who I was...but what I am?"

Imirya shifted her gaze to Contayza, her expressive blue eyes flaring and Elizabeth understood that this had been a longstanding point of contention in this family. _'Yet another example of the strife you've inadvertently caused over these long years.'_

"Only recently...mother never permitted father to speak of you in her presence. I only say this because she had set the tone for this dialogue and there is little point in trying to disguise glaringly obvious emotions. I'll be equally candid...I refused to ever listen to mother speak of her gifts and I didn't allow her to speak to Rebecca of them either. As you can see, grandmother...denial runs deep in the family gene pool." Imirya concluded and Elizabeth was dismayed by the degree of festering resentment that had afflicted this small family. "She says that you're a...a demon immortal. Peering into your eyes...so serene and lovely...I can't accept that."

"Then you are a more gullible fool than I had ever imagined," Contayza spat derisively. Imirya averted her eyes to the floor and drew a tremulous breath, but did not respond.

Elizabeth knelt before her, resisting the urge to sweep the poor, beleaguered woman up and whisk her away from this remorselessly hardened woman...who seemed utterly devoid of any and all compassion. The cost of living with the vitiated creature that Contayza had become was plainly written on Imirya's beautiful face and Elizabeth realized that it was highly probable that Contayza had exacted the same toll from her Nathaniel. She could feel her anger start to stir and bit back against it, knowing how unproductive it would be to lose her temper. "Your mother is partially correct...I was once what might be described as a demon. Now, I am an immortal...who will never age or be vulnerable to illness of injury. I am invulnerable to any contrivance of the mortal world...and this is why Ian Barrows has resorted to abducting Rebecca. He believes that he can use her to compel me to do his bidding by using her as leverage."

"What is it he wants from you?" Imirya blurted, but even as the words left her mouth, her expression of dawning comprehension declared that she was beginning to suspect his underlying motivations.

"He wants me to grant him immortality," Elizabeth replied flatly.

"It...is within your power to...to do that?" Imirya stammered, clearly fascinated by the notion despite her dismay.

Reluctantly...cognizant of the powerful allure of this dark prospect...Elizabeth replied, "Yes."

"Then why don't you just give him what he wants and bring our Rebecca back to us...you despicable fucking bitch!" Contayza erupted. She sprang lightly to her feet with a grace that belied her age and came to loom over the startled Elizabeth. She glared daggers down on the immortal, her full breasts heaving and her small hands curled into fists against her thighs.

Elizabeth deliberately reined in her temper and rose to her feet, but before she could formulate a response to placate the seething Contayza, Imirya leapt to her feet and startled both women by gripping Contayza's shoulders and shaking the older woman briskly. Voice poised on the edge of hysteria, she raged, "Enough mother...for just once, stop indulging your ugly emotions and think of someone else...think of Rebecca!"

Contayza's eyes bulged and then narrowed menacingly. Elizabeth could feel the gathering of an enormous force and quickly pushed Imirya behind her, stunned to realize that Contayza might actually harm her own daughter. Focusing on the glowering gypsy, Elizabeth explained patiently, "This man Barrows is a monster, Contayza...to endow him with that kind of power would be...unconscionable. It simply isn't an option."

Contayza grimaced and then spun away in disgust. She strode across the room and stood before the window, peering out over the darkening street. Elizabeth was relived to feel that coalescing force dissipate, but when the diminutive gypsy spun to face her, those dark amber eyes were alive with outrage. "Of course, Elizabeth...being the paragon of virtue that you are...you would never place the needs of your own flesh and blood above the perceived greater good. Rebecca is in this predicament because of you and yet you are unwilling to do whatever is necessary to save her...all in the name of your unassailable integrity. Well I say fuck your virtue...I know exactly what you are...you self-serving hypocrite."

Loathing the note of uncertainty in her voice, Elizabeth intoned softly, "That simply isn't fair...everything I've done has been to protect my family...to protect you. It's why I stayed away...why I lived in isolation for so long...so that you could live in peace."

"And yet here we are again...my family threatened by your very existence," Contayza retorted sardonically. Imirya uttered and soft moan, and buried her face in her hands, her lean body hunched in a posture of absolute misery. Contayza moved closer and continued to unleash her vitriolic tirade upon Elizabeth, smiling in triumph each time one of her venomous barbs struck home in those limpid blue eyes. "Do you congratulate yourself on doing Nathaniel a favor by abandoning him, Elizabeth? When he believed that you had died in Seattle...the huge part of who he was died with you...leaving Imirya and I with a pale facsimile who drifted through life like a mournful ghost. You killed the integral part of the man I married, so don't you dare paint your abandonment in tones of bold self-sacrifice, because I won't stand for it."

Elizabeth attempted to speak, but the only sound that escaped her lips was a wounded gasp, which only served to incite Contayza further. "Nathaniel wandered the halls of this house for forty years with a lost puppy look in his dull eyes, pining for the mother he never knew...or at least, mourning the idealized version of a woman who never existed except in his fantasies. You and that evil whore took...everything from me...and left me with a shell of a man who was too blinded by lingering grief to see how desperately his wife and daughter needed him."

Elizabeth's face contorted into a mask of agony and she stumbled backward as Contayza advanced upon her. Imirya, seeing the affect Contayza's relentless diatribe was having upon Elizabeth, rose to her feet and pleaded, "Stop this Mother...please!"

Contayza flicked her daughter a look of pure contempt and resumed her savage castigation. "You have no concept of how I came to loath that particular expression...the sad, morose distant gaze that never left his face after awhile. It was like living with a man who yearns for another woman...a mistress that he can never have. I came to hate him, Elizabeth...despised his weakness...his pathetic need for a woman who...when the truth is reduced to its ugliest denominator...chose another woman's cunt over her own son."

The blow came before Elizabeth was even cognizant of her intention to deliver it...the snap of flesh on flesh filling her ears like the tolling of a funeral bell. In the next instant, she was standing over a prone Contayza, glaring down on her with eyes that blazed a murderous orange.

Contayza returned her glare with a blazing grin of triumph. She laid her hand along her rapidly swelling cheek and rasped, "And so you see Imirya...Elizabeth reveals her true nature. So will you do what you've privately dreamed of doing all along and strike me dead?"

Imirya burst into tears and rushed across the room to impose herself between Elizabeth and her fallen mother, "Please don't hurt her...she my mother...please!"

Imirya beautiful face crumpled and her entreaty degenerated into anguished sobbing. The menacing color drained from Elizabeth eyes and her legs simply gave out beneath her, spilling her to the floor in a tangle of long limbs. Shocked and abhorred by her loss of control, Elizabeth Simpson buried her face in the crook of her elbow and began to weep, thinking that...with this single despicable act...she had sunk to the nadir of her existence. For a protracted moment, the only sounds to be heard were Imirya and Elizabeth's wretched weeping. Contayza watched the two women, her mouth contorted into a thin, bloodless slash of contempt. She managed to climb to her feet and stood swaying slightly...the force of Elizabeth's blow making her head spin. When she could trust herself not to collapse, Contayza gingerly picked her way over to a chair and slump into the seat, waiting in disdainful silence for both women to regain their composure.

It was Imirya who rose to her feet first, her eyes blood-shot and her face a portrait of raw anguish. She glanced down on a weeping Elizabeth and experience a surge of black hatred for the woman who had given her birth. Stooping down, she gripped Elizabeth's elbow and gently ushered her to her feet. She then hugged the distraught immortal and absently brushed warm tears from the corner of her eyes. Elizabeth beamed her gratitude with a weak smile and then turned to face Contayza. "I'm sorry for hitting you...that was deplorable and I'm ashamed of myself. I only came because I wanted you to understand the situation."

"Fuck your apology...it's as meaningless as the hollow life you've lived," Contayza growled, though her words were distorted by her rapidly swelling cheek. "You've delivered your ill tidings...now get the fuck out of my house. I don't ever want to set eyes on your accursed face again...ever!"

A despondent Elizabeth drew a quavering breath and nodded meekly, feeling thoroughly defeated by this ugly encounter. She gently, but firmly disentangled herself from Imirya, who was regarding her...mouth set in an expression of unadulterated loathing and stumbled toward the door on stiff, unresponsive legs. She paused, and without looking back vowed solemnly, "Contayza...I promise that I will bring Rebecca back unharmed...and yes, you'll never have to suffer the sight of me again. You have my oath that no harm will ever come to your family on my account from that day forth."

"Then I would suggest the you do the one honorable thing a deviant of your ilk could do...and kill yourself...because that's the only way you'll be able to guarantee that you can keep that oath," Contayza retorted, cutting Elizabeth fragile spirit with the brutal precision of a surgeon.

The color drained from Elizabeth's face and she fled the house before misery reduced her to utter immobility.

Imirya came to stand before Contayza who merely gazed up at her with a dismissive smirk. Coldly, Imirya observed, "You've developed an astounding aptitude for cruelty, mother...but you'd do well to hope that time doesn't reward you in kind."

Contayza waved her away with a disdainful flick of her thin wrist, "Your judgment means nothing to me. Seeing you together only makes me realize how closely you resemble her and I doubt I'll ever be able to look at you again without seeing her hateful face...so just get out."

Imirya simply stared at this horrible, perplexing old woman, whom she could scarcely recognize and shaking her head in consternation and sorrow, did as she had been bid.

Outside, Elizabeth succeeded in reaching her car and slumping behind the wheel before she was overcome by the poised emotional firestorm. She let her forehead settle to the cool leather steering wheel, which she gripped with white-knuckled intensity as the convulsive sobbing swept her away. As wave after wave of shudders assailed her tight flesh, Contayza's parting advice repeated in the confines of her troubled mind like a pronouncement of a death sentence. _'Kill yourself...because that's the only way that you'll be able to guarantee that you can keep that oath.'_

Though motivated by nearly incomprehensible hatred, Elizabeth...in a moment of crystalline clarity...came to discern that this savage pronouncement was chillingly correct. Only in death could Elizabeth truly insure that the one's she loved would not fall victim to the inhabitants of the darkness which she seemed cursed to attract.

Suddenly the ambiguity of her dream resolved itself stark and glaring finality. Her flight through the crumbling edifice of her life was symbolic of the mayhem the arc of her life had inflicted upon those few people she held dear. Inevitably, given who she was, that arc could only lead to one possible resolution. She vividly recalled the expression of serene contentment that had adorned her statue and realized that...in death...she had at last found peace in the knowledge that she would no longer be a menace to those whom she loved.

A part of her mind implored her not to embrace this interpretation of that portentous dream, insisting that it was too arbitrary to be easily defined. Elizabeth dismissed this as simple cowardice. Despite the terrible finality of that last image, Elizabeth was suffused by a profound sense of...relief, as if she had finally found a resolution to the strife that had now come to characterize her existence.

Her indecision and sense of helplessness abruptly vanished and she sat up, roughly brushing tears from her bloodshot eyes. Endowed with this new clarity, Elizabeth saw a tenable path forward...a way through the disturbing labyrinth that had over-shadowed her life...perhaps since the very moment that Cynara had first plunged the dagger through her still-mortal heart.

She became cognizant of a presence nearby and looked to her left to find Imirya standing beside her vehicle. Her granddaughter appeared haggard and dazed by the hostile encounter through which she had just suffered. In a weak beseeching voice, she intoned, "I'm so sorry grandmother...what she said to you was unforgivable. I...I don't know what's happened to her...she's become cold and cruel."

Elizabeth smiled encouragingly and replied softly, "Don't fret Imirya...I don't think that either of us can really grasp the extent of Contayza's suffering. Each of us reacts differently to pain and loss. I'm frankly more concerned by how she treats you...and the affect it's had upon you. I have no right to ask this...but is it fair to say that your life with Contayza has not been...easy?"

Imirya grimaced and looked up the street, slowly shaking her head. "I want you to know that I don't blame you for what's happened to Rebecca...not in the least. What...what will you do now?"

"I'm going to fly back to London on the next available flight. There are people who are helping me deal with Barrows and together we are going to move quickly to find Rebecca and bring her back to you...unharmed," Elizabeth again vowed...invigorated by her newfound sense of purpose.

Imirya squatted down next to the vehicle and gentle put her hand on Elizabeth's wrist, squeezing it for emphasis. "After fifty years, I finally meet the grandmother I believed was lost to me before I was even born. You're going to spend the night with me and I'll drive you to the airport tomorrow morning...no arguments, grandmother." Imirya hesitated and then added with a note of desperate need that Elizabeth could not deny, "Please...I want to spend just one evening with the woman my father loved so dearly."

"There is nothing that I would like better than to have my granddaughter tell me about her life, Imirya...so yes, I'll stay the night!"

Imirya flashed a smile of blinding magnitude...so like her own, that Elizabeth experienced a disconcerting sense of dislocation...that unnerving feeling of coming undone in time. Imirya rose gracefully, unwilling to relinquish her grip on Elizabeth's slender wrist for fear that she would simply vanish like an apparition. "Follow me back to my house...it's just about a forty minute drive from here. We can sync our vehicles' GPS devices in case you lose me in traffic."

Elizabeth stared at Imirya vacantly and then shifted her doubtful gaze to her rental's display. With a flush of embarrassment, she confessed, "I'm afraid you lost me at the word sync, dear."

Imirya threw back her head and laughed, an expression that lent an aspect of beauty to her face that was nearly painful to behold. "You really are a delightful anachronism, grandmother. Slide over and I'll program it for you."

"Brat," Elizabeth quipped and both women shared a laugh, feeling the stirring of a powerful bond with her son's daughter...a bond of which she must be wary...lest it undo her newfound resolve. A notion germinated in her head then and though the prospect was unpleasant, she did not stop to question its value. Pushing open the driver's side door, she slid out and gestured for Imirya to take her seat. The statuesque blond regarded her questioningly and Elizabeth explained, "There is something that I have to ask your mother...something that could be incredibly beneficial in finding Rebecca. In the turmoil, it simply slipped my mind."

The anxiety in Imirya's large blue eyes was enormous and she pleaded, "Please...don't let her goad you again. As abrasive as she is...she is still my mother and I don't want to see her hurt."

Elizabeth gripped Imirya's upper arms and peered into her eyes with an incisive gaze that made the mortal blink, while affording her a glimpse of the steel beneath Elizabeth's placid exterior. "Imirya...you have my personal assurance that I will never harm any of my family members again. Now stay here...I'll only be but a moment."

Imirya nodded meekly before the other woman's adamancy. Elizabeth smiled and then strode briskly across the street. Imirya watched her grandmother march up the driveway, a storm of conflicting emotions pounding on the fabric of her mind. There had been a nuance in Elizabeth's vow that was both eerie and chilling.

There was a certain satisfaction that accompanied deciding on a course of action...even if that course of action would inevitably lead to her end. Elizabeth could not help but wonder if this sudden wellspring of grim determination was inspired by a sense of relief and thought that perhaps it was.

_'Yes, but will Cynara and Judith share your conviction?'_ The thought caused Elizabeth to waver, but only momentarily. She would deal with that particular daunting bridge as she crossed it. She waved her hand and the door to Contayza's house swung open, allowing her ingress. Another gesture and it swung closed with a loud bang.

She strode purposefully down the hall, her misgivings about facing Contayza suddenly gone, and surged into the room, where Contayza was rising to determine the source of the commotion...thinking that perhaps Imirya had come slinking back.

The expression of astonishment on her face upon see Elizabeth filled the immortal with a private delight. In the subdued light of the parlor, Contayza wore the full weight of her years...appearing somehow diminished. In absence of the truculent facade, Elizabeth could plainly discern the pain and emptiness that characterized Contayza's present existence. This understanding roused only a tiny flicker of sympathy in Elizabeth's heart.

"I thought you promised that I wouldn't have to suffer your face again?" Contayza snarled, her bellicose mask slipping back into place.

Elizabeth extended her right hand and in response, Contayza could feel invisible hoops of steel clamp down over the entire length of her body. "My patience with your hostility is exhausted," Elizabeth admonished coldly. "Now, shut up and listen!"

Contayza's amber eyes flared with indignation, but she saw that there was some fundamental difference in the immortal that now stood before her...as if she been stripped of all sentimentality and compassion...giving way to something hard and unyielding. "What do you want?"

"Nathaniel once told me that it was you who managed to uncover the location of Cynara's dagger in Chevru...is this true?"

Contayza glowered, but grudgingly allowed, "Yes."

"How?" Elizabeth demanded urgently.

Contayza, sensing that this was directly relevant to finding Rebecca, explained how she had delved into the river of Nathaniel's consciousness, veering off into Cynara's at the moment she had marked him with her vile brand. Elizabeth listened raptly; intrigued by the arcane mechanics of the process and hopeful that it might serve her on this occasion. When Contayza lapsed into a brooding silence, she asked, "If you had a personal item belonging to Rebecca, could you not employ it to establish a link with her now?"

Contayza shook her head. "No, I can only follow the thread of her life backward from the last moment she touched the item...it's not an oracular power...I can't extrapolate."

Despite her frustration, Elizabeth kept her expression deliberately neutral and declared, "Then you're right...you and I have no reason to ever speak with each other again."

She considered the other woman for a moment and then crossed the room to where she lay propped against the sofa in immobilizing shackles. Elizabeth loomed over Contayza, one knee on the sofa and the other long leg straddling the diminutive gypsy's hips. A feral grin spread across Elizabeth's face as she cupped Contayza's chin. Peering up into the luminous blue eyes, Contayza was confronted by an indecipherable emotion that inspired a rare pang of trepidation. "You have no idea how desperately a part of me wants to tear that black heart out of your chest right now...the small part of me that no one seems to believe I'm capable of possessing. I want to do it not because of how much you despise me...I understand that much of it is warranted from your warped perspective. I don't even want to hear you scream for the decades of misery you inflicted on Nathaniel...a poor, tragic soul who was incapable of harming another living being. No Contayza...it's none of these things. I want to crush you into dust for the indelible scars you've left on that beautiful woman whom you take such sadistic pleasure in degrading and humiliating. If you weren't the sick, twisted monster you are...you would be on your hands and knees, kissing her feet and begging for her forgiveness...but you are what you are and well past redemption."

She released Contayza's face and stood up, glaring down on the ashen-faced woman with something that might well have been pity. "I foresee the day...not long in coming now...when you'll die alone in this house with only your festering bitterness and resentment for company. When that day comes, Contayza...do you really think that anyone will mourn your passing?"

Elizabeth waved her hand and the invisible hoops vanished. Contayza slumped back against the sofa, regarded the immortal with wide-eyed bemusement.

Elizabeth pivoted in place and strode from the room, dismissing the embittered gypsy from her mind.

An uncharacteristically hard smile twisted her full lips as she emerged into the cool October evening, where an anxious Imirya was awaiting her return. Elizabeth smiled and moved over to her own vehicle.

Soon the two women drove away from the house that had been a repository for sorrow for so many years. Neither woman was destined to return here. Elizabeth would only see Contayza Prowzi one final time.

Chapter Twenty-Two

1

"Judith...let's play...come find me!" The voice...unmistakably Cynara's sultry tone...seemed to issue out of the shadowy corners of the study, where Judith had spent the last several hours, since the confrontation in the hall, burrowing deeper into the muck of Ian Barrows' unsavory life. Judith glanced toward the bank of windows that dominated the study's south wall, surprised to discover that night had descended while she labored.

Elizabeth would be well into her trans-Atlantic flight by this time and Judith felt a strong urge to reach out to her through the tether. She was both mystified and dismayed by the anxiety she experienced when the other woman was out of her presence now...as if she feared that the beguiling creature would somehow slip out of her grasp...forever lost. Judith shook her head and frowned, wondering how she had been so thoroughly ensnared by Elizabeth's aura.

"Juuuudithhhh...I'm waiting...come and find meeee." There was a peculiar sibilance to this subtle whisper that caressed Judith's ear...hypnotic and evocative. She could feel her nipples grow turgid and her womanhood begin to tingle as the words came again, gliding over her like satin being drawn over bare flesh.

Apparently, the immortal had accepted her conditions and was inviting her to indulge in a little contest...a clear challenge for mastery. Judith's beautiful face split into a lecherous grin and she rose from her chair in a liquid flexing of limbs.

Opening her mind, she declared, "Oh, I'm coming dear...and I do hope you're ready."

This ephemeral broadcast was greeted by a spate of derisive, mocking laughter. Judith snarled, though her breath came in ragged gasps as her head reeled in anticipation of having this arrogant princess on her elegant knees.

_'And between my legs,'_ she thought with a wicked grin. A sly furtive sound tickled her ears and she turned to find a deep purple satin blouse draped over the back of a nearby leather chair. It had not been there when she had first entered the room and Judith correctly deduced that it had simply manifested out of thin air. Clearly, Cynara was flexing her arcane muscle and Judith was breathless in anticipation of what other delights the raven haired beauty might have in store for her.

"Come now, Judith...after all of that bravado and bluster...don't disappoint me by being timid...or are you suddenly afraid?" a voice taunted...seeming to originate from nowhere and everywhere.

"Oh...you imperious, arrogant bitch...you're just begging to bring out the worst in me," Ranzman growled...her heart cycling up another notch. Peeling off her clothes, she crossed over to the leather chair and snapped up the satin nightshirt, throwing it around her shoulders in a flourish. She chuckled as a chevalier appeared out of the velvety darkness and she preened, enjoying the way that the cool satin clung lovingly to the tight curve of her ass and her up-thrust breasts. As she deftly fastened the buttons, Judith smiled at the way her turgid nipples poked prominently through the thin satin.

Feeling giddy with anticipation...fully intending to reprise the carnal devastation she had employed to thoroughly captured Elizabeth...Judith padded out of the study and down the darkened halls. Before her, a luminescent yellow light seemed to light the way and the slap of her bare feet on the cool marble was prominent in the prevailing silence. Judith was delighted by the way the muscles in her shapely thighs danced as she followed the trail of light...her lust-fired hunger mounting with each step.

She wound her way through the twisting and meandering hallways of Cynara's palatial manor and after several moments of these seeming random turns down darkened hallways, Judith stopped and tilted her head to the right...her expression pensive. She blinked and the hallway before suddenly stretched off...seemingly into infinity, resembling the barrel of an extended telescope. _'She's toying with me...creating illusions and enchantments to unsettle me...interesting,'_ Judith understood, the notion evoking a grin. "Come now, Cynara...I thought you wished to play?" she challenged coyly. "Could it be that you're the one who is frightened. Elizabeth would be the first to confirm that being under my hand can be...a heady experience. I promise not to hurt you...unless of course...you want me to."

The hallway came alive with the echo of derisive laughter and another grin slid over Judith's lovely face. She was enjoying this titillating contest...this provocative foreplay...though she would enjoy subjugating this powerful immortal...bringing her to her knees...far more.

Somewhere down the elongated hall, a doorway swung open and muted yellow light tumbled out into the gloomy hall. Cynara's voice...ubiquitous and powerful...filled the hallway. "You have no idea how often I've heard that particular refrain...though mostly from arrogant men who had no concept of what it was they aspired to conquer. In the end...to a one...they all crawled to lavish kisses on my feet and snake their tongues between my toes...the ones whose throats I didn't tear out of course. You are a creature of a different ilk I think...but you'll crawl like a fawning lapdog...eager to use that talented tongue of yours."

"Really, Cynara?" Judith retorted as she started up the hall, he thigh muscles dancing and her hips swaying fetchingly. "My instinct is telling me that Elizabeth never crawled at your feet...but I would hazard that she could make you grovel at hers...if she was so inclined."

There was a protracted silence and when Cynara again spoke, a note of glacial warning had crept into her tone. "Right now...our little game is mostly amicable...but Judith...should you mention Elizabeth's name again...our contest will assume an entirely different character...one for which you are simply unprepared."

"You don't seem to understand...I'm just not afraid of you, Cynara," Judith replied sharply, the levity gone from her voice.

"Oh...I forgot to mention...I took the liberty of storing your cherished coat somewhere...safe." Cynara informed Judith as a teasing edge crept into her voice.

Judith came to an abrupt halt and cast a panicked glance back over her shoulder...Cynara's derisive laughter serving as a sharp counterpoint for Judith's mounting anxiety. "Don't fret Judith...once our business is concluded, I have every intention of returning it to your keeping...probably!" She punctuated this with another spate of sardonic laughter and then her voice became husky with rising passion, "Enough of this verbal fencing...come and let me show you what happens to a little girl when she presumes to challenge my dark majesty."

Judith's manicured finger nails scored the velvety flesh of her thigh and her jaw muscles contracted into writhing bunches. She had been cleverly out maneuvered by this sly bitch, but Judith had been blessed with the faculty of turning disadvantage to resounding triumph and she would find a way to make this imperious cunt grovel before the sun broached the horizon.

Deliberately slowing her pace, Judith made her way to the tumble of muted light and stepped through the doorway into a huge tub room at the center of which was recessed the largest spa tub she had ever set eyes upon. Steam rose up from the vigorously churning water, carrying the scents of honeysuckle and jasmine. Cynara sat with her back to Judith...one long arm draped over the edge of the tub. Her thick raven mane had been gathered up and was held away from her long neck by two pearl inlaid combs. On a small table beside her sat a silver tray that held an ice-filled bucket in which nestled two bottles of champagne. Two empty champagne flutes had been placed beside the bucket. "Good of you to join me Judith...this promises to be a most intriguing evening." Cynara declared grandly. "I've decided to acquiesce to your...demands. Before this night is done, I will show you precisely what I am."

Judith's gaze settled on the waiting champagne bucket and she quipped, "It's good that you see capitulating to me as a cause for celebration. I'm likely to be far more lenient in breaking you to my will, Cynara."

Cynara threw back her head and laughed gaily. "You are a genuine delight, Judith. Your audacity is amusing...I hope it sustains you through what's to come."

"I want my cloak back, Cynara!" Judith growled.

Cynara inclined her head to glance at Judith, those full, pliable lips parted in an infuriating smile. "All in good time, dear. Now come...join me."

Cynara gesticulated...a haughty dismissive flick of her elegant left wrist...and one of the champagne bottles popped, spilling the sweet liquid forth in a frothy burst. Judith gripped the neck of the bottle and ventured to the edge of the tub. The immortal rolled her gaze upward and admonished, "Careful Judith...the water is hot."

Judith smirked and stepped into the tub without the slightest hesitation. She came to stand directly before the raven haired beauty, who regarded her with that infuriatingly imperious grin. Judith conjured her most haughty grin and bending slightly forward, slowly poured the champagne over Cynara's face. The immortal's eyes flared indignantly at first, but then she relaxed and opened her mouth. Judith brought the bottle closer to Cynara's parted lips. The immortal opened her mouth and allowed Ranzman to pour the chilled champagne down her throat, never taking her amber-flecked eyes from Judith's face.

Judith could feel her breathing start to come in short, sharp gasps at the erotic sight of Cynara accepting her teasing degradation. She lifted the bottle to her own lips and drank deeply, trying to keep at tight rein on her flaring lust. She glanced at Cynara, a speculative light dawning in her dark eyes. "You have such an enticing mouth, tsarina...such a beguiling curve to those lips of yours."

Bending slightly at her left knees, Judith lifted her right foot from the water and shook it slightly. Then she made a protracted show of slowly pouring the remainder of the bottle's contents over her foot, especially between her small toes...which resembled perfectly formed pearls. Then she extended her right legs and pressed her big toe against Cynara's pouting lower lip. When Cynara did not immediately open her mouth, Judith pressed her foot forward more insistently and the two women locked gazes. Smiling around the sweet tasting foot, Cynara opened her mouth and slowly, tenderly began to suck Judith's big toe...her long tongue lapping the sweet champagne from the smooth flesh. Judith exhaled sharply as the fibers in her tight thighs began to tremble, threatening to spill her into the churning water. Cynara uttered an amused laugh when Judith gasped aloud in response to Cynara's skilled tongue which traced a meandering path over the sole of Judith's foot.

Panting slightly, Judith lower her foot back into the water, while Cynara lounged back against the edge of the tub and intoned, "You appeared rather...frazzled Judith...perhaps the heat is more than you can handle dear?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Cynara...you were the one with my foot in your mouth," Judith retorted tartly.

Cynara again threw back her head and chuckled, before suggesting, "Take that the rag off before I tear it off and gag that impertinent mouth of yours with it. Come Judith...give me a show I'll not soon forget."

Judith surged forward and gripped Cynara's face with fingers like pincers digging into the taut flesh. She brought her face forward until their mouths were mere centimeters apart. "I can assure you, tsarina...you're never going to forget this night!"

She then stepped back to the far end of the tub and slowly, teasingly unfastened each button of her nightshirt. When the last button had been undone, she shrugged the satin from her shoulders and allowed it to slip into the water. Then, bending at the waist and standing on her toes, Judith pivoted in place...every muscle in her perfectly sculpted body standing prominently forth in all their glory. Cynara watched the shamelessly licentious exhibition, her hungry smile declaring just how profoundly she had been affected by the intoxicating sight of Judith's naked flesh.

Judith turned to face Cynara, brazenly pushing her breasts out...her painfully turgid nipples begging to be sucked. Smiling down on a clearly beguiled Saravic, she whispered, "Your glazed expression makes it difficult to deny that you're suitably impressed."

Cynara did not reply, instead gesturing for Judith to come closer. When the diminutive beauty complied, the immortal extended a long right leg and began to tease Judith's erect left nipple with her big toe, uttering a sinister chuckle when Judith gasped and her legs trembled visibly. Cynara's eyes drank in the topography of Judith's exquisite body before settling on Judith's smooth womanhood and she conceded with an airy murmur, "You are magnificent Judith and I'm going to devour you like a rare delicacy."

Before a quivering Judith could respond, Cynara sprang forward in a spray of scented water and on her hands and knees, ran the tip of her tongue along Judith's womanhood, eliciting an exclamation of shock as an argent bolt of electric sensation exploded through Judith's entire body. Gripping Judith's tight hips in powerful hands, Cynara spun quickly and pushed Judith into a sitting position in the same spot she had just vacated. As a thoroughly disconcerted Judith gaped up at the immortal, Cynara rose from the water, appearing very much like a conquering goddess emerging from the sea. Cynara reached behind her head, deliberately pulling her breasts to their most provocative angle, and removed the two pearl combs before shaking out her cascade mane of thick black hair. Cynara Saravic was feminine perfection incarnate and Judith could feel her body begin to quake with the overwhelming desire to kiss, caress and plunder her flesh, which it's tight dazzling lines and exquisite sweeping curves.

"Now, seeing the naked lust gleaming in those huge dark eyes of yours...I do believe I've seized the advantage," Cynara rasped as she moved forward and straddled the sitting Ranzman, who suddenly felt lusterless in the face of such ineffable beauty. Judith could not resist taking liberties with the immortal, running the tips of her finger over Cynara's hips, up the inside of her thighs, while boldly squeezing Cynara's firm ass with her other hand. Cynara extended her long right arm and the other champagne bottle virtually leapt from its silver bucket and slapped into her outstretched palm.

As a mesmerized Judith stared raptly, Cynara's eyes narrowed and the cork exploded from the bottle in a gush of sweet froth, causing the immortal to giggle like a school girl. "You have to admit...there's a vivid symbolism here isn't there...considering the nature of the game we're playing?"

She then proceeded to reciprocate on Judith's earlier action and poured the bottle over Ranzman's face. Judith arched her back and closed her eyes. Cynara upended half of the bottle's bubbling contents and then stopped. Judith shook her head vigorously, like a tawny cat that had gotten wet, and then gazed up at the immortal with dark eyes that burned with undisguised need. Cynara smiled and then pressed her hand to her flat abdomen, while peering along the length of her body through the deep valley of her breasts. She then poured the remainder of the champagne slowly over her belly...it ran in an effervescent stream over her taut thighs and her pouting womanhood.

She sighed as it tickled her sex, all the while staring unblinkingly into Judith's moon-eyed face. Cynara cast the bottle off toward a far wall, but it vanished into thin air before it could shatter on the tiles. In one fluid movement, she plunged her fingers in the silk hair at the nape of Judith's neck and then drew the smaller woman's face into the confluence of her passion. Judith struggled briefly, but then succumbed to her boiling lust and set about pleasing the immortal, her expert tongue skillfully exploring the folds and nuances of Cynara's womanhood. Judith applied herself to the task of pleasing Cynara with fervor and soon the immortal threw back her head, closed her eyes and uttered a primal groan of pure gratification as Judith pushed her closer to the brink of body-shaking release. When she felt herself tottering on the edge of explosion, with Judith's frantic and muffled exhortation's ringing in her ears, Cynara somehow mustered the discipline to grip Judith's face and pushed her away...though the sudden breaking of contact made her groan in frustration.

"Enough!" Cynara panted as Judith gaped up at her questioningly, her delectable breasts rising and falling in seeming syncopation with the electric pulse in Cynara's loins.

"Why did you stop me? I had you on the edge...I could have kept you lingering there until I drove you to absolute distraction...why would you ever push me away?" Judith gasped...her tone plaintive and incredulous.

Cynara could not entirely master the quavering in her voice. "I certainly won't deny your artistry, Judith...but you demanded that I reveal my true self to you tonight...and so I shall. The process has certain mechanics that must be respected...a ritual that must be adhered to. My state of agitation will only augment the ritual's efficacy...and believe me Judith...that tongue of yours has driven me into a stare of total agitation."

Judith reached up, her thin right index finger disappearing inside the immortal. "I assume you'll want me to finish what I've started once we've dispensed with this great revelation of yours?"

Cynara backed quickly away, nearly stumbling as she retreated. "Judith, if your intention was to ingratiate yourself with me...then you've succeeded spectacularly. I sense that you and I were carved from the very same dark tree and despite our repentance...we are both practical enough to know what we are...deep down in the dark recesses of our hearts where even Elizabeth's brilliant light cannot shine. Together, we would very probably cajole and incite each other into regressing back to our old black states...like two junkies whose intermingling can only guarantee their eventual demise. That is why we both need Elizabeth so desperately...because she has the power to be our salvation...to protect us from the dark angels of our nature. Still, when you and I are together, Judith...we can indulge our inner darkness to its limits."

Judith sat back...a conspiratorial grin spreading over her full mouth, lending her beautiful face a predatory aspect. "I'm intrigued, tsarina...do continue."

Cynara's expression became feral. "Oh Judith...you have no idea how precarious a position you've put yourself in by continually fostering my dark side. Still, after tonight, you will!"

Judith's demeanor became solemn. "I don't want acrimony between us Cynara...and I was perfectly sincere when I said that I wanted you as badly as I did Elizabeth. I see the dark majesty in you and I am frankly awed by the essence of what you are. More fascinating still, I know there's more."

Cynara accepted this with a satisfied nod. "That is well, Judith...because I believe we can develop a mutually beneficial relationship...over time. It's imperative that you understand the inherent truth of what I was...before Elizabeth transformed me...pacified the beastly aspect of my nature. When I was first transformed into what was effectively a demon...the blackest aspect of my soul was infected with a small modicum of the beast...whose spirit I could conjure...strictly when necessary."

Clearly fascinated, Judith inquired, "Why were there constraints?"

"The beast manifestation was volatile beyond controlling and that makes it extremely dangerous. When Elizabeth absorbed my essence after defeating me in Chevru...and then reanimated me in Los Angeles...we were both under the impression that the beastly incarnation had been exorcised from my nature."

"But you were wrong!" Judith interjected with dawning comprehension, her limpid eyes glittering with excitement. She reached out and absently began to run her finger tips over the sweep of the immortal's outer thigh.

"Yes...though I only discovered that when Elizabeth asked me to channel my darker side to help her in this situation with Barrows," Cynara confirmed.

Judith pursed her full lips in consternation and offered quietly, "Knowing how deeply Elizabeth subscribes to her values...her adherence to the concept of pacifism and higher virtues, that plea must have been excruciating for her."

"It was," Cynara confirmed as her smooth brow furrowed. "I suspect that life and its constant demand for compromise causes the noble Elizabeth endless pain and angst and that's why you and I are going to work together to insulate her against what's to follow."

Discerning the ferocity of this solemn vow, Judith nodded with equal gravitas. "I'll do whatever you need, Cynara. As I've said...all that I want is unfettered access to that dark heart of yours." Her smile became wanton and her finger strayed to more intimate territory as she added, "And unfettered access to other things as well."

Cynara caught Judith wrist and resolutely pulled it away. "Then you'll have precisely what you desire. Sit back Judith and do strictly what I tell you...if you wish to see morning."

The contentious Ranzman had never been one for authoritarianism, but gleaning Cynara's exigent need, she settled back against the tub and watched expectantly. Cynara favored her with a stunning smile and then instructed, "I need you to severe the tether with Elizabeth...can you do it in a way that she is unaware that it has been broken?"

"Yes...though I'm not sure I see the point?" Judith wondered...her burgeoning suspicion evident.

"Judith...Elizabeth must never know that this facet of my nature has been revived...she would never accept it," Cynara explained and when a furtive shadow slid briefly over Judith's lovely features, she added, "By revealing this to you...I am imparting an unprecedented level of trust...one that you may come to feel has provided you with a vast degree of leverage...something to be exploited. Should you ever feel the inclination to capitalize on this trust...to violate it...you would be wise to recall the salient truth you so astutely gleaned...I cannot live without Elizabeth. If you were to betray my trust and I lose Elizabeth as a consequence...do you really think that I wouldn't tear you to twitching pieces?"

Judith began to rise, her face hardening into a mask of defiance, but Cynara placed a foot on her shoulder and pushed her back down into a sitting position. Ranzman glowered up at the immortal and spat, "I told you that I'm not afraid of you, tsarina...just as I've given my word that I will do anything to help you...so fuck your intimidation!"

Cynara responded to this belligerence with a knowing grin. "You know...this calling me tsarina is starting to grow on me...especially when you're on your knees with my thigh draped over your shoulder. You and I have reached an accord...then let's begin."

She removed her foot and extended her right arm, waggling her long fingers in a gesture of summons. A high, whining sound cut the air like a scythe as something streaked into the spa room and came to rest in Cynara's palm. The immortal shifted her piercing gaze to a transfixed Judith and demanded, "Have you severed the tether?"

"I have," Judith confirmed flatly, her eyes never leaving the object in Cynara's open palm. The blade of the small dagger was a curving, lethally sharp affair, with ornate scrolling on the gleaming surface...a script that Judith did not recognize. The haft appeared to be fashioned in solid gold and a tiny chain connected the pommel to the protrusion of the hand guard on the top side of the curving blade. The blade itself was no longer than eight centimeters, but Judith thought that it would be capable of slicing through flesh and ligature as if passing through warm butter.

"Elizabeth must never know that this creature has been re-awakened in my soul...but it may serve us well in the destruction of Barrows," Cynara remarked emphatically.

"So you intended to ignore Elizabeth's caveat and slaughter Barrows?" Judith inquired, though her eyes glistened with approval.

Cynara's exquisite eyes flashed like midnight thunder. "Anyone who threatens Elizabeth is going to drown in their own blood, Judith. I love Elizabeth...though there was a time when I believed myself incapable of such a thing...and I respect and even envy her nobility...but I will not allow it to be her undoing."

Judith's dark eyes succinctly conveyed that she was of a similar mind. "Show me this beast, Cynara."

"Be careful what you wish for, Judith," Cynara retorted, but then offered the ornamental dagger to the mystified Ranzman. "The beast can be summoned in many ways...through violence or fury...or even when I am being threatened. It can also be conjured by the efficacy of blood...a much less volatile process. I would have you give your blood to the ritual Judith...a mechanism that will insure that the beast's wrath is not directed toward you. A small cut across the palm will do."

Judith regarded Cynara warily and when she could discern no hint of guile or deception, Judith drew the incredibly keen blade across her palm in one fluid motion...not even hissing in reaction to the flare of incisive pain that followed. She glanced at Cynara...a smirk on her lovely face and then turned her hand so that the superficial cut poured blood into the spa.

Like a chemical reaction run rampant, the water began to boil furiously and the entire contents of the spa turned a deep red, though only a smattering of droplets had fallen onto the surface. Judith cast an anxious glance at Cynara, who smiled in reassurance and indicated that Judith should submerge her wounded hand in the water.

The ferocity of the water's churning continued to intensify until plumes of water were leaping a full two meters into the air. A mask of impassivity slipped over Cynara's face as all expression and light fled her normally limpid eyes. Judith watched in dark fascination as the immortal's entire body began to swell and distort as if it was being subjected to some incomprehensible internal pressure.

Judith sat forward, transfixed by the process of transmogrification that was about to commence. She could feel the coalescing of extremely powerful forces gather around as if an aperture had opened into a virtually limitless wellspring of pure puissance. Through access to the vast repository of arcane knowledge that had been held in Amathera's mind, Judith had accrued an extensive understanding of a huge variety of esoteric wisdom, but standing before her was an entirely different facet of arcane power. Where others would have been horrified by what they were witnessing, Judith Ranzman saw only opportunity...potential access to a new and perhaps infinite array of incredible power.

Cynara's eyes suddenly extruded from their sockets...falling into the churning water with two small, yet audible plops. Two yellow, bulging eyes, with jagged black slashes, forced their way into the opening. The skin on the immortal's forehead split open as if it had been excoriated by invisible talons, ripping down to the gray bone in livid furrows.

The immortal emitted a strangled groan and abruptly collapsed beneath the roiling water. The cloying stench of boiling blood made the air oppressive and difficult to breath. Judith raised her wounded hand and was amazed to see that the thin wound had already completely healed...leaving not even the tiniest hint that it had ever been inflicted on the pristine flesh. The water of the spa was ruby red as if the entire content of the large tub was blood.

As quickly as the upheaval had commenced, it came to a swift and dramatic end and a tense, pervasive stillness descended on the room. Chest heaving from both anticipation and anxiety, Judith rose and attempted to peer into the ruby depths. She could discern a vague shape beneath the water, but could not identify specific features.

Then...with a blood-curdling howl...a shape exploded from the quiescent depths and came to tower over Judith, who peered up at the improbable entity with slack-jawed astonishment...but not the debilitating fear the creature was accustomed to inspiring. It spread it's abnormally long, sinuous arms...which were covered by ropes of lean muscles, over which stretched mottled gray flesh...and intoned in an insectile voice, "So Judith...am I not a vision...magnificence embodied?"

It threw back its head and uttered a grating laughter, while Judith attempted to assimilate the reality of what she was seeing. The beasts flesh was a constantly roiling mass of repulsive pustules that swelled and burst, spewing foul-smelling putrescence in every direction. Despite this suggestion of rampant disease, the creature appeared both lethal and vital...with its thin, elongated limbs and spindly torso. The head was disproportionately large and dominated by lantern-like eyes that seemed to radiant malevolence. In their inhuman depths, Judith could clearly see the exigent need to gouge and sunder. Four great, curving incisors dominated a gaping maw full of needle-like teeth that protruded from black, cankerous gums like thresher blades. Each time the entity closed its mouth, those four dominant incisors tore at the flesh of its lips. "Well, dear Judith...do you still love me?"

Displaying no hint of trepidation, Judith ventured closer and placed her hand on the entity's oozing right shoulder...a gesture that brought to mind images of plunging her hand into a bucket of writhing maggots. With a wicked gleam blazing in her great, dark eyes, Judith purred, "Now more than ever, tsarina!"

With shocking alacrity, the entity's right hand reached out and closed around Judith's throat and the diminutive mortal found that she was being jerked out of the water and held at arm's length, her feet dangling above the water's surface. She could feel its cracked nails...which resembled box cutter blades, break the tight skin of her neck and blood begin to run in rivulets over her back and shoulders. The thing snapped Judith closer with a petulant jerk. It inclined its massive head and darting forward, ran its long forked tongue over Judith's face." What a pretty morsel you are?" It cooed with deceptively false levity. "It would be a delight to feast on your succulent flesh I think."

Maintaining her composure in the face of this harrowing threat, Judith gripped the creature's wrist with both hands and swung her body forward, locking her legs around the entity's tiny waist. Steeling herself against the repulsive sensations this intimate contact evoked, Judith murmured, "One morsel perhaps...but then my true value would be forever squandered."

With this, Judith unleashed the full weight of her skills as an enchantress, bombarding the entity's consciousness with an unrelenting barrage of intensely vivid images of the unbridled eroticism she intended to release on Cynara...a million fantasies played out in a swaddling haze of scorching lust. Interspersed in this deluge of carnal sorcery were graphic images of harrowing violence and carnage...of a magnitude that even a demon could scarcely fathom.

The beast's eyes flew open like broken shutters and its hideous countenance contorted into a mask of pain and astonishment. It relinquished its grip on Judith and stumbled back, its hands clutching its misshapen head in an attempt to terminate the sweet, yet agonizing rush of intensely visceral images. Judith tumbled into the water, but then surged back to the surface with a spate of triumphant laughter. She strode boldly over to the entity and clutched its shoulders, pustules spilling their corruption over her fingers as she growled defiantly, "I'm not afraid of you, Cynara...though I am certainly impressed. This is one facet of what I can do...only a small fragment of my power. I understand that I cannot vanquish you in an open conflict...but believe me, Cynara...I can extract a heavy price for my blood if you really intend to take it."

The beast gazed down on her, evident confusion flickering in its inhuman eyes. That confusion was further exacerbated, when Judith sank to her knees before the beast and implored, "Instead of squandering my talents...why not accept me as an ally and teach me to be even more powerful than I am. I promise that it will be a decision you will never come to rue."

"You are an exceedingly clever creature, Judith," Cynara remarked through the beasts screeching voice. "And I will accept your offer of an alliance...but be forewarned...your continued existence is predicated on my sufferance. Now...will you dedicate yourself to me and to Elizabeth's eternal protection...and will you devote yourself to the destruction of her enemies by whatever means I choose to employ?"

Without the slightest hesitation or equivocation, Judith nodded emphatically and pledged her fealty, evoking a satisfied growl frown the beast. With an astounding alacrity that defied reason, the immortal's metamorphosis reversed itself and soon the imperious Cynara Saravic was looming over the kneeling Judith...hunger blazing in her eyes and her customary condescending grin adorning her exquisite face.

"Now that you've made my full acquaintance...I believe there was a matter of a contest to be settled," Cynara growled provocatively. Before Judith could react, Cynara seized her by the throat, pushed her under the now pristine water and declared, "Let the game commence!"

She then followed Judith into the water, pressing her lips to a squirming Ranzman's pliable mouth.

2

The heat was a monstrous thing...its dehydrating kiss made all the more lethal by the insidious scourge of global warming. The desert air shimmered and rippled and even though night had descended and the first light of dawn was still some hours distant, the very air seemed too hot for a mortal being to breath.

Atop the great Sphinx of Giza, a solitary figure stared up at the celestial ballet that entertained her in the velvet firmament, where a high silver moon stood guardian over the seemingly empty desert. Her flaming red hair spread around her like a blanket, falling to her waist in a cascade of thick waves and she lay with her lean arms stretched above her head and her legs folded slightly to one side...like a goddess daydreaming in a secluded meadow. She was indifferent to the deadly, draining embrace of the heat because she was well beyond its power.

She sighed fetchingly and sat up, shaking out the voluminous folds of her mane. Sitting atop this majestic symbol of Egypt's lost eminence, Alexandria's gaze swept over the desert sands which glowed an oddly luminous purple in this quiet desert night. She recalled the time of the sphinx's construction...erected on the broken bodies of slaves and the ingenuity of their Egyptian masters over four thousand years ago. Glancing over her shoulder at the pyramid of the pharaoh Khafra...who had died at the venerable age of twenty-six...she recalled how she had watched in wonder as he had commanded this incredible edifice to rise out of the desert sands. Yet, she had walked these sands two thousand years before the pharaoh had deigned that his inspiration be made tangible...a stunning edifice to self-indulgence.

She had been a whore then...an ineffably beautiful vessel of grace and refinement to be sure...but a whore nonetheless. The euphemism of concubine had been intended to sugar coat the truth and it was true that hers was an exotic beauty that could reduce men and women alike to a state of mindless lust...but for all of that, she had still been nothing more than an exquisite plaything...a coveted possession.

Then, while alone in a pool of roses and milk...cultivating her perfection for her master...a young demon had found her and all that had changed. _'Ah and to think what that humble, ingenuous whore has now become,'_ Alexandria mused with a thoughtful grin. _'After six thousand years, she now possessed a power that was commensurate with her unrivalled beauty...might that inspired fear in angels and demons alike...and the pharaoh's concubine now stood at Lucifer's right hand...his most trusted vassal and lethal instrument of his will.'_

_'If only he knew the truth,'_ she thought as she began to caress the stone with the satiny soles of her bare feet. A star streaked across the heavens in a blur of iridescent red light and she tracked its passage through luminous eyes that had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations...the discordant clatter of humanity as it rushed zealously toward its own inexorable demise.

She sighed wearily and shook her head, the bangles in her hair chiming in the night air. Glancing down at her attire, she saw that she had taken to wearing bobbles and chains on her ankles and wrists, between her fetching breast and in her mane. She draped her body in gauzy finery that did nothing to hide the perfection of her form and had not been seen in the world since the days of the nymphomaniac queen...Cleopatra. _'Is this what I must inevitably become...a creature who eschews the present and lives in a world of reminisce...pining for a way of life that my memory has polished to hide its ugly imperfections? Is it the true curse of immortality to eventually withdraw from life and settle into the bitter waters of irrelevance? For all of my power, am I really so pathetic?'_

Alexandria shook her head in consternation and rose lithely to her feet. She traversed the length of the great sphinx, the bangles at her ankles chiming her passage while her hips swayed in time to symphony of seduction that had been composed exclusively for her. Gazing toward the eastern horizon, Alexandria watched as a ball of molten fire peeked over the sands. These sands had been golden once, but with the blistering passage of years...now they were the pale shade of bleached bones. She found that sad progression inexplicably depressing...a declaration of fading vitality of which only she seemed cognizant.

_'And yet, you've set yourself to a purpose...one of enormous consequence, and you cannot renege on that purpose or succumb to this torpor that has afflicted your spirit these last decades,'_ she chastised herself as the first light of day tumbled over her glorious flesh. She stretched languorously...like a tawny cat arising from a nap. She had passed her nights exactly as she had this one...with greater frequency of late...as if she had somehow lost the motivation to carry on with the tedious process of mundane life. Instead, she would rather sit here and contemplate the inexorable march of time and its intrinsic meaning...or so it seemed. _'Or perhaps that is but a facile rationalization for simply being afraid to undertake this task you have set for yourself?'_

Alexandria uttered a thin, mirthless chuckle at this inane notion. She had long progressed past the point where fear might influence her actions. Indifference was a far more pernicious force for a creature that had lived as long as she had.

It had been in the inconsequential town of Semelar, Washington that Alexandria's great purpose had first been awakened. While performing a minor service for a vicious and frighteningly powerful young demon named Cynara Saravic...Alexandria...then nothing more than a minor minion despite her tremendous age...had first become conscious of her desire to rebel against the masters she served. She had commenced along this startling path by turning to her natural aptitude, seducing the prince of hell into making her one of his closest advisors...an emissary that served as his will in his machinations...and retribution.

At the same time, Alexandria had devoted herself to augmenting her own dormant repository of powers and had been awestruck to discover that...if only because of her nearly unprecedented longevity...she was one of hell's most powerful entities. With slow and subtle craft, she had begun to sow the seeds of sedition in the father's realm. In Chevru, she had helped the renegade demon, Elizabeth Simpson, escape the father's net. In Seattle, charged with her destruction, Alexandria had again helped engineer a fabrication that may have helped this pristinely beautiful creature slip the father's snare. Those two acts of flagrant defiance had fortified her to her cause and since then, she had worked in the shadows to undermine the propagation of darkness...all the while plotting for a day of open rebellion...a redefining of hell, itself. Somehow, over the course of the last few decades, Alexandria had become...distracted. She found herself spending more and more time on the silent ocean of introspection...gazing back over the long and winding river of her life in search of some nebulous insight to the purpose for...everything...an understanding she had somehow missed.

_'Who would ever have believed that...in the end, despite your frivolous, whimsical beginnings...you would evolve to become a philosopher.'_ Alexandria uttered a tiny laugh...a sound that drifted out over the dunes like a wind chime.

She was contemplating her next course of action, when her mind was assailed by a strident buzzing...like a tickling deep in the chamber of her consciousness. Alexandria stiffened...her small frame becoming as unyielding as a piece of statuary. Her luminous blue eyes flew open and suddenly the vast desert was gone. In its place, she found herself faced with a ubiquitous darkness that was absolute and disconcerting in its totality. She bore witness as a dormant force stirred in the darkness, somewhere on the periphery of her recent memory. It took her a moment to bring the particular recollection into focus...but when it resolved itself on the shimmering screen of her awareness, Alexandria gasped in disbelief.

A face materialized in her mind...those arrogant eyes...flecked with amber and ablaze with scathing contempt...were achingly familiar. It had been these very eyes that had inspired Alexandria to embark upon her road to rebellion.

Cynara Saravic...Alexandria had watched as Elizabeth Simpson had shoveled black earth onto her chilling corpse in Chevru. Against all reason, Cynara's inner beast had stirred nearly eighty years after the monster had been supposedly consigned to the earth.

"Oh Elizabeth...what have you done?" Alexandria whispered to the empty silence. Drawing in a tremulous breath, she turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes...knowing, without equivocation, that a mammoth storm was gathering just over the horizon.

3

It was early morning as a very naked Cynara carried an addled Judith Ranzman through the shadowed halls of her manor. She effortlessly cradled Judith, who had her arms draped around Cynara's neck with her face pressed into the immortal's bare shoulder. Judith's face was slack and her eyes closed, but she wore a subtle grin of satiated contentment.

Cynara smiled affectionately at the audacious creature as she mounted the stairs. Outside, the morning was alive with the sound of rolling thunder and lighting arced across the sky in great argent bolts, while the rain poured from the heavens in a deluge...the ideal day for the kind of black undertaking that Cynara was presently contemplating.

Reaching the upper hall, the immortal inclined her chin and the double doors to her master bedroom swung open. She carried Judith over to the massive bed and gently deposited the diminutive temptress onto the plush comforter and stood staring down on the sly creature, who had very nearly beaten Cynara at her own game. Judith stirred from her doze and lifted her glazed regard to the immortal, "I'll admit that you got the better of me last night...but I'm far from done with you, tsarina."

Cynara greeted this with an affectionate chuckle and retorted, "I do enjoy the distraction...so connive away Judith and we'll do it all again when you feel equal to the challenge. For now, rest...we'll have work to do later...before this day is over, we are going to send a very emphatic message to Sir Ian Barrows...and more significantly, the henchmen who serve him."

Bending over Judith, Cynara kissed her slightly opened mouth, relishing the taste of Judith's essence. She then stood and waggled her fingers. Judith's prized possession materialized over her folded arm and Cynara spread the shadow cloak over Ranzman's prone form, noting the expression of relief that spread over Judith's face at the feel of the familiar garment on her bare flesh. She glanced up at Cynara, her large dark eyes glistening on the verge of tears, and murmured, "Thank you."

Cynara smiled fondly. "Rest for a few hours and we'll set off for this research facility."

The immortal turned to leave, but Judith held up one flap of the long cloak and invited pleadingly, "Stay with me."

Cynara regarded the other woman and felt the earnest need in her exhortation. Nodding, she slid under the cloak and drew Judith to her. Ranzman offered Cynara a contented grin and snuggled closer. Within minutes, she was sound asleep, leaving Cynara alone to contemplate the uncertain future that now stretched before her...a future rife with intrigue and deadly menace.

Chapter Twenty-Three

1

"This must be extremely...disconcerting, Imirya?" Elizabeth observed softly. She was seated directly across from her granddaughter, who regarded her with an expression of fascination, intermingled with bewilderment. "I wish that events never would have brought us to this moment." She hesitated and then added, "Yet, despite the turmoil that my coming has caused...I wish that I could have known you years ago...that I could have held you as a baby and gazed down upon you while you slept in your crib. To watch you grow and take quiet pride in your accomplishments...there is no price I wouldn't have paid to have that opportunity."

She quickly fell silent, suddenly on the verge of tears...knowing that this line of dialogue could well cause her to completely unravel.

Imirya's blue eyes...mirrors of Elizabeth's...radiated deep concern and she arose from her chair and came to sit beside the immortal, placing a comforting arm around Elizabeth's shoulders. "Please grandmother...don't cry...and don't regret coming. I understand how you feel because seeing you...feeling this radiance that you exude...I wish that I could have grown up with you in my life. It's just hard to...to absorb...everything that's happened since...since Rebecca was abducted. Looking at you is like gazing into a magical mirror that reflects the person I might have been twenty years ago had I been blessed with your grace."

Elizabeth smiled knowingly...having experienced precisely the same sentiment in reverse...as if Imirya was a version of herself conjured from another reality...one that she desperately craved the chance to experience. _'That's nothing but wistful thinking...this reality is the only one you have and lamenting over lost possibilities is a child's pointless folly.'_

"Perhaps it would be easier if you simply called me Elizabeth, Imirya. That might help to make the situation seem less...bizarre," Elizabeth suggested and thought the other woman's disappointment was evident, she nonetheless nodded. The pair sat in Imirya's spacious living room, though the lights had been dimmed so that they found themselves in a pool of soft, iridescent light ringed by deep shadow. Elizabeth needed only one glance around the home's interior to see that its owner had a strong penchant for off whites and grays. Yet, there was something else about the home that troubled Elizabeth...and filled her with a burgeoning sadness. While it spoke of a definite level of affluence, the house also hinted at a certain...sterility...as if the person who lived here took very little interest in what should have been her requiem.

That expression was further augmented by the woman, herself. Imirya...despite her elegant beauty...seemed somehow forlorn. A shadow of unfulfilled yearning appeared to lie across her smooth brow and Elizabeth suspected that it had been her constant companion for the vast majority of her life...loneliness held at bay by obsession.

Imirya gripped Elizabeth's hand and squeezed it. "Again, I'm so sorry for the way that mother treated you...it was deplorable. I wish that I could say that it was an aberration...but I can't. There's something malign in her heart and it's only gotten worse with the passing of time. Tonight was the nadir, though...what she said about you...and about father...I sincerely doubt that I can ever forgive her for those things."

Elizabeth shook her head, attempting to convey a sympathy she privately did not feel. "She's still you mother, Imirya...who has seen everything she cherished taken from her over the course of her life. I can testify that my presence has always brought out the worst in Contayza...and given the circumstances in which we have always come together...she can't really be faulted for feeling the way she does."

Imirya pursed her full lips and answered with a noncommittal wag of her head. Despite her fervent wish that it wasn't so, Elizabeth correctly discerned that Contayza's eruption had inflicted an irreparable and very probably final scar on her relationship with her daughter. Elizabeth felt a sharp twist of guilt and tried to gravitate toward a lighter topic...trying to get to know this beautiful stranger. "So I understand that I'm in the company of a pretty august doctor? I've even read that my granddaughter may well be this country's foremost neurosurgeon?"

Imirya blushed and remarked, "Effusive praise...but I can't deny that my career has been rewarding. Frankly I've had a great deal of good fortune along the way. Father and mother both were strong influences...positive role models who provided nothing but encouragement. No matter what our differences might be, mother was very supportive...at least, in the beginning."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and again she caught the resonating echoes of the discord that had characterized Imirya's relationship with her volatile mother. Imirya became cognizant of Elizabeth's incisive gaze and offered the other woman a self-deprecating grin that never touched her sad eyes. "I managed to disappoint mother...though I could never quite understand precisely how. I would often catch her looking at me and I felt certain that there was a glint of disapproval in those amber eyes. It hurt because I could never quite figure out how to win her approval or how exactly I had failed to meet her expectations. When Rebecca was born...and as she grew...I would watch mother play with her...or hold her...and I realized that in Rebecca, Contayza had found the ingredient that she had always seemed to believe was lacking in me. I realize how genuinely pathetic this must sound, but beneath the pain this evoked, I found myself feeling glad that she had found that measure of happiness in Rebecca...a joy that she could never seem to find with me. In hindsight, I realize that this lacking had a great deal to do with the things that happened to her before she came to America...things that I could never seem to bring myself to care about. So you see Elizabeth...the chasm that has opened between us...both she and I are equally culpable in permitting it to widen...because I should have cared about her past.

"Imirya...Contayza's world must have seemed as alien to a little girl...as mine does to you now. Don't blame yourself. That she can see you as a disappointment and not a beautiful, accomplished woman is testimony to how seriously warped her perspective has become," Elizabeth offered quietly and without discernible emotional nuance.

Imirya greeted this with a sardonic grin. "The concept of my success is rather debatable...Elizabeth. I lived a good portion of my life under a spell of obsessive devotion to my career...to excel and achieve. I have been guilty of trying to tell myself that this zealotry came in compensation for the sense of inadequacy that mother instilled in me...but that would be a self-serving lie...a cheap absolution that I won't conveniently indulge. It takes a glance around this empty house to discern the integral truth of what I have permitted my life to become. I'm a fifty-five year old woman whose only meaningful relationship is with her daughter. My ex-husband...Charles Merin...was a good spouse...devoted to me...devoted to Rebecca. In my consuming drive, I ignored him as if he was invisible...never stopping to consider the toll my emotional indifference was extracting upon him. The most pathetic part is...on the day he presented me with the divorce papers, I recall being livid...wounded by what I perceived as his inexplicable betrayal. It took me years to realize that he was completely justified and that I could have salvaged my marriage even then by making a small concession. He has since remarried to a wonderful woman named Hudson, who returns his passion with equal fervor and I am so very happy for him. Me? This is what I remain, though recently I have taken steps to reclaim my life...though perhaps it's too late. It has also occurred to me that I treated Charles in precisely the same dismissive way that Contayza treated father...so in that one respect, we are very similar."

Now it was Elizabeth's turn to extend a comforting hand. She gripped Imirya's shoulders and shook her gently, insisting, "It's never too late to embrace life, Imirya. You possess the one rare quality that will help you along the way...the ability to recognize and rectify your own shortcomings. You are an incredibly beautiful woman Imirya, but more importantly, I can glean the gentle beauty in your heart and that alone can set the world at your feet...should you allow it to do so. Don't succumb to despair...you need only look to Contayza to see the ultimate consequence of following that path."

Elizabeth abruptly fell silent, realizing that she was speaking of Imirya's mother. With a sheepish grin, she whispered, "I'm sorry...that was uncalled for."

"No...it's true...though I'm not sure if I would characterize mother's state as despairing. Naturally, she blames you for Rebecca's abduction...though clearly you are as much a victim in this scenario as she is. She also blames me for not allowing her to help Rebecca foster her dormant gifts. She claims that no one could ever have taken or held Rebecca if I had permitted her to nurture her latent talents. A part of me is afraid she is right." Imirya stifled a sob then and averted her eyes to her hands, which shook like butterflies in a strong wind.

"May I ask you an intensely personal question, dear?" Elizabeth inquired, raising Imirya's chin with a long index finger.

The other woman absently brushed at a tear and nodded briskly. "Of course you can...you're my grandmother after all."

Elizabeth did not return Imirya's tentative smile. Instead, she asked tightly, "Imirya...are you afraid of your mother?"

There followed a prolonged and fraught silence and finally Imirya simply nodded and allowed, "At times...yes. These things she can do...these abilities...they seem unnatural...frightening in vague, but very real ways."

Elizabeth smiled encouragingly and observed, "Then it's only natural that you wouldn't want your daughter to be exposed to Contayza's abilities. I can tell you from personal experience, Imirya, that your mother's abilities are formidable and yes, terrifying...just as I can disclose that mine would make hers seem inconsequential by comparison. I would trade them in the blink of an eye to have a sedate, normal life...so don't ever chastise yourself for not capitulating to that demand, Imirya. You have done Rebecca a tremendous favor by sheltering her from what is, in truth, a curse."

"Thank you, grandmother," Imirya replied earnestly. "You have no idea how comforting it is to hear you say that." The other woman lapsed into an anxious silence and Elizabeth could tell that she was grappling with a question she wished to pose. Eventually, she found the courage to give it voice. "Grandmother...can you save Rebecca...bring her back to me?"

Exuding a confidence she did not feel, Elizabeth intoned fiercely, "I promise, Imirya...that I will re-unite you with your daughter...and neither you, nor she will ever be threatened because of me again."

"When you say that...there is an air of fatalism in your voice that troubles me...Elizabeth," Imirya observed, her face set in lines of consternation.

Elizabeth smiled reassuringly and squeezed Imirya's right knee. "Don't let it dear...I'll be perfectly fine...and things will work out exactly as they should. There are people who are helping me...and nothing in Ian Barrows' experience could ever have prepared him for the measures they will take to safely recover Rebecca. What is she like...my great granddaughter?"

Imirya could clearly discern the couched longing and lingering pain resonating in Elizabeth's smooth voice. "This separation...from father and from us...it has been torturous for you...hasn't it?"

Elizabeth nodded a vehement affirmation, her beautiful face twisting into a portrait of misery...though she managed to muster a weak smile.

"It has," she conceded in a tremulous voice, "but I can't dwell on it now or talk about it because if I do...I'll fall to pieces with remorse and we can't afford that right now. So please, Imirya, tell me about Rebecca."

Imirya could feel a lump of raw emotion congealing in her throat, but for the sake of this delicate creature before her...who seemed a living contradiction of strength and vulnerability...she bit down on her sorrow...instead focusing on the daughter whom she cherished beyond the power of words to express. She produced her PDA and conjured up a folder of images that he'd had compiled over the years...stills and motion video arranged in a chronology of Rebecca Merin's life. Elizabeth watched these images dance by in slow, syrupy motion and despite her fervent promise, she could not restrain the flow of tears that accompanied the unfurling of her great granddaughter's life...a life to which she had contributed nothing.

_'Until now of course...when your only contribution must come in the form of the black curse that you represent in the lives of those unfortunate enough to share your blood.'_ It had been Contayza's voice that had delivered this scathing condemnation and it was all Elizabeth could do to prevent herself from fleeing the house. She could feel the pull of her ceremonial dagger become steadily stronger.

Imirya did not seem to notice the expression of incisive pain that rippled over Elizabeth's achingly familiar face...so mesmerized was she by the procession of images that floated in the air like exquisite specters. The extent to which Imirya adored her daughter was conveyed in every word, reflected in her limpid blue eyes as each image drew Rebecca closer to the radiant young woman she was today. In a wistful voice, rife with both love and profound regret, Imirya Merin began to describe her daughter and Elizabeth could empathize because Imirya's eloquently summarized how she felt about her lost son. "Rebecca may look precisely how Contayza did in her younger years, but she is the diametric opposite of my mother. She could best be described as a joyous spirit...full of vivacity and passion. She seems incapable of belligerence or spite and I know it may seem naive to think so...but I can't imagine what experience would ever vitiate Rebecca's heart...the way mother's has become hardened."

She shifted her gaze to Elizabeth and a moment of pure empathy passed between the two women. Imirya's luminous blue eyes widened and she inhaled deeply. "Rebecca is the best of us...those from whom her blood was forged. She is the realization of the potential that each of us held...but somehow failed to obtain in the course of our own lives. Every day since this nightmare first began...I've asked myself why they couldn't have taken me instead...because for all of us...the loss of Rebecca would be...unbearable...and I'm not certain that any of us would survive it...at least, in any meaningful sense."

Through clenched jaws, Elizabeth vowed, "You can tell her all of this yourself...when she's back with you again. Imirya...you were right to try to insulate your daughter from Contayza's ability. It is a curse and a burden that will only cause her undue heartache in the long run."

Imirya suddenly threw her long arms around a startled Elizabeth's neck and hugged her tightly. With her face pressed tightly into the crook of Elizabeth's neck, she murmured, "I can't tell you how happy I am to see you...to spend time with you. Father would speak of you...when we were alone...and as he talked...this light would steal into his eyes...such joy. Even as a girl, I would try to imagine what a person who could inspire such unfettered love might be like. The way he felt about you...it's the way I feel about Rebecca. I came to understand that we were both so fortunate to have someone whom we could love so...so intensely. That really is the true blessing of being alive."

Though she concealed it behind a mask of inscrutability, Imirya's remark had flayed Elizabeth's soul. Imirya had watched Rebecca grow...evolve into the radiant spirit she had become. Elizabeth had been denied that opportunity with Nathaniel and she had come to fear that his light had guttered in her absence. Quietly, dreading the answer, she heard herself ask, "Imirya...was...was Nathaniel happy? I suspect that it might not have been easy living with Contayza...especially in the last few years of his life...but was his world a place where he found some measure of solace and contentment?"

A charged silence descended upon the pair then as Imirya searched her face as if attempting to evaluate Elizabeth's capacity to bear the truth. With obvious reluctance, Imirya finally disclosed, "I always felt that father was curiously absent at times...that he was trying to visualize a life in his mind that simply couldn't be reconciled with the one he was living. He loved us and indulged us to the fullest. I have no illusions...I was a spoiled little princess...and when Nathaniel held Rebecca, it was as if the full weight of life simply rolled from his shoulders and I could see the man he must have been when he was young. So I would say that father found a great deal of contentment in his life through his family. I'm eternally grateful that he wasn't alive to see the end of my marriage to Charles because I think it would have broken his heart. His marriage to mother was a cold and sterile thing by the end and the blame for that can be laid squarely at Contayza's feet...no matter how vehemently she might try to deny it. Her coldness...her damnable aloofness hurt him because I don't think he ever understood its cause. Still, in the moments that he didn't think anyone was watching...a melancholy expression would steal over his face like a shadow that even he was unaware was actually there. My heart would break whenever I would see him like this...only when I was old enough to grasp the idea, did I realize that it was you he was seeing...you who he was missing in those moments of isolation. There are pivotal experiences that separate us from the world...that bring us to places of quiet reflection that no one else can truly grasp or understand. For my father, your loss was that experience...and yet...here you are."

An anguished whimper escaped Elizabeth's slightly parted lips then and in that moment, the full and final impact of all that she had lost crashed down upon her. Though much would follow this poignant moment of epiphany...neither woman was aware that these few sentences...offered with such candor...would seal Elizabeth Simpson's fate. Imirya shook her head and her eyes widened in horror like a woman who emerges from a trance to realize that she has done something ineffably horrible. "Grandmother...I'm so sorry! I don't know why I said that...it isn't at all what I meant. Father loved you as much as it's possible for one human being to love another. What I said was unspeakably cruel...please."

Elizabeth offered the distraught Imirya a fey smile and replied quietly, "It's all right, Imirya. I've always subscribed to the notion that the world sometimes speaks through us...tells us the things we genuinely need to hear. Don't fret...as I've promised, everything will be as if should."

Imirya tilted her head and laid her right palm on Elizabeth's cheek. "When I look into your eyes...eyes I feel I've seen every day in the mirror...I see such serenity, but also such pain...an unbearable sense of loss. It dwarves my imagination...and despite that, I also see such delicacy and grace. Can you tell me about your life, grandmother...everything you've seen and felt and touched...please share it with me. Even if we never have another chance to share a moment like this...I can have sense of what it was like to live your extraordinary life...so that I might come away with a vivid memory to cherish."

And so Elizabeth did...over the next several hours, she spun a tale of all that she had witnessed and experienced on the long road from her childhood to this black juncture. Imirya listened raptly, like a small child at the knee of a beloved grandmother whose life that child could scarcely imagine, but whose road she longed to understand.

In the wee hours of the morning, when the final incredible steps had been recounted, Imirya smiled contentedly and let her head settle into Elizabeth's lap. With tears streaming silently over her high cheekbones, Elizabeth gently stroked Imirya's smooth brow as she watched her sleep. There were fine lines around the blond beauty's mouth and eyes...reminders of the price that living extracts on those who meander through life...vulnerable to the all of the pain and disappointment that accompanies one along the way.

As she caressed Imirya's face...so contented in repose...Elizabeth's long fingers began to radiate an ameliorating golden effulgence and when she had completed her tender ministrations, ever trace of those tiny lines had been effaced. Elizabeth bent forward and kissed her granddaughter's perfectly restored cheek.

In that moment, her path resolved itself with stunning and vivid clarity. When her time approached, Elizabeth would ask Judith to be Imirya's guardian angel...to insure that the stigma of being Elizabeth's blood would never harm her again.

Deriving only comfort from the prospect of her own demise, Elizabeth watched her son's daughter sleep...and began to smile.

2

Cedric Drury passed his right palm over the access reader and then pressed his thumb into the blue ray depression near the top of the security pad which controlled access to his office. He then waited the fraction of a second it required for the system to confirm his identity. When the door swung open with a subtle whisper, Cedric slid over the threshold and closed the door behind him. He then hung his umbrella on an antiquated wooden coat tree and removed his sopping raincoat and hung it next to the umbrella. There was a methodical aspect to the Drury's movements that drew to mind images of a robot or automaton. Everything about the man, from his movement to his dark eyes, intimated a disturbing lack of humanity, yet on this dreary October morning, Drury was beset by a flood of turbulent emotions...despite the apparent dearth of animation on his hard, angular face.

In the few days since Sir Ian had extended his dramatic overture to Elizabeth Simpson...much had changed. Some of those changes were profound and evident...while others were far more subtle, but nonetheless significant. The most astounding change had been the one that had befallen Cedric, himself. For the vast majority of his adult life...at least the portion after his pugilistic ambitions had went down in flames...Cedric Drury had been a living extension of Sir Ian Barrows' will. Never once had he questioned the sagacity of Sir Ian's edicts...nor had he ever been concerned by their legal and ethical lacking. He had carried out Barrows' instructions without hesitation or compunction and that was how he had earned his position as the ruthless marauder's trusted assistant.

_'Glorified enforcer, Cedric...at least see yourself for what you are,'_ he reprimanded himself in a rare display of vexed condemnation. Still, the truth was the truth and Cedric had long ago accepted his role in the grand scheme of things. He had made an accommodation with his situation and had been more than content to accept Barrows' generosity...until now.

He glanced around the confines of his lavishly appointed office here in the Barrows Towers...an office that had been outfitted with a full suite of private rooms for the occasions when Drury could not be bothered driving back to his flat in Kensington. Officially, Cedric held the position of advisor for operations...a nebulous title that said very little about his specific function. He reported directly to Barrows and when he summoned the various operational heads, they came before Cedric with the anxiety and obsequiousness of a servant before a cruel and unpredictable master.

Oddly, Cedric derived no particular pleasure from their trepidation...nor did he seek to exploit their obvious apprehension. He merely did what each situation required...without the influence of personal emotion...spite or petulance.

Until Elizabeth Simpson had entered his reality...and suddenly all of those old conventions had evaporated and he found himself taking a very personal interest in matters. He had attempted to broach the subject of his disquiet with Sir Ian...before the old man had scurried off into self-imposed exile...but Barrows had been too enamored by the prospect of deliverance to listen to Cedric's growing concerns.

Cedric doubted that he would truly comprehend what had motivated him to approach Olem Beyarov, but the Russian had been pliable enough...after a time. Initially, the Russian had been suspicious, suspecting that Drury was...perhaps testing his loyalty. Eventually, when it became apparent that Cedric was being entirely sincere in his proposal for sedition, Olem had been all too eager to lend his aid. The device, which Mcammon had implanted in Barrows' faltering heart, was programmed with an override...of which Barrows had no inkling.

_'You claim to have no real understanding of why you've committed what is tantamount to an act of treason and monumental ingratitude...but that is a bald-faced lie and you know it,'_ he told himself ruefully. _'You're afraid...for the first time in your entire life...you're afraid of the consequences of Barrows' ruthlessness.'_

Cedric inhaled deeply as he made his way to his desk. Repeating the entry security routine, he unlocked the desk drawer and withdrew an out-dated accordion folder from its interior. Carefully, he arranged the contents over the vast expanse of empty surface and studied the various pieces as if they were components of a frightening ideogram that he could not decipher.

His gaze happened on a picture of the mysterious Cynara Simonovic...a licensed psychiatrist who had vanished after a disaster in a meaningless town called Semelar, in the western United States. He rummaged through the pile of papers and drew forth a copy of a family portrait that depicted the Saravic family...a collection of Eastern European petty aristocrats from the nineteenth century. He juxtaposed the photograph and painting...and for perhaps the hundredth time since he first discovered the anomaly, Cedric studied the two faces...searching for the slightest indication that they were not one and the same individual.

It was from this single contradiction of reason that Cedric Drury's misgivings had been born. He had tried to refrain from contemplating the puzzle proposed by this troubling accumulation of bizarre data, but invariably he found himself being drawn back to its darkly fascinating enigma. Elizabeth Simpson was clearly and irrefutably not mortal. This other creature...Cynara Saravic...was very probably not mortal either, but Cedric suspected that she was a beast of an entirely different stripe. He found himself left with the burgeoning fear that...in his obsession with avoiding the inevitable...Sir Ian had opened up a Pandora's box that could well be the end of them all.

He had attempted to contact the concierge at the hotel, where he had arranged for Elizabeth Simpson's audience with Sir Ian...only to find out that the Frenchman had gone missing that very day. He had vanished sometime during the course of his shift. Beyarov had been able to confirm that Lizbet Asari had checked into a hotel in London two days ago...only to fly to Boston yesterday evening. Her intended destination was fairly apparent, but Cedric could not glean her purpose...other than to theorize that she did not necessarily intend to comply with Barrows' mandatory summons...a turn of events that would have grave consequences for the unfortunate Rebecca Merin.

If Elizabeth Simpson was still somehow associated with Cynara Simonovic and if Simonovic and this petty tyrant were one and the same...against every fathomable logic...then Drury estimated that the Barrows' empire was about to find itself under siege in ways they were wholly unprepared to confront.

It was then that Cedric noticed that the message light was blinking intermittently on his Virtua console. He issued the activation command and was greeted by a deliberately filtered image of the man whom Drury had hired to abduct and sequester Rebecca Merin. In his terse manner, Major Ezrin (a fabricated moniker no doubt) requested that Drury call him back as soon as possible. Despite the uninflected voice in which this request had been delivered...a trait of the stoic mercenary who had organized the extraction of Olem Beyarov...Cedric could glean the urgency couched subtly in the other man's tone. If the unflappable Ezrin was disconcerted, it did not bode well for their immediate future. Drury was increasingly certain that...should harm befall Rebecca Merin while she was being held...Elizabeth Simpson would seek unspeakable retribution against those who had caused her that harm.

Activating the system's encryption software, Drury returned Ezrin's call and waited for the connection to be made, while absently drumming his neatly manicured fingers on Cynara Simonovic's picture. A blurred image filled the diaphanous screen...a roiling cloud of black and blue dots vaguely defining the shape of the major's head. "Good morning, major," Drury began, attempting to affect a casual tone, but widely missing the mark to his own ears. "I trust that all is well on your side of the pond?"

After a brief, but significant pause, Ezrin replied, "We may have something of a...situation."

"A security concern?" Drury interjected, again striving for a moderate tone.

Ezrin did not replied at once and Cedric could virtually hear the mercenary struggling for the correct words to properly convey his obvious concern. His response was not particularly enlightening, demonstrating the extent to which he had been unsettled by whatever was happening in the Baja desert. "No...at least, no external concerns. As you had so aptly described...this place is virtually the middle of the forgotten realm. The problem is the girl...or at least I think it's the girl. She's exhibiting behavior that is making my men...nervous and I think you know...that is a state of which I did not think them capable."

"Perhaps you had better describe precisely what's happened," Drury instructed, feeling icy fingers caress the length if his spine.

"Better still...I'll let you see for yourself." Ezrin intoned thickly and the image of swarming dots dissolved, replaced by an improbable live feed. It required several moments for Drury to internalize precisely what he was seeing and when he finally made sense of the confusion hovering before his disbelieving eyes, he sat back and shook his head in bewilderment. Rebecca Merin sat at the exact center of her holding cell...immediately beneath the daunting aperture door...with her legs crossed and her forearms resting lightly on her thighs. Her eyes were closed and her head was bowed, causing her mane of thick black hair to partially obscure her face. Other than the slight rise and fall of her substantial chest, she was utterly still...which could not be said for nearly everything else in the large chamber.

With the exception of Merin and the larger objects, every other object in the chamber was in motion. Cups, dishes, books...these things tumbled slowly through the air...each moving in a hypnotic pattern...sometimes in syncopation with or contrary to the other objects. Drury shook his head in amazement as he watched a set of wooden bowls execute an intricate figure eight while spinning like a series of dervishes. A large coffee table spun in a frenetic blur, while around it, a collection of leather bound books orbited like planets around the sun.

The intricate choreography of moving objects addled the senses...so improbable was its symmetrical perfection. A series of antiquated music discs wound its way through the incredible dance floor, moving like a slithering serpent through tall grass...its rhythmic undulation both beautiful and terrifying. Each cluster of objects appeared to move in a pattern unique to and independent of the other clusters.

"This started only a few hours ago," Ezrin remarked, his disembodied voice fraught with dark wonder. "At first, it was only a few objects that would leap into the air and then settle back to their original position...but as time went on, more objects began to fly and the patterns of their movements became increasingly intricate. It's like watching geometry in motion. How could one mind possibly create so many elaborate and distinct sequences of movement simultaneously? It seems impossible!"

Now the note of trepidation in Ezrin's voice was pronounced and unmistakable, though he could hardly be blamed for losing his composure in the face of something so indescribably alien.

_'Can she really be doing this? Good Christ...what kind of beasts have you stirred here, Ian?'_ Drury wondered as he watched a collection of chess pieces perform a twisting figure eight that evoked images of twisting strands of DNA.

Ezrin was speaking again, but in his preoccupation, Drury did not hear what he was being asked. He asked the major to repeated his last question and Ezrin rasped, "What do you want me to do...my men are reluctant to enter the holding area?"

"Rightfully so, major...under no circumstances are your men to enter that cell...unless granted permission directly from me. I'll admit that I have no notion how she is doing what we are seeing...nor am I presently inclined to find out. She doesn't seem intent on anything overtly aggressive...and as long as that remains the case, I would have you do nothing. If she should turn this power on the holding cell itself, then you have leave to use the sedating gas to stop her...but only enough to render her unconscious...am I clear major Ezrin?"

"Succinctly!" Ezrin replied, but the uncertainty resonated clearly in his deep voice.

"Your mandate remains unchanged...secure the girl until given instructions to do otherwise and defend the integrity of the facility. Keep me apprised of the situation...especially if she should begin to display more hostile tendencies," Drury instructed, continuing to stare at the space where the impossible ballet was unfolding...even after Ezrin had disconnected.

Then muted sound of heavy thunder came to Drury as his attention was again drawn to the picture of the stunning Cynara Simonovic. The day had broken dark...like the dawning of the apocalypse. As he gazed into those amber-flecked eyes, Drury wondered if the analogy was not an apt one.

A tiny voice of disquiet whispered that he might have occasion to peer into those dreadful eyes soon enough.

3

The storm that presently ravaged the southern part of England seemed alive with willful malice. The clouds were cast in shades of angry purple and sinister black...frequently illuminated by the great arcs of argent lightening that streaked across the sky like celestial artillery. The rain fell in wind-driven sheets and many of the early morning commuters felt a vague twinge of apprehension as they made their way to work on this particular Monday morning.

Ten kilometers beyond the city limits, two women sat in a black Bentley. Seemingly oblivious to the raging storm, the pair stared fixedly at the sprawling Barrows' research facility, where Elizabeth had been ordered to report in less than three weeks time.

"So Judith...tell me again...what purpose does this facility serve?" Cynara inquired in a solemn voice that reminded Judith of bombed-out ruins. There had been a daunting glint in the immortal's beguiling eyes as the pair prepared for this opening foray against the ravager and Judith's keen mind was automatically drawn back to the vivid images of Cynara's beastly persona.

"Primarily, this is a bio-genetic research facility. Its director is a multiple Nobel laureate named Andrew Mcammon. His research is fully funded by Barrows, so it seems that the old bastard has always had an eye on his longevity. The investment has obviously paid dividends because Barrows is still alive when he should have been dead years ago."

"Paid dividends until now," Cynara amended darkly, he eyes flashing as another titanic bolt of lightening arced across the sky over the facility like a harbinger of doom.

"Yes...until now. Obviously, this Mcammon has exhausted his supply of tricks and that is why Barrows has turned to a more metaphysical solution," Judith summarized.

"And so it would probably be Mcammon who conducts any testing on Elizabeth," Cynara mused, her eyes narrowing into glittering slits.

"Seems highly likely...though I doubt he could internalize the insight he might actually gain from the results," Judith quipped with a grin.

Cynara shot the other woman a baleful glare and spat, "Then, whatever else happens today...Mcammon dies!"

The sheer belligerence in Cynara's voice caused Judith's levity to vanish. "Cynara...I vowed that I would help you in whatever way you required, but you must see that if I turn this facility into a slaughterhouse...it will infuriate Elizabeth. Is that something you're prepared to risk?"

Cynara regarded the diminutive mortal flatly, "Yes. Mcammon dies and then you have artistic license to make our point in whatever way your devious mind might contrive. We will have to convince Elizabeth that our actions are in her best interest. If you require further motivation to unleash those slumbering demons of yours, Judith...consider this; before she left for Boston, I caught a glimpse of something in Elizabeth's blue eyes that terrified me...grim resignation. If we don't find a way to rescue Rebecca...the Elizabeth you and I have come to love will be destroyed. Think about that as you go about your work this morning."

Judith's skin became pallid and she nodded after a time. A ravager's grin broke over her lovely face and she intoned darkly, "I'll give Sir Ian and his lads a day they won't soon forget."

Cynara smiled and leaning across the seat, kissed Judith's pliable mouth. "Now...that's the miscreant I'm coming to love. I'll head into London and await your message. Then I'll pay a visit to Cedric Drury and see if I can acquaint him with where his vested interests truly lie. If he is not amenable, then this Russian spymaster will be the next to feel our less than gentle touch. I'll drive the Bentley back to the estate and you'll be forced to find your way back on foot...but the walk will help keep that derrière of yours enticingly pert."

Judith feigned a scowled and warned, "Remember, tsarina...I'm not done with you."

Then, drawing up the hood of the shadow cloak, Judith opened the door and stepped out into the driving rain...vanishing from view as she did.

Cynara smiled indulgently and maneuvering the Bentley back onto the traveled portion of the roadway, commenced the return trip to her estate. This forthcoming exercise would have a dual purpose, both of which would serve her machinations well.

Judith paused to watch the vehicle drive away, surprised by the sharp pang of regret she experienced as she watched the demon vanish into the driving rain. _'This creature is dangerous to you, Judith,'_ the gentle voice of Amathera admonished her. _'She is like a...a pusher offering a highly addictive drug to a hopelessly ensnared junkie. If you start down this road...everything I've imparted over the course of these last decades...will have been for naught.'_

Ranzman grimaced...and vowed to temper Cynara's savage commission with restraint...a vow she was destined not to keep once the adrenalin of the moment began to flow.

The research facility was delineated by a stand of closely-spaced trees, behind which stood a three meter high chain linked fence...topped by razor wire...hardly a precaution that seemed warranted by a facility supposedly dedicated to the prolonging and betterment of human life. The main access to the grounds was protected by a gatehouse with an electronic lift gate to regulate access. Judith could count at least three visible guards clustered in the brick building. Clearly, the facility was preparing for Elizabeth's imminent arrival. It was equally evident that...once she passed through those gated...she would never be allowed to leave.

_'If only you understood just what it was you were attempting to cage...you daft old fuck!'_ Judith spat venomously as she approached the hedge-concealed fence. She did not slow her pace a whit and passed through the barrier as if it didn't exist. She then crossed to the facility's main entrance as a titanic rumbled of thunder shook the earth, followed by another blinding bolt of argent lightening. The deep gloom had prompted the ambient monitors to keep the grounds' lights ablaze, but they abruptly gutted and died at the most opportune of moments. Smiling at her good fortune, Judith mounted the main steps and entered the building...delighted to discover that the halls were steeped in darkness broken only by the emergency lighting. Just behind the primary reception office, Ranzman spotted her first target...the security office.

That smile became shark-like as she simply passed through the thick concrete walls and plunged inside.

4

"Bollocks!" Tommy Cairn spat as the lights guttered and then went out. His eyes did not have sufficient time to adjust to the near total darkness before the emergency lights activated. The security system was a state-of-art affair that was virtually impregnable to anything other than direct physical destruction. The manufacturers had even devised a method of resisting EMP pulsing devises that had been the ruin of earlier systems through the early part of the century. Cairn scanned the sequence of displays to find that all were functioning perfectly...though the monitored locations were steeped in a muted yellow glow.

Terry Mcdougan cast Cairn a distracted glance and squinted at his PDA, trying to pick a winning combination on the week's football matches. With casual disdain, he chided, "Don't get your knickers in a bunch, Tommy...the back-up system will spark in and you'll be safe from the boogey man."

"Sod off!" Tommy retorted, privately cursing the detestable, condescending fuck that he'd been cursed to spend every work day with for the past seven years.

From the inviolable concealment of the shadow cloak, Judith observed the two drones, knowing that neither of the laggards would pose a genuine threat, even if she was to throw back the hood of her cloak and materialize out of thin air. The armed guards she had passed on the way into the facility were another matter entirely. Just their state of sustained alertness bespoke a level of competence that declared them as professional mercenaries.

_'Perhaps Barrows is not the blithering idiot I first imagined him to be,'_ she mused as she gravitated over to the holographic floor plan of the facility's main building.

As Tommy surveyed the array of hovering images, an incisive pain lanced his skull, driving deep into the recesses of his brain. He blinked and attempted to speak, but to his dismay, found that he had been robbed of the faculty of both speech and movement. He could sense something slithering through the interior of his frazzled mind as if searching for something specific. He heard a satisfied whisper and suddenly the camera views abruptly vanished, giving way to a panorama of vividly erotic vignettes that both sickened and infuriated him. Each floating screen showed his wife, Amelia, engaged in vulgar acts of unrestrained passion with...the loathsome Terry Mcdougan. A voice, sweet and seductive like honey dripping on to the tip of his tongue, spoke to him then...skillfully stoking his burgeoning fury. _'How often has good old Terry suddenly re-arranged the duty roster over the last eighteen months, Tommy?'_ The voice inquired in a perfectly reasonable tone. _'Have you never once stopped to wonder why? Look at her face Tommy...I think the answer is explicitly clear...the glazed eyes...the slightly parted lips...so eager to tease. How they laughed at you...snorted their derisive contempt while they fucked.'_

Tommy Cairn's watery blue eyes bulged in rage as he watched the miserable bastard plunge in and out of his wife with wild abandon. He felt the irrefutable truth of what he was witnessing...vibrating in his viscera...knowing that he had finally discovered the reason why his marriage had soured so dramatically over the last few months. That liquid velvet voice was speaking again...tenderly caressing his anger. "Look at him, Tommy...see how he sneers at you...knowing that he'll be deep inside Amelia while you pass another pointless night gaping at these monitors."

Tommy's round head swiveled of its own accord and in the gloom of the security station, he could clearly discern the true Terry Mcdougal, lurking just beneath the snide, arrogant mask. The thing regarding him was a horrific amalgam of a man and a snake. It regarded him through red eyes cut by slanting pupils of the deepest black. A long, serpentine tongue snaked from its lipless mouth and it goaded, "You wouldn't believe how much she loves this tongue...how I make her scream like a banshee...and the other things I do to her, Tommy...well you can't even begin to imagine." Its voice became disdainful...dripping contempt like venom. "But then that's always really been the problem...hasn't it? You're nothing but an unimaginative little wanker...who has no notion how to please smoldering piece like Amelia. Much to her good fortune, I'm more than happy to step in and make up for your deficiencies...the role of cuckold suits you well, Tommy!"

A strangled gasp tore from Cairn's contorted lips and he lurched to his feet, his right hand reaching for his holstered service weapon.

Terry Mcdougal was absorbed in the solemn task of making his weekly football picks, when his station partner suddenly staggered to his feet and gasped like a deflating balloon. Mcdougal glanced up from his PDA to find Cairn regarding him with an expression of inexplicable hatred. More disconcerting still, Tommy held his service weapon in trembling hands...it's quivering barrel centered squarely on Terry's face

"Jesus, To..." Mcdougal exclaimed in horror but got no further as Tommy discharged his weapon point blank into his partner's gaping face. A spray of blood and bone matter painted the concrete wall in a vivid fan and Mcdougal toppled over in his chair...his arms beating a spastic tattoo on the tiles as he jerked through his death jig.

Tommy pivoted in place and then emptied ten rounds into the security board. The board responded with an ugly spate of static and burst into flames. Cairn was about to pull the trigger and fire the final round in his clip, when a woman materialized out of the very air before him. Even as acrid smoke filled the air, she waggled a finger before her ineffably beautiful face and intoned. "Ah...that last one's for you Tommy."

Cognizance filtered back through the haze then and a disbelieving Cairn surveyed the carnage...a strangled cry of negation bursting from his mouth like hot bile as his gaze happened upon the bloody tapestry of brain matter and blood that now decorated the far wall. His eyes then shifted to the smoldering security console and he shook his head in absent denial.

"Come now Tommy, there's no going back from this...take the noble way out," Judith advised, her tone colored by a hint of impatience.

That voice...it had been the voice that had traduced him into this monstrous act. Gritting his teeth, Tommy clutched the weapon in white-knuckled fingers and tried to compel his flesh to serve his will.

Shaking her head in exasperation, Judith waved her right hand and Tommy's entire body was stricken by profound tetanus that left him utterly immobilized.

"Really, does a girl have to do everything herself?" Judith lamented and then snatched the weapon from the livid Cairn's clutching grasp.

She then pushed the muzzle of the weapon into the soft flesh beneath a terrified Cairn's chin, and angling the weapon toward the back of his head, offered the blubbering Tommy a scintillating smile and pulled the trigger. The muffled report was accompanied by a fine mist of crimson spray and Cairn's knees folded, spilling the burly guard to the tiled floor.

Judith dropped the weapon near the dead man's right hand and stood staring down upon him for several moments...her face twisted by an indecipherable emotion as a howl of negation ripped through her mind. She could hear Amathera's spiraling voice draining away and felt the familiar presence withdraw from her mind...leaving her feeling disoriented and alone.

She glanced back at the security console to discover that Tommy's volley had effectively disabled the facilities monitoring capabilities. She exited the station and headed deeper into the darkened facility as cries of alarm began to bray in the pandemonium she'd initiated. With the holographic map committed to memory, Judith was easily able to negotiate the halls...moving unerringly toward her target for the morning. Behind her, curt orders were issued in the darkness, followed by the distinct crunch of charging feet and Judith knew that the extra security had entered the building.

A corpulent man in a billowing lab coat trundled down the hall, followed closely by a tall, thin woman who reminded Judith of an ungainly bird. Something about the waddling man struck a keen note of revulsion and enmity Judith's malefic mind. Striding directly toward the man, she extended her right arm and plunged her hand into his flabby chest. He stopped abruptly and his eyes flew open like broken shutters as steel pincers seemed to clutch his laboring heart. He attempted to articulate his pain and fear, but his cry was forestalled by a huge glut of blood that burst from his mouth and he collapsed onto his face in a spastic heap...his final fall heralded by the harrowing shriek of his rail-thin companion.

The dead man's female companion came to a skidding halt, regarding her fallen colleague with a mixture of confusion and inchoate dread. Invisible hands clutched the sides of her head, wrenching it first left and then right. A sickening snap punctuated her swift demise and she fell in a sprawl over other victim.

Judith dismissed the pair from her mind...ignoring her mind's tiresome insistence that their deaths had served no purpose other than petulant spite.

_'These people might well have taken part in Elizabeth's dissection...and for that alone, they deserve to die!'_ Judith reminded herself vehemently...but another part of her mind informed her that this was nothing but facile, self-serving bullshit to justify her resurgent cruelty.

Mindful that her purpose here...at least to Cynara's mind...was to sow chaos and uncertainty in the inner circle of sycophants surrounding Barrows, Judith threw back her hood and as she continued down the hallways, thrust her arms out to her sides in violent pushing gesture that blew in doors and shattered the floor-to-ceiling re-enforced plate glass windows that delineated the hallways. The shards of glass and jagged wire blew out into an interior court yard on Judith's left and heavy steel doors were torn from their hinges and sent tumbling into the various labs on her right.

Finally, she found herself at the end of a short corridor, standing before a set of steel doors into which were set two rectangular windows. Judith reached for the door and jerked the handle, not surprised to discover that the door was locked.

"Sheep in a pen," she murmured with a smile and drawing up the shadow cloak's hood, simply walked through the door and into the lightless interior of Andrew Mcammon's personal laboratory.

Judith turned her open palms toward the ceiling and mouthed an incantation of summoning and abruptly two balls of silver effulgence coalesced in her hands. She withdrew her palms and those globes floated in the air, casting diffuse silver light over the entire expanse of what proved to be a deceptively vast room. Judith's grasp of the fundamental workings of this type of facility was admittedly wanting, but she need only glance around the room...with its vast array of complex equipment, all appearing as if it had just been removing from its packing cases, to know that she was seeing a highly sophisticated operation. The pristinely sterile environment evoked a primal fury in the diminutive beauty and she began to unleash the full weight of her immense puissance on the room's contents.

Stainless steel tables were overturned, spilling their contents to the tiled floor in a clatter of broken glass and metal. A bank of refrigeration units were ripped free of their moorings...their bolted legs tearing free of the concrete with a teeth-jarring screech...and sent slamming into the walls before bursting apart like over-ripe fruit. Mind-bogglingly expensive pieces of technology were reduced to useless detritus by the invisible gyre that ripped through the vast laboratory like a tornado. When Judith's telekinetic frenzy had finally run its destructive course...everything in Mcammon's laboratory had been rendered useless.

Judith stood in the center of the room, her breasts heaving and her respiration coming in great, heaving gasps. When she had finally regained her composure, she started toward the office at the far end of the lab...thinking that Mcammon might be cowering there. She paid little heed to the bank of doors that had somehow remained closed in the face of her rampage. Focused on the office, Judith failed to notice one of the doors open as she passed. Babbling like a demented victim of a bomb attack, Mcammon surged forward and jammed a taser into the area of exposed flesh just beneath Judith's jaw.

The electricity that surged through Judith's taut flesh lacked the efficacy to paralyze as it would have a normal mortal...yet it was still sufficient to momentarily suffuse Judith with an incisive pain that sent her stumbling to her knees.

Mcammon cackled crazed laughter and started forward with the intention of reprising his attack, but his jubilation quickly turned to confusion, when the woman drew up her hood in one fluid motion...and abruptly vanished, winking out of existence like a defective light bulb. Before he could react, the taser was ripped from his fingers and flew across the litter-strewn room with an angry hiss. Judith materialized just as the taser slapped into her waiting palm. With a baleful scowl, the infuriated Ranzman snarled, "That hurt, fucker!"

She exploded out of her crouch, sailing across the distance between them as if shot from a catapult, and drove her right knee into an immobilized Mcammon's substantial belly. Before the gasping scientist could collapse, Judith seized a handful of his silver hair and conjuring every iota of indignation she could muster, drove the hissing taser into his groin.

Mcammon attempted to scream...his mouth gaping open in a rictus of pure agony as Judith held the device against his groin...but only a thin wheeze escape his lungs. His bulging eyes rolled up in their sockets and he toppled onto his back like a felled tree...his head bouncing off the tiles with a disturbing crack. Still clutching the taser, Judith stepped forward and raised her right leg with the intention of stamping her heavy-soled boot down on the unconscious man's slack face.

Some semblance of normalcy re-asserted itself then and she jumped back and closed her eyes...waiting for her mindless fury to dissipate. When she had finally regained her composure, Judith's gaze swept over the expanse of broken equipment, finally settling on the object she was seeking. A waggling of her index and middle finger sent a surgical cleaver tumbling end over end through the air. She considered it as it hovered before her and its lethally honed edge again provoked her simmering rage. Judith could feel subtle intimations of the thing she had once been attempting to insinuate itself into her mind and she struggled to keep the old Judith...the old monster who had tottered on the abyss of psychosis...tightly bound.

Another gesticulation jerked Mcammon into the air, where he hung suspended by invisible tether of pure arcane energy. Glancing up, Judith exerted her telekinetic force on a water line and the pipe immediately over Mcammon's head ruptured. The cold spray tore him out of the cold sanctuary of his unconsciousness and he gaped owlishly, trying to fathom the state in which he now found himself. When his gaze happened upon Judith and the surgical cleaver in her right hand, Mcammon began to blubber an incoherent plea for mercy.

"Shut the fuck up!" Judith roared irritably and brandished the cleaver at the suspended man, who abruptly lapsed into comparatively quiet whimpering. Alarm klaxons began to wail and Judith gleaned that her time was short and while the prospect of reducing Barrows' mercenary henchman to bloody fodder was not without its dark appeal, Judith understand that it was exigent that she deal with Mcammon. "Where is Ian Barrows?"

Mcammon shook his head uncomprehendingly as if Judith had posed the query in a foreign language. In response, a scalpel shot forth from the fans of debris on the lab floor and embedded itself in Mcammon's right thigh. He bellowed a particularly satisfying shriek and after his plaintive bleating had subsided, she reiterated her question. Quaking perceptibly and thrashing against his invisible restraints, he croaked, "I don't know where Barrows is...I can monitor his health vitals remotely...but I don't know where he's been taken. Only Cedric Drury would know that."

"What were you instructed to do with Elizabeth Simpson when she arrived?" Judith asked in a deceptively calm voice.

Mcammon's reluctance to answer precipitated a hail of surgical tools to leap from the tiled floor and impaled his arms, legs and torso until he resembled a pin cushion. Mcammon screamed until it seemed certain that his lungs would burst. Over the cacophony, Judith could hear footsteps charging down them outside hall and the hoarse cry of urgent voices. With the subtle flexing of telekinetic ability, she sent the entire contents of the vast laboratory bouncing across the tiled floor where it piled against the locked access doors in a massive drift of stainless steel. Mcammon had fallen back to whimpering and sobbing. Between clenched teeth, she rasped, "What were your instructions in regard to Elizabeth Simpson?"

"I was instructed to conduct an assiduous battery of testing...including exploratory and invasive testing!" Mcammon screamed like a man attempting to regurgitate something ineffably vile. "Sir Ian wanted to determine how she had apparently managed to defy the normal progression of the aging process...I didn't want to participate in...in this atrocity...I swear."

Something battered against the door and urgent voices echoed in the corridor. Judith ignored the clamor and peered up at the sobbing scientist with cold, remorseless eyes. "Of course you didn't...and undoubtedly, you had every intention of resigning your lucrative position here before that unpalatable eventuality could come to pass."

Mcammon nodded frantically and Judith's full lips twisted in a sardonic smirk and she intoned, "Unfortunately, I find myself in a particularly cynical frame of mind at the moment."

The cleaver flashed in the diffuse argent light, cleanly slicing through Mcammon's abdominal wall. Steaming viscera poured through the rent and spilled over his violently twitching legs in a gruesome tumble. With a brusque snap of her fingers, Judith crimped the ends of the damaged water pipe and then compelled the two ends to intertwine around Mcammon's neck. He hung in the gloom...appearing very much like a ghoulish T.

Another titanic bang reverberated through the lab's interior and Judith correctly deduced that the security forces were employing a ram to batter down the door. A sinister smile broke over her lips as she raced along the interior wall, quickly located a series of valves...each individually labeled with the various gases they dispensed. Quickly opening each valve to full capacity, Judith then strode to the north wall of the laboratory, where she considered the now crimped door and remarked, "You gentlemen want in so desperately...so be it."

In one incredibly deft motion, Judith drew the drift of clutter from the main doors and spinning back to the valves, conjured an intense shower of sparks, which ignited the streams of gases in rapid succession. Brilliant jets of flame spewed across the room just as the security contingent managed to batter down the two steel doors.

They shielded their eyes and stumbled back into the hall, but not with sufficient alacrity to avoid being consumed by the massive fireball that deluged along the stone gullet of the hallway like dragon fire.

The harrowing screams that reverberated along the hallway seemed to go on for an eternity, but Judith had long since passed through the outer wall and into the raging storm beyond.

She walked across the rear lawn with a benign smile gradually spreading over her lovely countenance. Cynara had asked that she deliver an empathetic message and she had complied. At the periphery of her consciousness, she could hear Amathera weeping wretchedly, but even as she experienced a twinge of regret, Judith could also not deny the surge of long-repressed joy that came with unleashing her inner darkness.

She had reached the perimeter of the facility when a massive, guttural grumble seemed to shake the foundations of the very world. The chain link fence in front of her buckled like an inebriated sailor and many of the slender trees simply toppled over like fallen sentinels. A huge argent fireball writhed and twisted into the heavens as the central holding tanks for the facility's various gases erupted like an exploding sun, leveling a huge portion of the facility and instantly immolating nearly everyone within.

Judith slowly pivoted in place and watched as argent and blue flames held court over the ruins of Ian Barrows' research facility. Faint screams reached her ears over the roar of the massive fire and from the security building at the front of the property, a nerve-rending alarm brayed without surcease...though its occupant were now all charred husks within the crumbling walls of the main building.

_'What have you done, Judith?'_ A horrified voice inquired...its tone tremulous and disbelieving. A wounded hiss escaped Judith's slightly parted lips. The voice had not been that of the long-time guardian of her conscience...but rather the doleful voice of an utterly distraught Elizabeth Simpson. Whatever dark euphoria Judith had been feeling abruptly fled like wraiths against the coming of dawn. Her wide-eyed regard swept over the tableau of carnage and wanton destruction and Judith Ranzman knew...unequivocally...that for her, there could be no salvation...at least not without a guiding presence to prevent her from lapsing into the black waters of madness that had characterized her former life. Yet, with this one act of mind-numbing evil, Judith may well have permanently alienated the very woman who could be her exoneration...her eternal salvation.

She sagged to her knees in wretched despair as a series of secondary explosions lit the low-scudding purple storm clouds, weeping silently as the sounds of the first emergency response vehicles added to the cacophony.

If Elizabeth was an anchor who could ground her in the light...Cynara Saravic was an irresistible magnet, who could only pull her into the darkest depth of Judith's deadly madness...that lingering core of blackness that defied every attempt at extirpation. She could spend eternity seeking absolution...but her corruption was like a rank weed whose roots were hopelessly intertwined with the fabric of her soul.

_'To think...you embarked on this great journey of introspection...only to discover that, you're still the deadly parasite you've always been...once the veneer and pretension is stripped away.'_ It had been seventy years since she had last heard the derisive voice of Tamara Hood and Judith wondered morosely what happened to the woman she had burdened with the task of protecting Jeniah Lightcrusher's doorway. Irrespective of the fate that might have befallen Tamara, there was no repudiating the validity of her condemnation. Today's iniquitous slaughter had demonstrated that Judith had not changed a whit...not at the primal level where a person's true nature was defined...and apparently set in stone.

Turning away from the horror, Judith passed through the fence and began to trudge back to Cynara's country manor...terrified by what might happen when Elizabeth learned of her hand in this unforgivable atrocity.

5

Cedric Drury was laboring at his Virtua console, trying to distract himself by pondering various security upgrades, though his efforts were met with only partial success. His glanced to the upper right corner of the hovering ghostly screen to see that it was ten minutes before ten. Only the light immediately above his working space was turned on, leaving a huge segment of the large space steeped in impenetrable shadow. On occasion, a blinding bolt of argent lightening would illuminate the sky beyond his window; temporarily casting a flash of eerie light into the room's brooding interior.

Cedric glanced up briefly just as another of the unsettling argent bolts arced over the London skyline. His heart lurched wildly and a thin gasp escaped his lips. In that momentary flash of silver, Cedric though he had caught a fleeting glimpse of a silhouette...reclining casually on the Corinthian leather sofa that stood against the back wall of his office.

Cedric rose with a start as the pervasive darkness settled over the interior like a funeral shroud, but before he could gain his feet, the message indicator began to flash on his Virtua console.

"I believe you might want to answer that," a female voice suggest with a mocking edge which demonstrated that the speaker possessed a dark humor.

Cedric hesitated with his heart thundering in his chest. He knew...without the slightest hint of ambivalence...exactly who was enshrouded by the room's cloak of shadow. Trying to master his disquiet, he instructed, "Go ahead."

Iris Singleton's pleasing countenance filled his display, though her blue eyes were alight with extreme anxiety and when she spoke, her voice quavered perceptibly. "Mr. Drury...you might want to see this news feed."

In the next instant, his screen was filled with a live BBC news feed of a raging conflagration. Heavy black smoke rose into the morning sky...occasionally illuminated by writhing tongues of argent and blue flame that arose from the ruins of a sprawling compound of some sort. Cedric's eyes widened as he read the caption that flashed beneath the inferno in bold, apocalyptic lettering.

Prominent biotech research facility devastated in massive explosion and fire.

Drury sagged back into his chair as the full impact of what he was seeing resolved itself in his frazzled mind. Ms. Singleton was speaking again, though her words were a blur against the frenetic rush of his discordant thoughts. He was scarcely aware of his curt dismissal...though the intruder's presence prickled on his skin like the devil's breath.

"I'll be leaving for the facility momentarily Ms. Singleton. I will also apprise Sir Ian of this development...hold all of my calls for the moment...all of them!" He reiterated harshly, abruptly terminating the voice connection...though he could not drag his transfixed gaze away from the horror unfolding on his ghostly screen.

He was dimly aware of furtive movement in the gloom and then she was leaning across his desk, looming over him with an intense gaze that belied the casual grace of her movements. He shifted his regard to meet her face, stunned by the immensity of her beauty...though beneath that breathtaking facade, Cedric could glean the presence of a malice that was emasculating in its enormity. Her dark, amber-flecked eyes twinkled with levity, but Drury had no illusions that this creature would tear his throat out...and derive enormous pleasure in doing so.

"You don't look particularly surprised to see me, Cedric?" She observed questioningly and then her eyes drank in the spill of paper that littered his desk. Those disconcerting eyes narrowed and then a single sheet of paper gravitated up from the pile and into her outstretched fingers. Cedric saw how long...how aristocratic those fingers appeared as she studied the photograph of the persona she had contrived to first seduce a very young and innocent Elizabeth Simpson. Her gaze surveyed the remainder of the snippets of information that Drury had accrued and she then drew forth the Saravic family portrait. She returned her attention to Cedric with an expression that was far too malevolent to be construed as a smile. "I see that you've been a most industrious sleuth...exhuming ghosts from a bygone era. Perhaps that is just as well, Cedric...it relieves me of the tiresome burden of having to impress upon you the severity of your current peril. You know who I am...and I suspect you have a rudimentary sense of what I am...though in your most harrowing nightmares, you can't begin to fathom the truth of my nature. Do you know why I'm here, Cedric?"

Finding his voice...which seemed uncharacteristically meek and tentative...Cedric replied, "I suspect I might."

Cynara came around the desk and sat on one corner, sweeping the remainder of the files onto the floor with a casual flick of her right hand. She crossed her long legs and the split in her skirt revealed a hypnotic length of shapely thigh. "It seems that your master has poked his stick into a particularly nasty wasps' nest. I trust that this morning's demonstration succinctly conveys my sincerity in seeing that Elizabeth Simpson comes to no harm?"

Cedric's traumatized gaze slid back to the ghastly image of the raging pyre...now underscored by a caption that at least seventy-three people were dead or missing. Drury heard himself pose the rather obtuse query, "You...did this?"

Cynara offered the disconcerted Drury a satisfied grin and shrugged, "It would be more accurate to say that I orchestrated this rather spectacular display as a point of emphasis."

"Then there are more like you...like Elizabeth Simpson?" Drury asked, flummoxed by the disturbing notion that such nightmares could actually dwell in plain sight.

Cynara smiled again, though her dark eyes shone with a predatory gleam. "You have no concept of what it is men such as yourself and Barrows presume to antagonize...or how many of us there are...beyond the periphery of your ragged civilization. Still, let's you and I confine our dialogue to what is germane...I want you to tell me where I can find Ian Barrows. I also want to know everything...every infinitesimal detail pertaining to this measure Barrows has taken to insure that Elizabeth remains docile and pliable."

Cedric's mouth worked, but to his credit...he did not fall to pleading or fawning. "Barrows will never relent...no matter how many of his employers you incinerate...or how many of his facilities you reduce to rubble...he'll never renege on his obsession with Elizabeth. She's dangled the promise of immortality in front of his greedy eyes...and even if that immortality comes with the prospect of passing eternity in a temple of decrepitude...it's one he can't resist. It's impossible to overstate the strength of his fixation with living...or his dread of dying!"

Cynara bent forward and pressed an index finger into Drury's right temple, igniting a veritable tsunami of agony that left Drury trembling with the acrid reek of his own urine assailing his nostrils. Cynara seemed oblivious to his shame and intoned solemnly, "I predict that...in the very near future...good Sir Ian will be disabused of the notion that death is the worst thing that can befall a man. Your primary concern...your only concern should be the fate that awaits you. Your path has two distinct branches...you can cling to your obstinate and imprudent loyalty to a man whose life is forfeit...or you can answer my question and pledge fealty to me. The choice is yours, but harbor no delusions...I will leave here with the information I require...even if it means flaying your body and mind and peeling both into bloody layers."

Cedric need only peer into those dark, luminous eyes for a moment to discern the terrible intransigence that governed this creature's black heart. There could be no doubt that she had both the means and the grim resolve to make good on her vow. "Sir Ian has been sequestered in a small country estate two hours north of the city. The estate is heavily guarded...but quite obviously, you have the capability of surmounting ordinary surveillance...so I doubt you'll be presented with much of a problem."

Cedric disclosed exact details of the place where his employer had went to ground to await Elizabeth Simpson's arrival and Cynara favored him with an approving smile. "You see Cedric...betrayal is really not as painful as it is reputed to be. Now, where are you holding Rebecca Merin?"

Again, Drury was enough of a pragmatist to know that this entity had not exaggerated her ability to extract the information from his mind and saw little nobility in attempting to mount a futile resistance. Perhaps...through his years of coercion and brutal subterfuge on Sir Ian's behalf...Cedric Drury understood that his deplorable lack of moral integrity would eventually...inevitably rebound upon them both. Still, he never would have imagined that it would come in this particularly appalling form. Cynara's brow furrowed and her eyes flashed menacingly when he divulged the circumstances in which Rebecca Merin was being held captive.

She leaned closer and described a slow circle in front of his right eye with the lacquered tip of her left index finger...the implications of the gesture terrifyingly clear. There had been very few instances in Drury's life when his emotional state could have been described as fearful, but watching that long finger make slow, darkly hypnotic circles only inches from his eyes...and with the memory of agony and the cloying stench of his own urine fresh in his senses...the normally stoic Drury shook his head in pleading negation. In a glacial voice...shockingly devoid of any intimation of humanity...Cynara demanded, "Tell me the rest...about this precaution Barrows has engineered."

Drury described the clever snare that the old man had designed to manipulate Elizabeth into docile compliance, concluding by admonishing, "If the old man's heart stops...for longer than sixty seconds...the implant will transmit an activation signal to the facilities central computer. The aperture gates above the girl's cell will open and the interior will be inundated with concrete slurry...designed to harden within less than two minutes after the agitation mechanisms stop working. The girl will be entombed in a block of concrete...even if she is not crushed by the inflow of the slurry. You have to realize exactly how precarious Sir Ian's condition actually has become to appreciate the extent of this young woman's peril. Ian is a living personification of the adage of living on borrowed time and his health is beyond frail...if Andrew Mcammon is among the victims of your act of terror this morning...then you've only made the girl's situation geometrically worse. Essentially, Mcammon was keeping Barrows alive until Elizabeth Simpson's riddle could be deciphered."

Cynara's face contorted into a furious scowl. "That particular revelation may well have exhausted your usefulness, Cedric."

Drury raised both hands in a silent plea for indulgence and then he revealed the steps he had taken to undermine Sir Ian's carefully considered leverage. Cynara's scowl became an ebullient grin. "Now why would you ever take such a decidedly disloyal measure, Cedric...turn on the man who had raised you up from a gutter snake?"

Cedric met Cynara's blistering regard and inclined his chin toward the scattering of paper around his desk, replying simply "Those. Life has taught me that there is little advantage in fighting a battle you can't win...a lesson I've taken to heart."

"Astute Cedric," Cynara remarked, though her incisive gaze hinted at another assessment of his actions. "This Olem Beyarov...he designed the sleeper code in the implant...and also the program that helped locate Elizabeth in the first place?"

Cedric nodded an affirmative to both queries, relaxing slightly in the belief that he and this imposing creature had reached an accord of sorts. Cedric Drury's entire life had been defined by some form of subservience. If Ian Barrows had reached the ignoble end of his line...Cedric was more than willing to transfer his allegiance to the thing before him...certain that both the hazards and rewards of such service would be exponentially greater. "If Beyarov is in the building...summon him now."

Cedric blinked uncertainly, but correctly judging that she would brook neither ambivalence nor disobedience, Drury did as instructed. As he issued his summons, Cedric noticed that the upper edge of the hover image was ablaze with a half dozen blinking message indicators and correctly surmised that Sir Ian was aware of the destruction of his research facility. As they waited for Beyarov's arrival, he cautioned evenly, "Sir Ian will not accept this passively...the girl will suffer for this."

"Then it will be incumbent upon you to see that she does not, Cedric," Cynara intoned glacially. "You were an instrument of Sir Ian's will...and now you have become an instrument of mine. It's imperative that you grasp the fundamental purpose of this morning's bloody object lesson...it was intended...not to instill an atavistic dread in the ambulatory corpse you serve...but rather, in those who serve him...specifically you...and this Beyarov. You can't begin to fathom the horror I've visited upon those who raised my ire, Cedric...torment on a scale that is inconceivable. Should Rebecca Merin come to any harm...well, even I would be daunted by the prospect of facing Elizabeth Simpson's rage. We both know that I am correct in assuming that any order issued through Barrows comes through you...and if an order to retaliate against Rebecca should find its way across your desk...you will see that is never enacted."

She fell silent, her unmanning gaze boring into Drury like an augur. He swallowed and nodded, realizing that he was caught between two implacable millstones.

A frantic knock came at the door and Cedric bid the knocker to enter. Cynara rose and receded into the shadows. Drury noticed that she did not simply fade into the darkness...she disappeared as though she had been absorbed.

Olem popped his head around the frame, entering only when Drury gave him leave to do so. His angular face was contorted by dismay and his polar blue eyes roved like a frightened animal caught in a cage. "Have you seen what's happened...this can't be coincidence!"

"It isn't," Cedric allowed simply and his desultory tone caused Beyarov's discomfort to swell geometrically.

"I think that Sir Ian has kicked the wrong sleeping dog this time, Cedric!" Olem exclaimed anxiously.

"I take affront to being referred to as a dog!" came a sultry voice from out of the dark shadows that dominated Drury's office. Beyarov actually cried out, but before he could move, the Russian found himself snapped up by invisible hands, jerked into the air and slammed roughly into a chair on the opposite side of Drury's desk.

Cynara materialized out of the darkness, like swirling smoke gaining substance in the blink of an eye. She glared down at Beyarov who unconsciously pushed himself into his seat and raised his hands in a gesture of warding. In a shrieking voice, he demanded, "Who are you?"

Before Cynara could reply, Cedric interjected, "It seems that we've come under new management, Olem...as you so astutely observed...we've kick the wrong dog."

Beyarov's nervous gaze flicked from Cynara to Drury and then back to the terrifying woman, who despite her immense beauty...was the most frightening thing Olem had ever set eyes upon. She narrowed her eyes and an intensely graphic image opened in his mind's eye...a ghastly vignette in which a shambling, sinewy horror with curving teeth and razor sharp claws fed on his organs, while an alive and acutely aware Beyarov screamed a shrill opera of unimaginable torment.

Despite his nearly paralyzing terror, Olem managed, "Did she send you...to commit this awful act?"

Cynara pursed her full lips, discerning a complex need beneath the cowering man's indignant fear. Carefully, she replied, "Elizabeth has asked me to help her bring Rebecca Merin home...the way in which I chose to achieve that objective is mine to decide. Now, Cedric informs me that it was your ingenuity that unearthed Elizabeth in the first place...is that correct?"

With painful reluctance, Olem confirmed, "Yes."

As Beyarov went on to elaborate on the methodology he had employed to find Elizabeth...a random gathering of scattered snippets of information...Cynara experienced an unnerving chill. _'Can it truly be such a simple matter to undermine our every precaution...our every effort to find anonymity? If so...then Elizabeth is correct...we will never truly be safe.'_

Despite the disconcerting effect of this epiphany, Cynara managed to maintain a mask of cold impassivity as she continued to intimidate the cringing Russian. "Cedric also claims that you have devised an override code that can circumvent Barrows' trigger device?"

Beyarov nodded, but a glimmer of acute anxiety alerted Cynara to the fact the matter of negating the trigger was not nearly straightforward as Drury had intimated. Lashing Drury with a withering glare, Cynara leaned into the Russian and rasped, "There's clearly a qualifier that you're not sharing...and furtiveness is not a quality I'll suffer, Olem...now tell me everything or you'll find yourself without a tongue."

To emphasize the sincerity of her threat, Cynara held up her right hand and smiled. Olem uttered a strangled gasp as the long fingers suddenly flowed like heated candle wax...reforming into elongated talons that appeared capable of gouging diamonds. "The override is temporary...more of a delay than an actual circuit break...the code that Barrows forced me to build into the original programming is essentially inviolable. I merely reset the clock by a few moments...a period of grace in which the girl could be extracted from the cell before the slurry was released."

"How long?" Cynara snarled, baring her teeth like a large predatory animal.

"Five...five minutes," a flustered Beyarov divulged.

Cynara's smooth brow furrowed and she stood, placing a contemplative finger on her lower lips. "Ideally, Ian Barrows must remain alive until Rebecca is extracted from the cell."

The forlorn expression that Elizabeth had worn before departing for America flashed through Cynara's mind again, stressing the delicacy of the situation that she was attempting to manipulate. On impulse, she tore open a gaping Beyarov's shirt and raked her talon down his chest, inflicting three superficial wounds on his pallid flesh. Beyarov emitted a guttural groan as the wounds immediately cauterized in wisps of acrid smoke. He glanced up at the unpredictable she-demon questioningly.

A vehicle fob resolved into being, cupped in the palm of her right hand. She held it out to a thoroughly flummoxed Beyarov, who eyed it warily. Cynara rolled her large eyes impatiently and snapped, "Take the damned thing...if I wanted you dead, you'd be a desiccating corpse by now."

The Russian gingerly accepted the fob as Cynara explained, "There is a black Bentley parked on the first level of the parking garage three buildings to the west of this one. If there is something pertinent to this situation in your office, collect it now and wait for me in the car. Olem, should you make the foolish decision that it is in your best interest to run...have little doubt that I will find you. Those marks on your chest are my brand...a declaration that your soul is mine. Think of them as the world's most effective GPS. Now run along and I'll join you shortly."

Beyarov cast Drury an uncertain glance, which Cedric returned with a casual shrug. The color drained from the Russian's already pallid face and he started for the door, pausing with his hand on the handle, he roused the temerity to ask, "Elizabeth Simpson...will I be permitted to meet her?"

Cynara inclined her head and fixed the Russian with a speculative gaze of appraisal. Shaking her head in bemusement, she realized, _'He's actually enamored with her...even while collecting his data...this woefully incomplete portrait of who she is...her aura was potent enough to beguile him.'_

In a subdued voice, she confirmed, "You will, Olem."

Beyarov nodded, the corners of his lips twisting in a shadowed facsimile of a smile and then he was gone.

Cynara turned back to Cedric Drury who watched her warily. Venturing closer to Barrows' enforcer, she beamed a toothy grin and purred, "I think you know what I require."

Cedric's impassive expression faltered slightly, but after a moment, he nodded his willing compliance. Rising, he began to shrug off his tailored jacket, but Cynara waggled a long right finger and with a wicked grin like a gleaming straight razor, intoned, "Not the chest, Cedric...a sycophant of your stripe warrants a far more intimate brand."

An uncomprehending Drury blinked as Cynara crossed over to where he stood in a titillating sway of hips. She deftly undid his belt even as the blood drained from Drury's horrified face.

6

As the massive November storm continued its unprecedented assault on the south-eastern portion of England, Cynara deftly maneuvered the Bentley through the rain-swept and virtually deserted streets of northern London. She stole a furtive glance at her cowering passenger, who was pushed against the passenger side door as if in the vehicle with a ravenous tiger. The notion made her smile in satisfaction. She had successfully waylaid Barrows closest bondsmen without taking a single life. _'While dear Judith has painted the English countryside in blood,'_ the immortal thought with no small degree of elation. She had out-maneuvered Judith with a level of finesse that was astounding...even to her. She looked forward to impressing this humiliating fact upon the clinging, presumptuous bitch with keen anticipation.

Olem rode along with his face pressed against the cool glass of the passenger window, refusing to even look at the monster in whose harrowing company he now found himself. When she began to utter a malicious laughter, Olem Beyarov cringed and closed his eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Four

1

"You seem rather bleak this morning...I'm hoping it's only in reaction to this abysmal weather?" Mary inquired as she watched Donald absently drumming his fingers on his desk while he stared fixedly at his blinking Virtua console. When Gansby did not reply at once, Mary stood and crossed over to his desk...her concern mounting as she approached. Upon closer inspection, she discerned precisely how awful Donald appeared. There were large dark circles around his eyes, which were red-rimmed as if he had not slept in the last few days. She sat on the edge of his desk and after a moment's hesitation, laid her hand on his shoulder. He shook his head with a start and glanced up at her as if hauled roughly from a trance. "Donald...is everything all right?"

His eyes widened slightly and she could see his throat working, while his lips moved soundlessly. When it seemed that he would...or could not respond, Donald blurted, "Cassande and I had a rather spectacular row last night!" His eyes narrowed in a combination of perplexity and shock and he amended, "Actually, it was more of a one-sided pummeling...the upshot of which is that we're done."

Stunned, Mary frowned and asked, "I don't understand...what precipitated this?"

Donald's expression resembled that of a tornado victim who is left staring at the detritus of his life. There was no rancor in his voice when he disclosed, "Apparently you did."

Mary's eyes widened and she stammered, "Me...what? Donald, that makes no sense...why would she say such a thing?"

"It had something to do with a remark you made Friday night...something about how she should stop apologizing for being who she was...or pretending that she can empathize with what it is like to be in our position...to have to work for a living and such?" Donald offered in a strangely uninflected voice before asking, "Did you really say those things to her Mary?"

Mary grimaced, but made no effort to deny that she had...or to trivialize how caustic her remarks had actually been. "This is no excuse, but I said that I was in a foul mood and said things that were cruelly unfair. Still, why would she transfer her justifiable outrage to you?"

Donald reacted to her flat admission with a doleful nod that relented to another frown of earnest confusion. "Ultimately, I can't really blame her. For a long duration of time, I held her at arm's length because of my insecurities. It's ironic...because after speaking to you not that long ago, I completely changed my perspective and thought that I could move beyond those insecurities. I suppose that's why I find this so shocking."

Feeling utterly wretched and needing to make amends, Mary offered, "I'll speak with her, Donald...apologize again for being such a bitch...I'm sure she'll reconsider and recognize that her anger is misdirected."

Donald sprang to his feet, his expression becoming animated for the first time. "No Mary...please don't. It really is best that we leave things as they are. In the end, this was inevitable anyway...and perhaps it's for the best that it came before we made any more binding commitments."

Ever perceptive, Mary discerned that there was something...some integral detail that Donald was choosing not to share. Instinct warned her that she could not afford to relent. "I have a distinct feeling that there's something you're not telling me...something involving me?"

Gansby lifted his gaze to meet hers and in his placid eyes there shone such misery that Mary could feel her heart twist painfully in her chest. She could almost hear the reverberations of the war of ambivalence that was raging behind his eyes. Finally, he revealed, "I still find it hard to believe how...angry she's was. Cassande was livid...enraged. There was a moment...when I was trying to making her see reason...when I thought she was actually going to hit me. After that, I just gave up on trying to dissuade her from leaving and some of that fury seemed to abate. Still, it was a side of her that I would have sworn did not exist." He peered directly into Mary's blue eyes and concluded quietly, "You asked if this had anything else to do with you. The last thing she said to me before sailing out was that if I needed consoling, I should turn to you...that we were perfectly suited for each other anyway."

There followed another protracted silence and then Donald made a disclosure that both shocked Mary and stirred emotions that had been tickling the edges of her consciousness for the last several days...emotions that had long lain dormant. "I spent a long time rehashing that final remark...pondering it and examining her words from every perspective. I came to the rather starting realization that...when it comes to you and me...she was absolutely right."

Mary inhaled sharply, those lovely blue eyes widening, and she stammered, "Donald, I..."

Donald held up his right hand and in a forlorn voice, intoned quietly, "That was a foolish thing to say, Mary. Please, let it rest...at least, until this is over."

Startled, Mary began to respond, but then abruptly closed her mouth, instead mumbling, "I'm so sorry, Donald...for what has happened between you and Cassande. As to the other matter...when this is over, you and I can have this conversation again...if you wish."

With a sad smile, Donald merely shook his head and changed topics, "So what's on the agenda for this morning?"

Grateful for the out, Mary was about to suggest that they try to determine the status of her request to interview Isobel Greavy, when a somber-faced Ewan McGowan and Superintendent Coran entered their temporary office area. Coran stopped directly before the pair and struck directly to the heart of the matter. "I suppose it's only befitting that it's such a grim day because I have some news you're unlikely to welcome...though frankly, you should have expected. The authorities above have decided that Isobel Greavy is strictly off limits and that translates into absolutely no contact...even on routine follow-up...without departmental consent...which I can assure you...will not be granted."

Donald inhaled sharply and Mary greeted this decision with a rare sardonic smirk. "You do realize that this has essentially severed our only genuine channel of investigation...leaving us precisely back in a reactionary position?"

Ewan winced and Coran raised a rueful eyebrow, but Mary's unblinking regard did not falter. Finally, Coran sighed and retorted firmly, "Be that as it may, the decision has been made and we will abide by it."

Mary frowned. "Then I see very little value in my continuing this assignment, superintendent...and I would ask that I be redeployed back to my home unit."

Coran's expression was one of both disapproval and surprise, but he acceded nonetheless, "Very well inspector Langdon...of course that is your prerogative. I will initiate the procedure and you may return to your home branch." Coran then dismissed her from his thoughts and turned to McGowan, instructing, "Ewan...if there is anything further you require from inspector Langdon, make sure you gather it by the end of the day."

With this, Coran turned and strode briskly away, his displeasure emanating in palpable waves. A dismal silence descended on the office then. Mary glanced briefly at Donald, who was regarding her with a wounded expression that roused a momentary flash of guilt. Ewan shook his head in consternation and remarked, "I'm sorry it's come to this, Mary. I suspect you've set us on the proper trail for the first time in two years. Still, we've both been in the trenches long enough to know that politics usually trumps procedure as detrimental as that might prove to be." To a dejected Gansby, he remarked, "It's you and me again, lad...so if there is something specific you want to follow up, then let's get out there. I'm going to head upstairs for a moment and then we can brave the storm."

Then he, too, made his exit from the area, leaving Mary alone with a plainly unhappy Donald Gansby, who intoned glumly, "I imagine this is what it must feel like to be hit by a trolley while crossing the street. It's shocking how quickly the wheels can come off the proverbial wagon when things go awry."

"I'm sorry Donald...this certainly isn't personal...quite the opposite in fact. I wish I could entice you to my side of the house. You have a natural empathy that would serve you well in the Child Crimes Branch," Mary remarked sincerely and then added tentatively, "and we certainly compliment each other well.

Donald accepted this compliment with a wan smile. "I'm certainly not blaming you, Mary. Your instinct has been validated on every turn, but we are constantly stymied by issues like this bit with Isobel Greavy." Donald glanced at his hands and added softly, "I just wish you had taken a moment before making the spontaneous decision to pull the plug."

Gansby then drifted back to his desk and his own private world of increasingly dismal contemplation. Mary returned to her own desk and slowly began the process of tidying up her part of the investigation. Feeling despondent, Mary could not divest herself of the certainty that her entanglement with Cassande Verhoeven was far from finished.

2

After ensconcing Olem Beyarov in one of the estate's cottages, Cynara returned to the main house, walking through the driving rain which could find no purchase on her flesh. For the first time in decades, she felt darkly vital...alive in ways that she had thought were now beyond her capacity to experience. 'Be wary, Cynara...there is a subtle, yet pernicious venom at play here. Don't allow it to do to you what it has done to Judith.'

Cynara frowned as she strode along the side of the main building where she had very nearly beaten Elizabeth to death only scant few days before. The recollection made her grimace and her taut body was assailed by a series of violent shivers.

There had been a time when Elizabeth had been hers and perhaps it was time to take the necessary steps to insure a return to that desirable status quo. 'Delusions, Cynara...the Elizabeth whom you supposedly held in your thrall bore only a superficial resemblance to the woman you would presume to subjugate. Don't commit the same error in judgment that Judith has...don't allow hubris to goad you into overstepping your bounds.'

Cynara frowned, chaffed by the advice she knew to be prudent, but was nonetheless abrasive to her nature.

Cynara entered the house and found Judith in the main drawing room. The mortal was sitting on the floor with her back against a sofa and one leg extended before her. She still wore her shadow cloak and heavy-soled boots. Her expression was morose as she stared fixedly into the dancing flames of the large stone fireplace that dominated the north wall. Judith did not turn to acknowledge Cynara's presence and it was clear that she had fallen into a self-pitying torpor, which drew a satisfied grin from the immortal.

Blithely, Cynara declared, "Judith, you certainly are despondent...considering that you've achieved your objective in spectacular fashion."

Judith slowly turned her haunted gaze toward the statuesque Saravic, her lovely face a portrait of raw anguish. "Elizabeth is never going to forgive me."

Feigning commiseration, Cynara intoned gravely, "She'll certainly be rankled by the body count you've run up on her behalf. On the brighter side of the coin, I've managed to recruit both Drury and Beyarov to our cause without spilling much more than a few drops of blood."

Judith cast Cynara a sour glance and quickly resumed her study of the capering flames. When she spoke, her voice was distant and the perplexity in her tone prominent. "I entered the facility with the intention of disabling the security system, upending a few rooms full of furniture and dealing with Mcammon, but as I went along...those intentions...changed. It was as if something usurped control of my mind and I just wanted to obliterate everything in my path..."

She returned her regard to Cynara, who was watching her with a sardonic grin emblazoning her exquisite face. Judith recoiled in the face of that expression of triumph and disdain. Cynara stood with her hands on her hips and one long leg splayed to the side. The sneer that adorned her face eloquently conveyed the full extent of her contempt. "Did you really expect anything else, Judith? Are you really so bewilderingly obtuse...so oblivious to you nature...that you couldn't foretell exactly how your excursion was bound to end?"

Judith's face twisted into a mask of incredulous outrage and she sprang to her feet, shedding the shadow cloak in one brusque movement. In a voice that quavered with fury, she shrieked, "You knew! This is precisely what expected when you sent me after Mcammon. You manipulated this situation so that I would come out looking like a depraved psychotic."

"Which, of course, you have...you grasping little bitch. Naturally, I manipulated you, Judith...it's what I do. Have you forgotten...I was a demon...a seducer and corruptor of souls and frankly, if I might be allowed a moment of self-aggrandizement...I was the fucking best! I wound you up and pointed you in the right direction...knowing precisely how you would behave once the adrenalin started to flow. Being the devious, conniving bitch that you are...you had no concept that you were the one being led by your madness. It was really quite pathetic how easy you were to deceive."

Judith great dark eyes bulged with hatred and bellowing an inarticulate shriek, she charged at the immortal. Cynara straightened, but did not even bother to raise her arms. Judith slammed into the immortal and rebounded with a stunned grunt as if she had collided with a brick wall. She landed on the area rug with a muffled thud, but sprang to her feet as if made of India rubber.

"I'll kill you...you fucking cunt! KILL YOU!" she bellowed and began to rain heavy, clubbing blows on the inured Saravic...who absorbed them impassively. All constraint and reason evaporated in the face of Judith's towering rage then...as if the mollifying affects of the past seventy years had even effaced in the blink of an eye. In that moment of mindless madness, Judith had been transported back to those moments where blind rage had prompted her to murder the itinerants who had labored on her estate in Quinsett.

Bereft of all control, her telekinetic powers ran rampant and soon every piece of furniture in the drawing room was thrown into the air by a spiraling vortex that quickly reduced the room's fragile antiques to kindling. Ranzman berated Cynara and belabored her with wild blows until at last, Cynara grew bored with the spectacle of seeing the presumptuous Ranzman reduced to the humiliating state of a mindless beast. She swiftly caught Judith's slender wrists in a crushing vice and exerting a pulverizing pressure, bent the shorter woman's hands back and forced her to her knees.

Judith panted like a rabid dog as spittle flew from her lips and her eyes blazed with the light of killing lunacy. Cynara surveyed the detritus-strewn room and intoned coldly, "I expect you to make full restitution for this damage, Judith. Now that you've thrown your tantrum, let me make your circumstances perfectly clear...as of this moment, that shapely derrière of yours belongs to me. To Elizabeth, your actions are reprehensible...relegating you to the status of a pariah. You have two forward paths...you can leave here now and resume your pathetic life as a shiftless tumble weed, stripped of the delusion that you are in search of some great revelatory truth...or you can pledge your unconditional fealty to me...and me alone. So that there can be no ambiguity...that would make you my pawn...whom I could move...and sacrifice as I see fit. I will intervene with Elizabeth and prevent her from banishing you...or culling you like a rabid dog and you will be a complaisant bitch, who would enthusiastically lick my boots when ever the mood moves me to have you do so."

Judith snarled and made a futile attempt to break free of Cynara's grasp. Cynara released a jolt of energy that suffused Judith's writhing body and caused her to cry out in agony. When Ranzman ceased her thrashing, the immortal leaned closer and intoned menacingly, "The other option is that I release you and we settle our grievance on a more permanent basis...which would be unfortunate...as I do so enjoy that tongue of yours. Now...decide...I have other pressing matters to attend to."

Judith glowered at Cynara, "Elizabeth would never forgive you for killing me."

Cynara offered the kneeling mortal a sly grin. "While that may have been true before you decided to spatter the countryside in innocent blood, it no longer holds any currency. I could easily portray your murder as a case of a mad dog that had to be put down."

The truth of this impacted upon Judith and her belligerence relented to bitter resignation and she inquired meekly, "You won't allow her to send me away?"

"I'll intervene on your behalf...but Elizabeth's virtuous sensibilities are delicate and I can't guarantee that she won't excoriate the flesh from your bones for what you've done. Still, I think I can placate her enough to tolerate the sight of you...though your days of sharing her considerable charms are irrevocably lost, Judith," Cynara replied, making no effort to disguise her satisfaction. In a solemn voice, she demanded, "Now...what will it be Judith...absolutely subservience...or permanent exile from the only living creature capable of redeeming your wretched soul?"

Judith hung her head in abjection and murmured, "I vow to serve you, Cynara...without qualification."

Cynara released Judith and drew herself to her full height, staring down on the humbled mortal with a pensive finger on her pouting lower lip as if considering Ranzman's fate like a penitent before an empress. "Offer your oath again...but substitute the title tsarina for my name."

Judith's head snapped up to her tormentor, defiance flaring in her luminous eyes...but when she saw the expression of implacability on Cynara's face, she swallowed her pride and did as she had been instructed. Cynara snarled and reaching down, gripped Judith's upturned face, distorting it into a repulsively ugly mask. "Does your degrading barb burn your tongue like hot bile Judith?"

A single tear slid forth from the corner of Judith right eye...glistening as it tracked a course over the exotic ridge of her high cheekbones. "Why would you do this to me...degrade me this way? I was merely playing with you...a game to demonstrate my mettle...to earn your respect."

Cynara blinked in bemusement and shook her raven mane. "I did this to you because it is what my nature demanded. For seventy years, I have struggled to repress my nature and have been rewarded with isolation and misery, but no more. How odd it is that I'm asked to revert back to what I was...like an attack dog...only to have those who did the asking recoil in shock when I comply."

Judith only continued to stare morosely at Cynara, who abruptly tore open the diminutive mortal's blouse, exposing her breasts. Reprising her talon feat, she quickly scored the flawless flesh of Judith's right breast, leaving three cauterized scars beside the nipple. Judith hissed but did not draw back...tacitly accepting this latest variation of Cynara's infinite capacity for cruelty. "Now, put on that cloak of yours and do your vanishing trick...move around the room and stop at a location of your choice."

Puzzled, Judith eyed Cynara questioningly, but nonetheless moved to comply. She shrugged on the cloak and abruptly vanished from the tangible world. Judith then began to circle around the wreckage-cluttered room, while Cynara remained utterly stationary. As she circled her tormentor, an expression of unadulterated hatred twisted Judith's lovely countenance...that expression becoming one of uncomprehending shock when the immortal blinked out of existence.

In the next instant, she appeared directly in front of Judith, with her long fingers wrapped around the flummoxed mortal's throat. Cynara reached up and slowly drew back the hood of Judith' shadow cloak with a triumphant grin emblazoning that exquisite face. "I hope this concisely demonstrates the totality of the hold I now have upon you. There is nowhere that you can hide from me. If that defiant part of your spirit prods you to an act of monumental stupidity...remember this moment. Now, use your powers to clean this mess up. I have matters to attend to...I want everything in place to rescue Rebecca before Elizabeth returns."

Cynara released a sullen Ranzman and turned away, but intoned over her shoulder, "I'll expect you in my bed tonight...where you can express your fealty in a more...intimate way."

Before a smiling Cynara could exit the ruined drawing room, Judith intoned somberly, "I'm afraid of you Cynara. I said that I wasn't...but now I am."

Cynara turned to face the other woman, a hard, uncompromising light blazing in her eyes. "Those may well be the most prudent words that had ever slid out of that devious little mouth of yours."

Then she was gone, leaving a disconsolate Judith Ranzman alone to contemplate her grim future.

3

Mary was in the process of finalizing her files and packing up the few items she had brought with her to the Victoria Embankment location, when Donald returned to the office. His expression animated by something other than numbed shock for the first time that day. She fixed him with an inquisitive glance and he explained, "It's turning out to be an incredibly eventful day...you've not heard the buzz?"

She shook her head, "Not a peep...what's happened?"

"There was a massive explosion at a research facility just beyond the north end of the city. Preliminary estimates are saying over seventy casualties."

Mary's eyes widened and she uttered a low groan of dismay. "Any indication as to a probable cause?"

Donald's brow furrowed and he remarked softly, "Nothing specific, but the initial indications are pointing toward a deliberate act...possibly terrorism."

"Seriously...how long had it been since this city has been subject to a terrorist attack...thirty years...perhaps more," Mary observed.

Gansby shrugged, "As I've said...that's merely a preliminary whisper. The place is a private bio-tech research facility, so terrorism does seem like a bit of a stretch. At any rate, that's not the only buzz...the field lads have found another shadow box...several of them actually."

Mary surged to her feet, unable to contain the sudden rush of excitement that suffused her like a wild fire. "Where...when?"

Donald's answering smile was ebullient and he quipped, "I suspected that might just pique your interest. When this report first came in, Ewan requested that Superintendent Coran hold off on processing your redeployment request and he sent me to collect you...on the event that you might be intrigued by this latest development."

"Tell me, Donald," Mary reiterated with an intensity in her eyes that was almost frightening.

"I'll fill you in as we drive," Gansby replied evasively and started for the exit.

4

The dock-lands were rain-swept and wretched as a cold wind added to the unpleasantness that came with being out in a driving rain. A police cordon had been established around the perimeter of the warehouse...the fluorescent tape snapping madly in the gusting wind. McGowan guided the car to a spot where a group of policemen were hunched against the rain and the trio was immediately ushered into the cavernous interior of the warehouse where the acrid stench of the previous day's fiery explosion was a faint memory in the damp air.

As they crossed the concrete floor, Mary's gaze was drawn up to the broken skylight, through which rain tumbled in an incessant shower. As they moved deeper into the interior of the warehouse, Mary and her two partners quickly digested the three immediately obvious and salient pieces of information to be seen in the damp interior; Roger Pipson's mutilated body, the burnt-out shell of a limousine...and the name that had literally burned into the concrete floor...Baltic Star.

The three came to a halt beside the grotesque remains of the corpse and every gaze settled on the plastic box that protruded from his bloody mouth. Near his mangled body, the Italian leather case laid on its side, shadow boxes spilling out around it in a drift. Ewan's gaze narrowed and he whistled. "Now just what have we happened upon here?"

"It would seem that we've just blundered on the first chain in the distribution of these devices...even if we still don't know exactly what they are," Gansby theorized as Mary Langdon drifted over to the name, which she quickly deduced had been literally burned into the concrete floor of the warehouse. She gazed unblinkingly down at the name as though it held the answer to every mystery that had plagued the investigation over the course of these last two years.

A Metropolitan officer gravitated over to the trio and introduced himself as the ranking constable first on the scene. Then he began to relate the mystifying details of how police had been led to this particular location. "The initial call came in from the manager of this warehouse. When the first of the employees arrived early this morning, all of the doors were sealed shut...every single entrance had been rendered inaccessible. The first forensic team on site had confirmed that the doors had been welded shut...from the outside."

"From the outside?" Donald echoed dumbly. "Which would mean that whatever happened here already had happened."

Distantly, as though from the depths of a trance, Mary intoned, "Not necessarily."

McGowan frowned and glanced sharply at the inspector, but in her fixation with the name on the floor, she remained oblivious to his scrutiny. She then lifted her gaze to the shattered skylight, pursing her lips as the first seeds of a scenario germinated in her agile mind.

The Metropolitan constable continued to elaborate on the scene that had greeted them upon first arriving at the warehouse. "By the time we arrived, the manager and his crew had managed to use a pry bar to gain access to the interior...that's when they came upon this."

"Anything of value to be had from the video feeds...both interior and exterior?" Ewan inquired, though his demeanor suggested that he did not hold out a great deal of hope that either source would yield anything of value.

A perplexed expression came over the constable's face as he conveyed the baffling answer. "The internal cameras were disabled...by whom and why...we've been unable to ascertain. A camera on the other side of the main road shows the Volvo and this limousine pull up to the doors." The constable paused and consulted his PDA. "That would have been not long after eight o'clock yesterday morning according to the surveillance footage. Two men get out...one being the gentleman at your feet and another from the limo. They exchange a few words and then return to their vehicles before both pull into the warehouse and the door closes. A short while later, the video shows the heavy doors crimp...apparently from the limo making an attempt to ram through the doors."

Donald shifted his uneasy gaze to McGowan and in a puzzled, haunted voice, observed, "That would suggest that the doors were sealed after the cars entered...but before whatever transpired here resolved itself...which would be a matter of minutes"

"Twenty-three to be exactly," the constable confirmed, again consulting his PDA.

"Which would imply that someone managed to seal every door into this facility in less than thirty minutes...without these individual inside being aware that it was happening," Gansby mused...seeing that this situation was destined to follow the same macabre pattern as the last several incidents.

"Have we established the identities of any of the victims?" McGowan queried, watching as Mary Langdon drew forth her own PDA and began to key in what he assumed was an inquiry on the name scribed into the concrete floor. Observing her peripherally, Ewan had the distinct impression that she was much further along the path to drawing a portrait of what might have transpired in this nondescript warehouse.

"The gent at your feet would be one Roger Pipson...a London resident with no criminal record and the owner of a series of laundry marts all over the greater city. That Volvo is registered in his name." The constable pointed toward the ruined hulk piled against the warehouses main doors and his expression darkened perceptibly. "What remains of the other vehicle is owned by one Nassar El Tanari...a Saudi national with extensive business interests in the greater London area."

Ewan and Donald exchanged significant glances, but neither noticed the intense reaction this last disclosure evoked from Mary, who glanced up from her PDA over to the charred remains of the limousine. "Judging by the condition of the vehicle, I would venture a guess that it has yet to be determined if this El Tanari was an occupant of the vehicle at the time it was destroyed?"

The constable nodded a glum affirmation. "The forensics lads can't even say with any degree of accuracy how many occupants there were...that's how thoroughly the interior was ravaged by the fire."

"As if this wasn't enough...are there any other anomalous facets we should focus on, constable?" Ewan inquired.

The ruddy-faced constable frowned in bemusement and related yet another inexplicable oddity that had characterized every incident in the last ten days. "The techs did a preliminary examination of the doors...especially the main doors. The two doors were not welded together by a standard bonding agent...they were actually melted and fused together to become one continuous piece of steel. Yes, I am aware of how preposterous that is...but it is the explanation being offered nonetheless."

The two men greeted this stoically and then thanked the constable, who quickly retreated back to his cluster of fellow officers to carry on with the tedium that came with cleaning up the detritus of violent death. Ewan and Donald gravitated over to the thoroughly absorbed Inspector Langdon, who greeted their approach with a distracted nod. "The name burned into the concrete...yet another festering impossibility...belongs to a container ship. The Baltic Star is owned and operated by a rather nebulous Polish shipping concern and makes regular shipping runs from that country throughout the Baltic and all the way to London. London Port Authority confirmed that the ship has discharged goods here in London on four separate occasions this year. It appears that the ship is currently in transit...with our port being its eventual destination...a few days hence."

Ewan could almost hear the wheels of the complex machinery that served as Mary's agile thought process whirling behind her animated blue eyes. "My guess is that you've already formulated a theory on what might have transpired here?"

To his bewilderment, Mary turned her incisive gaze upon Donald for a protracted moment, regarding him with an indecipherable intensity. Then she set forth her vision of what might have occurred in this empty warehouse the day prior. "As always, let's set aside the seemingly impossible aspects of this situation and focus on the tangible. These two party's came here with the obvious intention of conducting a transaction of some sort...revolving around those seemingly benign plastic boxes. I think it's readily apparent that...whatever function they do serve...they facilitate something that is illegal as evinced by the fact that this rather clandestine meeting is being conducted in a warehouse on a Sunday morning. An individual...or group of individuals...is aware of this secretive transaction and traps and kills those involved. The doors were sealed so that these individuals could not escape." Mary pointed up at the skylight over which churned an inimical black sky. Rain poured through the broken skylight in a deluge. "Those responsible for killing the transaction's participants gained entry through that sky light...possibly exiting the same way once they had completed their rather gruesome bit of work...swift and lethally professional."

She paused and allowed the pair a span of time to absorb the inclination of her theory. McGowan's smooth brow was furrowed in concentration, while Donald stared up at the gaping opening well above the water-soaked concrete floor, his pleasant face sporting a vexed frown. "That's an awfully long way down," he remarked. "You're talking about a rapid assault executed with the precision of an elite commando unit, Mary."

"Or...something else," she retorted, but offered no further clarification on this decidedly nuanced remark.

"Actually, Mary...I'll concur with your theory...it certainly seems plausible enough given these circumstances," Ewan offered. "The question then becomes...what exactly are we dealing with here? An individual emphatically disrupts this supposedly secretive transaction...and then inscribed this mysterious message on the concrete floor after slaughtering all present. Why...are they attempting to provide us with a vulgar push in the right direction?"

Mary considered this for a moment and then slowly, but resolutely shook her head. "Whoever is responsible for this carnage is completely indifferent to the authorities. It all goes back to what I mentioned earlier...the nature of these crimes has changed radically...and that change was prompted by the slaughter of Thomas Greavy. Before Greavy's murder, I suspect that you were dealing with a systematic...but still random...vigilante campaign against the city's child sex offenders...convicted or otherwise. Somehow, Greavy's murderer discovered the existence of this black box and we see this subsequent change in focus...this acceleration of activity. Greavy...Tate...Gentry and now Roger Pipson and possibly this El Tanari; they are all links in a progression. Someone is assiduously hunting the source of this box and has no compunction about obtaining information by whatever compulsion necessary. My best guess is that El Tanari had come to procure these black boxes from Roger Pipson. They have the inimical fortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time because it was Pipson the perpetrator was after. It is pretty obvious that Pipson was tortured and I would gamble that the name Baltic Star was the black fruit of that savage exercise."

"Holy shit!" Gansby exclaimed, startling his two fellow investigators, who regarded him questioningly. With an apologetic grin, he elaborated on the source of his outburst. "Since Saturday, two mutilated bodies have been discovered in the greater metropolitan area...both victims were named Roger Pipson."

The normally unflappable McGowan's face became pallid and he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. "What in God's name have we blundered into here?"

To her credit, there was no hint of personal vindication in Mary's voice when she again took up the thread of her theory. "I believe that Greavy revealed the existence and purpose of the black box to his killer. Between the three of us, I further contend that Isobel Greavy knows exactly what this box is...and may even know who killed her husband. Again, I would ask that you respect my request to keep that strictly between us. Barney Tate's torture and murder yielded Gentry...and even though he miraculously managed to escape...Gentry's torture yielded Roger Pipson...or at least the name. The perpetrator then set out to find the relevant Roger Pipson....leaving a trail of bloody mayhem in their wake. Yesterday morning, they found who they were looking for...and of greater consequence, they may have discovered the dark purpose behind whatever evil machinery may be at work here." She gestured in the direction of the name scorched over the surface of the concrete. "This name was not intended for us...it's a declaration of war...an unmistakable message that whoever did this knows about and is targeting whoever sits on the ladder above Roger Pipson. This vigilante is extending a very clear invitation to Roger Pipson's masters."

Both Donald and Ewan fixed Mary with narrow-eyed speculative expressions that did not actually extend to offering any form of contradiction. Finally Ewan intoned grimly, "So basically we're dealing with a zealous vigilante...capable of supernatural feats and completely unencumbered by any sense of morality?"

Mary merely responded with a grave bob of the head...her polar blue eyes shining like an article sunset. Something occurred to her then and a burgeoning excitement shaped her features. "I think this may actually relate back to the case I was working on before I was deployed to this investigation."

"The human trafficking case?" Gansby recalled how Mary had initially seemed resentful because she had been pulled from the formative stages of an investigation that might spread to the continent.

Mary nodded vigorously, but it was McGowan who took up the thread of her argument. "That would actually be a logical conclusion to draw. Allowing that there's a connection between the murder of these alleged pedophiles and this shadow box device, culminating in the arrival of this container ship...it would not be implausible to at least consider the possibility that we are dealing with a human trafficking situation."

"Of children specifically," Gansby added in a horrified whisper, clearly appalled by the prospect.

"We may have stumbled onto the tip of a large and extremely nasty iceberg," Ewan said and though he was clearly disconcerted by this apparent shift in direction, he was at least relieved to see that the investigation just might finally be yielding tangible results.

Mary's brow darkened and she threw a pall of McGowan's dawning jubilation with her next observation. "This may seem forward, considering that I asked to be relieved of duty less than three hours ago, but I would like to propose a course of action that will seem...unconventional."

Ewan's answering expression was earnest and open as he declared, "Mary, you've earned the right to voice your perspective and opinion whenever you wish to offer it. Frankly, you've supplied more cogent insight in the last ten days than Donald and I have mustered in the previous two years. Not only do I want to hear what you have to offer, but I can assure you that your insight will garner the respect it deserves."

Mary's eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded briskly and offered that heart-breakingly lovely smile that she unfurled all too infrequently. "I know that conventional wisdom would be to land on the Pipson and Tanari link with both feet...but I'm going to propose that we deliberately avoid taking the conventional route...for the time being."

"That may not be an easy sell with the lads up the ladder, Mary," Ewan cautioned quietly. "There is an increasing amount of pressure to find a resolution to this case since the murder of Thomas Greavy. The slaughter of a foreign national with extensive business interests in London...well, that will ratchet up that pressure exponentially."

Mary smiled again, though this latest incarnation was devoid of all genuine humor...a flash of teeth. "Ewan, I believe that a man skilled in the art of persuasion...such as you...will convince those powers that restraint is the most prudent course of action here. I say we give about the impression that this is another puzzling murder case...perhaps not even related to the others...no forensic audit on Roger Pipson. That is critical if we are to carry off the facade that we are not tying this to the ongoing series of murders. We maintain a low profile here in the docklands and wait."

"For the Baltic Star," Donald blurted, grasping the infallibility of her logic.

Now Mary's answering grin was radiant. "Precisely...someone has thrown down a gauntlet in brutally emphatic terms that will be hard for Pipson's masters to ignore. I recommend that we be sequestered in the shadows...to see just who picks it up. If we're patient, we just may net a collection of very big fish once that container ship makes port."

Her two fellow investigators nodded their acquiescence and Ewan suggested, "Let's give the entire scene a thorough going over and speak with the techs and forensic lads. Then we can go back and try to hammer out a strategy with Coran...even he has to see that you've hit every wicket on this...with uncanny accuracy."

"I appreciate the support, Ewan," Mary returned sincerely. "I would ask one further dispensation...I'd like to speak with Gentry again...on my own, if you would permit me. I know that certainly isn't protocol, but I want to gauge his reaction now that we've unearthed the next link in the chain. Gentry is a survivor and he has to recognize that...whoever might be responsible for this...they will not readily accept leaving a loose end in their bloody weave. Just maybe I can scare him enough to make his tongue wag...because I believe that slug knows more about his assailant than he's let on."

Mary fell silent and waited expectantly while Ewan mulled over the merits of her pointedly unconventional request. Donald eyed Mary, clearly wounded by her desire to not have him along, but she deliberately ignored him, instead focusing intently on McGowan, who finally frowned, but nonetheless signaled his permission with a tacit nod.

"Thank you Ewan...I promise this will be a deviation you won't regret. In fact, it just might put a face on this assailant," She shifted a pensive gaze to the broken skylight through which rain poured in a constant deluge. "We all realize that there may come a time when we are forced to openly acknowledge and contend with the white elephant in this very macabre room. Whoever is doing this...engaging in this campaign of vigilante justice...is exhibiting capabilities that defy all logical reason...that far exceed the limits of human capability. My greatest fear is that we may not be adequately equipped to confront this particular elephant...should we ever succeed in cornering it."

With her greatest fear articulated, Mary averted her gaze and walked over to the limo, leaving a bemused...and unsettled...Gansby and McGowan to contemplate the very question that both had been laboring to avoid. Only later would Donald come to realize that Mary's unusual request and Ewan's subsequent granting of that request...would cost Mary her life.

5

Before the first employee had arrived to discover the grizzly remains in the inexplicably sealed warehouse, Peytor Estrovich had stood at the edge of the shattered skylight, peering down into the silent darkness. His preternatural senses discerned the tang of spilt blood and death that drifted up into the stormy pre-dawn air. Stepping from the roof, he slowly floated down to the concrete floor as his augmented visual acuity quickly absorbed the grim details of the scene. Landing lightly, Peytor made a slow pass from one end of the warehouse to the next, stopping to consider small details of the gruesome aftermath. He loomed over the body of Roger Pipson, whose silence after the previous day's assignation had first alerted Estrovich to the potential situation. He briefly considered reducing the case full of shadow boxes to dust, but an instinct he did not entirely understand compelled him to stay his hand.

Instead, Estrovich drifted over to the two words that had been inscribed into the polished concrete floor. His normally glacial expression became animated by a severe frown as...in that insipid name...Peytor witnessed the potentially dramatic unraveling of his carefully laid machinations. His web of defilement...of carefully spun and irreversible corruption had been put in jeopardy by this disclosure that had obviously come after Pipson had been tortured.

"Baltic Star." He enunciated each word slowly, grimacing as they slid from his mouth like a man regurgitating a foul-tasting venom. If the supply of waifs from Eastern Europe was disrupted, it would effectively foil his operation here in Britain. Estrovich had labored hard to accept...and excel in his new role...and though he was virtually an infant by standards of his fellow demons...his diligence and ingenuity had helped him climb far in the dark father's hierarchy.

Gazing fixedly at the name that had been scribed into the concrete, Peytor could discern the resonating echoes of the arcane energy that had facilitated its writing. Closing his eyes, Estrovich extended his cognizance beyond the scope of the five tactile senses and when he again opened his eyes...they glowed a malevolent red. Peering across the expanse of empty warehouse, Estrovich now saw a series of overlaid realities...like colored filters. Through those filters, the demon could clearly see the residue of the arcane energy that had been expended here less than twenty-four hours prior. He uttered a gruff curse...shocked by the enormity of the expenditure. Whoever...or perhaps more correctly, whatever, had executed this skillful ambush...they were most definitely not human. Estrovich...for whom fear was normally a distant emotion that had afflicted him only rarely...shuddered. Somehow, his machinations had attracted the disapproving attention of an immensely powerful adversary and Peytor found himself assailed by an uncharacteristic trepidation...and ambivalence. If he brought his concerns to those he served, his carefully cultivated stock could well plummet and they might come to perceive him as an underling lacking in the tenacity to achieve their objectives.

He had labored too hard...contrived his grand scheme too carefully to permit that unpalatable eventuality to come to pass.

His eyes were drawn back to the damnable letters of their own accord and he could feel his teeth grind in frustration as his eyes reverted to their customary polar blue. Surveying the carnage, he could discern the signature of only one arcane wielder...and Peytor Estrovich allowed himself a predatory grin. The letters had obviously been intended as a blatant challenge...a proverbial gauntlet. The loss of Pipson...while lamentable...was not critical. The efficient pawn had distributed a significant quantity of the boxes to insure that a temporary disruption in the cycle could be suffered without undue consternation. If he could find this meddlesome creature and obliterate it, operations in Britain could resume without a noticeable hitch.

_'You are taking an audacious gamble, Peytor!'_ He admonished himself, but just as quickly elected to ignore his own warning. Peytor had long since learned the painful lessons that even the most painstakingly set traps sprang both ways. The Baltic Star would arrive three days hence with the next batch of human dolls, the majority of whom were already accounted for...seeds of corruption intended for the fertile soil of human depravity.

When it did, Estrovich would be here, lying in wait to impart a lethal lesson to the misguided fucker who would presume to sully his grand design.

Ensconced behind his mantle of supreme confidence, Estrovich never entertained the possibility that his quarry might be as zealously devoted to seeing its own design come to fruition.

Chapter Twenty-Five

1

Elizabeth peered unblinkingly through the small circular window of the massive Boeing 787a jet as it lumbered across the Atlantic like a sleek beast from another age...one that had been reconfigured and given new purpose in the present. The ocean below was a sheet of roiling black...every bit as turbulent as the storm of emotion that raged behind her luminous blue eyes...though her serene face displayed no hint of her inner turbulence. She had emerged from her flash trip to the United States with a renewed sense of determination to see Rebecca back safely at her mother's side. The night she had spent in her granddaughter's company had been a poignant demonstration of how hollow her existence had become. She had languished in Petalidi...cloistered from all human interaction...from every emotion that granted life its inherent meaning and value. Those precious few hours spent with Imirya had eloquently declared just what that period of self-imposed exile had cost her.

_'And yet, what alternative do I really have?'_ She thought, absently brushing at a moist eye. _'Contayza may be a cruel, embittered woman, but her contention is no less valid because of it...mere association with me is a curse that has been proven time and again. Nathaniel, David and now Rebecca; all of them have suffered because they were connected to me.'_

Elizabeth shook her head, vexed by the incredible unfairness this curse constituted...both for her and those for whom her presence had been an affliction. What indelible scars would be left upon Rebecca's psyche...even if Elizabeth managed to bring her home unscathed...physically, at least? Now, she had drawn both Judith and Cynara into her circle...two creatures who could never survive exposure to light...creatures of shadow, whose very survival depended upon their remaining anonymous. Had it been selfishness that had drawn her back to Cynara...either motivated by desperation or melancholy? Could she gaze into Cynara's amber-flecked eyes and declared...unequivocally...that she loved this creature of darkness...or was she merely a convenience to which circumstances had compelled her. The hours of introspection had yielded no definitive answer and that, in itself, was a scathing indictment against this absurd notion that she was some sublime being who could draw the miscreant from the shadows in search of absolution.

Her mind circled incessantly back to Imirya...the beautiful and gifted daughter of her beloved son. Despite a beauty to rival her own...in truth, a mirrored image of her own...Elizabeth gleaned the fundamental sense of inadequacy that characterized Imirya's lingering sense of self-worth. Contayza had been largely responsible for sowing that particularly foul seed in Imirya's heart. Contayza, in turn, was a fundamentally flawed creature, whose petulance was inspired by her own inability to captivate her husband. Without festering malice, Imirya had effectively confirmed that Nathaniel had languished in a state of melancholy longing for most of his adult life...privately grieving the loss of a mother, whom...when the final bell be tolled...he had never truly known.

_'And yet, here you are.'_ Imirya's words assailed her like an indefatigable pack of hounds. Had she been a different type of person, Elizabeth could have doggedly insisted that her actions had always been taken in the best interest of her family and thus exonerated herself from the consequences, but she was incapable of this facile rationalization. _'Even if my actions have been undeviatingly motivated by the desire to protect those I love...they have failed wretchedly...no matter how carefully considered they were.'_

She reflected on the definitive dream and her frantic flight along the crumbling corridor and the context suddenly came into a more vivid focus. These critical junctures in her life had been like movements in a tragic symphony...the final notes of which could only have one possible shape...a doleful funeral dirge.

Her mind then drifted back to her final moments with Imirya as they stood in the boarding area near the international departures gates at tired old Logan airport. Imirya had been tentative and shy, her eyes roving the crowded concourse as she struggled to find the words to convey the array of complex emotions she was experiencing at the prospect of Elizabeth's imminent departure. She finally mustered the courage to glance at the immortal and Elizabeth smiled encouragingly, trying to assuage her granddaughter's anxiety. Elizabeth had effaced every trace of accrued anxiety from Imirya's exquisite face so that the woman standing before her looked like a slightly more mature version of Elizabeth...perfection restored.

Peering into those achingly familiar blue eyes...so rife with regret and sorrow...Elizabeth was reminded of the two occasions in which she had said goodbye to Nathaniel after sharing an all too short and tumultuous time together.

"I wish you didn't have to leave so soon, grandmother...Elizabeth," Imirya had amended with an apologetic grin.

Elizabeth had returned that tremulous smile and remarked, "I have to move quickly on bringing Rebecca home to you and London is where I have to start."

Imirya nodded and shifted her gaze to her long, elegant hands, which she clasped before her in a vain attempt to keep them still. "When this is over...irrespective of how it should resolve itself...I want you to come back to me. I want to know my grandmother...to know the woman my father loved so passionately. I want to take comfort and solace in your presence...and for you to take the same in mine...and I want the both of us to take joy in Rebecca...in watching her evolve into the special creature she's destined to become. I want to grow old with you in my life...because I sense that we both desperately need that connection...that sense of place and family."

Having divined the grim shape of her own future, Elizabeth still managed to muster a radiant smile...if only to pay homage to the beautiful fantasy that her son's daughter had just described. For Elizabeth, even if this was a viable path that would not jeopardize Imirya and her family...there would inevitably come the heart-breaking moment when her granddaughter had reached the end of her allotted time. Elizabeth would bear witness to her slow decay...her withering...just as she had watched David's flame gutter and expire. The horrible notion roused an incisive pain in her immortal heart that she succeeded in keeping from her expression by the narrowest of increment.

_'Ah, but yours is the power to avoid that dismal end...to bestow eternal life so that precious Imirya might never have to endure that horrible season of decay,'_ a voice whispered slyly, causing Elizabeth to shudder. That temptation was omnipresent...the potential power to share her gift, thus allowing those whom she loved to cheat the inevitable...and subject them to the same eternal torment that had characterized her existence.

Elizabeth had squeezed Imirya's right shoulder and drew her into a tight embrace...relishing the fresh clean scent of her cascading hair...so much like honeyed gold. She then held the misty-eyed woman out to arms' length and smiled fondly, though Imirya could clearly see the sadness capering in Elizabeth luminous blue eyes. "Imirya...there is absolutely nothing that I would love more than to come back and spend as much time with you as the fates would allow us. To watch Rebecca and hold the children she might someday have...I lack the ability to articulate how precious that would be for me." Elizabeth tilted her head slightly and she could feel a single tear coursing over the high ridge of her right cheek. "I've disappointed everyone I've ever loved by being unable to keep the solemn promises I made to them...Nathaniel especially. I won't do the same to you Imirya...because I sense that life has mistreated you with a disproportionate amount of disappointments already. I'm afraid that the world may have other plans for me..."

After this rather cryptic declaration, accompanied by a pained expression of resignation that caused Imirya to grimace anxiously, Elizabeth fell silent. Despite the enormous power that the immortal seemed to exude, Imirya could also discern a profound vulnerability...as though Elizabeth was fashioned from far too fragile stuff to survive in such a cold and cynical world. In Elizabeth, Imirya beheld a living contradiction of strength and delicacy and found herself suddenly terrified for this woman who one could so easily and hopelessly come to love.

On an impulse she would never decipher in the time that would remain to her, Elizabeth's expression grew animated and clutching Imirya's shoulders, she blurted, "When this is over...and Rebecca is home and safe...I'm going to send someone to you, Imirya. She will protect you and watch over the both of you."

Imirya frowned, her lovely eyes narrowing in bewilderment, "Why...why would we need protecting, grandmother...will this Barrows still be a threat?"

Elizabeth shook her head adamantly and vowed in a voice the resembled a frigid January wind, "When this is over, your family has my ironclad guarantee that Ian Barrows will never bother you again." Her expression became mournful then and she added candidly, "As long as I'm alive, Imirya...there will always be another Ian Barrows...men and woman who will go to any extreme because they covet what they believe I have. Judith can protect you...keep you both safe."

"Is...is she another like you?"

Elizabeth shook her head, her expression becoming wistful. "No...not in the context you're suggesting, but she can keep you safe. She is a...fragile soul in many ways. When you spoke of how you envisioned our relationship might evolve to be...Imirya, given time and your guiding hand...I believe you would find all of those comforts and sentiments...that solace with Judith."

A shadow passed across Imirya's exquisite face then...a portent of a possible future perhaps, but much to Elizabeth's relief, she merely nodded her acquiesce. She then gripped Elizabeth right wrist urgently, "Still, you promise I'll see you one more time...with Rebecca."

Elizabeth nodded and smiled brightly, valiantly attempting to forestall the fall of her tears until she had embarked. Imirya had hugged her and waved vigorously as Elizabeth was swallowed into the security screening area.

Now, as turbulence buffeted the lumbering jet in the increasingly inimical winds that now made transatlantic travel an unpleasant ordeal, Elizabeth pondered the motivation for proposing that Imirya allow Judith to protect her.

_'Because you've begun contingency planning...trying to settle affairs before you go forward to open that final door and find your own resolution,'_ a voice murmured softly in the silent chambers of her mind...and though it had been a whisper over the fabric of her serene thoughts, the epiphany exploded like a starburst of crystalline clarity. A part of her mind...the part that had grown weary of the solitude and the shadow of constant menace that her existence posed to those she loved...had already accepted the inevitability of her demise. She was further baffled to realize that this dejected aspect of her nature, in truth, welcomed this prospective end with a keen sense of relief.

Elizabeth pressed a finger to her lips to stifle the groan of consternation that was welling up in her throat like burning bile. Had she suffered through these long years only to arrive at a place where self-immolation was her best route forward...if only for the sake of those few people to whom she was tethered?

Just then, a collective gasp rippled through the rows of passengers, drawing Elizabeth attention to one of the central entertainment consoles. Arching a curious eyebrow, Elizabeth activated the miniature version of the same system that was affixed to the rear panel of the forward seat.

A BBC news feed filled the small screen, depicting a scene from an apocalyptic nightmare. Heavy plumes of black smoke churned up into a blustering morning sky...occasionally backlit by the flare of arcing lightning bolts. Tongues of raging fire lapped at the roiling clouds, seemingly unaffected by the deluge. Across the bottom of the screen came the march of an exigent caption that left Elizabeth paralyzed with horror. Dispensing with the pretence of requiring an ear bud, Elizabeth pressed her fingers to the screen and the commentator's dispassionate voice filled her mind like the strident buzzing of enraged wasps. "As yet, there has been no official statement regarding the possible cause of the huge explosion that has destroyed the Barrows Medical Research facility just north of London. Initial tolls indicate that there are at least seventy dead or missing after the blast rocked the area shortly after nine o'clock this morning. Officials further state that terrorism has not been ruled out as a possible cause for the deadly explosion and fire."

Elizabeth withdrew her finger and slumped back into her seat as her face assumed the pallor of curdled cream. _'Cynara...Judith...what have you done?'_

Her unfocused blue eyes stared vacantly at the small screen where details of the appalling carnage were replayed until they became a mindless blur...as if to do so would somehow numb the senses to the horror of what had transpired. As Elizabeth felt the nascent stirring of fury...a rare rage that held a lethal edge, another part of her mind pointed an accusatory finger back upon her and sneered, _'Can you actually claim to have expected anything else? You conscripted two of the blackest souls you've ever encountered and set them to task...did you truly believe it could end any other way? No matter how you try to evade the truth...how infuriated you are by this ugly spectacle of mass murder...ultimately, you are to blame for the loss of each and every one of those innocent lives.'_

Elizabeth whimpered softly and closed her eyes, grateful when the voice of condemnation fell silent. The repulsive image of a ghastly spider, bloated with venom and sitting at the center of a massive web that stretched into the darkness, suddenly bloomed in her mind. When the terrifying abomination became aware of her scrutiny, it glanced up. Elizabeth was not particularly surprised to discover that it wore her face.

2

It was late Monday afternoon, when a solo Mary Langdon strode into Hector Gentry's room in the South London Memorial Hospital. Even as she traversed the lengths of the dingy hospital corridors, Mary could feel her heart rate begin to accelerate, knowing that...should she succeed in securing the admission she was seeking from slug Gentry...she would be set on an irreversible collision course with Cassande Verhoeven...or Cassandra Jasic, if the notion she subscribed to was at all valid.

_'Which begs that you consider the same realization that you put forth to your two mates, Mary...how do you deal with whatever Cassande might prove to be?'_ A small voice queried with a note of overt desperation. Though she gleaned the imprudence of doing so, Mary elected to ignore the voice...at least, for the time being. Instead, she reflected back on the subtle expression of aggrieved confusion that Gansby had sported as they had parted ways back at the embankment. She could hardly confide that she was going to brace Gentry in the hopes of determining that it had been Donald's now ex-girlfriend who was responsible for leaving a swathe of bloody corpses scattered throughout the city. If Gentry did confirm that Cassande was the intruder who had tortured and ravaged him...well Mary would cross that particular bridge when she came to it.

Inhaling slowly and deeply to calm her quavering nerves, Mary flashed her badge at the Metro officer stationed outside Gentry's room. He gave the credentials a cursory glance and opened the door to admit her into Gentry's room. The old man was clearly in a sour mood and greeted her arrival with a baleful scowl. "Leave the boyfriend back home changing nappies did ya'? You wasted your time coming down here because I don't have a fucking thing more to add to what I already told ya'. I demand to know when I can expect to get my arse out of this shit hole?"

Mary simply smiled in response to his crude belligerence, but rather than answer directly, she retorted, "I'm not so sure that you would actually want to be released, Hector. It seems that the streets have become an extremely uninviting place for men such as your type to be right now."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean!" Gentry blared, though behind his fierce frown, Mary thought she could discern an underlying thread of disquiet.

Silently, Mary removed a photo of the recently deceased Roger Pipson and let it slide from her fingers onto his lap. Gentry snapped up the photo, his face contracting into an ugly knot at the sight of Pipson's disfigured corpse. "You may or may not recognize the face...but my every instinct tells me that you know the name all too well. Roger Pipson...among other things...provided those shadow boxes to the deviants you catered to in your little shop."

Gentry grunted, though Mary could clearly discern the trepidation that flickered in his eyes as he absorbed the gruesome details of Pipson's butchered corpse. "Don't know who this is...don't know what the fuck you're jabbering about."

Mary shrugged as if the matter really held very little consequence for her and quickly scooped up the photograph. "The person who did this to Pipson has now mutilated and killed twenty men. This last act is a declaration of war against the people Pipson worked for." Mary offered the surly Gentry a humorless wink and intoned, "I think you and I have a pretty good notion of who is going to win this particular war, Hector. Unofficially, I will admit that I'm not even sure if we can prevent the woman who did this to you from returning and gutting you like a swine...if she so chooses."

Hector arched a bushy eyebrow and he grumbled, "What to you want? You ain't here with the other bleeder on purpose...ain't ya?"

Mary smiled again and for the slightest fraction of a moment, Hector thought that he could see madness capering in those polar blue eyes. "That would be a very astute observation, Hector...very incisive indeed. I'm here in a quasi-professional capacity. I have only one question to ask you and if you are willing to answer it...you have my solemn oath that no one will ever learn what passed between us today. The story will be that you had absolutely nothing more to tell me."

"Now, why would I ever agree to cooperate with a Yard tart like you?" Gentry laughed, though his disdain echoed hollow in the charged silence that followed.

Mary came over and sat on the edge of the bed, her tight, curving hip pressing against his. "I see you enjoy being blunt...abrasive even. I don't really give a tinker's damn about a miserable piece of sewage like you...in fact, it would be a community service if the woman came back and decorated this hospital room with your intestines. Setting personal indifference aside for a moment, there's something at stake here that is far larger than you or I...and it's because of that I wish to keep you alive and breathing. I'll do everything to see that the Yard goes the extra mile in insuring your continued existence...if you'll answer my one question."

Gentry considered her for a protracted moment, his doughy face fixed in a sour scowl. Finally, he swallowed and returned gruffly, "Ask your question."

Mary again reached into her folio and produced a single photograph, which she held forth for Gentry's inspection. The glossy image was a full body photograph of Karnalla Mansley's mysterious companion taken when the contentious subject was unaware and presented the statuesque redhead in all of her beauteous glory. "Hector...is this the woman who attacked you in your flat?"

Gentry's watery eyes widened in obvious shock and recognition. His gaze slid from the photograph to Mary Langdon's intense face and then back again. A charged silence descended upon the room and Mary could feel the blood rushing in her temples. Gentry peered directly into her eyes and declared flatly, "No...it ain't her."

Even as he delivered his spoken response, Hector nodded his head vigorously.

Mary's eyes widened and she acknowledged his reply with a tacit nod. She reached into the Folio and drew forth a government photograph of Cassande Verhoeven and reiterated her question. Gentry considered this second photograph for several moments, flicked a brief glance at Mary and reprised his previous response...an apparent contradiction that the shrewd inspector could not misconstrue.

Struggling mightily to maintain and inscrutable facade, Mary replaced the photograph in her folio and stood smoothly. "Thank you for your cooperation, Hector."

Mary strode briskly to the door, trying to contain her raging emotions, but before she could make her exit, Gentry called, "You'll keep you're end of the bargain lass...the part about keeping me safe?"

Mary turned back to Hector and despite her aversion to everything the man represented, she found herself profoundly moved by the entreaty in his gruff voice. "I will, Hector."

She cast a brief nod at the constable and hurried from the building. By the time she reached her car, Mary Langdon was shaking and as she slid behind the wheel, those shakes had intensified until it appeared that she was being assailed by a violent seizure.

_'You have to tell someone, Mary...no matter how incredible or preposterous this will sound, you can't face this on your own,'_ the beseeching voice of reason declared frantically, but as sage as that advice might be, Mary knew that she could never heed its wisdom. Gripping the steering wheel, Mary allowed her head to settle to the cool leather and squeezed her eyes shut. Any allegations she might level against Cassande would be dismissed as laughable and she would be discredited to the point of ruin, leaving Cassande free to deal with her at the monster's leisure.

If she could not overtly accuse Cassande of this hideous campaign of slaughter, she would have to contrive a way to bring her fellow inspector's to the same conclusion...as thoroughly unbelievable as those conclusions might be.

As she drove back to Islington, Mary Langdon was assailed by two darkly disconcerting thoughts...she would never be able to keep her oath to Hector Gentry and she was more terrified than she had ever been in her life.

3

Elizabeth disembarked at Heathrow Airport, descending to the covered tarmac as thunder and lightning held court in the evening sky. As she strode across the tarmac and into the arrivals area, her lovely face was set in lines of grim resignation...and a smoldering anger on the brink of eruption. Cynara stood nearly the trundling luggage carousel looking like a vision torn from a dark fantasy...populated by seductive night creatures who could corrupt and steal a soul with a mere glance. She was resplendent in a full length, belted black leather coat and knee high black boots with silver tipped heels. Her amber flecked eyes twinkled with pure delight when she saw Elizabeth emerge through the doors into the crowded arrival area. She raised a hand in greeting and beamed a brilliant smile, but that smile congealed on her lips when Elizabeth's eyes flashed a terrible, iridescent orange as she strode toward her.

Cynara blinked as a tiny silver thread of apprehension coursed through her veins in response to that unmistakable signal of Elizabeth's towering anger. When Elizabeth reached her fellow immortal, Cynara began, "Elizabeth, I'm so glad that..."

"Not a word!" Elizabeth rasped, her voice escaping her lips was like the strident hiss of a boiling kettle. "We'll discuss this when we're altogether."

Another flash of that baleful orange and the statuesque beauty stepped away from a bemused Cynara and stood near the squealing belt, waiting for her single piece of luggage to makes its appearance. Attired in a long gray coat shot through with coarse silver thread, Elizabeth's rigid posture bestowed upon her the countenance of an ice empress. When the metallic silver traveling bag pushed its way through the rubber restraints, Elizabeth snatched up the case and strode toward the exit without giving an increasingly perturbed...and anxious...Cynara even a cursory glance.

They drove through the storm in a charged silence, with Elizabeth staring through the passenger window while radiating fury like heat from an open blast furnace. For her part, Cynara concentrated on steering the Bentley through the heavy rain, while trying to predict the shape and immensity of the coming eruption. Tentatively, she ventured, "Was your family reunion all that you envisioned it would be?"

Elizabeth responded by skewering Cynara with a venomous glare, her large blue eyes flaring a menacing orange. In a glacial voice fraught with insistence that would not be denied, she demanded, "Pull the car over...now!"

Cynara blinked at the intractable steel in the other immortal's voice and swept her gaze over the darkened English countryside. "Here?"

"Do it!" Elizabeth roared, the exclamation impossibly loud and piercing in the confines of the Bentley. Cynara glowered, but refrained from further argument and maneuvered the luxury sedan onto the gravel shoulder, beyond which the forest was a brooding silhouette. Elizabeth twisted her in her seat and glared at the raven-haired beauty. "Get out of the vehicle."

Cynara frowned at the imperious tone and rested one arm on the steering wheel, feeling her own anger begin to flare like a strip of phosphorous. Knowing the importance of maintaining a tight rein on her temper, Cynara intoned darkly, "Do you really want to do this here and now? Have you already forgotten what I did to you in my side yard, dear?" Cynara's full lips twisted into a humorless grin and she admonished, "Thanks to you, I've changed since then...and I really don't think you want to provoke my anger, Elizabeth. Obviously, you're aware of what happened at the research facility, but it would really be in your best interest to retract your fangs and listen to what I have to say."

The lock released snapped up seemingly of its own accord as Elizabeth's expression of uncompromising demand did not change a whit. Releasing her own seat belt, she opened the door and stepped out into the driving rain where she lashed Cynara with one baleful glance...orange illuminating the darkness...before vanishing into the stand of trees and the utter darkness beyond. Cynara sighed and sat gripping the wheel with white knuckled intensity, while attempting to constrain her rising anger. She watched the Bentley's wiper blades sluice water from the windshield and drew in several slow, deep breaths. She had come within the smallest of increments of killing Elizabeth last time...of destroying the one thing that was precious to her in this wretched midden heap of a world, but on the occasion, she had fought driven by shock and outrage. This time she would be calm...dispassionate.

"Perhaps Elizabeth darling...the time has come to impart a lesson in precisely who controls the dynamics of our relationship...to teach you that love requires a firm...guiding hand," Cynara whispered as a dark image of Elizabeth's subjection shaped her sensuous lips into a grin.

She floated over the ditch and landed on the spongy grass, before stalking into the forest...her preternatural senses guiding her to Elizabeth with uncanny accuracy. The other woman was standing on the opposite end of a small clearing into which Cynara had emerged. Though the rain fell in a driving deluge, it somehow failed to make an impression upon the two immortals, as though they were immune to its watery embrace. Elizabeth stood with her arms at her side and one long leg splayed slightly. Her orange-eyed gaze was fixed squarely upon Cynara as she emerged from the trees and it required only one glance at the blonde's livid posture to see that she was poised on the edge of violent eruption.

Between clenched teeth, Elizabeth seethed, "Seventy people, Cynara...seventy people incinerated...and you will tell me why before we leave this clearing!"

"To begin with...I didn't kill them...your pet did. I merely asked her to leave a very distinct impression on Barrows' subordinates...not to turn the facility into a slaughterhouse. Oh, but she's zealous, your Judith is...and absolutely demented...if the unbiased truth be told." Cynara took several steps toward Elizabeth, who greeted this explanation with a fierce scowl. "Frankly, Elizabeth...even if I had been the one to walk in and tear every single occupant into bloody, twitching pieces...it was you who solicited my help...begged for a return of the old Cynara to extricate you from another snare that your delicate nature could not confront. Fuck your outraged indignation. Now...go back to the car like a pliable little pet and we'll forget this entire incident and focus on getting your precious great granddaughter back. I love you Elizabeth and I'll do the dirty work you're too refined to do yourself. In return, I expect your obedience...your deference and respect. If you won't give it willingly...I'll take it from you!"

In the next instant, a force of nearly infinite proportion invaded the clearing and swept Cynara up into the air, shaking her violently as if she had been caught in the fist of an invisible and very belligerent giant. Cynara cried out in shock and fear...those emotions segueing into utter incredulity when she deduced that it had been Elizabeth who had affected this staggering display of power. As Cynara hovered in the air, utterly immobilized and helpless some ten meters above the sodden earth, Elizabeth stalked closer. She raised her arms and gesticulated in a complex pattern of hand movements. In response, a dozen bands of golden light coalesced into being. The bands orbited around Cynara like planets around a sun, moving with stunning speed. To the wide-eyed immortal, they resembled the blades of a band saw, all whirling around her along different orbital paths. She could feel their intense heat on her flawless skin and there could be no mistaking their intended purpose. Struggling to keep the trepidation from her voice...and failing wretchedly...Cynara stammered, "Elizabeth...how...how are you doing this? Put me down...please!"

Elizabeth stopped just before the clearly terrified immortal, watching the hypnotizing rotating of her lethal bands of energy...slowly willing them to constrict upon the writhing Saravic. When she spoke, there seemed to be a foreign presence capering beneath the lilting tone...something cold and remorseless...like the voice of an entity that possessed ruthless of which Cynara would have thought Elizabeth incapable. "When you created me...turned me...all of those years ago...I wonder if you had any inkling of what I might evolve to become...the power that would germinate and grow within me? You're frightened, groveling reaction to your present predicament tells me that you did not."

"Stop this Elizabeth...please!" Cynara implored and now there could be no mistaking the naked apprehension in her tone. "This level of power....it will attract the wrong kind of attention." When it became evident that Elizabeth was beyond the influence of that type of logic, Cynara begged, "Elizabeth...don't hurt me...please. If you want me to beg, I will...just put me down and let's talk this out."

Elizabeth tilted her head in a fashion that indicated puzzlement. "Do you suppose that it would have spared the casualties at the facility...had they been given the opportunity to beg? Over the course of your life...through all of those long years...did you ever once spare someone who was helpless and pleading for mercy at your feet?"

Cynara remained silent, unable to draw her eyes away from the whirling bands of golden effulgence that hissed and crackled like high voltage wires twisting on pavement. She forced herself to meet Elizabeth glacial regard...eyes as hard as a winter night's sky...and whimpered, "Don't do this to me, Elizabeth...I'll do whatever you want...but...but don't destroy me."

Elizabeth lashed Cynara with a sardonic smirk of which the other immortal would have thought the wheaten haired beauty incapable. "I monitored you for years after Seattle...watching to determine if you would...relapse. I knew you and Cassandra were responsible for killing her parents, but if ever there were two people who deserved to die, it was those two reprehensible bastards...and so I ignored that episode. Yet, I vowed that...if I discerned even the slightest hint that you were sliding back into your old ways...I would find you and put a permanent end to your existence." She stopped and studied the trembling immortal closely. "I know you manipulated Judith, fully cognizant of her simmering affliction...and the only reason I don't kill you right here is that I'm every bit as responsible as you are...and yes...I did ask you to channel your darkness to extricate me from this situation with Barrows. I have no delusion that I'm culpable for everything that has happened...if not entirely responsible."

She waved her arm in a brusque gesture of dismissal and the bands vanished, as did the invisible restraints that held Cynara aloft. The immortal plummeted to the ground with a startled cry and lay face down upon the carpet of leaves, sobbing and shaking violently in relief and abjection. Elizabeth viewed the immortal's plight dispassionately and after a time, she squatted down and plunging her long fingers into Cynara's raven tresses, she jerked the other woman's tear-stained face up into the rain. In a tight whisper, fraught with cold promise, she vowed, "If it ever becomes necessary to reprise this particular object lesson, I will kill you Cynara. Let's get back to your manor...I need to speak with Judith."

Elizabeth released Cynara and rising, began to stride purposefully back toward the Bentley. Cynara pushed herself to her hands and knees and called after the other woman's retreating shadow, "Elizabeth...how long have you been able to utilize that kind of power?"

Elizabeth halted and turned slightly. In an indecipherable voice, she disclosed, "Always...I've just elected to keep it constrained." Her eyes flashed a malefic orange and she added, "Until now."

And then she was gone, leaving a thoroughly disconcerted Cynara alone to grapple with the ramifications of what she had just learned.

4

It was nearly midnight when Judith heard the distinct crunch of tires in the crushed white stone. In the intervening hours between Cynara's departure and now, Judith had languished in a state that oscillated between despair and terror. In the time since the events in Quinsett, Judith had spent seven decades wandering the globe...first in search of Amathera's precious truth and then on her own quest for...what...epiphany or purpose? Judith could not say with any degree of certainty and conviction.

She had meandered aimlessly throughout Europe for much of the past decade, with no clear notion of how she might spend whatever might remain of her life. Sitting on a bistro in Paris and feeling increasingly detached from the world around her, Judith had caught a glimpse of Elizabeth...bringing the future into focus with the crystalline clarity of a magnifying glass. Now, only scant days later, she found herself trapped in a nightmare from which there would be no waking. She was incessantly cognizant of the slow pulsing of Cynara's vile brand on her breast and knew that even the option of mindless flight was lost to her. In her arrogance, she had overreached and this servitude to a monster was her recompense. Worse still, she had alienated herself from the ethereal creature who might be her only path to absolution.

In the deathly silence, the opening of the main doors was impossibly loud. After cleaning up the detritus of her futile tantrum, Judith had drifted into the small reading parlor, where she had spent the intervening hours simply watching the hypnotic dance of the flames in the ancient stone hearth. She drew a quavering breath to still her anxiety, knowing that her fate could well be decided in the next few minutes.

_'If you are to die...meeting your end at Elizabeth's hands isn't the worst fate you could expect,'_ she thought with a bitter smile emblazoning her lips. Her only regret was that she could not die with her teeth in Cynara's throat.

The two immortal's entered the room, but Judith refused to rise or otherwise acknowledge their presence. She could feel Elizabeth's aura suffuse the room like an annealing balm...an infectious serenity that...on this night at least...was a pale intimation of its usual self. Sighing, Judith climbed heavily to her feet and turned to face the woman she had come to love with such alarming alacrity.

Elizabeth regarded her coldly, her expressive blue eyes frightening in their intensity. Her jaw muscles stood forth in prominent relief and Judith could clearly see the extent of her anger radiating from the immortal in palpable waves. Her gaze slid quickly to Cynara, who remained by the doors to the reading room. Judith arched a quizzical eyebrow at the condition of the raven-haired beauty's appearance. Cynara's clothes and hair were a disheveled mess...wet leaves clinging to both along with bits of grass and earth. Her face was dirt-streaked and pallid and there was a humbled air about the immortal that evoked a surge of petulant satisfaction in Judith's dark heart. Evidently, she had already incurred Elizabeth's wrath and although she had clearly been humiliated by the experience...she had survived.

_'But will you be so fortunate, Judith,'_ Tamara Hood's voice purred in her ear. _'You were the one who did the despicable deed after all...and Cynara will be more than happy to serve you up as a sacrifice...should Elizabeth's sense of retribution require it.'_

She turned her attention back to Elizabeth and met those heart-rending eyes unblinkingly, with her chin raised and her voice steady, she declared, "I'm not sorry for what happened, Elizabeth and I won't apologize...because I'd do it a hundred times over if it meant keeping you safe. Do to me whatever you wish...I don't care anymore." She faltered and Elizabeth was puzzled when Judith cast an accusatory glance at Cynara. "I wanted to make them pay for what they are trying to do to you...and yes, I lost all control...became the monster I once was. Again, I won't grovel or offer hollow regrets." Judith gracefully shrugged the shadow cloak from her shoulders, leaving her exposed and vulnerable before her beloved immortal. Raising her chin defiantly, she rasped, "Kill me, if you want...I'll die content with the knowledge that I've done what I could to protect you."

Elizabeth gripped Judith's face and squeezed until a thin gasp burst from the smaller woman's pouting lips. "You claim you did this for me, Judith...and I actually believe you...which is the most damning truth of all. That love for someone could drive a person to such monstrous acts...is an indictment against the very concept of love. The blood of those seventy innocents may be on your hands...but it's on my conscience...an indelible scar. The final nail in my coffin, Judith...that is what you've become to me...now, get out of my sight before I add another."

She released a moon-eyed Ranzman and turned away, her posture rigid and her arms crossed beneath her full breasts. Face settling into lines of grim dejection, Judith partially stifled a groan and then collecting her cloak, stumbled toward the parlor door, but before she could make her shambling exit, Cynara caught her forearm and fixed her with an odd smile of reassurance. There was an aspect to her smile that spoke of timidity.

Pulling the unresisting woman back over to the glowering blond, Cynara intoned quietly, "Elizabeth...I want you to let Judith stay. You were right to say that I took advantage of her...coerced her in fact. You know me well and know that I have an aptitude for both. I deliberately took advantage of her...instability."

Elizabeth turned slowly in place, eyeing the pair speculatively, her mouth puckered into a truculent frown. "Is this true, Judith...did Cynara coerce you?"

Judith shifted her gaze to the immortal, who squeezed her arm and nodded encouragingly. Rather than offer a direct answer, Judith shrugged free of Cynara's grip and slowly undid the buttons of her blouse.

Despite her best intention to remain glacial and aloof, Elizabeth could not help but utter a gasp of shock when her gaze fell upon the jagged scar of branding that now marred the perfection of Judith's breast. She recalled another similar scar...this one on the pale flesh of her son's chest...a scar that had eventually compelled Nathaniel to set out on his fateful search for his lost mother. Her eyes snapped to Cynara, who actually recoiled in the face of Elizabeth's rekindled fury, but before she could react, Judith clutch the immortal's arms and rasped, "Don't Elizabeth...whatever Cynara has done to me...it's well deserved." When Elizabeth arched a tapered eyebrow questioningly, Judith explained, "I goaded her...challenged her. Frankly, she was merciful in dealing with me...much more lenient than I would have been had the situations been reversed. This buried the hatchet...so to speak...and all is well between us. Let this go, please...and let us help you."

She turned a pleading glance on Cynara, who took up the thread of Judith's argument. "I may have placed my mark on Judith...but her heart is yours...just as mine is. There is the intrinsic truth of our situation...you find yourself confronted by two incorrigible miscreants...both of whom love you and would do anything to see you safe."

"The two of you have developed a mutual admiration society in astounding time," Elizabeth observed suspiciously and though her sarcasm was evident, both women preferred its mordant sting to the lethal fury that it replaced. Simpson sighed, her beautiful face softening perceptibly. In a voice that was despairing and forlorn, she inquired, "How am I ever to trust either of you again...after this...this odious thing you've done in my name?"

Cynara and Judith exchanged glances and then the immortal offered Elizabeth a shark's grin that she recalled so well from her days as the demon's concubine. "We've found Rebecca!"

Chapter Twenty-Six

1

Darkness had fallen by the time Mary Langdon returned to her flat in Islington. After her revelatory interview with Gentry, Mary had come to realize that she was more isolated...and vulnerable...than she had ever been in her entire life. She now possessed the knowledge to end this string of violent murders that had plagued the city over the past two years...but she lacked the practical means to utilize it in any meaningful way. The only individual who might credit her accusations was Donald and even that prospect was a frighteningly small one...which left her alone to face a monster that defied categorization.

Upon returning to Victoria Embankment, Mary had been deliberately mendacious in recounting the details of her interview with Gentry, claiming that Gentry had stuck to his original story without deviation. She was surprised by how little her conscience was affected by this intentional lie...a precedent for the scrupulously ethical Langdon. Still, in a situation like this, long-held convictions and principles vanished like water through a sewer grate.

She had listened to her two fellow investigators relate the details of their efforts after her departure...absorbing the particulars with only passing interest. Of Nassar El Tanari, there was no sign, though his subordinates here in London stubbornly refused to confirm his whereabouts or admit that he was missing. El Tanari's status as a prominent foreign national geometrically increased the delicacy of the situation and added a diplomatic aspect to the investigation that could only complicate matters. The trio had been able to convince Superintendent Coran of the merits of taking a passive approach to investigating Roger Pipson...at least until the arrival of the Baltic Star.

Donald and Ewan had been able to confirm that the Baltic Star was scheduled to arrive in the port of London in the evening some two days hence. The ship's unloading would be surreptitiously monitored...but not disrupted. Calm deliberation was well warranted in this situation...rather than a heavy-fisted search and seizure approach...or so the common thinking went amongst the group. Mary had made her contributions to these discussions...though not with her normal intense conviction. No one seemed to notice her state of distraction, for which she was eternally grateful. If her intuition proved at all correct, such procedural wrangling would soon be rendered moot.

Cassande was an entity that stood well beyond the parameters of normalcy...of legal restitution and consequence.

As they hurried through the rain at the end of what had been a tumultuous and exhausting day, huddled beneath their umbrellas in the face of the slowly relenting storm, Donald had stopped beside Mary's vehicle and gently gripped her right bicep. The unexpected tactile overture had startled Langdon out of her reverie and her head jerked toward Gansby, preparing to be angry over his presumption of touch. The expression on his face had forestalled her protest. Donald's mild eyes were narrowed with a deep concern and when he spoke, there was a distinct echo of urgency in his voice that surmounted Mary's aversion to unsolicited contact. "Mary...is everything alright...you seem distracted...no...troubled by something?"

Mary met his solemn and sincere regard and there could be no mistaking the concern shining in his mild eyes. She averted her eyes to the parking lot, where puddles of water had accumulated in the depressions and now glittered beneath the halogen lights like fields of precious stone. For a brief instant, Mary almost told Donald Gansby everything and though it is impossible to predict how events might have manifested themselves had she shared her macabre suspicions...there could be little doubt that they would have unfolded along a radically different tangent than they did.

Instead, she turned back to the expectant Gansby, for whom she had developed an increasing fondness, and offered him a radiant smile of reassurance. "Everything is fine, Donald. This has just been such an...eventful day. It's all a bit much to process...especially if this turns out to be connected to the investigation I was working on before I joined your team." She studied Gansby closely, her expression of concern mirroring his own. "Actually, I might ask how you're holding up...dealing with the situation concerning Cassande? Are you going to be alright?"

Donald offered Mary a crooked grin...an expression tinged with the sadness that customarily accompanies these moments of ending...of sundering of the ties that bind human hearts. "With the type of day we've had, I've honestly not given it a great deal of thought. These last few months...they've been like a beautiful illusion...the kind you know are destined to end...eventually. It's certainly not like I haven't been down this particular path often enough...so...I think I'll be fine."

Mary reacted with a hollow smile, knowing that Donald may well have been granted a reprieve of which he might never be aware. She retracted her umbrella and was preparing to climb into her vehicle, when Donald added unexpected, "Mary, I'm pleased that you've decided to stay on board for the duration...it means a lot to me."

Disconcerted by this unanticipated admission, Mary could only smile and nod resolutely. Donald returned her grin and turned away. She sat behind the wheel, watching as he shuffled back to his Cooper, appearing lost and forlorn beneath the dark thunderheads that scudded overhead like belligerent engines.

Neither had any conceivable way of knowing Donald Gansby's impulsive, tentative overture were the last words he would ever exchange with Mary Langdon.

2

Mary did not return directly to her apartment, even though she knew that her dereliction of maternal duty would earn the hissing wrath of Holmes and Watson, who had never been averse to expressing their displeasure with her shortcomings. Instead, she drove through the slow-falling rain, taking a deliberately meandering route back to Islington, suddenly having no desire to be back in the quiet solitude of her flat...with only two tom cats and her flourishing misgivings for company.

Suddenly ravenous, she found herself back at the Afghan Gardens with no clear notion of how she had gotten there. The waiter, who would recall serving the pretty blond woman with the polar blue eyes once the coming storm broke, brought Mary's dinner with a friendly, vaguely flirtatious grin that never failed to loosen the pocketbooks of solitary female customers.

When questioned, he would recall how the woman had seemed distracted, staring into the middle distance while she mechanically consumed her food like someone who is functioning from the depth of a trance.

Mary was scarcely able to recall what she had eaten as she made the short drive back to her flat. An odd sensory torpor had descended over her as she consumed her meal. She was cognizant of the flow of people around her...their casual conversations washing over her like warm water over a long-standing stone. Even though she sat in the midst of this pool of humanity, who had ventured out despite it being Monday night and an inimical one at that, Mary felt strangely segregated from those around her...as if she was separated from the rest of the world by an intangible barrier that was nonetheless impermeable.

In truth, this characterization depicted the salient reality that had governed much of her adult life...as if she and the greater world around her were functioning with a very different agenda that left very little latitude for interaction. As she sat alone, eating yet another solo meal, Mary found that this reality had lost the power to induce even the slightest feelings of sorrow or regret. This was who and what she was...what she had allowed herself to become of her own volition...and maudlin regret would serve very little purpose.

The only thing that held any consequence was how she intended to resolve the matter of Cassande Verhoeven. _'Cassandra Jasic,'_ she amended angrily. _'Her name is Cassandra Jasic...you've accepted this as the irrefutable truth and so there is little point in clinging to the fabrication.'_

Call her what she would, Mary was left alone in this perfect state of isolation to devise a method to deal with a deadly creature whose very existence defied every convention that defined everyday reality. Sitting alone at her table, Mary was suffused by a rare flare of bitter resentment for this unwanted burden...a burden that had been imposed upon her by a hostile combination of Donald Gansby's bizarre reaction to his own sense of inadequacy and her tenacious nature.

She surveyed the restaurant, her resentful gaze sweeping over the couples and families who were all happily engaged in the self-absorbed energy of their lives...and briefly wondered what it would be like to trade places with one of these random patrons. The notion prompted a cynical smile to twist her full lips...like dwelling on her own empty life...such contemplations yielded nothing of value.

Another thought germinated in her mind then...one so shockingly alien that it actually made her gasp aloud, garnering a sharp glance from the couple at the adjacent booth. _'What if you simply elected to do nothing...if, like the aristocratic Isobel Greavy, you simply accepted the truth and sequestered it in your heart? Can you honestly contend that this wretched world has in any way been diminished by the deaths of Nassar El Tanari, Roger Pipson...or even Thomas Greavy, who could be likened to a land mine...laying in wait for an innocent child to step on it? In light of your own convictions, can you honestly brand Cassandra Jasic as a villain because she has the fortitude to do whatever is necessary to protect the defenseless innocents who lack the wherewithal to protect themselves?'_

Mary grimaced in the face of this obviously disingenuous argument...which was truly nothing more than a facile rationalization to do nothing in the face of tremendous adversity. Fetching an uncharacteristically morose sigh, Mary paid the check and left.

It was in this discordant frame of mind that Mary Langdon met her moment of reckoning.

3

Mary understood that something was amiss the instant she deactivated the alarm system and stepped through the door of the flat she had called home since coming to London eleven years prior. The first disparity was that the interior was steeped in total darkness...all lights off and all curtains drawn tight...something that she would never have done in a world where personal safety had become an obsession.

She hesitated at the threshold and briefly considered withdrawing to seek out the building supervisor, but then offered a self-deprecating chuckle at the absurd notion. She was, after all, a Scotland Yard Inspector and how foolish would she seem...seeking out a glorified senior janitor because she was stricken with a bout of anxiety.

Stepping over the threshold, Mary reached for the antiquated light switch...only to find that the door slammed shut behind her with a disconcerting finality. A muted yellow glow filled the hall area as she examined the door with a frown of intense consternation. The handle now glowed a molten orange of near blinding magnitude and she did not need to touch it to know that it would melt her flesh like candle wax if she was so foolish as to lay a hand on it.

She could feel the reassuring weight of her service weapon as it pressed against her right hip and was in the process of undoing the button of her charcoal gray blazer when a voice issued from the darkness somewhere deeper in her flat. "Don't bother, Mary....I think you know that it would be utterly futile and as painfully pointless as trying to open the door you're staring at so longingly. I've only come to have a heart to heart, sisterly talk...so why not spare us both a good deal of aggravation and come and sit with me?"

Mary inhaled sharply, but managed not to cry out. There was absolutely no mistaking the voice that issued out of the abnormally inky darkness. Cassande's voice had always been melodious and...often airy in a way that intimated at a certain good natured vapidity and while this voice held a mirthful note, there could be no mistaking either the keen intellect or the cold ruthless edge that made the words crackle with an authority that was undeniable. She found her feet moving her to comply even before her mind gave them leave to do so.

During the course of her career as a policewoman, she had found herself in what she would have described as harrowing situations...where there was a very real threat of personal peril...on only a few occasions. None of those situations had evoked the atavistic dread she now experienced as she shuffled reluctantly toward the monster that presently inhabited her living room. It was everything that she could do not to whimper as she edged her way into the black interior of her flat.

Her foot came down on something soft that gave way beneath her heel with a liquid squelch and now she did cry out...a shrill screech rife with undisguised terror...and revulsion. Light...harsh and white...abruptly filled the room, causing Mary to nearly stumble. She blinked owlishly, while groping for the wall that divided the living room from the flat's small kitchen. When her eyes adjusted to the harsh glare and Mary recognized what she had stepped in, a strangled cry of negation tore from her lips even as tears sprang to her eyes. The remains of Watson were barely recognizable for what they were...only the bloody splotches of the tortoise shell tabby's fur gave any indication that the mass of viscera had once been one of her beloved feline companions.

"Why...why would you do something so...monstrous?" Mary croaked, barely able to repress the urge to draw her weapon and empty it into Cassande's chest despite the futility of the effort. Her tear distorted gaze searched the living room and another heart-wrenching cry of sorrow tore from her lips when her regard fell upon the pulverized remains of her noble Holmes that were festooned across the tiled floor near the curtains of her balcony doors.

Cassande sat on Mary's sofa...the very spot where Mary spent the vast majority of her evenings curled up with her two faithful toms nestled...one on her shoulder and the other in her lap. One of the statuesque flame-haired beauty's long arms was draped over the back of the sofa and her long legs were crossed at the ankle. She was watching Mary with the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her generous mouth. "I've always detested cats," Cassande declared blithely. "They're loathsome little monsters...remorseless predators if the honest truth be told. They're just perceptive enough to recognize a fellow predator...but not sufficiently intelligent to determine that they are no match for what they would presume to oppose."

The mirth vanished from Cassande's luminous eyes and she inquired coldly, "Would you describe yourself as a cat, Mary?" When a thoroughly grief-stricken Mary did not respond, Cassande merely chuckled and disclosed, "It seems that they didn't take kindly to me invading their territory and they came at me in a determined frenzy...an ill-advised decision they did not live to regret."

"What do you want?" Mary demanded, outrage supplanting her terror as she glowered at the hateful monster that wore the countenance of an angel.

Cassande inclined her head and pressed a finger to her lips in an exaggerated posture of thoughtful consideration. "Frankly, I am decidedly ambivalent on the subject of what I want in the delicate matter of you and me. I'm hoping that you can help me determine my course of action and I would strongly advise that you cooperate, Mary." Cassande flicked an elegant hand toward a glider rocker and commanded, "You can start by parking your shapely ass in that chair and laying you service weapon on the table between us."

Sensing that she had no genuine volition in the matter, Mary slowly undid the button of her blazer and slid the service weapon from its holster, carefully laying it on the glass table top.

"Very good, Mary...a conciliatory gesture to put our discussion in the proper amicable context," Cassande quipped, her voice and expression fraught with sardonic contempt. Mary sat with her hands laid flat upon her thighs, trying to prevent them from quivering in the face of the terrifying creature, who had come to deliberate upon her continued existence.

She followed Cassande's gaze to her Virtua console and her heart sank upon seeing the two juxtaposed images that hovered in the darkness. Cassande's smile was a cold parody of an expression of affection. "It seems that you've been a very industrious girl, Mary...very diligent in dredging up the muck and mire of things that, quite frankly, are better left interred. I can't begin to imagine what prompted you to explore this peculiar terrain...but believe me when I say dear, before this night is done, I will know."

Mary could not repress the shudder that this solemn vow evoked...an expression of fear that was not lost upon Cassande, who rose gracefully from her seat and came to sit next to the rigid blond. She threw a comradely arm about Mary's square shoulders and gently brushed a lock of blond hair back from the other woman's brow. "Don't be frightened, Mary. I really...really like you." With this, she firmly twisted the petrified Langdon's face to meet hers and bestowed a lingering kiss on Mary's partially opened mouth. Mary attempted to recoil, but Cassande held her fast, causing the mortal to whimper. Cassande finally drew back and fixed Mary with a speculative gaze, before shrugging. "No spark, dear? Ah well...these things take time...and the proper attitude. Now, to show that I was sincere in my desire to make this an amicable exchange, I will start by allowing you to ask me any questions you might wish to ask. Judging by that trove of tantalizing facts you've accrued, I would say that you must to brimming with curiosity."

Cassande leaned back again and propped her firm chin on the back of her left hand and gestured for Mary to proceed. Even through the thought-occluding veil of her terror, Mary could not help but be inundated by a strange feeling of surrealism. Was she actually about to indulge in a question and answer interview with a monster who had literally dissected at least twenty people? "Are you...Cassandra Jasic?"

Cassande pursed her lips as a moue of distaste rippled swiftly over her lovely countenance. "The literal answer to your query would be yes, but the truth is somewhat more complicated. I have become so much more than the fractured, piteous creature I once was...the savagely victimized child. Strictly speaking, yes...my true name is Cassandra Jasic." Inclining her head toward the Virtua Console, she added irritably, "Of course, you know that already and it would be so much more refreshing if you wouldn't actually pose questions to which you already knew the answer."

Mary blinked and nodded meekly, knowing that rousing this creature's displeasure could swiftly prove fatal. Bluntly, she inquired, "What are you and how did you become like this?"

"Much better, Mary, though it is only fair to warn you that the answers would place you squarely in the middle of a very dangerous territory. Acquiring certain knowledge can put one in a most precarious position indeed." Cassandra warned gravely.

Mary managed to muster the temerity to arch a sardonic eyebrow and reply, "I think we both know that I'm well past that point now...so why not be forthcoming?"

Cassandra reached out and shook Mary's shoulder in a gesture of friendship that was shockingly sincere and intoned, "True enough. I was a lost, frightened and extremely damaged child once...and fate delivered me into the path of a most extraordinary creature...who transformed me into what you see now...or more accurately, began that process of transformation."

"Karnalla Mansley?" Mary interjected eagerly, enthralled by the darkly fascinating and incredible tale, despite the enormity of her peril.

Mary was surprised by the complex array of emotions that swept over Cassandra's face at the mention of the name of what had once been the gold standard for feminine beauty. Like fast moving wraiths over a meadow, there rippled aversion, confusion, disappointment, regret and finally intense pain. With a strident hiss, the sinister creature replied, "No...not her, though technically, she did make me into the entity you see before you. When I rummaged through your files, I came upon the name of my savior...Elizabeth Simpson. Like everyone I've ever known...she abandoned me as well...into the keeping of that obtuse cunt, Mansley, though not before she extricated me from the quicksand of my own insanity. I owe her an eternal debt of gratitude for that. She died long ago...and I really don't wish to speak of her anymore."

Cassandra lapsed into a maudlin, brooding silence...a dark shadow lying across her elegant features that warned Mary to tread very lightly. Eventually, the other woman shook her head and that blithe smile slid back into place like a painted façade on a porcelain doll. "I'm sorry Mary...I don't mean to be so dismal...these sepia-colored reminiscences can be so dull. Let it suffice to say that I have become an immortal gifted with powers that are beyond the average person's faculty to even comprehend."

Mary absorbed this thoughtfully with the peripheral understanding that these disclosures had sealed her fate. Oddly, along with the obligatory fear, she found herself strangely relieved by the notion at this nightmare would soon be over. There were so many queries she wished to put forth, buzzing in the confines of her suddenly serene mind like a flock of anxious birds, yet she seized on the one salient question...which was, ultimately, the only one that actually mattered. "Why are you doing this Cassandra...committing these unspeakably atrocities?"

Cassandra's expression became grave, her gaze boring into Mary like a drill and she declared flatly, "That really is the only question that is truly germane...and if I'm being entirely candid...your reaction to my answer will determine whether or not you live to see morning."

Mary's eyes widened and she could feel her flesh rise into great hackles...knowing that her captor was being perfectly truthful. Cassandra stood suddenly and began to stalk around the confines of the small flat where Mary had frittered away the empty hours between work days. It suddenly occurred to her how sad it was that she had not made even a cursory effort to grant them meaning. Mary's gaze slid to the service weapon on the coffee table and she briefly entertained the notion of sweeping it up and testing the integrity of Cassandra's claim to invulnerability. Instead, she decided that it would be best to make the attempt...only with the intent of taking her own life should Cassandra's mood take a sadistic turn. Finally, Cassandra threw back the curtains and peered out into the darkness beyond Mary's tiny balcony. In a flat, dispassionate voice that belied the vortex raging behind her limpid eyes, Cassandra Jasic inquired, "Have you ever had a beer bottle pushed into your anus by your mother while you were forced to suck your father's cock, Mary? Have you ever been made to lay in a rusting tub and have the two people who were supposed to care for you urinate on you, while they laughed at your shame and humiliation...no? Have you ever screamed for mercy while your mother beat you raw with a knotted rope after letting you drunken father ejaculate in your face?"

She swiftly pivoted to face a mortified Mary, whose face had turned the pasty color of old cheese. Despite her full knowledge of what Cassandra Jasic had done, she could feel tears of pity and horror forming in the corner of her blue eyes as Cassandra elaborated. "I have...those things and others...again and again over a period of years...until I mustered the courage to run. Both of the twisted fucks were impossibly dull, but they always found new ways to express their perversity...endless variations of torture and abuse. Through it all...the misery and abjection...I remember distinctly...wondering what I had done to fail them...to have deserved their wrath...their scorn and contempt...as if my torment was somehow warranted."

Cassandra paused and through the distorting lens of her tears, Mary could discern that the damaged creature was peering back through the filter of years, still struggling to understand the heinous abuse she'd been forced to endure. She drifted over to tower over Mary. "Being subjected to that kind of abjection...well, it leaves scars on your soul, Mary...your sanity. I drifted through America for a time after that and upon reflection; I now see that I was quite insane. I murdered several people...some of whom were only trying to help a sad, dispirited hitchhiker they'd picked up on the side of a back road. Then Elizabeth found me...and after I tried and failed to kill her, she spared my life and helped me." Here she sighed...a mournful sound fraught with profound regret. "In the end, she abandoned me as well...even though she swore she wouldn't. She left me in the keeping of Karnalla Mansley...who really wasn't Karnalla Mansley at all...and that is when I became the simpering fixture you see in some of those photographs."

"Did...did she help you kill your parents, Cassandra?" Mary inquired in a voice made rough with anguish.

To her surprise, Cassandra slapped her across the face hard enough to knock the shorter blond woman out of her chair. Through the enormous pain, Mary could feel her face begin to swell immediately as Cassandra loomed over her and raged, "Don't you ever call them that...EVER! They were torturing sadistic fucks who made my life a living hell. Oh, but I gave them back a piece of their own pie...believe me...when I was finished with them...they weren't even recognizable as human. You've seen the photos, so you know."

Through the narrow slit of her right eye, Mary peered up at Cassandra...whose face was twisted into a demented grin that dripped with unadulterated lunacy. That light guttered and vanished and Cassandra's expression became regretful and contrite. Reaching down, she lifted Mary into her arms as if she was a sack of feathers. "I'm sorry, Mary...I didn't mean to do that. The thought of those...those deviants is just so infuriating."

She deposited a nonplussed Mary on the sofa and then tenderly laid the flat of her palm across the distended jaw and cheek. Immediately, an annealing warmth flowed through the throbbing flesh and in the span of thirty seconds, Mary's face had been restored to its former condition.

"Better?" Cassandra inquired eagerly and Mary merely nodded, gingerly running her fingers over the skin. "Beneath that aura of aloof severity, you really are a very attractive woman...though I doubt you realize it."

She rose and resumed her monologue, while pacing around the room. Watching her, Mary could divine a clear war of ambivalence raging behind the creature's limpid blue eyes...as if she was trying to contrive a way of sparing Mary's life. This unaccountable affection staggered Mary and left her wondering if it could somehow be exploited. "After I dealt with those monsters, I spent the next three decades wallowing in decadence and a vapid culture of mindless vanity...as if I could find a sense of normalcy in this ridiculous extreme that passed for Karnalla Mansley's absurdly pointless life. Some years ago, I left and spent the next years trying to decide what I was intended to do...what purpose I had been born to serve. Then, like a nova burst of pure insight, it came to me and I wondered how I could possibly have been so stupefying obtuse. With the torment and suffering I've endured and the unimaginable power I've been gifted...I am ordained to protect the children...to keep them safe from the predators that would do to them what was done to me. Mary, I've pledged my life to exactly that exalted cause."

She abruptly knelt before the inscrutable Langdon and gripping her upper arms, shook Mary for emphasis. "This is what I need you to understand, Mary...and to condone...because I really don't want to kill you...not if I can possibly avoid it. Yet, as much as I want to let you live...I can't have anything obstruct my purpose...to prevent me from protecting the children...do you understand, Mary?"

Mary nodded in a manner consistent with someone who had been mesmerized...slow and mechanical, with eyes that were hooded and slightly unfocused. Cassandra's own eyes narrowed in an expression that might had been either suspicion or concern...perhaps both simultaneously...and then she resumed her monologue. "A first, I started by killing random deviants...irredeemable diddlers who preyed upon small children without compunction."

"How did you select your...victims?" Mary heard herself ask, the interrogative reaching her ears as if from down the length of a long hallway.

Cassandra responded with a radiant grin. "That is perhaps the most fascinating aspect of this whole situation, Mary. Not long after I had my moment of epiphany, I began to develop what I will call a deeper prescience...the ability to perceive deviant aura...like dots on a map. As incredible as it may seem...these monsters actually do exude a miasma that no facade can conceal. I need only close my eyes to see the city of London arrayed before me like a three dimensional map. The deviants mar the city in a form of red dots that pulse like festering infections. It would chill your heart to know just how many red dots are scattered across the city Mary."

"But something's changed, hasn't it...the flurry of activity in the last week or so says as much? These shadow boxes and Roger Pipson...you've unearthed something bigger, haven't you, Cassandra?" Mary asked and it suddenly occurred to her that she was seeking validation...that she would die with the knowledge that her instincts had never deserted her...as feeble compensation as that might be.

Kneeling before Mary, Cassande gently caressed her cheek and intoned, "You really are a remarkably astute one. Donald is a good man, but an inspired plodder at best. You, on the other hand, are in the premium league. The shadow box changed everything...changed the focus of my entire crusade. This device is an agent of black addiction, Mary and will incite the deviants to levels of perversion that are unprecedented. It employs a dark magic to extract the holder's darkest fantasies...and fulfill them. It is the perfect tool of absolute corruption and ultimately, that is its true purpose...corruption beyond absolution. I intend to find the creators of this instrument of perversion and eradicate them...every one of them. That is what I've been doing this last week...smashing links in a chain...all to save the children."

"The Baltic Star is carrying a cargo of children, isn't it...fodder for the sick fantasies this shadow box is purveying?" Mary asked intently, her agile mind rapidly painting a bleak portrait of a very black machine.

Cassandra Jasic offered Mary a radiant grin and nodding, pressed the tip of her right index finger to Mary's nose in a child-like gesture of affirmation. "Astute as always. I intend to track this evil to its source...and to its destination...and ruthlessly remove both...freeing these children in the process."

Leaning forward, Mary exhorted, "Let me do it, Cassandra...properly...legally and without the ocean of bloodshed."

Cassandra grimaced in disgust and stood, disappointment emanating from her tight flesh in palpable waves. "Bah, I have no patience for bureaucracy...a convoluted system that protects criminals at the expense of the innocent victims. Even if you managed to rescue the children...it does nothing to deter the process...only forces the exploiters to be more creative. My solution is more emphatic...final. For the monsters that would perpetrate this evil...I am the living embodiment of terrible justice...and their crimes are such that there is absolutely no latitude for clemency. My way is the only way...surely you must see that."

When Mary did not respond, Cassandra's expression darkened, but she spoke with a deceptively neutral voice. "I sense your reluctance...your puzzling aversion to what I've done...and what I intend to do. I suspect that your attitude finds its source in your misguided belief that some of these monsters are actually victims of a compulsion over which they have no control...is this not so?"

Mary straightened and met Cassandra's incisive gaze unblinking. If this was to be her end, she would not die groveling or recant her personal convictions. "It is, Cassandra. What was done to you is unspeakable...vile beyond words or understanding. The people who violated you were monsters...and yes, they got precisely what they deserved, but not all of them are that way. They are victims of a compulsion that they never asked to have...and with which they struggle everyday of their lives. Indiscriminate slaughter is not the solution...it's simple injustice. The legal system is flawed and convoluted, but I believe it is the only genuine way of maintaining order...so I can't condone what you've done, Cassandra...and nothing would ever compel me to be party to it."

A sorrowful frown rippled across Cassandra Jasic's beautiful face then before giving way to a sly grin that never touched her eyes. "Was Randall Cranston a victim of his own nature, Mary...unjustly accused, completely reformed? It was rather clever how you contrived that devious test...the chance meeting in the street to gauge my reaction no doubt."

Cassandra grin assumed a wicked gleam and she strode off into the shadows, coming back with a large, circular box that resembled an antiquated hat box. Mary stiffened at the sight of the cream-colored cardboard construction, her burgeoning anxiety exacerbated by the mad gleam in Cassandra's luminous blue eyes. She stopped directly before Langdon and with a petulant jerk, upended the box. Randall Cranston's head spilled into Mary's lap, but before Langdon could scream out her revulsion or buck her hips, she found herself completely immobilized by a massive force that rampaged through her system like a juggernaut.

Mary's polar blue eyes bulged until it seemed like they would simply extrude from their sockets and despite her terror and disgust, she could not drag her gaze away from the head. Cranston's eyes were open and his death mask beamed both ineffable terror and unimaginable pain. Where his head had been removed, jagged snippets of gray flesh hung limply as Mary could feel fluids begin to soak through the material of her slacks. Her silent screams came in a constant torrent as she gazed pleadingly up at Cassandra, who wagged a long index finger in stern disapproval. "I genuinely detest subterfuge, Mary...especially amongst friends. Now, you've had your opportunity to pose your questions...so now it's my turn. I have only two...but your answers will be the most important you've ever given. I'm going to remove the binding that is keeping you silent. If you scream...I'll snap your neck like a dried twig...do you believe me, Mary?"

A moon-eyed Mary nodded vigorously and suddenly, she found her ability to speak and move restored. She clamped her eyes shut and begged, "Take it away, please!"

Cassandra sighed, but mercifully seized the head by the hair and casually tossed it into the shadows. Mary could hear it hit the floor with a meaty thud that caused her stomach to clench painfully.

_'Randall Cranston's death is on your head, Mary,'_ she thought miserably, but understood that her moment of atonement was close at hand.

Cassandra leaned closer with her long arms on the back of the sofa on either side of Mary's head. "What prompted you to conduct your bit of investigative burrowing into my past?"

Mary's mind raced...knowing that this particular question had been inevitable, but dreading it nonetheless. The slightest miscue about Donald and his formative suspicions would be a death sentence on Gansby...and she was determined to spare him from this deranged lunatic if at all possible. She conjured the lie with all the conviction and zeal she could muster, attempting to inculcate it into the fabric of her subconscious...to over-write the truth in a manner of speaking...so she would believe her own fabrication. With a derisive sneer, she rasped, "I saw it in your eyes...really from the moment Donald introduced us that first night. As you say, I'm perceptive and my instinct told me that there was something wrong with you...something off-center with the capricious facade you seemed to project. Then I caught a glimpse of something that first night...you remember our dinner at the Afghan Gardens...when Donald asked about pedophiles and whether or not they were really criminals?"

Cassandra's eyes widened and despite her obvious mistrust, Mary could clearly discern a flicker of doubt in those large eyes...a doubt that just might save Donald's life. Mary forged ahead, determined to weave a credible lie. "That look of outrage...or pure hatred...told me that you had experienced the indignity of child abuse on a very intimate level...and so I began to dig. The Yard's facial recognition mining software is a very powerful tool and it yielded some apparently ill-fitting pieces to an intriguing puzzle that was just too tempting to resist."

Cassandra straightened and arched an eyebrow. "Have you shared your...theory with anyone else...Donald for instance?"

Mary greeted this with a sardonic smirk and a weak chuckle. "Really Cassandra...you're obviously an intelligent creature, but that question is simply daft. How do you think he would react to me approaching him with the notion that his stunningly beautiful love interest is actually an eighty year old immortal with a killing grudge against pedophiles? So you see, Cassandra...you've got me precisely where you want me and I think we both know it. All that remains is to decide how you're going to deal with me."

Cassandra's eyes widened and her exquisite face constricted into an indignant scowl, clearly unsettled by Mary's final remarks. The two women stared at each other for a protracted moment and a current of unspoken empathy...of undiluted understanding passed between them. Mary stiffened, a hiss escaping her lips...but then nodded resolutely. Cassandra returned the gesture, her demeanor growing sorrowful. "I didn't want it to come to this...not at all. You and I are really allies in the same war...the only difference being the way we elect to fight it. I was going to propose that you join me and help me wage it my way, but I see that you are intractable in your adherence to your principles. A part of me thinks that perhaps I'm doing you a kindness. To see you live the rest of your life only to end up old and alone, with only a collection of yellowing commendations and indifferent cats to keep you company...I can't bear the thought of it."

Mary could feel her fear...huge and debilitating...grip her then and it was all that she could do not to fall to blubbering and begging. Trying to retain her tenuous grip on her dignity, she whispered, "Please don't make me suffer."

Cassandra tilted her head to the right and considered Mary through eyes that were misting with tears. She sat next to the trembling Langdon and put a long arm around her shoulders. "Nothing could ever compel me to make you suffer, Mary. Death doesn't have to be a painful and terrible experience...it can be gentle and serene...like settling into warm waters. Close your eyes and think of the happiest moment you can recall from your earliest childhood...fix that instant in your mind and hold it with all the tenacity you can muster."

Against the hot tears that slid from the corners of her eyes, Mary Langdon did as she had been bid. With racing heart, she closed her eyes and rummaged through the sepia-toned memories of her early childhood. She felt something...presumably Cassandra's long fingers...press against her ribcage, just beneath her left breast. To her astonishment, she felt those fingers push through both muscle and bone and close gingerly around her beating heart, but she adamantly refused to open her eyes.

A vivid image rose to her mind then and suddenly, Mary Langdon found herself swept away to another time...a time of childhood innocence when pedophiles and dreary apartments were well beyond the horizon of her sensibilities. It had been a morning in early October and she had been walking along a country lane near the English village where she had been born. Her mother walked beside her, holding her small hand as leaves blew across the lane in colors of fire and gold. They came to a stone bridge that spanned a small stream. Mary's mother had lifted the girl into her arms so she could see over the stone parapet. Mary smiled in delight as the diffuse October sun lit the stream's length, causing its waters to shine like glittering diamonds. She laughed in wonder as two birds chased each other along the stream's length. In that pristine moment, seven year old Mary Langdon experienced an instant of perfect contentment the likes of which would seldom come again in the life that remained to her. She tilted her face upward, basking in the radiance of her mother's smile. Golden autumn sunlight framed her mother's face and with a beautiful smile of joy adorning her cherubic visage, Mary Langdon closed her eyes one final time.

4

Cassandra Jasic witnessed Mary Langdon's final moments through the distorting lens of tears...tears for mournful regret. As she held the beating vessel of Mary's heart, the mortal's body shuddered through a series of intense spasms...though the radiant smile of remembrance never faltered on Mary's face. Finally, the quaking stopped and Mary's head fell back against the sofa...her lovely blue eyes springing open and staring into space.

Cassandra bent her head and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Mary...but I had no other choice...I have to save the children."

She leaned forward and tenderly kissed Mary's slack lips and disengaging, rose to her feet and brusquely wiped her tear-stained eyes with the back of her hand. Surveying the room, she gesticulated and the gruesome remains of the two tomcats, along with Randall Cranston's head, leapt into the air. An utterance and the three objects erupted into balls of argent flames that quickly and efficiently consumed the detritus of Cassandra's latest slaughter...leaving not even a trace of residue in its wake. She then drifted over to the Virtua Console and placed her right palm on the small processor. Her juxtaposed images dissolved as the console spewed forth a shower of sparks that effectively fried the operating system beyond all reclamation.

She then floated over to the balcony doors and sparing Mary's Langdon's corpse one final sorrowful glance, stepped out into the oppressively dark night. A rapid transmogrification and a gray dove flew through the London night toward the new docklands.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

1

"You've found Rebecca?" Elizabeth echoed, her voice strained, yet unmistakably hopeful. As she watched a smile of vindication spread lazily over Cynara's face. Despite her wish to cling to her outrage, the questions came in an excited torrent. "How...where is she being held?"

Cynara turned her gaze briefly to Judith and explained, "While Judith dealt with this Mcammon and sent an admittedly over-zealous message, she did succeed in making Barrows' inner circle of minions dramatically more pliable. A few simple demonstrations of the dark arts and both Drury and Beyarov were more than happy to switch allegiances. To answer your question, Rebecca is being held in an abandoned military facility in the Mexican portion of the Baja Desert...close to a place that you and I know all too well."

"El Zaltaro!" Elizabeth murmured, conjuring up a memory that was...in truth...a vicarious recollection from her time as prisoner in her own flesh.

Cynara nodded, her expression of burgeoning confidence slipping at her own painful recollections from that turbulent time. "Yes...one of Barrows' companies procured the contract to construct the facility and when the Mexican government decided to abandon the project, Barrows elected to acquire the property and complete it for reasons of his own. Drury revealed that it had been used in this fashion on several occasions since its completion."

Elizabeth grimaced at the implications of this last disclosure...her portrait of Barrows' ruthless nature coming into sharper focus. "You trust that both Drury and Beyarov are being entirely honest in what they've disclosed?"

Cynara arched an eyebrow and her signature wicked grin twisted those full lips...reminiscent of another time and place. "I marked them both, Elizabeth and they now belong exclusively to me...so yes, I do believe they are being completely honest."

The news that Cynara was accruing a legion of captive followers caused Elizabeth to frown, but she made no comment. Her first priority...her only priority...had to be emancipating Rebecca. She could deal with Cynara's lapse later. "Then I'll be leaving for Mexico. Drury has provided you with the particulars...location, security protocol, etc?"

Cynara nodded, "He has, but before you charge off...there is someone you should speak to first. Olem Beyarov will be able to provide a clearer picture of exactly what you're up against."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed in frustration and she intoned gruffly, "Then let us go and meet this Beyarov."

"He's here...on the property," Cynara replied quietly and there was a sheepish quality to her voice that informed Elizabeth that Beyarov had suffered abuse at Saravic's less than tender hands.

Elizabeth shook her head in consternation and growled, "Take me to him."

2

The trio of extraordinary creatures walked through the inky darkness, unmindful of the heavy rain that continued to fall over Southern England. Judith trailed after the two immortals, feeling like a skulking dog that had fallen out of favor with its master. She felt a surge of black loathing for Cynara, but was surprised to find that her rancor extended to Elizabeth as well. Did she not see that whatever Judith might have done...as misguided as it might have been...her actions were motivated out of love for the beautiful immortal? Could she not appreciate that and...make even a slight allowance?

_'Ah, the lies we tell ourselves Judith...to excuse our ugly imperfections.'_ It had been Tamara Hood who had offered this mordant observation. Judith told the old ghost to fuck off in no uncertain terms.

They made their way along a meandering flagstone path, their preternatural acuity guiding them through the total darkness with an eerie ease. Finally, they came to a series of stone outbuildings and guest cottages. Cynara led the way to one of these and punching in the appropriate security code, ushered Judith and Elizabeth in the lightless interior. A verbal commanded flooded the open concept room with harsh light and the room's single occupant issued a startled grunt as he squinted to adjust to the glare.

Olem Beyarov was bound to a plain chair in the center of the room...his ankles and wrists restrained by lengths of nylon cord. He was both shirtless and shoeless and resembled a man who had been taken hostage. Elizabeth cast a belligerent scowl at Cynara, who merely shrugged apologetically. Judith drew up her hood and retreated into the shadows, suddenly apprehensive about how Elizabeth might react to the Russian's mistreatment.

Olem squinted against the harsh glare, but when his pale blue eyes fell upon Elizabeth, his expression became one of anxious recognition and something that may have been perplexed indignation.

"Why am I being treated this way?" He demanded sullenly, drawing an intense scowl from Cynara. In the next moment, his entire body contracted as an intense pain radiated out from the fresh brand on his chest.

Immediately perceiving what was transpiring, Elizabeth wheeled upon Cynara and hissed menacingly, "Enough!"

Cynara's eyes widened...first in surprise and then in anger, but she nonetheless relented and Olem slumped against his restraints with a soft groan. Elizabeth stalked across the highly reflective wooden floor and knelt beside the clearly distressed captive. She gently lifted his chin until their gazes were level and in a kind, placating voice, intoned, "I apologize for your mistreatment, Olem...you have my personal assurance that this woman will never abuse you again."

Beyarov watched in rapt silence as the ethereal blond-haired angel undid the nylon cords that held his wrists simply by waving an elegant hand. The cords fell to the floor with a soft clatter and Beyarov rubbed his chaffed wrists. Elizabeth hesitated when her eyes fell upon his bare feet to discover that the second and forth toes on each foot were missing. The knot at the end of each toe made it readily apparent that the amputation process had been crude. With a knot of emotion distorting her voice, Elizabeth inquired quietly, "Who did this to you Olem...and why?"

Not grasping her reference, Olem stared blankly at the kneeling blond, who smiled encouragingly...a scintillatingly lovely smile that touched a long dormant emotion in his heart...and tilted her head toward his feet. Peering into those beguiling blue eyes, Beyarov was again reminded of his dead mother's mournfully given advice that he should seek out the beautiful things in life. Unlike the terrifying creature who had branded him, this woman's beauty was resplendent and soul-deep and he could feel the genuine sympathy in her desire to know what had befallen him

Olem related the tale of how he had first run afoul of Sir Ian Barrows and the drastic measures that the Englishman had taken by way of retaliation. Elizabeth's expression hardened as Beyarov spun his tale and it was then that she decided...irrespective of how this situation might resolve itself...Elizabeth would see this decrepit monster dead. By way of summary, she remarked, "You have basically been Barrows' slave since you were abducted?"

Beyarov considered this thoughtfully for an extended moment, his blue eyes narrowed, and then merely nodded.

"From this day forth, Olem...you will be subservient to no one." She paused and skewered Cynara with a meaningful glare to which Saravic inhaled sharply, but nonetheless signaled her agreement with a tacit nod. Turning back to the Russian, she inquired calmly, "It was your program that first found me...is that correct."

Though clearly reluctant, Beyarov again nodded...before elaborating, "This will sound...self-serving given the circumstances, but I didn't want to turn this information over to Barrows. I'm sorry for what's happened to you...to your family."

Discerning his sincerity, Elizabeth replied, "I believe you, Olem. You can atone for this by helping me understand the circumstances in which my family member is being held...and then the slate between us will be wiped clean...and you will be free to leave this place and find whatever life and happiness might lay beyond...free from fear of retaliation from either me...or Ian Barrows."

Beyarov's hard, angular face appeared to soften at the prospect, though his eyes held a distinct note of skepticism as if the prospect for true freedom lay well beyond his sensibilities. Still, there was something about this serene creature that made even the most absurd pipe dream seem attainable. "I designed an implant that would transmit a signal to the cage holding the girl...more precisely, to the aperture door located at the center of her cell. The signal will be triggered if Barrows' heart stops beating for more than sixty seconds. The system is a testimony to the extent of the old man's paranoia...or the lengths to which he will resort to control every contingency. The aperture door is holding back a quantity of liquid concrete slurry that is maintained in a constant state of slow agitation to prevent it from solidifying. If the Barrows' heart stops beating for longer than sixty seconds, the door will open and the slurry will fill the room. The holding tank is a reverse replica of the girl's cell in terms of volume and will fill her cell to capacity within thirty seconds. The slurry contains an accelerator that will cause the concrete to become solid in less than two minutes after it has flowed into the room...encasing the girl in solid concrete."

As Beyarov dispassionately related the specifics of Ian Barrows' depraved precaution, Elizabeth expression became one of absolute horror. Sensing how distraught her fellow immortal was becoming, Cynara glided forward and gently laid her hands on Elizabeth's tense shoulders, trying to assuage her growing agitation. "No need to panic just yet, Elizabeth. Olem and Drury have engineered a rather clever override that you've provide us with a window of opportunity to extract Rebecca...safely."

Elizabeth looked questioningly to Beyarov, who nodded. He found himself eager to please this enthralling creature...aware that her mere proximity was casting a spell over him, but indifferent to the knowledge. A shadow darkened his brow as he described the deceptive tool he had inculcated into Barrows' heart monitor software. "As I mentioned, Barrows is meticulous to the point of obsession and he had me program several fail safe components into the gate trigger."

Cynara and Elizabeth exchanged glances and the raven-haired immortal observed soberly, "It's almost as if the bastard knew that you weren't simply some kind of age anomaly...that you were something far more formidable."

Elizabeth pursed her lips and returned her attention to Beyarov, in whom she could sense no willful evil...only a broken and lost soul. "But this override will disrupt the signal?"

"Yes...but only for five minutes...after which the gate release will automatically be initiated...with no possibility of override...even manually at the source."

Elizabeth nodded grimly. "Can the aperture gates be activated any other way?"

"Yes...at the source by the commander of the group holding the girl...and by Barrows, himself," the Russian confirmed. "The override can only be initiated from my office master console and by a code only I have." He offered Elizabeth a humorless grin and quipped, "Perhaps Barrows' paranoia is infectious."

"Will you help me get Rebecca back, Olem?" Elizabeth asked and there was such a note of desperate entreaty in her dulcet voice that the Russian could only nod eagerly. She squeezed his right forearm and assisted him to his feet. "Cynara will take you home, Olem and once we've come up with a specific course of action...I'll have her contact you. I know you've taken an exorbitant risk, Olem...and I want to thank you for giving me a chance to protect my family."

Beyarov opened his mouth to speak, but then fell silent, fearful that his emotions would prompt him to say something embarrassingly foolish. Instead, he bowed slightly and allowed the other terrifying creature to lead him to the door.

Cynara paused before stepping out into he blustery night and without looking back, said, "It's going to be okay, Elizabeth...Rebecca will be back with her family in a matter of days...and then you can decide what comes next...for all of us."

When the pair had vanished into the rain and darkness, Elizabeth drifted over to a wingback that sat next to a cold stone fireplace. With a distracted wave, flames burst into being and soon, pleasant warmth filled the cold cottage, casting a flicker light over its interior. She slumped into the chair and watched the hypnotic dance of the flames, trying to reconcile herself with the path she had now elected to traverse.

From the confines of her shadow cloak, Judith studied the beautiful countenance she had come to love with such stunning alacrity and depth. She could glean Elizabeth's sinking dejection and wanted to offer her consolation...wanted to efface the forlorn shadow from that gentle face, but feared that her actions at the facility had forever deprived her of the privilege of calling herself Elizabeth's friend.

Thus, both suffered their moments of despair in solitude.

3

Standing beside the technical marvel that housed a very ill and incensed Ian Barrows, Cedric Drury experienced a moment of perfect terror...the kind that comes with the realization that his fate is tied to a man whose life is hanging by a badly frayed thread.

_'This is what the servants of the ancient Pharaohs must have felt like whenever their master came down with a cold,'_ Drury mused as he cast a wary glance at the skeletal thing's eyes that seemed to burn with the heat of fever...and madness. Barrows' narrow chest rose and fell in an erratic rhythm and Cedric flicked an uneasy glance at the support pod's vitals display...alarmed to see that Barrows' heart rate had spiked wildly. Setting aside his aversion, Cedric placed a hand on the dying man's shoulder...a repulsive construct of sagging flesh and knobby bone. "You have to calm yourself, Sir Ian...this level of stress will do you no good."

"Calm be damned!" Barrows raged, though his words burst from his thin lips in an airy gasp that made their ferocity seem piteous and laughable. "There will be repercussions for this flagrant act of defiance...oh yes, immediate and painful repercussions. If this is the kind of game that this bitch wishes to play, then I am more the happy to oblige."

Drury could feel an icy chill traverse the length of his spine and saw exactly how untenable his position had become. Dreading what was coming next, but understanding the exigency of calming Barrows' potentially lethal tantrum, Cedric inquired evenly, "What would you have me do, Sir Ian?"

Barrows' terrible regard settled on Cedric's face...the death mask exuding a palpable malevolence. "You can begin by explaining how this...this one woman managed to walk into a heavily guarded facility...murder my old friend and destroy a billion dollar research facility."

A caustic retort was poised on the edge of Drury's tongue, but he bit it back, knowing that there was no room for meaningful dialogue in the role he served. Still, the notion that Barrows would refer to Mcammon...a man whom he had ordered murdered not long ago...as a friend was simply incomprehensible. He had to find a way to forestall Barrows' demand for brutal retaliation...knowing that the consequences would likely prove fatal. "Sir Ian...if we're being entirely candid...I think we both know that this woman is anything but ordinary...and certainly not mortal. I won't pretend to know what she might be...but I fear that we may have bitten off more than we can chew here...because, whatever Elizabeth Simpson might prove to be...I don't believe she is the only one of her kind. I am beginning to fear that our leverage over Ms. Simpson may not be as absolute as we first surmised."

Barrows pondered this idea for a moment, his sour expression making his countenance seem all the more horrifying. "You say there are more...what do you base that conjecture on, Drury?"

"When the factory was destroyed and Mcammon murdered, Elizabeth was just about to embark on her return flight to London," Drury shared patiently...as if speaking to a petulant child. "Whoever did this left absolutely no trace of their having been in the facility...systematically disabling the security system as they moved from point to point...as if they were invisible. It might be imprudent to do anything that could potentially instigate further retaliation against you."

Barrows' face puckered into a knot of consternation at his subordinate's perceived presumption, but before he could respond, the ancient relic fell into a coughing fit that alarmed Drury. Watching the old man's emancipated chest rise and fall like an over-taxed bellows and noting the dramatic spike in his heart rate, Cedric could feel his own heart begin to beat furiously in response. The hacking cough seemed to persist and finally a dour nurse pushed into the room and ignoring Drury, scanned the life support pods' numerous monitoring outputs. She fixed the relic in the pod with a cold eye of appraisal, laid the flat of her palm on Barrows' writhing chest and then made several adjustments to what Drury recognized as medication dispensers. Eventually, Barrows fit subsided and he lay gasping against the pillow. The papery thin skin of his face was slick with oily perspiration and he appeared on the verge of expiring.

The nurse cast Drury a withering frown of disapproval and rasped, "It's important not to agitate the patient...which clearly your presence has. I would suggest you make this visit brief."

Drury merely stared back at her with eyes that intimated the capacity for swift and brutal violence and finally she averted her eyes and stalked from the room. Cedric sighed...knowing that her advice was especially cogent...and turned back to the dying man, who was only now beginning to recover his composure. He gazed at Drury with eyes that were haunted by the specter of impending doom. "I want the girl to bear the consequences of Ms. Simpson's misguided actions...I want the pinkie fingers amputated from each hand. I want the hands photographed after the amputation in a way that makes its clear that this is Rebecca Merin."

"I understand what you're trying to achieve, Sir Ian...but we have no way of communicating with Simpson...to impress your message upon her," Drury pointed out, maintaining a neutral tone by the barest of margins. He recalled the excruciating pain that he had suffered as the raven-haired monster had dragged her fingernail down the length of his penis...leaving a permanent brand on his manhood. He shuddered to ponder what retaliation she might take if he actually complied with Barrows savage demand for retribution.

Barrows watery eyes glared pure malice when he instructed, "It's apparent that Simpson traveled to Boston to visit the girl's family. Send the photographs to Imirya Merin. She should have sufficient motivation to find her grandmother." Barrows paused...his voice faltering badly and a staggeringly capricious note stealing into his voice. "I'm going to die very soon, Cedric...unless we can unravel precisely what it is that makes this creature tick. I want it made explicitly clear to Imirya Merin that...if Elizabeth does not present herself to you by October 14th...she can expect a steady stream of new photographs...until her precious daughter resembles something from a carnival freak show...am I clear, Cedric?"

Drury arched an eyebrow and pretended to adjust the cuff of his suit jacket. Seeing little to be gained by further discourse, Drury nodded resolutely and intoned, "It will be done, Sir Ian...I'll attend to it at once."

Drury had turned away and was starting toward the door, when Barrows added, "And Cedric...perhaps as an added inducement...include the severed fingers with the photographs."

Not trusting himself to speak and perplexed by the sudden manifestation of his new sense of compunction, Drury merely nodded and left the room without further comment.

4

Drury quickly descended the main staircase of Northrop Manor...just another of the estates that Barrows maintained in the vicinity of the city. The cavernous structure was unnaturally quiet lending a macabre air to the ambiance of the sprawling estate. The estate housed a full compliment of doctors, nurses and even held a state of the art operating theater in the event that Barrows required invasive surgery...all standing as a testimony to the owner's fantastical refusal to accept the inevitability of his demise.

Drury shook his head...beginning to wonder about the innate value of spending a lifetime in the endeavor of accruing wealth and its material trapping. Barrows was an extreme, but Cedric suspected that there were others of his ilk...blessed with every advantage life could bestow upon a person, but living in constant fear of death...of the tangible limit that was immune to influence or coercion. When Elizabeth Simpson had inadvertently (or so Drury suspected) dangled the enticing prospect of immortality before Barrows' eyes, it had given the unscrupulous pirate something to fixate upon...the means to literally defy death. With the glowing vision implanted in Barrows' frantic mind, there was no limit to which the man would resort to attain that incredible brass ring...and everyone in his proximity would suffer as a consequence; perhaps Cedric most of all.

At the base of the stairs, Drury became cognizant of a whisper of movement from somewhere above him. He pivoted on the runner carpet and craned his neck along the length of twisting, highly polished wood to discover the nurse peering down upon him, her severe countenance inscrutable from this distance.

There was something distinctly unsettling about the way she was regarding him...something imperious in her glare that perturbed Drury. He scowled at the ice maiden and then started toward the main entrance, beyond which the grounds of the estate were awash in armed guards...that would probably prove completely ineffective against creatures of Elizabeth and Cynara's ilk.

"I would admonish that it's extremely ill-advised to ignore your mistress, Cedric," a voice called from above, resounding in the confines of his skull as much as through the still air of the massive foyer. Drury froze...that voice was indelibly etched in his memory and caused his heart to palpitate in his chest. His eyes snapped up to find Cynara peering down at him, her dark eyes twinkling with mirth...though her expression was the very quintessence of aristocratic contempt.

As he watched with wide-eyed incredulity, she threw one long leg over the heavy wooden railing and stepped out into open air, floating slowly to the floor as if she was a diaphanous construct made of shadow and gossamer. She stood before a flummoxed Drury and it seemed as if golden constellations spun and danced in the depths of her large dark eyes.

"How...how did you find this place?" Drury stammered weakly to which Cynara merely smirked. In the next instant, an acute pain flared along the length of Drury's penis, causing him to gasp like a deflating balloon. His tormentor smiled and that pain swiftly relented to a sensation of intensely erotic pleasure. Drury's normally pallid color deepened to crimson at the sight of the prominent erection that tented the front of his trousers.

"You see Cedric...I can inflict misery or bestow exquisite pleasure. Is that not the very definition of a goddess?" She punctuated this thought by gripping his member and administering a few languid strokes through his trousers...laughing indulgently when he groaned and his legs trembled violently.

Then she stepped back and crossed her arms beneath her full breasts as her demeanor became deadly serious. "As I mentioned, Cedric...my brand is the world's most efficient GPS system, allowing me to locate you with merely a thought. That miserable bastard is poised on the precipice of the abyss and as dearly as I would love to provide the requisite push to see him over the edge, he has to stay amongst the living until Rebecca is safe."

"I trust you heard his instructions?" Drury inquired shakily and when Cynara's expression darkened, he added, "Sir Ian won't be put off."

"I will encourage Elizabeth to depart for Mexico in the morning and you will make the necessary arrangement to insure that your hired dogs do nothing to obstruct her upon her arrival." Cynara offered a bemused Drury a spider's grin and added, "Sir Ian is going to have something of a set back tonight...one that will plunge him into a comatose state. I want you to do whatever is necessary to insure that news of this unfortunate turn does not travel beyond this estate. Once Elizabeth has rescued Rebecca...I will send a very special visitor to conduct Sir Ian to his own tiny enclave of hell...where he will quickly come to discover that death is a precious blessing."

She paused and came closer until she had pressed him against the ornate paneling of the spiral staircase. That disconcertingly playful smile was back on her lovely face again...one that he had quickly come to recognize as a harbinger of something ineffably terrible. "Then you and I will have a frank discussion regarding your future Cedric.

She beamed a wry grin when Drury grimaced, but then patted his throbbing erection and growled, "Don't worry Cedric...if you dance to my tune without misstep...you'll emerge from this bit of dark drama no worse for wear."

She then turned away and started up the stairs and as she lithely climbed the carpeted risers, her black dress transformed into a lascivious parody of a nurse's uniform...obscenely short and clinging. Despite his best intention to resist, Drury could not help but stare at the mesmerizing sway of her ass and hips or the way her long thigh muscles danced as she climbed. "What should I do now?"

She paused and glanced over her shoulders, though now she peered down upon Drury with the face of the arctic crone who had reprimanded him in Sir Ian's room. "Go home and wait for the unfortunate news that Sir Ian has taken a turn for the worst...then do nothing. I will come to you when Elizabeth is en route to Mexico."

Then she resumed her ascent, leaving a mystified Cedric gaping in moon-eyed wonder as her clothing gradually made the transition to a uniform more in keeping with her assumed persona.

5

Elizabeth continued to stare into the flickering flames of the estate's guest cottage for a long time after Cynara departed, grappling with the salient realities of the dark road now lying open before her. She tried to examine the current state of her life from an objective, dispassionate perspective, but emotion and sentiment kept intruding on her best efforts. Still...every path led to the same sorry juncture; she had become a liability to everything she cared about...like a person who has lived a long life and whose only remaining influence on the world is burdensome.

She shook her head as a single tear slid from the corner of her right eye and traced a meandering path over her high cheekbone. She loathed this state of maudlin self-pity, but found herself increasingly unable to rise above the cloying sense of being nothing more than a detriment. _'For all that I had hoped to be...those young girl's wistful dreams that I so cherished...I've become nothing more than a beacon for monsters and miscreants seeking absolution that I am incapable of granting. For everyone else, I have become a curse.'_

"Elizabeth...please don't cry...it's unbearable," a voice implored from over her shoulder and Elizabeth twisted around to find Judith watching her from the shadows. Her great dark eyes were solemn and her lovely face was curdled by an expression of dismay.

"Have you been here this entire time?" Elizabeth murmured in a wan voice that was a weak reflection of her somber mood.

Judith nodded and ventured closer. "Why do you insist on scourging yourself for things over which you have no control...why can't you see yourself for the miraculous creature that you are?"

"Really, Judith...is that how you perceive me...as a miraculous creature?" Elizabeth retorted with a rare hint of bitter sarcasm. "Even if I was this paragon of virtue that everyone perceives me to be...has my presence been a benefit to anyone in my life? I look back over the years of my life and ask myself...who has emerged the happier for their entanglement with me. Nathaniel? Cynara? Even you, Judith? Imirya and poor Rebecca...even though they never set eyes upon me...even being in my long shadow has impacted negatively upon their lives. Even if I manage to bring Rebecca home unharmed...she won't be unscathed!"

Judith came forward and stopped directly before Elizabeth, peering down on the immortal with eyes that burned with an indecipherable emotion. Vehemently, she insisted, "None of these things are your fault, Elizabeth. Certainly not what has happened to Cynara and I. Cynara is the blackest soul I have ever known and somehow you succeeded in tempering her evil...transforming her into a viable human being. You've been repeatedly victimized and shackled by unwarranted guilt...and I can see that it's driving you to despair." She roughly dragged the back of her left hand across her eyes and muttered thickly. "I can't stand watching you do this to yourself...it's excruciating."

Elizabeth stared up a Judith with a wooden-faced expression of self-castigation and Ranzman could not decide if she wanted to slap that expression of mournful despondency from that lovely face...or kiss it away. Instead, she merely whispered, "I lied when I said that I don't regret what I did at Barrow's facility...not because I feel sorry for the actions themselves, but because I regret the pain they've caused you...the sense of culpability. In anyone once else, I would think it was monumental arrogance to believe that they were responsible for the well being of everyone around them. In your case...I think it's a sign of divinity."

Elizabeth radiated sorrowful doubt like a dull heat, and when she began to refute Judith's notion, Ranzman knelt and grasped Elizabeth's wrists, grateful that the immortal did not reject her overture by pulling away. "I won't plead for your forgiveness and I won't argue if you send me away, but I will ask that you listen to what I'm trying to tell you. There is a clear power resonating in your soul and I'm begging you to embrace it...to willingly accept the undefined quality that draws creatures like Cynara and I to your presence. It's been granted to you for a reason, Elizabeth...don't forsake it and don't condemn yourself because of it."

Elizabeth considered this for a moment and then whispered, "Have you ever considered the possibility that I am the proverbial flame which draws the moths to their demise? It's a role I have no desire to play, Judith."

Judith tried to conjure a reply, but lacked the words to articulate a response that would dislodge the dispirited immortal from her position of self-effacing despair. She bowed her head, unable to further endure the sight of Elizabeth's anguish. Finally, she looked up and pleaded, "Let me help you, Elizabeth...please!"

Suddenly a speculative light flared in Elizabeth's luminescent blue eyes, restoring them to their customary splendor. Shaking her head in consternation, she intoned, "I can forgive you for what happened at the facility, because I am culpable in what happened there. I know Cynara all too well...just as I am cognizant of the demons you've struggled to vanquished. You never tried to hide the truth of who you are from me, Judith. In fact, you laid your soul bare before me when we were in Paris. Knowing the conflict you've suffered through and being intimately familiar with Cynara's manipulative talents...I still left you with her. I would like to think that it was desperation that compelled me to put you in that vulnerable position, but even that doesn't mitigate the wrong I've done to you. I can sense that you're searching for some...validation...a sense of purpose to cling to and even if I had the best of intentions...I still chose to exploit that need. There was a girl named Cassandra Jasic. She was a damaged, lost soul that I came upon while searching for David. I gave her a solemn oath that I would protect her, but instead I abandoned her to Cynara's keeping. Now, I fear she's become a monster as a consequence. I've committed so many unforgivable blunders, Judith...all purportedly taken in the name of doing the right thing. I know that I have no right to...but I'm going to ask something of you..."

"Anything, Elizabeth," Judith returned eagerly and Simpson grimaced at the other woman's inexplicable desire to offer her aid so readily and without question.

"When this is over...irrespective of how it should turn out...I would like you to go to Imirya and to protect her and Rebecca...to watch over them and protect them."

Judith arched a finely-tapered eye brow, her quizzical expression nuanced by dawning suspicion. "Protect them...from what?"

"The unfortunate consequences of being associated with me, Judith...amongst other things," Elizabeth said. "I fully realize that the commitment I'm asking you to make is...exorbitant...because I'm begging that you devote the remainder of their lives to their protection...how ever long that might prove to be."

Judith's brow furrowed and she searched Elizabeth's face for some sign of the unspoken connotations that capered beneath this perplexing request. Anxiously, she demanded, "What are you not telling me?"

Elizabeth's answering smile was at once heart-wrenching and ineffably beautiful...sorrowful and sublime. "Imirya is an extraordinary woman...a mirror image of me. Despite all she has accomplished, there is a sense of lingering self-doubt that comes from the damage that one accrues over the course of their lives. Imirya is a beautiful soul to whom the world has not be kind in many ways...in truth, she is closer to the idealized version of what you misperceive me to be. I want you to take care of her...and in turn, I believe she will be the stabilizing influence that anchors you to Amathera's cherished truth...and ultimately, you can take care of each other. I have already told her that you would be coming. In retrospect, I see how presumptuous that was...but if you can find it in your heart to do this one thing for me, I can face what's to come content in the knowledge that I've done all that I could to protect the few remaining things I love...including you, Judith."

Hearing those words spill from Elizabeth's full lips evoked a storm of discordant emotions in Judith's twisted heart. Tears, hot and blinding, burst from her eyes and she stammered miserably, "Elizabeth...tell me what you're planning?"

Elizabeth reached forward and caressed Judith's upturned cheek, a fey smile adorning her face. "I'm going to do what is necessary to insure that the people I love never suffer on my behalf again, but before you jump to dire conclusion...I'll tell you that I'm still not certain what that might entail. For years, I lived a life of solitude, stubbornly clinging to the last vestiges of my old identity, but I know that...if there is anything for me beyond this...every trace of what I once was has to be scoured away. I guess that means going off and finding my own mountaintop, Judith...and a completely new beginning where all the fragments of memory have been effaced."

Judith shook her head and moaned a wail of negation. Angrily, she protested, "You can't do it...Cynara will never let you!"

Now Elizabeth expression became one of grim resignation. "I really don't know what the future holds for her. As you once observed, she and I are really flips sides of the same coin and perhaps our fates are inextricably intertwined. I hope for her sake that isn't the case...but I fear it is. You, Judith, will not be dragged down in the vortex my life has come to represent. Imirya is my gift to you...just as you will be my parting gift to her. Please, Judith...promise me that you'll take care of her...and Rebecca."

Though her tears fell like rain, Judith nonetheless nodded her head vigorously and squeezed Elizabeth's hand. A shadow slid across the immortal's brow and she added, "Please, don't speak of this with Cynara...let me tell her in my own time...in my own way."

Judith's response to the entreaty came in the form of a particularly bitter grin. She touched her full breast and spat, "I think Cynara's stamp has pretty much precluded the possibility of deception. Whatever she wants from my mind, she'll simply take."

Elizabeth's demeanor became hard and intractable, "Then we'll just have to change that...won't we."

Without further word, she unfastened the clasps of Judith's mysterious cloak and pushed it open. Staring directly into a beguiled Judith's eyes, she slowly exposed the breast that Cynara had scarred and laid the flat of her right palm over the warm, firm flesh. Judith trembled at the touch she craved so badly, but then all coherent thought was swept away as her body was suffused by a deluge of vivid sensation for which Judith's experience held no precedent. She abruptly stiffened as Elizabeth's unique puissance ran rampant through the causeways of Judith's taut flesh. Her mouth lolled open and golden effulgence burst forth, also flowing from her ears, nose and womanhood in a churning stream. It rolled through her body like a juggernaut, eradicating every vestige of darkness and residual evil that capered in the shadowed recesses of Judith's soul. It obliterated every malign urge and inclination...purging the festering traces of the mortal Judith Ranzman from existence. In its wake, Elizabeth's power left behind a creature that had been effectively stripped of the inherent blackness that had characterized her mortal life...leaving behind a being with the innocent sensibilities of a new born.

When Elizabeth removed her hand and stepped back a pace, the mottled flesh had been restored to its former perfection. Judith sagged to the floor and gaped up at Elizabeth in slack-jawed disbelief. In a voice made tremulous with wonder, she sighed, "What are you?"

"I honestly can't say with any degree of certainty," Elizabeth confessed candidly. "Cynara's sway over you is broken...you're free Judith...of all past misdeeds. I'm going back to the house to rest for a while."

She turned and moved toward the door. Feeling a discordant blend of loss and soaring euphoria, Judith called out, "I'll look after Imirya and Rebecca, Elizabeth...protect them with my life if that's what's required."

Elizabeth turned back and offered Judith a radiant grin. "I wish I could have known you when we were both still young back in Washington...before this deluge of madness swept our lives away."

Judith shuddered at the notion and shook her head. "My ugliness would have consumed you, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth's grin intensified and she offered a thoughtful contradiction. "I think not, Judith...I think perhaps I might have led you out of that darkness and into a place where we could have both found lasting contentment."

Then she was gone, leaving Judith alone to contemplate the ghosts of a possible past and the shape of an uncertain future.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

1

Donald awoke with a start, his brow slick with perspiration and his heart galloping unevenly in his chest. He stared around the darkened room in a state of wide-eyed panic and disorientation, but the dull, milky light that filtered around the edges of the blinds gradually ushered him back into the present reality.

"Bollocks!" he grunted and wiped the sheen of perspiration from his brow, only then becoming aware of the dull pounding in his head...an unpleasant reminder of his over-indulgences in the bitters the previous night. That he had glumly passed the evening in the same neighborhood pub where he had first met Cassande was an irony not lost upon Gansby...a fitting postscript to yet another failed relationship.

Swirling snippets of his nightmare came back to him, but he could not deduce what it was about this particular night drama that had inspired such an intense level of atavistic terror. He recalled wandering in a state of total darkness that had left him confused and hopelessly lost...blind and disoriented because...because a light had went out. No, that was imprecise...the light had been deliberately extinguished, thus plunging his world into immediate and terrifying darkness. Gansby shook his head and sighed as he climbed out of bed...steadying himself against the throbbing wave of nauseating pain that accompanied the effort.

The pervasive dread that this abstract nocturnal excursion had inspired was all too real and lingered even as he tried to cope with the horrendous hangover. He stumbled into the shower and deliberately doused himself in a spray of shockingly cold water that caused him to screech even as his heart clenched in protest.

After a breakfast of juice and three aspirins, Donald began the long drive to the embankment, though the morning sun made his eyes water. He made a solemn vow that last night would the final occasion on which he would wallow in a state of alcohol-fuelled self-pity over a relationship that had been doomed to fail from the first word that had passed between them. As a hardened veteran of such un-couplings, Donald Gansby knew that life eventually went on...sometimes futile and grim, but inexorable.

His first inkling that something was wrong came when he pulled into the visitors parking area and did not see Mary's vehicle in its usual spot beneath the light stanchion where she had taken to parking. The anxiety he experienced in reaction to the car's absence seemed totally disproportionate to the situation, but he could not suppress the sense that something was drastically amiss.

He hurried into the building and made the ascent to the team's area, oblivious to the greetings that halted him as he went. Upon seeing the tangible reality of her empty desk, his anxiety ratcheted up another notch. Ewan noticed Gansby and immediately recognized the expression of concerned consternation that twisted his partner's normally benign expression. "Donald...I must say that I've seen you looking better."

Gansby did not respond to the mild barb, instead lurching over to McGowan's desk and demanding urgently, "Has Mary called in?"

The frenetic edge to Donald's tone caused Ewan to arch an eyebrow and he replied, "No...come to think of it, she hasn't...which seems out of character because punctuality is something our Mary seems to hold in high regard."

Donald inhaled sharply and drew out his PDA. The voice that issued the transmit command held a pronounced quaver and Donald could feel his tension mounting will every passing second that Mary failed to pick up. He fixed Ewan with a horrified frown, the severity of which made the older inspector grimace. "Donald...what's gotten into you lad? She's probably in traffic."

Gansby shook his head in a vehement refutation of this cursory dismissal. "Something's wrong...I can feel it, Ewan. I'm going to drive over to her flat in Islington...just to make sure everything is okay."

McGowan pursed his thin lips and fixed Gansby with an incisive gaze of appraisal...only then grasping how deeply distressed the other man was...a sensation that quickly infected Ewan. "Very well...let me know if there is even a hint of a problem."

Donald nodded and was off at a jog. From behind, McGowan called, "Let me know even if everything is fine."

Donald merely raised a hand and virtually leapt into the elevator, leaving a bemused McGowan in his wake.

The drive into Islington was one of the most macabre that Donald Gansby had ever made...a discordant blend of mounting trepidation, mixed with the disconcerting insight into the emotions he had come to harbor for the complex Langdon. As he maneuvered through heavy morning rush hour traffic, Donald was unsettled to find that his relatively cursory acceptance of the collapse of his relationship with Cassande was largely due to his burgeoning feelings for his new partner. In Mary, he saw a self-assured, capable woman, whose pragmatism and keen intellect were a perfect balance for his more relaxed character. They seemed to compliment each other well and he was pleasantly surprised by how easily he had come to defer to her strong instincts. He was further astonished to discern that a part of his mind was already entertaining the possibility that this acceptance might extend into more personal areas as well given time and nurturing.

_'And then there's the matter of those beguiling arctic blue eyes,'_ a voice chided knowingly and Gansby found himself actually blushing at the notion. That ruddy complexion quickly grew pallid as the contents of his nightmare detonated in his mind with a renewed sense of clarity. _'A light has gone out, Donald...and it's all darkness and groping blindly from here on out.'_

Gansby shivered violently and depressed the accelerator as much as he dared.

2

Gansby's burgeoning apprehension only continued to swell as he stood before the street entrance to Mary's block of flats, his eyes roving the bustling streets that were rife with people after three days of heavy rain. Her vehicle was still in its designated spot in the rear parking area, but the strident hiss of the security intercom went unanswered.

Now his trepidation was a beast that gnawed at his viscera as he retreated back onto the sidewalk and peered up at the building. Donald grappled with indecision for a moment and the stepped forward and punched in the manager's code, contemplating actually breaking down the main access door if this call went unheeded.

A wrinkled face filled the small display screen and seconds later, a gruff voice demanded, "Why hold the bloody buzzer down? I'm old, not deaf."

Donald apologized and introduced himself before requesting access. "I'm trying to reach one of your tenants...Mary Langdon...Inspector Mary Langdon actually. She isn't responding and I'm going to need access to her apartment."

There followed an extended silence and the gruff voice finally returned, "I'm not even sure this is legal...don't you required some sort of writ for this sort of thing?"

"Not in the event that there is suspicion of foul play," Gansby returned smoothly, unconcerned by the possible consequences of his deliberate fabrication. In the frazzled confines of his mind, a radiant light guttered and went out...again and again.

After an even longer delay, the manager announced, "I'll be right down."

Gansby mounted the narrow staircase...which was bright and meticulously polished...following the old gentleman, while scarcely able to contain the urge to charge up the stairs.

_'Long past the time for hurrying, Donald my lad...what's done here is long done and there nothing left to do but the crying,'_ a malicious voice he did not recognize announced blithely and then fell into a peel of cackling laugher that made Gansby grimace sourly.

The manager stopped before a wooden door to which was affixed an ornate, antiquated brass knocker from a long bygone era. He gripped the knocker and rapped briskly on the small brass plate beneath. Both men waited anxiously and when no sound came, the manager grimaced and depressed the intercom button...only to be greeted with a defeating silence.

"Open it now!" Donald demanded, his harsh and intractable tone making it apparent that he would brook no refusal. The manager punched in the override code and the electronic lock flashed the entry signal. Donald signaled for the manager to step aside and then pushed the door open.

The interior was steeped in an eerie silence and the two men exchanged anxious glances.

"Go back down the hall a few paces," Donald instructed and then stepped over the threshold, groping along the wall for a light switch.

The kitchen filled with a harsh white light that made his eyes sting and his throbbing head issue a plaintive burst of pain. "Mary?"

His inquiry was greeted by a thundering silence as Gansby walked through the kitchen, coming to an abrupt halt at the threshold into her small living room parlor. He was only distantly aware of the throaty moan of negation that escaped his lips as he studied the unmoving shadow that was sprawled on the small sofa.

Though her face was lost in the brooding gloom, Donald Gansby garnered the only piece of information that really mattered...Mary Langdon was dead.

3

He leaned against the wall that separated Mary's kitchen from her small parlor, staring vacantly into the middle-distance with glazed eyes that reminded Ewan McGowan of a bombing survivor. Ewan shifted his gaze from Donald's slack face to the sofa, where two emergency responders were in the process of lifting Mary Langdon's body into a black bag in which she would be transported to the morgue for a mandatory autopsy. The metallic grating of the zipper being drawn over her face seemed impossibly loud in the dismal silence of her small flat.

Ewan shook his head and bit back on the rampant emotions that made him want to cry out in angry frustration. The M.E. had offered a preliminary theory that Mary had suffered a heart attack. The expression of contentment on Mary's face...a macabre and ghostly hint of a smile...made that theory seem entirely plausible...except Ewan wasn't certain that he believed it for a moment.

The zipper reached the end of its interlocking path with a terrible finality and the ambulance attendant looked to McGowan questioningly...awaiting permission to remove the body. Ewan gave his consent with a slight nod and the pair began to wheel Mary from her home for the final time. Donald stirred as the trestle cart went by and let his fingers fall gently on the shiny fabric...trailing over the bag as it was wheeled by.

He uttered a doleful sigh and went back to his vacant study of the place where her body had been found. He had known Mary Langdon for less than two weeks, but watching her body being lifted into that hateful bag, Donald Gansby felt as if his soul had been eviscerated...and left with a gaping void that he knew would never be filled.

When the door had closed and the two inspectors were alone, McGowan drifted reluctantly over to his fellow inspector...a somber shadow lying over his normally blithe face. Grimly, he observed, "I would say, without a doubt, that this is the single worst day I've had in my career. Mary seemed so fit...so robust! It's almost inconceivable that she could have a coronary...and not even forty."

Donald shifted his gaze to McGowan, who was surprised to see bitter acrimony shining in those mild eyes. "Mary didn't have of a heart attack, Ewan...not a fucking chance!"

Ewan winced, stunned by the rancor behind this rare profanity. The haunted light in Donald normally mild eyes spoke eloquently of the enormity of his pain at the loss of a woman he had known for such a short duration. Cautiously, Ewan said, "I'm not entirely sure I follow where you're going with this Donald? Was it simply instinct that drew you over here this morning?

McGowan had no prior notion that he intended to pose that last query and understood how it could easily be misconstrued as vaguely accusatory. Still, there was nothing that could be done to call it back and so he simply fell silent. Donald glowered and his troubled gaze swept the room. In a muted voice, he intoned, "I...had a nightmare, but in retrospect, it now seems like more of a presentiment."

"You actually dreamt that Mary had...had died?" Ewan gasped, nonplused by the horrifying notion.

Gansby's brow furrowed and he shook his head before going on to elaborate about the previous night's dream.

"Good Christ!" Ewan exclaimed, his voice echoing in the silence. "I see why you were in such a dither this morning."

"Ewan, I don't give a royal shit about what the coroner's results claim...this was not a heart attack. Mary said that we would eventually have to confront the white elephant in the room. Perhaps if we would have listened, she might still be alive." Donald's voice faltered and he turned away, but not before Ewan caught a brief glimpse of tears glistening in his eyes.

Ewan waited, feeling utterly wretched. Finally Donald turned back to face his long-time partner and rasped, "Look around you, Ewan...take a look beneath the superficial appearances and see the disparities."

Ewan arched an eyebrow, but nonetheless indulged his grief-stricken partner. At first, Ewan could detect only the Spartan trapping of a woman whose life had been devoid of meaning beyond the vocation she loved. Single, with both parents deceased and living in a modest flat in a solid middle-class area, the trapping of Mary's life hinted at an emptiness that was bleakly depressing. Soon, someone would come to clean out these few possessions and Mary Langdon would begin to fade from memory...all traces of her vanishing as if she had never been. The notion was too ineffably horrible to contemplate and Ewan had to bite back on a raw exclamation of grief.

He returned his attention to an expectant Gansby and replied softly, "Donald, I see the remnants of a woman who devoted her live to the job she loved..."

Gansby ground his teeth in frustration and strode around the room, stopping before various things and pointing out their implicit disparity. "Her service weapon left on a coffee table...out of its holster? Does this strike you as an act consistent with Mary Langdon we know?"

McGowan's eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, while Donald gravitated over to her Virtua Console, while gesturing for Ewan to join him. "Her console won't boot up and there is a subtle acrid hint of fried electronics if you put your nose close enough to the CPU. It's been deliberately disabled."

Ewan bent closer to the unit and inhaled deeply, the acrid tang of ruined electronics reaching his nostrils like the ghost of a lingering smell. He glanced up at Donald, the nascent stirring of understanding flickering in his eyes. Gansby nodded vigorously and suggested, "I suspect that Mary spent a good deal of her idle time digging into the smallest details of our investigation...perhaps she found the one inconsistency we missed. Tracking what she was rummaging through should be a simple enough matter."

"I'll see it done, Donald," McGowan assured the other man, but for reasons more than just placating a grieving friend.

Gansby managed a wan smile of gratitude and carried on with his incisive itineration of the perplexing circumstances surrounding Mary's death. "Those are the obvious inconsistencies, but it's the one thing we don't see that really indicates that Mary's death was anything but natural. Her two cats are missing...Holmes and Watson. Mary loved those two cats as if they were children. She felt guilty when she was late arriving home...and yet they're nowhere to be seen."

Donald paused to draw a deep, quavering breath in a futile attempt to master his rampant emotions. When he glanced up at Ewan, his face was a portrait of misery...and guilt. "We failed her Ewan...she tried to warn us that we were dealing with something that defied conventional thinking...and we chose to ignore her. Now she's been murdered and it's our fault...not the Yard's, but yours and mine specifically."

Ewan shook his head. "Jesus, Donald you can't blame us for not being able to readily accept that some kind of...what, supernatural entity is terrorizing the city's child abusers. Even if we both readily accepted the idea...how could we utilize it in a rational, meaningful way that anyone would accept?"

Passionately, Donald retorted, "I know that we couldn't bring our suspicions to Coran and his stripe...but you and I...we should have listened when Mary insisted that we could no longer ignore what every successive crime scene screamed to be true." He wagged his head in a gesture of self-contempt and dragged his hand across his mouth, leaving livid red lines in its wake. "When she realized that you and I weren't going to be supportive...she struck off on her own and it got her killed. You and I stumbled about for two years...looking like two Keystone coppers in a bad movie, but Mary put the entire drama into sharp focus in less than a week."

McGowan started to retaliate with an acerbic denial, but abruptly fell silent, knowing that Donald had spoken the unequivocal truth. "Should I request a CSI team to give this place a scrubbing?"

Donald shook his head with marked indifference and muttered, "There's no point and I think we both know it...other than these circumstantial anomalies, they won't find anything salient. Vindicating Mary is strictly our obligation now because we are culpable in what happened here...and...I don't know how I'm ever supposed to live with that."

Donald Gansby abruptly buried his face in his trembling hands and began to sob unabashedly. Feeling wretched and perilously close to tears himself, Ewan found that he wasn't condign to the task of consoling his partner. He merely stood there in uncomfortable silence until the last of the other man's tears were expended. Wiping away tears, Donald flicked an embarrassed glance at McGowan and apologized. "I'm sorry, Ewan...it's...I."

Ewan squeezed the disconsolate man's shoulder and tried to offer what solace he could. "It's all right lad. Mary was a special woman and this is monstrous...devastating. If you want to stay here for a while, I'll go back to the embankment and go through the process. I will keep a lid on your theory and let them treat this as death due to natural causes. Meanwhile, I'll have the IT wogs run a discreet log on her departmental file access requests. You and I are going to find whoever did this, Donald...and I don't care if it turns out to be Satan himself...we'll put him in a box in the ground...for Mary."

The best Donald could muster to this defiant oath was a doleful nod. McGowan lingered for a moment longer and sparing one final glance about the small flat where Mary had spent a good portion of her adult life, left to make the dismal return trip to the embankment.

After Ewan had departed, Donald sighed and began to walk idly about her flat. He came upon a photograph in a lovely scrolled wooden frame that showed a much younger smiling Mary Langdon surrounded by two older people, who Donald correctly assumed were her parents. They all appeared very happy...Mary most of all.

Gansby carried it back into her living room and still holding the photograph, settled into the very spot where Mary had been found as though subconsciously seeking some connection with the woman he's lost. Gazing into that smiling face...alight with such happiness...Donald Gansby began to weep.

It was a long time before his tears stopped.

4

Less than five kilometers from the place where Donald Gansby was passing his private moment of excruciating grief, Cedric Drury sat behind the desk of his lavish office, staring fixedly into the gloom of the unlit space. For nearly twenty-five years, Drury's life had been regimented...with a clearly defined purpose and sense of loyalty that had suited him perfectly. He saw himself very much like a head butler from the Victorian Era...devoted to the man who had bestowed that purpose on his life. True, during his tenure as Ian Barrows' subservient, he had committed and ordered acts for which there was no possible defense or justification, but Drury had long ago made peace with the fact of what he was or that he worked for a miscreant.

Now, in the span of less than a day, his equilibrium had been tossed into a howling gale and his future was unsettled...to say the least.

Many might have been surprised by how readily a man of Drury's background had come to accept the existence of creatures such as Elizabeth Simpson and Cynara Saravic. Cedric, however, had long ago dispensed with the concept that this world was a place of rigid limits. Things dwelled in the shadows...and the shape and nature of those things were as impossible to predict as the future itself. Unfortunately for Ian Barrows, the old plunderer had unearthed a particularly nasty variation of these shadow dwellers...one that was impervious to anything that Barrows might bring to bear against it.

Barrows had issued an explicit...albeit extremely distasteful order, and should Drury refuse to see it carried out, he would cease to be of value to the old pirate, whose only loyalty lay with his self-interest. He glanced at his PDA and shook his head in dismay, knowing that compliance would mean his obliteration.

Suddenly his Virtua Console began to flash a strident indicator that someone was trying to reach him. In a listless, mechanical voice, Drury prompted the terminal and the face of Mcammon's harried replacement materialized in the gloom. The specialist informed an impassive Drury that Sir Ian had lapsed into a coma.

"Is there an imminent danger that he might pass?" Drury heard himself inquire calmly, posing a question to which he already knew that answer.

There was a distinct silence and the specialist's grim countenance reflected his obvious puzzlement. "That's the odd bit then...his vitals have suddenly stopped fluctuating so radically. He has actually stabilized...it's almost as if this was a deliberately induced medical coma."

Drury absorbed this without visible reaction, which somehow appeared to irritate the specialist as if Cedric should have found the oddity as intriguing as he did. "Thank you doctor...keep me informed...I should be up later this afternoon."

Drury then terminated the transmission without awaiting a response and sat in the gloom of his office contemplating this latest manifestation of his new mistress' power.

As though conjured by thought alone, Cynara materialized out of the darkness, those magnificent dark eyes ablaze with mirth. "It seems that I've delivered you from your conundrum, Cedric. You now no longer have to fret over the consequences of adhering to or defying Barrows' nasty edict."

"What will you do now?" Drury inquired, though he suspected he'd correctly divined the shape of her intentions.

"Elizabeth is already en route to Mexico. You will communicate with your thugs and tell them that she is not to be encumbered. Gather Beyarov up...as a precaution should an override be necessary. This rather tedious misadventure should be put to rest within the next two days."

"Once the girl is rescued...will you kill Barrows?" Cedric inquired softly, finding that he greeted the prospect with no small amount of confusing ambivalence.

Cynara raised an eyebrow as if truly affronted by the idea. "Do you really regard me as such an unimaginative plodder, Cedric. I have no intention of killing Barrows...quite the contrary in fact. Ian Barrows covets immortality...then it's immortality he shall have." She leaned closer and fixed Drury with a sinister grin. "Some instinct tells me that he will not find the reality all that appealing...not at all."

With this, Cynara sank back into the gloom and was gone, though her laughter continued to resonate in Drury's troubled mind long after she had departed.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

1

The sky was a dappled checker board of light blue and silver-tinged clouds as Elizabeth and Judith raced across the Baja desert, the huge tires of their modified SUV kicking up great plumes of sand as the six hundred horsepower engine tore up the desert like a ravenous beast. Judith drove, inebriated by the thrill of being back behind the wheel after so many decades of trudging across the face of the world on foot.

Beside her, Elizabeth Simpson stared out across the vast and essentially empty desert, lost in a tangle of discordant thoughts and worries. Elizabeth had remained entrenched behind her insurmountable wall of reticence for the entire flight across the Atlantic...speaking only when required and resisting Judith's best efforts to draw her into conversation. Behind the veil of inscrutability, Judith could sense the presence of despair...a grim resignation too vast to internalize and she cursed her inability to offer the immortal any form of meaningful comfort.

Judith had been shocked when Cynara had firmly insisted that she accompany Elizabeth in this final leg of her campaign to rescue Rebecca. Elizabeth had initially resisted the suggestion, but Cynara refused to relent and the blond immortal had reluctantly agreed to an escort. Before they had departed for the airport, Cynara had pulled a wary Judith aside and pressed a cache of documents into her hand...including a perfectly forged passport and a chip card with sufficient funds to see Judith live in comfort for decades to come.

Judith lifted a questioning eyebrow toward the raven-haired immortal, who had displayed not the slightest hint of vexation over Elizabeth's removal of her brand from Judith's breast. "Judith Azarian?"

Cynara beamed a sly grin. "Seems fitting...the world will see you as Elizabeth Asari's life long friend...perhaps her lover even. As for the money...consider that a form of reparation for what I've done to you. I know you kicked about the world like a magical vagabond for these last decades. There is enough cash to make sure that you can find a measure of permanence...should you wish. When I've dealt with Barrows, I suspect there'll be a great deal more to keep you in luxury for however long a creature of your ilk lives."

Judith greeted this egalitarian gesture with a cynical smirk and quipped, "Now comes the part where you tell me what it is you expect in return for this generosity."

Cynara offered Judith a crooked grin, but then her demeanor became sober. "I need you to protect Elizabeth. Should something go wrong and Rebecca comes to any harm...I need you to do everything necessary to bring Elizabeth back to me."

Their gazes locked and a moment of perfect empathy passed between them. Judith grinned her irreverent grin and on impulse, kissed Cynara's pliable lips for a long moment, feeling an unanticipated heat pulse through her tight flesh. She withdrew and drew a quavering breath. "I'll keep her safe, Tsarina...though I'll confess that it's still my plan to steal her away from you...somewhere down what I hope is a very long road."

She had turned about and went to find Elizabeth, leaving a bemused Cynara alone with her misgivings.

Thinking back on the moment, an astounded Ranzman realized that these simple actions were as close to an expression of selfless love and devotion as a creature such as Cynara was capable of coming.

Judith accelerated and grinned in delight as the SUV trundled through the loose sand and crested a narrow ridge.

"Judith...there's something that's been bothering me," Elizabeth blurted unexpectedly, evoking a startled cry from Judith, who gaped at the immortal and drew a tremulous breath.

"She deigns to speak? I'm all ears...what's bothering you?" Judith chided sardonically.

"Cynara was a demon...and technically, I was too. She served the will of Satan...in whose presence I've actually stood."

"You met Lucifer...personally?" Judith interrupted, clearly shaken by the incredible notion.

Elizabeth nodded and shivered involuntarily, the recollection evoking a range of complex emotions. "I stood briefly in his presence and I can tell you that his was...an arresting personality. To see him, you would think that he was the most erudite creature you'd ever set eyes upon...and he exuded an aura that is difficult to describe...and even more difficult to resist."

Judith absorbed this thoughtfully and then observed, "You could just as well be describing yourself."

Elizabeth fixed Judith with an exasperated scowl, but the mortal refused to recant and so Elizabeth returned to her original thought. "I experienced Amathera's memories...and she didn't seem delusional...quite the contrary, those recollections of her first encounter with this entity seemed incredibly lucid. It was obvious how deeply she cherished those memories. Yet...if we ascribe any credence to what she claims, then her account serves to repudiate the very concept of Christianity...of heaven and hell, God and Lucifer. How do we reconcile these two versions of the salient governing forces? In light of what we've become embroiled in, such contemplations might seem incredibly superfluous, but they've been troubling me nonetheless.""

Plowing through a sandy swale and throwing up grit in a fan, Judith stole a contemplative glance at the blond immortal, relishing that perfect profile. "You know, I never would have taken you for a deep, philosophical thinker, Elizabeth...intelligent, certainly...but not the kind to expend a lot of energy indulging in pondering matters that ultimately don't have a solution. Obviously, there is an inherent contradiction in our two tales of genesis...and yet here we both are...inarguably real despite that apparent contradiction. In the end...does it really matter which version of the divine we adhere to? I spent a lot of time meditating on these issues as I wandered and came to the conclusion...however imperfect...that life and the act of living is simply an incessant struggle between the duality of our nature. Call it good and evil, but we all have a measure of each and many of us struggle to strike a workable balance between the two...because no one is divine and perfect evil is no easy trick to turn either. Of course, then I met you and that chance encounter quickly and efficiently refuted my theory. Like it or not dear, you are divinity embodied."

"So you think that it doesn't really matter which version of the universal creator is the true reality?" Elizabeth asked sharply, clearly dissatisfied with Judith's cavalier indifference.

Judith replied with a noncommittal shrug. "I suppose I don't. Amathera believed that humans were an inherently flawed and destructive species...or should I say, Jeniah Lightcrusher did...and being the vessel of imperfection that I am...I would certainly tend to agree. Perhaps the answer to your original question could be that the governing forces are in the same ever-evolving state of flux that the rest of us are. The only thing I can say with any reasonable degree of confidence is that you are an entirely new entity and had Amathera come upon you during her long, arduous search...she would have found the answer to her question about our worthiness."

Judith fell silent as a bemused Simpson regarded her intently before murmuring, "I wish I could see the creature that both you and Cynara claim to see when you look at me, Judith. If I do have some grand purpose to serve, I hope it makes itself apparent soon because I've grown weary of trying to make restitution for my mistakes and misjudgments."

She then turned her face to the open passenger window and retreated back into her posture of morose reticence. With her brow furrowed in deep lines of concern, Judith stole furtive glances at the troubled immortal. There was a penumbra of grim fatalism hovering over the immortal, dampening the golden effulgence that had first attracted Judith to Elizabeth on that bistro in Paris.

Judith was profoundly afraid that...should something go awry in their plan to extract Rebecca...Elizabeth's golden aura would be permanently extinguished...along with her wavering will to live. A notion germinated in her mind like a blinding flash of argent light and Judith was struck by perhaps the first genuinely selfless thought she had ever had during the course of her long life. "Elizabeth...when this is over...once Rebecca is safely back with her family...I want to give you my shadow cloak."

Elizabeth's questioning gaze flicked to Judith and she arched an eyebrow at the idea that Judith would willingly part with Amathera's amazing cloak. Cautiously, she inquired, "Why ever would you want to give me your cloak?"

Judith slammed the SUV's brakes and brought the massive vehicle to a grinding halt that raised a cloud of lifeless dust. Judith twisted in her seat and taking Elizabeth's right hand in her own, peered intently into those limpid blue eyes. "You said that you needed to divorce yourself from your identity...to essentially re-invent yourself. Something tells me that your intentions are actually far more extreme. We both know that you exude an aura that seems to attract...creatures like me...and Barrows. This cloak will allow you to vanish in the truest sense of the word...to be completely free of any and all scrutiny. There's a certain beauty in quiet solitude...once you've accepted it. You said you were content in Petalidi and you can find that contentment again...even with an eternity to spend, I doubt that you could ever grow weary of exploring this world's mysteries...or finding its hidden wonders. I want you to have this because in you, I've finally found the one thing I value above myself. I'll go back with Rebecca and devote myself to keeping Imirya and her safe for the rest of their lives...please don't refuse me!"

Elizabeth laid her own hand over Judith's...the long, elegant fingers clutching the smaller hand firmly. "Even if I was so incomprehensibly selfish as to take this from you...knowing that it's very probably the source of your prevailing existence...do you genuinely believe that you could simply take up the threads of a normal life? Can you foresee Cynara being willingly accepting of our arrangement, Judith? She would find you and once she learned how you facilitated my vanishing...she would take her frustrations out on you in ways that are too appalling to consider."

"I can handle Cynara!" Judith asserted stubbornly...those huge dark eyes assuming a flinty cast.

Elizabeth met this vehement assertion with a sorrowful smile. "Graves the world over are filled with those who were equally confident that they could manipulate Cynara. Yours will not be one of them Judith. The cloak is yours...a fair recompense for thwarting Jeniah Lightcrusher's twisted ambition...and that's the way it will remain. Besides...without the cloak, protecting Imirya and Rebecca might not prove to be such a simple task. So you see, Judith...my motivations are not as pristine as you would believe. Now, let's concentrate on getting Rebecca back and the future beyond that will take care of itself."

Judith continued to eye Elizabeth with a rueful expression for several moments and discerning that the immortal would not be prompted to reconsider, Ranzman threw the car into gear and resumed their wild charge across the Baja desert.

_'I'll find a way to stop your lemming-like charge to self-immolation, Elizabeth,'_ Judith vowed, her jaws clenched with a simmering frustration that was born of desperation. Even as this oath took shape in her dark heart, Judith could not escape the sense of mounting trepidation that events were about to move beyond the point of no return...if they already had not.

2

They had come to within ten kilometers of what the SUV's GPS had designated as their target, when Elizabeth gestured for Judith to come to a halt. Judith complied and then glanced at Elizabeth questioningly. The immortal closed her eyes and then allowed her sensory acuity to float forth in all directions. After a brief instant, her immortal's percipience discerned the presence of an array of electronic surveillance equipment, distributed in concentric circles around the facility. "They know I'm coming...but not that you're with me and that is exactly the way I would like it to remain. I'll drive and when we reach the facility, I would like you to enter the underground complex and determine the circumstances under which Rebecca is being held. If this Drury has made the necessary arrangements, this hand-off should be a simple and uneventful matter, but if not...I want to be ready for any contingency."

Judith nodded gravely, but then displayed a flash of her irreverent, provocative self by slowly climbing over the bemused immortal...taking liberties with Elizabeth's nubile body as she went. After being thoroughly groped, Elizabeth slid over into the driver's seat, shaking her head in exasperation. "Sorry dear," Judith quipped, "but all of this hot desert air is making me feel decidedly randy...when all of this is done...perhaps we can find cantina and celebrate."

Elizabeth's eyes widened and she mustered a wan grin. "You really are incorrigible."

"Beyond hope of redemption...especially when it comes to you," Judith agreed readily.

Elizabeth's grin evaporated and her demeanor became somber as she admonished, "Judith, I expect that you'll keep a tight rein on your emotions today...I don't want a reprise of the research facility. I want to free Rebecca without harming anyone...is that clear?"

The snap of iron in Elizabeth's voice was unmistakable and Judith swallowed and offered the immortal a brisk nod. Elizabeth threw the vehicle into gear and attacked the desert dunes with a fury. Though she concealed it behind a mask of impassivity, Elizabeth was under constant assault from a buzzing myriad of misgivings...and though nebulous, these anxieties were congealing into a bilious knot that had jangled her frayed nerves to the point of distraction. She recalled her frantic nocturnal race through the crumbling edifice of her life...remembered how, in its final moments, she had raced past a short series of darkened rooms, where the pivotal junctures in her life had yet to be written. She could not escape the harrowing certainty that she was about to experience one of these critical junctures here in this isolated stretch of desert.

Scant minutes later, the SUV topped a rise and Elizabeth found herself gazing down into a sprawling depression that resembled a shallow bowl. A meticulously maintained razor wire fence delineated the interior circumference of the bowl...at the center of which stood a flat, squat building. Even from this distance, Elizabeth preternatural acuity could clearly make out the details of what she knew was the single surface entrance into the clandestine subterranean compound. The concrete building had a single reinforced steel door and no windows and seemed better suited as an entrance to a mausoleum rather than a functioning facility. Closing her eyes, Elizabeth again allowed her thoughts to radiate out from the mooring of her consciousness...swiftly passing through sand, concrete and bedrock into the surprisingly elaborate complex beneath the scorching hot sands.

Untethered, Elizabeth's cognizance swept down darkened concrete corridors of polished concrete that reminded the immortal of the gullet of a great beast. On the periphery of her awareness, she could sense the gathering of an inexplicable energy that she could not identify. It pulsed like a beating heart...growing in magnitude as the pace of its oscillations began to accelerate. She passed through a window that was comprised of thick, shock resistant glass and came to a sudden halt. There, at the center of a harshly lit enclosure, she discovered a young woman sitting on a narrow bed. Her head was bowed and her hands rested lightly on her thighs, with the palms facing the ceiling. The beautiful face...expressionless in repose...was all too familiar and for the fraction of an instant, Elizabeth thought that she was actually gazing upon a young Contayza Prowzi. The girl was surrounded by a corona of energy that the mortal eye could not detect. It guttered and flared...guttered and flared...its cadence gaining momentum with each passing second.

In the SUV, Elizabeth generous mouth contorted into a perfect circle of dawning horror as she gleaned the essence of what was transpiring within the confines of the containment cell. She shifted her diaphanous gaze up to the ceiling and the aperture door that was position directly above the seemingly entranced Rebecca's head and Elizabeth understood that the young woman was oblivious to the lethal threat that hovered above her.

She came back to herself with a violent shudder and stomped down on the accelerator, turning to the place where she knew Judith sat ensconced in her shadow cloak. "Judith, the instant I stop this vehicle, get into the complex...find Rebecca. She's being held in an enclosure at the heart of the facility. You've got to make her stop whatever she is preparing to do, Judith...whatever it takes...make her aware of your presence and make her stop."

Elizabeth voice had become shrill...rising through the octaves as she issued her frantic instructions. Judith wanted the immortal to elaborate, but the exigency in her tone and the raw panic in Elizabeth's limpid blue eyes stayed her tongue. Instead she threw herself from the SUV even before it had come to a halt and raced through the steel door like a specter even as major Ezrin and two other armed men hurried up the ramp to greet the woman, to whom they had been instructed to extend every courtesy.

Old habits are not easily surrender and the three men, who emerged into the intense Mexican afternoon sunshine, were heavily armed, though their weapons were held in that casual posture of men who had built a life wielding them.

Ezrin gestured for his men to come to a halt and then spread out so that the woman's line of vision couldn't encompass them all at once. He then took three steps forward and announced, "Ms. Simpson...we've been expecting you..."

The major...a false moniker that seemed well suited to the vocation...closed his mouth with an audible plop at his first real glimpse of the woman standing before him. Beyond the initial impression of astonishing beauty, Ezrin's incisive gaze fastened upon her eyes...which glowed an unnerving and malign orange.

3

Cynara stood directly behind Cedric Drury and Olem Beyarov, transfixed by the drama being captured by the live video feed from the other side of the world, where Elizabeth had just arrived at the compound. With Barrows cloistered in the embrace of a coma and Drury having imparted his concise wishes to his mercenary dogs, the forthcoming transaction should be a smooth and simple matter, but Cynara found that she was nonetheless plagued by mounting anxiety.

Both Beyarov and Drury would cast the occasional nervous glance at the statuesque beauty and despite her impassive countenance, both could clearly sense her carefully controlled agitation. An aura of grim foreboding hung in the confines of Drury's dimly lit office like a miasma, making the simple act of breathing an onerous task for the two subservient mortals.

"There is no possibility this disruptor signal could fail?" she demanded suddenly, startling the two men.

Realizing that the question had been directed specifically at him, Olem swallowed and then remarked, "Virtually none...if the protocol is initiated...the disruptor override will shut it down...for five minutes. Still, there is no such thing as an absolute guarantee."

She leaned forward, deliberately settling the full weight of her left breast on his bony shoulder and offered the bemused Russian a brilliant smile that never lighted in her eyes. "For your sake, Olem...you had better offer a fervent prayer that there is."

Beyarov's eyes widened, but he managed a slight nod. Cynara returned her attention to the hovering array of camera feeds that floated in the gloom of Drury's office. Beyond the windows, a brisk October wind scoured the streets of London, sweeping red and gold leaves along the ancient avenues. Cynara studied the displays...security feeds from the facilities external and internal monitoring cameras...struggling to repress the unaccountable anxiety that assailed her...even though anxiety seemed unwarranted in this particular situation.

An SUV came charging down into the bowl-like enclosure, raising a cloud of dust as it skidded to a halt perhaps fifty meters from the entrance to the underground compound. Elizabeth climbed out and moved to the front of the vehicle, her blazing regard fixed on the squat concrete structure.

_'Where is Judith?'_ Cynara wondered absently and then correctly surmised that the prudent Elizabeth had dispatched the stealthy Ranzman to reconnoiter the interior. Three men emerged into the daylight, all heavily armed, which prompted a questioning scowl from the immortal.

Drury raised a hand in placation and remarked, "These men are simply being cautious, but they are professionals. If something precipitous happens here...it won't come from them."

Cynara's forbidding expression forced Drury into silence and she resumed her scrutiny of the feeds. She loathed being apart from Elizabeth in such a critical and delicate situation, but circumstances had left her with very little alternative. It would be necessary to silence Barrows the moment that this Rebecca was free. Though Elizabeth seemed wholly unconcerned by the prospect, Cynara could clearly perceive the acute danger that his seemingly petulant threat about releasing proof of her existence to the world actually represented. The thought that the authorities might take an interest in Elizabeth's continuing existence was a nuisance at worst...but there were others who would be extremely interested that the abomination still drew breath. It was these others...her old masters...that Cynara feared. If they caught wind of her scent...especially after believing that she had been destroyed in Seattle...nothing would satiate their lust to see Elizabeth dead...except her severed head on a platter. It was imperative that a cheated Ian Barrows not be afforded the opportunity to enact his spiteful retribution. Resting her hand on an intensely nervous Beyarov's shoulder, she inquired, "Olem, it was mentioned that you could virtually expunge every record of Elizabeth's existence from the global record?"

Olem regarded the intimidating immortal warily and nodded. "It's an exceedingly simple matter really...at involves running my data scouring program in reverse. It would involve finding all public and sequestered records of her existence...and deleting them...permanently."

Cynara considered this and commanded, "Very Good. Once this drama is concluded, that is precisely what I want you to do. I want every record of Elizabeth Simpson effaced from the world before I introduce your former master to his new reality."

Beyarov nodded and Cynara resumed her scrutiny of the display collage. As the mercenary commander approached, Cynara noticed that Elizabeth's posture was discernibly rigid...and that her eyes blazed the tell-tale orange that presaged fury...and imminent violence.

Stepping closer to the floating display, Cynara growled ominously, "Something has provoked her fury."

The two men exchanged frightened glances, their terror mounting exponentially, as Cynara's gaze swept over the various images in search of something that would warrant Elizabeth rage.

And then her incisive gaze fell upon the solitary figure who sat cross-legged on a cot in the center of a large holding cell and Cynara's apprehensions were granted tangible form. She required on one fleeting glimpse to know that this was the gypsy cunt's offspring and that recognition twisted her lovely face into a sour scowl. Her immortal's heightened perception registered the gathering puissance that was coalescing around the stationary girl like a tornado about to erupt.

She intuited that it was this welling of kinetic energy that Elizabeth had gleaned and which had incited her fury. Panic, cold and immobilizing, gripped her then, but before she could react...hell erupted in the Mexican desert.

4

As had been the case through the majority of her waking hours since first discovering her dormant abilities, Rebecca Merin sat in a fakir's pose, her attention focused inward. She delved through the inner chamber of her mind; slowly exploring the parameters and limits of this incredible newfound gift she had been given. She had traversed these interior spaces carefully, but had yet to discover a limit to this vast repository of power that now churned within her...like a volcano poised on the edge of unprecedented eruption.

Rebecca was shocked to realize that this repository was a limitless cavern which held the raw and formative power that could level mountains.

_'Or free me from this cell...and make whoever is holding me pay,'_ she thought with a rare spate of vindictive malice. A more prudent instinct cautioned against blindly lashing out without gaining a better sense of her circumstances and she elected to heed that advice...instead devoting her time to exploring and developing her innate abilities...which were proving to be astonishing beyond all imaging.

As she engaged in this exercise of self-discovery, Rebecca instinctively guessed that it was these abilities that had been the primary source of the acrimony and contention that had existed between her grandmother and mother for as long as she could remember. Feeling the recumbent power stir to life within her, Rebecca was perplexed by her mother's intransigent refusal to allow Contayza to mentor her in exploring her intrinsic potential...a gift she had apparently inherited from Contayza's lineage.

_'Because she's jealous...because she wasn't blessed with the gift and she can only look upon yours with envy and resentment,'_ a tiny voice put forth, causing Rebecca to blink in consternation. There had been a sly, manipulative edge to that voice that she did not care for a whit. Listening to it was like being beguiled...traduced...and though young, Rebecca was wise enough to understand the thoroughly corrupting influence of such toxic thinking.

She shook her head in bemusement and turned her attention to the assessment of her present circumstances. By her own crude estimate, she had been held captive for four to six days. As her environment was unchanging...the lighting monotonously consistent, Rebecca had only her body sense to go by...hardly a precise method for judging time. What's more, it was impossible to tell how long she had been unconscious after her abduction. Still, it was not unreasonable to assume that she had been here for at least five days. Her only contact had been the brief television dialogue with the man who had evidently ordered her abduction. In the time that she had been confined here...wherever here might eventually prove to be...she had not divined any hint of human habitation in the impenetrable darkness beyond her glass enclosure.

Then there was the alleged point to her entire abduction...the totally fatuous idea that her great grandmother was still alive and possessed something this dreadful old man coveted...that he might gain by employing Rebecca as a means of coercion. The whole concept was so patently absurd as to be laughingly ludicrous...but if so, her captor was not laughing. The fact that he had gone to such elaborate lengths to seek out and secure his inducement was testimony to the strength of his conviction.

_'You're never getting out of here...at least, not as a result of any form of intervention,'_ the cold and aloof voice of Contayza, her grandmother, declared with a flat finality that made Rebecca shudder. _'If you are to leave this place alive, it will come as a result of the gifts you've been granted by birthright. You can feel the unadulterated power flowing through you...waiting for release. Those beyond this glass lack the wherewithal to stand before it and you will cut them down like a scythe through wheat. You need only wait for the right moment.'_

Rebecca's shook her head in vexation as her concentration momentarily faltered and she could feel the coalescing power that churned and writhed around her waver slightly. Ever the pragmatist, Rebecca discerned the logic in this disingenuous contention if she was ever to be free of this place, it would be by her own hand...not at the whim of a delusional madman or the intervention of a long dead ghost. She need only caress the puissance and bide her time...waiting for the moment when her captors' unseen vigilance faltered slightly.

It was at that precise moment that the lights beyond the glass blazed into life.

5

"I've come for Rebecca...you will bring her to me...now!" Elizabeth instructed in a voice that resonated with deadly promise.

Despite his clear instruction, Ezrin frowned, irritated by the woman's imperious attitude and her presumption of authority. That irritation was mitigated, however, by the unearthly orange light that was shining from her eyes.

"We've been instructed to do precisely that, so there's little need for belligerence," Ezrin returned evenly and reaching for the transmit button on his ear piece, instructed his unseen companions to release the hostage from her cell and escort her to the surface. He had then returned his gaze to the exquisite blond and offered her an affable smile which she greeted with a baleful scowl, when the ground beneath his feet convulsed and a fulminating rumble burst from the mouth of the descending staircase...tearing the reinforced steel door from its hinges and flinging it across the desert sands like a playing card.

Ezrin and his two subordinates were thrown to the ground by the concussive force of the convulsion and Elizabeth Simpson began to shriek an earth-splitting cry of horror and negation.

6

Unseen, by man or electronic perception, Judith sped down a rapidly descending corridor, passing a series of intersections that trailed off into the oppressive gloom to her left and right. She literally passed through two clusters of milling mercenaries...her instinct unerringly directing her toward the central holding area at the lowest level of the facility.

She entered a circular corridor that was steeped in the absolute darkness of a sealed tomb. Further along the corridor, in a small booth, two uniformed mercenaries sat at an unlit control console. Both wore night vision goggles. A barely audible whisper echoed along the silent corridor and both men abruptly removed their goggles and one activated a master switch. Judith passed through the specially treated glass of the enclosure just as the corridor beyond filled with blinding white light. Judith came to a halt before the girl, whose eyes snapped open like broken shutters. The pupils of her eyes were fully dilated and unfocused and the incisive Judith could immediately sense the ubiquitous accumulation of unfathomable power swirling around Rebecca like an invisible corona of pure energy.

Throwing back the hood of her shadow cloak, Judith briskly gripped the young woman's shoulders and shook her briskly. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder to see that the two mercenaries beyond the glass were gesticulating wildly and exchanging confused glances at the sudden appearance of another person in the holding cell. Ignoring the pair, Judith returned her attention to the girl who was regarding her with a mixture of suspicion and apprehension.

The unseen power swirl around the pair, expanding and contracting in syncopation to the girl's racing heart. Shaking her again for emphasis, Judith implored, "I've come to take you out of here Rebecca...to take you home, but you have to stop this. Release this energy...now!"

Rebecca's exquisite face contorted into a mask of desperate fear and helplessness as she declared with a strident gasp, "I...I can't!"

Judith responded to this horrifying declaration with a deep shudder of despair. She need only peer into the panic-stricken depths of those lovely amber eyes to glean that the girl had spoken the unadulterated and terrible truth. She had gathered this potential energy without the requisite understanding of how to control or dampen it. Before Judith could contrive a possible way of extricating the girl from this suddenly precarious situation, Rebecca uttered a primal cry and Ranzman found herself being tossed across the room like tumbleweed before a gale. Before she could be dashed to a bloody pulp against the glass, a deeply-inculcated instinct for survival prompted Judith to reach up and drag the hood over her head.

She faded into the spaces between the prevailing realities just as the juggernaut of Rebecca's telekinetic burst impacted upon the heavy glass in a complete circular explosion. The glass...and this was a misnomer...of her enclosure was a cutting-edge polymer amalgam which could theoretically withstand the force of any conventional explosive known to man was unequal to the task of controlling the onslaught. The magnitude of the power released by Rebecca's outburst was a concentrated force without precedent and it reduced the glass into glittering fragments of dust as if it was no more durable than rice paper.

The physical destruction of the confinement barrier was the one contingency for which no one had made an allowance and as the glass was pulverized to dust, the facility's AI activated the triggering protocol.

Drawn by a subtle whisper and then a metallic grating of steel plates being shifted, Rebecca Merin glanced up just as the aperture door retracted and innumerable tons of concrete slurry fell upon her like the hammer of a cruelly indifferent god.

In the instant of lethal impact, Rebecca Merin knew no more.

7

Elizabeth's atavistic howl of torment radiated out across the empty desert and scoured her long nurtured humanity from her soul. She stumbled forward on wooden, unresponsive legs and though she could feel paralyzing despair looming on the periphery of her consciousness...now she could feel only black hatred for everything that had ever inflicted scars of injustice upon her heart.

A dazed Ezrin staggered to his feet, trying to internalize what had just transpired and knowing only that there would be dire consequences for whatever had gone awry below. His gaze fell upon the woman converging upon him and the immutable fury blazing in those iridescent eyes spoke of swift and lethal violence though the woman was evidently unarmed.

"This...this is not my fault," he blurted thickly, but got no further. A flash of searing light leapt from the woman's blazing eyes and pounced upon the immobilized Ezrin like a predatory beast. It scooped him up and tossed him to and fro as if he'd been snatched up by an invisible giant. The malefic orange energy forced its way into Ezrin's gaping mouth, literally melting the soft tissue of his tongue and throat as it ravaged its way into his stomach. As he hung in the dry desert air, the mercenary's besieged body began to swell and blistered before finally exploding in a spray of crimson that was hungrily lapped up by the wind.

Bone and viscera fell to the hard pan with a sickening liquid plop.

She turned a horrible grin on the two remaining mercenaries, who had viewed their leader's demise in a state of transfixed fascination...revolted, but unable to dragged their gazes away from the terrible spectacle.

"Run," Elizabeth advised them in a voice that held not the slightest hint of humanity. "It won't do you any good of course, but it will make this all the more satisfying."

The mercenary on her left raised his weapon and unleashed a burst of heavy caliber mayhem on what surely must be some manner of devil. The report of the automatic weapons fire was deafening, but Elizabeth brushed the heavy rounds from the air with a dismissive flick of her right hand.

The mercenary regarded the woman with moon-eyed incredulity only to be jerked into the air on an invisible tether and surrounded by rapidly spinning band of golden energy similar to ones that had cowed Cynara into submission in the forest on the outskirts of London. Today, however, Elizabeth had no inclination to extend mercy and the spinning bands contracted with a strident hiss...reducing the writhing mercenary to slivers of bloody mush in the blink of an eye. The glistening detritus spattered the bleached sands of the Baja in a ghastly shower.

Seeing the stunning demise of his comrade and knowing that his weapon was ineffective, the remaining mercenary threw down his weapon and turned on heel. Elizabeth viewed his frantic flight through eyes that were a glacially cold and remorseless as an Antarctic night. She could hear his frantic moaning as he fled, but his pleas reached her ears as guttural, intelligible cries that could find no purchase on her dormant sense of compassion. She raised a leanly muscled right arm and sent coruscating ribbons of hissing energy trailing out after him. They moved like slithering serpents, skewering the fleeing mercenary before he could round the corner of the entrance building.

With a distinct hiss...like bacon on a hot griddle...these serpentine constructs burrowed through the man's flesh...leaving a dozen fist-sized circular holes that oozed gore, but clearly showed the desert beyond. He stopped and surveyed the lethal damage with a soundless scream before pitching forward onto his face in slow motion.

A humorless grin of intense satisfaction twisted Elizabeth's generous mouth as she watched him topple and then she resumed her lurching march toward the entrance to the complex.

She could feel a tiny voice beseeching her to exercise restraint...to quell the ultimately damning rage that would only leave a final indelible stain on her soul, but it lacked the efficacy to stay her hand.

As she descended into the bowels of what had become Ian Barrows' edifice of torture and coercion, Elizabeth dispensed immediate and gruesome death to the clusters of mercenaries she encountered. One popped out of an intersecting corridor and leveling an RPG, fired a white phosphorous grenade at the immortal, who merely grinned even as she was engulfed by the flames, which quickly consumed her clothing, but could find no real purchase on her flesh. Cloaked in a mantle of argent flame, Elizabeth abruptly vanished...only to materialize beside the bewildered mercenary a heartbeat later. Naked and aflame, she threw her arms and legs around the large man and pressed her lips to his, laughing around the edges of his excruciating agony as the flesh of his face began to melt and run like butter. He performed a spastic death jig, while Elizabeth brayed laughter and clung to him...even as he erupted like a human candle.

Like an inexorable engine of death, Elizabeth obliterated everything before her...her demented laughter providing a ghastly counterpoint to the agonizing shrieks of the dying mercenaries. By the time Elizabeth reached the bottom level, the last of those screams had faded into silence and every mercenary had been reduced to pile of ash or glistening organic sludge.

Elizabeth's mindless fury had abated, giving way to a plummeting dejection from which the prospect of recovery seemed as improbable as salvation. She had to crouch down to enter the circular corridor. Once the enclosure's glass barrier had been reduced to slivers and the concrete slurry discharged, the surrounding corridor had filled to waist level. The radical accelerant had caused the concrete to flash cure and form a meter thick layer of solid concrete.

A deathly silence hung over the circular enclosure, heightened by the flickering lights that plunged the space into alternating states of light and shadow. Absolutely nothing stirred.

An inarticulate wail of anguish burst from Elizabeth's twisted mouth and she fell back against the wall, where she sat with her arms slack at her sides...staring vacantly out across the tangible corroboration of her cataclysmic failure. In her mind's eye, she saw a light suddenly illuminate one of the darkened rooms from her vision and through the open door, she saw Rebecca Merin lying on a stone slab, her skin as pale and vitiated as alabaster...eternally lovely in a frozen posture of death.

As she vanished beneath a tidal wave of despair, Elizabeth fled into the void, clutching desperately to the knowledge that this would be her final failure.

8

Judith slid back her hood and knelt before the seemingly catatonic Elizabeth, whose mouth lolled open. Judith's tear-distorted gaze settled on those indescribably beautiful blue eyes as they stared sightlessly into the realm of guilt and self-condemnation Simpson's noble nature would have insisted she construct for herself in the wake of this tragic debacle.

With trembling fingers, Judith reached out and touched Elizabeth's slack face, knowing that this unspeakable disaster would destroy Elizabeth as surely as if the dagger of her turning had been driven into her heart.

Judith could feel the claws of her own culpability begin to gouge at her flawed heart and began to weep like a child.

Reaching out along the tether she'd established with Cynara, Judith raised a poignant plea for guidance, "Cynara, what do I do...oh, look what this has done to her....WHAT DO I DO?"

9

A flawless October night had descended over Southern England...a vivid contrast to the turbulence and chaos that now held sway in Cedric Drury' darkened office. As the trio watched what should have been a comparatively smooth release of Rebecca Merin degenerate into a nightmare orgy of bloody carnage and death, both Drury and Olem Beyarov gleaned that their own fates might well have been sealed by the inimical turn of events on the other side of the world.

Cynara's agitation was a towering, potentially lethal thing...her anxiety taking a tangible form as everything in the office began to vibrate and lift into the air in response to the aura of extreme emotion emanating from the powerful immortal.

When the aperture door opened, spilling its lethal contents into Rebecca's holding cell, Beyarov uttered a high, shrewish moan and Drury grunted deep in his chest.

Cynara's hands fluttered to the sides of her head like pallid spiders, unconsciously tugging at her long raven tresses in an absent gesture of dismay as her mouth opened and closed in a wail of soundless denial.

_'This...this is going to kill her,'_ she thought miserably as her gaze slid back to the exterior camera feed, where Elizabeth was in the process of unleashing savage slaughter upon the three helpless mercenaries. Cynara gaped at the staggering display of brutal efficacy, swallowing when she witnessed the second mercenary reduced to oozing pulp by the same constricting band of energy with which Elizabeth had terrorized her. Even this mindless act of remorseless retribution could only hasten the blond immortal's demise...as well warranted as it might be. Unflagging and tenacious adherence to her humanity was a defining trait of Elizabeth's nature and it would not allow her to rationalize the carnage that she was presently unleashing on this band of armed thugs.

"I would never have believed that she was capable of...this," Drury mumbled in a voice rife with incredulity.

Cynara's gaze snapped to his and he grimaced...the scorching intensity in her gold-flecked eyes informing him that he had inadvertently committed a colossal blunder...one that would likely prove fatal. Voice fraught with deadly promised, she demanded harshly, "Never thought she was capable of what?"

The normally unflappable Drury swallowed, discerning just how precarious his situation had become. Those amber flecks seemed to whirl and spin like suns running rampant. Her gaze seemed capable of incinerating him where he stood...which for all he knew...it was. Trying to affect a calm, reasoned manner, Drury explained, "Not long after she regained consciousness, the girl began to exhibit what I would describe as telekinetic abilities...making small items levitate and then spin in increasingly elaborate patterns. It seemed comparatively harmless. I never could have conceived that she might actually be capable of something like this."

Cynara's expression was a deadly blend of indignant outrage and malevolent fury. "And you decided not to apprise me of this?"

"As I've said...I really didn't see the relevance?" Drury replied hesitantly, his gaze veering toward the office door...knowing full well that flight was a fool's endeavor.

Cynara's face twisted into a mask of immutable hatred and she began to advance upon Drury...clearly intent on extracting a measure of retribution for his unpardonable blunder. Sensing his impending death, a measure of the old Cedric Drury re-asserted itself then...a long repressed echo of the pugnacious street-tough he had been before committing himself to a life of servitude. "So it seems that you're not infallible after all, lass," Drury snarled contemptuously. "I can't help but wonder what else you may not have anticipated. Arrogant cunts like you always get their comeuppance...if not today...then some day when you probably least expect it."

"Defiant in death then? Normally, I'd make you live to regret calling me a cunt...but fortunately for you, I have far more pressing matters," she snarled and surged forward. Drury fell back on a lifetime of instinct and went into a crouch, raising his hands in the stance that had served him well in boxing rings all over Britain and Europe. Unfortunately, Drury was quickly and excruciatingly disabused of the notion that he could emulate his feats from the boxing ring.

Drury feinted with a left jab and then threw a right cross at Cynara's face with every iota of force his aging body could muster. Cynara caught his fist in her left hand, grinning at the distinct smack of flesh on flesh. Drury made a valiant effort to jerk his hand free, but her grip resembled a steel vice and could not be broken...even as his efforts became frantic.

The simple flexing of powerful fingers was followed by the stomaching-churning crunch of bone being pulverized beneath a remorseless and unrelenting force. Blood exploded from between Cynara's clenched fingers and Cedric Drury began to shriek...a high, chilling sound that caused an apoplectic Olem Beyarov to fall to his knees, clamped his hands over his ears and press his face into the cold tiles.

Cynara continued to squeeze a wailing Drury's hand until the former boxer collapsed to his knees before her. She released his mangled hand...which scarcely resembled its former self, but rather a sickening mass of bright blood, torn flesh and jagged, protruding bones. Pressing a long right index finger to her full lips, she feigned a thoughtful pose and quipped, "Come to think of it, Cedric...you're right. I am a cunt!"

With this, she swiftly gripped the sides of the moaning Drury's head and as her two thumbs erupted in hissing argent flame, she pressed them into the horrified man's gaping eyes...which exploded with a distinct liquid pop. Mercifully, Drury lapsed into unconsciousness, but Cynara continued to gouge her fingers into the eye sockets until they disappeared up to the last joint.

Bending deep at the waist, the immortal spun with a liquid flexing of powerful leg muscles...pivoting in place like a discus thrower. The incredible rotation carried Drury's body up and around...the momentum hurling him into...and then through...the supposedly shatter-proof glass. As he plummeted through the October evening sky, Cedric Drury's body erupted into a blinding argent ball that had completely effaced him from existence before he could hit the asphalt.

Chapter Thirty

1

"Cynara, what do I do...oh, look what this has done to her...WHAT DO I DO!" This desperate adjuration pulled Cynara out of her transfixed state as she had watched the burning remains of Cedric Drury plummet through the fall night. Her attention jerked back to the array of monitors and fixed on the frantic countenance of Judith Ranzman, who knelt beside an apparently catatonic Elizabeth Simpson. The immortal was slumped in a boneless sprawl, her normal limpid blue eyes staring vacantly as she leaned against the wall of the circular corridor. Barrows clandestine facility had become an edifice of death in the span of the few minutes in which everything had gone bewilderingly awry.

Cynara shook her head in uncomprehending dismay as she gaped at the unmoving and very naked form of the woman whom she had come to love with a fervor that seemed to defy her very nature. A soft whimpering reached her ears then and she averted her gaze to see Olem Beyarov still hunched against the opposite wall where he had sought refuge when Cynara had launched into her violent fury. Raising a cautionary index finger, she growled, "Not a move peasant...I'll get to you when I'm done."

She returned her gaze to the screen, where Judith was kneeling beside Elizabeth and tenderly stroking her brow. This gesture of comfort roused a flare of green jealously in Cynara's vitiated heart, but it was quickly supplanted by deep concern. Along the tether, she inquired urgently, _'Judith...are any of Barrows' mercenaries left alive?'_

_'No...Elizabeth...she slaughtered them all, I think,'_ came the faint and tentative reply. _'It resembles an abattoir...there's blood and gore everywhere.'_

Cynara grimaced as the image of indiscriminate slaughter leapt unbidden to her mind. The notion that the serene Elizabeth was even capable of such an act of wholesale slaughter was well near incomprehensible...and spoke eloquently about her present mental state.

'Listen carefully Judith...let Elizabeth be for the time being and search the complex. Make sure that no one is left alive, Judith...do you understand what I'm saying. If Elizabeth wasn't thorough...finish her work for her. Then destroy the electronics and the surveillance system. I don't want so much as a snippet to indicate that Rebecca Merin was held there...do you understand, Judith?'

There was a protracted hesitation and when Judith replied, there was a hint of her old irreverence that drew a smile from the immortal. _'Don't fret, tsarina...when I'm done with this place, there won't be anything left but restless ghosts.'_

Cynara's somber response, though outwardly calm, rolled along the tether and impacted upon Judith like a breaking tsunami, clearly conveying the desperation from which it had been inspired. _'Once you've made certain that the place is a fucking graveyard...bring her back to me, Judith! I don't care how or what you have to do to make it happen, but bring Elizabeth back to me!'_

_'I will,'_ Judith promised flatly, privately nonplused by the frantic note of pleading adjuration that capered beneath this implicit threat.

The tether vanished, leaving Cynara alone with her misgivings and gnawing anxieties. Not quite alone...she turned her attention back on Olem Beyarov, who still cowered against the wall. At about that time, she became distantly aware of the strident braying of an alarm klaxon, which she correctly surmised had been generated by the breech in the building's exterior structure.

"The broken window has roused the security alarm, hasn't it?" she demanded of Beyarov.

The terrified Russian answered with a frantic nod. "The AI will identify the exact location of the breech and whether or not it was from an internal or external direction. Authorities and the buildings private security will be alerted."

Cynara's visage became severe and she demanded darkly, "Were you aware that the girl was exhibiting these capabilities, Olem? If you lie, I'll know and you'll shortly thereafter join Drury in hell."

The Russian climbed shakily to his feet and stood swaying slightly, but nonetheless met her scorching regard unblinkingly. To his eternal credit, his voice was evenly modulated and firm, when he insisted, "I knew nothing of this girl's abilities. I was little more than Barrows' pampered slave and neither he not Drury saw fit to apprise me of the details of their dirty deeds beyond what was required to serve my purpose."

Oily perspiration rolled freely down his angular forehead as the she-demon absorbed this without comment. Olem understood that she was deliberating on his fate and after several unbearably tense moments, she grinned and intoned, "I believe you peasant. Go back to your cage and efface every trace of Elizabeth's Simpson's existence...no matter how circuitous or tentative. Make all official records of her existence vanish into the void. Are you well set, Olem?"

Interpreting her meaning, Olem replied, "Barrows was inclined to reward loyal service lavishly."

"Then I would strongly recommend that...once Elizabeth Simpson has been effaced from memory...Olem Beyarov follow her into the dust bin of history." Cynara advised and then added menacingly, "If I should ever set eyes upon your unpleasant face again...I'll kill you...now go!"

Olem, who was shrewd enough to distinguish between a genuine promise and a hollow threat, nodded his gratitude at this unexpected reprieve and was gone like a night shade before the coming of dawn.

Cynara could feel despair pressing at the edges of her cognizance, wanting to usurp control of her emotions and render her immobile, but she fought grimly to hold it in abeyance...at least until the matter of Ian Barrows was permanently put to rest. She stepped to the impromptu opening that Drury's sudden exit had left in the bank of windows and peered down onto the street, where the first of the police cars was coming to a screeching halt.

With a mere thought, the sultry beauty transmogrified into a raven and quickly took to the night skies. Ian Barrows coveted immortality and Cynara decided that she would grant his wish...though he would soon discover that eternal life was not the exalted state he believed it to be.

2

Judith gently gripped Elizabeth's forearm and guided her out of the corridor and back out of the underground complex. The immortal allowed herself to be led without resistance, stumbling after Ranzman in a near-catatonic state. Outside, Judith leaned Elizabeth against the concrete wall next to the entrance and pleaded, "Stay here...I'll only be a moment and then I'll take you away from this awful fucking place...let me just clean up first."

Elizabeth gave no indication that she had even heard Judith's request, but she allowed her head to settle back against the wall and turning her face into the hot sunshine, closed her eyes.

Judith drew a quavering breath and left the immortal...making on quick circle around the basin, while occasionally stopping to incinerate the surveillance cameras that were spaced around the upper perimeter of the depression. They burned on their rotating pedestals like flaring candles. Once she was certain that the external surveillance components had been rendered inoperable, Judith plunged back into the complex and systematically searched the facility for any sign of life, while obliterating every functional electronic system...including lights and ventilation. She grimaced in revulsion as she came across the detritus of Elizabeth's furious immolation of the mercenary rabble. Glistening viscera and blood painted an abstract fresco of death along many of the corridor walls and not another living thing stirred in the choking confines of the complex.

She stopped before the entrance to the circular corridor which was now steeped in an impenetrable darkness that was both eerie and forbidding. Though her heart had been thoroughly vitiated by her own corrupt nature, Judith still experienced a welling tide of pity for Rebecca Merin, whose life had held the prospect of such promise, only to come to such a tragic and ignoble end in this vile place...all because of one vile man's ambition to defy death.

Turning on heel, Judith literally sprinted back to the surface with the acrid stench of fried circuitry and squandered life nipping at her heels like a pack of hungry hounds.

She found Elizabeth in the exact same position in which she had left her, face tilted toward the undeviatingly blue sky with her eyes closed. Judith noticed that a single tear tracked its way over the contours of Elizabeth right cheek...a poignant affirmation of the immortal's inconsolable grief.

Stripping off her shadow cloak, Judith gently ushered Elizabeth away from the wall and helped her into the wondrous garment. Ranzman was not particularly surprised to find that it fit the taller beauty like a second skin, clinging lovingly to the nubile Elizabeth's curves as if had been fashioned specifically to fit the topography of her body like a second skin. Judith drew up the long zipper of the cloak, concealing Elizabeth's nudity and then stood back to examine her efforts. Upon Ranzman, the cloak had been a shiny, midnight black with ornate pewter buckles, but upon Elizabeth, the shadow cloak had assumed a hunter green color with scrolling ruby-red stitching along the seams and a muted gold zipper.

Cupping Elizabeth's chin and forcing the other woman's slightly unfocused eyes to meet hers, Judith disclosed, "I'm going to take you away from the awful place, Elizabeth...to somewhere you will be able to rest...recuperate for a short time."

Elizabeth seemed to concur with a barely perceptible nod and Judith began to squire the immortal toward the SUV, but they had only gone a short distance, when Elizabeth abruptly disentangled herself from Ranzman and pivoted back to face the entrance.

Judith became aware of a rapid and intense thickening of the air in the depression...a feeling of coalescence similar to what had swirled around Rebecca just prior to her sudden demise. Judith cried out in alarm...this was a gathering of power that dwarfed Rebecca's...a concentration of energy on a scale that defied reason. A fulminating rumble shook the ground beneath Judith's feet and she instinctively reach for the hood of the shadow cloak...only to realize that it was not there.

The shaking intensified and through a rising curtain of gritty sand, Judith could see that Elizabeth had gone livid...her eyes blazing that terrifying shade of orange that presaged the onset of murderous fury. In the next horrifying instant, the entire basin convulsed and the earth opened like a gaping maw that threatened to swallow both Elizabeth and Judith like a ravenous beast. Before the earth opened beneath her, Elizabeth gripped the mortal's forearm and Judith found herself rising into the air while the earth below split open with a nerve-rending scream, punctuated by a huge explosion as the complex's fuel supply ignited in a brilliant fireball that rose, twisting and writhing, against the blue sky.

Feeling exposed and vulnerable, Judith felt the heat seemingly flay her flesh as the concussive force washed over the two airborne women in a palpable wave. Ranzman squeezed her eyes shut and raised her free arm to shield her face. When the tumult had ceased, she again found herself on firm ground, gazing down into a deeper crater, from which smoke billowed languidly up into the afternoon sky.

Disconcerted and breathing erratically, Judith glanced around to see Elizabeth stumbling woodenly toward the SUV.

Judith was heartbroken to discover that the golden corona that had enveloped the serene creature was nowhere in evidence.

3

Cynara materialized out of the inky darkness, standing on the opposite side of the country lane that ran along the front of the estate where a comatose Ian Barrows awaited her judgment. Her initial inclination had been to simply kill the marauder, but in light of the torment he had inflicted upon Elizabeth, she was now disposed toward a more nefarious and creative solution. Two security guards were stationed at the gated entry to the main drive, but both were too preoccupied with their mindless banter to notice the figure that was standing sequestered in the shadows on the opposite side of the road, eyeing them with lethal intent.

Cynara marched briskly across the pavement, wasting no effort on stealth. The two guards abruptly stopped conversing and cast wary, confused glances at the approaching woman, who seemed to have appeared out of the very air.

"Sorry boys, didn't mean to interrupt, but it seems I've managed to get myself lost. You wouldn't mind helping a girl find her way, would you?" Cynara asked suggestively, crossing her feet as she walked to accentuate the hypnotic sway of her firm hips. One of the guards trained a flashlight beam on her face and upon seeing just how stunningly lovely their nocturnal visitor was, the tension drained from their postures. Cynara offered them a scintillating smile and then raised her arms to the heavens in a grandiose gesture of evocation. The two men were snapped up into the night sky, where they began to spin like dervishes, before being slammed down on the ornate spikes of Ian Barrows' wrought iron and stone fence. Before they could give voice to their agony, Cynara gesticulated again and two distinct snaps cut off their cries. She extended her arms forward and the two gates blew off their hinges as if they were nothing more than paper maché constructs.

"Have a good evening, boys," Cynara quipped as she passed the suspended pair as their blood traced a spiraling path along the iron bars.

Something in this appalling act of brutal violence worked to placate her gnawing anxiety and helped the immortal regain a measure of her customary composure. As she walked up the traditional drive of cut white stone, Cynara reflected on the reawakening of her propensity for brutal violence. For decades, she had attempted to repress this ingrained aspect of her character. Her only recompense for this taming of her nature had been the gradual decay into this weak, vacillating state that had permitted pathetic Cassandra Jasic to physically abuse her without so much as raising a finger in her own defense. As she prepared to dispense iron justice to Ian Barrows, Cynara swore a fierce vow that she would never allow herself to sink to that level of abject helplessness again.

_'Dispense with the facile rationalization about dignity and self-esteem...you enjoy inflicting pain and inspiring terror. You were born to it from the first moment you slid out of our mother's womb and heard her dying screams,'_ the voice of her long dead and almost forgotten sister declared with a contempt that she never would have achieved while alive. Cynara grimaced, but offered no contradictory argument and Alasha persisted...offering a grim prediction on the future her murderous re-emergence might forge. _'While this re-ignited blood lust might bolster your sagging spirit, do you really think Elizabeth will accept your blood-spattered lapse? Even if she did, your beloved is poised on the edge of the abyss and this latest calamity may be all that is required to propel her over the edge. Should she succumb to the bleak pull of maudlin despair...do you honestly believe you could survive her loss?'_

Alasha's voice fell silent, but like a weed planted in fertile soil, the question germinated into a gnawing litany that she could not quiet.

There was little doubt that, despite her own lethal eruption in Mexico, Elizabeth would never tolerate Cynara's regression to her old persona as ruthless monster. She need only recall the debilitating fear that had gripped her when Elizabeth had ensnared her in her constricting vice of deadly energy to know what she might expect should she stray. Still, the long quiescent yearning to tear and gouge...to bare her fangs and unfurl her claws...was like a sweet and irresistible addiction that would be difficult to constrain.

"Then you'll just have to find a way to channel it into something more...productive, won't you?" she challenged, though despite the fierce resolve that echoed in her tone, Cynara was self-aware enough to know that she was walking a very precarious path into a distinctly uncertain future.

There was a second cluster of security personnel congregating in the circular drive as the manor's main entrance. She immediately noticed that all were armed with automatic weapons that seemed an incredibly extravagant measure taken purportedly for home defense.

_'Elizabeth, you really did put the fear into this bastard,'_ Cynara thought with no small degree of admiration. Whatever else Barrows might be, he was wise enough to glean a deadly adversary when confronted with one.

One of the security personnel...the leader, presumably, stepped forward and raised his weapon slightly. He fixed the approaching woman with a truculent scowl and demanded, "How did you get in here?"

Cynara raised her long, leanly-muscled arms and offered the hired thug a jovial grin...and abruptly winked out of existence like a burnt-out light bulb. The mercenary muttered, "What the fuck?"

The collection of weapons-toting thugs gazed around in obvious bewilderment...and burgeoning apprehension...grappling with the impossibility of what they had just witnessed.

Cynara continued to converge on the thoroughly flummoxed mercenaries, her full lips twisting into a malicious grin that often preceded incidents of sadistic violence. _'Restraint, Cynara,'_ she admonished herself. _'Channel your creative side and see if you can achieve the same objective without spilling a river of blood.'_

A mischievous notion blossomed in her mind and she sprinted through the nearest mercenary, whose eyes immediately rolled up in his head. His body shivered involuntarily and he slumped to the crushed stone, his body quaking and twitching as if being subjected to intermittent currents of electricity. Before the others could react, Cynara had passed through each like a specter and soon all of them were sprawled on the stones...their bodies jerking like bacon in a skillet.

The immortal stood at the top level of the circular stone entrance, admiring her handiwork with a satisfied grin on her lovely face. _'Well, hopefully darling Elizabeth can appreciate the artistic flourish.'_

Each man sported a prominent erection as they writhed and twisted in the throes of the intensely vivid nocturnal fantasy that Cynara had inculcated in their minds...a consuming dream in which they made love to a raven-hair beauty with wild abandon.

_'Other than a set of extremely blue balls or soiled undergarments, they'll awaken completely unscathed,'_ Cynara mused, adding succubus to her long list of aptitudes. _'Ian Barrows' torment will be of an entirely different manner.'_

She shimmered up the long, winding staircase...subduing several other employees in the same creative fashion...and finally she found herself standing before the desiccating husk of the man who had visited such grief upon Elizabeth. For a moment, her vision was occluded by a filter of black hatred so profound that she was forced to clutch the rolled steel tubing of Barrows' support pod simply to keep from snapping his neck like a piece of dry kindling.

She closed her eyes and when she had finally regained her composure, Cynara realized that she had inadvertently crushed the tubing as if it was no more substantial than putty. Inhaling deeply to gather a tight rein on her temper, Cynara made a brusque gesture over Barrows' slack face and the relic's watery eyes immediately popped open.

For a moment, Barrows' heart began to palpitate wildly, but Cynara swiftly reached into his narrow chest and clutched the failing organ, infusing it with a soothing burst of life energy. The man's wasted body settled back against his mattress and his eyes were glazed and held no hint of recognition as they peered up at her.

_'And to think that something so fragile could cause a creature such as Elizabeth such consternation,'_ Cynara thought ruefully as she gazed down on the wretch that clung tenaciously to life. _'Ah, but not for much longer.'_

Finally, awareness filtered back into Barrows' rheumy blue eyes and he croaked weakly, "Who are you...and why are you here?"

Cynara offered the husk a predatory grin and remarked, "Sir Ian, I am the answer to your prayers. You demanded Elizabeth Simpson, but in response, you have me instead...an infinitely superior substitute...if I do say so myself."

The old man's eyes widened and he attempted to lift his head from the pillow, but failed, contenting himself with gazing owlishly about the darkened room, "Where is Cedric Drury...and the others?"

Cynara feigned a regretful frown and announced somberly, "I'm afraid that devoted Cedric has met his end. Like all loyal dogs, he grew surly and had to be put down. As for the other...I'm afraid, Sir Ian, that you're paying these malingerers far too handsomely. They're all asleep on the job." Her expression and tone became belligerent and she rasped menacingly, "Leaving you and me alone to conduct our business without interruption."

The old man swallowed with an audible click, but his scratchy voice held a note of defiance. "Do you think you frighten or intimidate me? I've suffered beyond the power of words to describe these last several years...indignity and pain have been my constant companions and so killing me would actually be an act of mercy in the final accounting."

Cynara arched a tapered eyebrow and queried, "You claim that you are unafraid of death...then why go to such extravagant lengths to prolong your life?"

His face twisted into what might have been the hideous parody of a contemptuous smirk and he wheezed, "It really has nothing to do with being afraid to die, you obtuse bitch. It's about the right to live! Who I am and all that I've achieved...these things should confer upon me the right to immortality. Given time, there is no limit to what I could become...and yet I should die so that legions of useless dross might be born. I refuse to accept the monumental unfairness of that concept!"

Cynara greeted this egocentric diatribe with a sardonic laugh. "It can certainly never be said that you are lacking for a sense of self-worth. Very well, Sir Ian...it is within my power to grant your two desires..."

"Two?" Barrows echoed, raising a bushy eyebrow in suspicion.

"What value is immortality...without the youth and vibrancy to see it is fully embraced?" Cynara returned as the amber flecks in her great dark eyes seemed to whirl like distant galaxies in the firmament. "I'm both amused and impressed by your presumption...your audacity...and so I will grant you both."

Despite the severity of his infirmity and his close proximity to death, the light of avarice that dawned in his listless eyes at the mention of deliverance, was near blinding in magnitude. In a suddenly firm voice rife with implacable authority, he commanded, "Do what is necessary...now!"

Cynara favored the derelict monster with an indecipherable grin and murmured, "As you wish."

With an alacrity that beggared the human eye's ability to follow, Cynara pressed her splayed fingers into Barrows' skull, sinking through flesh and bone as if they were no more substantial that mist. She fixed the horrified plunderer with a wolfish grin as her fingers bore into the meat of his brain, bombarding his mind with a stroboscopic succession of horrifying images...of terrors so horrible as to defy articulation. Barrows' mouth opened and began to work in a soundless scream of abnegation as his mind fragmented beneath the terrible onslaught...this seemingly endless collage of gruesome variations of Ian Barrows' protracted death. Buried in the confines of the old man's skull, Cynara closed her fingers with a petulant snap and effectively tore Ian Barrows' higher sentience and memory from its mooring, leaving him a mindless drone.

Cynara leaned closer to the old man, who now stared vacantly at the ceiling...all external perception gone. "I'm sorry...I forgot to mention this one small condition...you'll have your eternal life...but endure it as a mindless, ambulatory vegetable."

She then stood erect and ripped open the beige hospital gown to expose a gray torso where mottled flesh hung in loose fans. Cynara regarded Barrows' exposed torso with unconcealed revulsion and muttered, "I hope you appreciate just what I'm forced to endure on your behalf, darling Elizabeth."

Her eyes swept the nearby utility tray and narrowed when they fell on a stainless steel scalpel that lay amidst the clutter of items required to keep this monster alive. Snatching it up, she pressed Barrows' head into the pillow to expose his jugular. She murmured the rite of black consecration...the words rousing a poignant echo of her own turning...and then drew the keen blade across the exposed throat in one clean stroke.

Despite the faltering state of Barrows' weak heart, blood spewed forth in a geyser, but before any substantial quantity could be lost...Cynara clamped her mouth over the wound. She moaned in revulsion as Ian Barrows' blood slid down her throat in a pulsing stream. It was vile beyond words and bereft of all vitality and she could feel her body wanting to reject it, but she doggedly refused to succumb to the impulse. Instead, she held it inside until it began to boil frantically. She suffered through this unpleasant process, trying to instill as much efficacy into the ancient and barely viable blood as she could impart. Every second that she could withstand the harrowing process would translate into a greater reversal of Barrows' aging process and so Cynara held the boiling contents until it threatened to ignite her.

Swiftly bending forward, she clamped her lips to wound and regurgitated the super-heated blood back into Barrows' limp vessel of flesh. Smoke billowed out around her lips as she suffered through the ineffably revolting process and when at last, it was complete, Cynara stumbled away on wooden legs. Disgusted, she drew herself upright and wiped corruption from her mouth with the back of her left hand.

In the life support pod, Ian Barrows was undergoing a radical transformation...his body rocked by a succession of convulsive shudders as the process of turning worked its arcane magic on his flesh. When it had finally run its course, the man on the pallet appeared to be in his thirties...all signs of age and infirmity eradicated by infernal sorcery. Had Elizabeth been present, she would have recognized the transformed Ian Barrows as the shade she had spied on the shores near her home in Petalidi...on the night of her fateful dream. Unlike that incisive and sinister nocturnal incarnation, this particular version of Ian Barrows was a vital, yet essentially empty vessel. The man, who had once possessed a razor-keen, albeit sociopathic intellect, rose and stood before Cynara...slack-jawed and unmoving, with his empty, red-rimmed eyes and shock of jet black hair.

"Welcome to your eternal paradise, fucker!" She declared blithely. "Find yourself a coat and some clothing here...and then find this place." Laying her hand on his forehead, she inculcated a vision of the most derelict area in the city in what passed for his mind. Like David Stillman before him, Sir Ian would pass the remainder of eternity living the life of a hopelessly addled vagabond...scouring dumpsters and wandering aimlessly about the rundown streets of London's repository for the lost. Unlike Stillman, there would be no reprieve for this evil bastard.

Cynara watched him shamble away after she'd delivered her command, a smile set on her lovely face. Still, any sense of triumph was tempered by the apprehension she experienced as she considered the likely consequence that Rebecca Merin's death might impose upon beleaguered Elizabeth.

Cynara exited the manor, stepped over the spill of lust-addled mercenaries who still littered the grounds of Barrows' estate. As she willed herself into the metamorphosis that would summon her raven persona, Cynara reflected on how thoroughly she had resolved the matter of Ian Barrows...fearing that his specter would continue to cast a grim pall over her future.

4

The brush passed through Elizabeth's long golden hair with a barely perceptible whisper and after each gentle stroke, Judith would shake the brush and again pass it through the wet tresses that fell to a point near the center of the immortal's shoulder blades. Judith made her best effort to focus on the task, thus avoiding the need to contemplate the condition of the woman over whom she labored. Elizabeth sat in the deep tub with her long, lean arms wrapped around her knees and her gaze fixed inward...focusing no doubt on the debacle that had befallen her in that godless stretch of desert.

During the long drive to San Diego, Elizabeth had not spoken a solitary word. Instead, she languished with her misery behind an insurmountable wall of almost catatonic reticence; rebuffing Judith's every overture to offer some manner of comfort or solace. Finally, Judith had abandoned the effort and the pair had made the remainder of the drive beneath a pall of dreary silence.

Upon entry into the United States, there had been an uncomfortable moment when the border inspection personnel had displayed an unusually keen interest in both women...especially Elizabeth, whose disassociated stare seemed to raise alarms with the vigilant border guards. Judith had concocted a spontaneous tale about caring for her mentally troubled friend, who often lapsed into these uncommunicative states but was really quite harmless. Elizabeth had offered no contradiction and though the guard had been obviously leery, he had nonetheless let them enter without further delay.

Judith had found a hotel and squired the immortal up to a suite of rooms, increasingly fearful that Elizabeth might never emerge from her torpor. Now, after bathing her and washing her hair as if Elizabeth was a small child, Judith made another attempt to draw the blond beauty out of her cloister of unspeaking grief. "Elizabeth, I want you to rest...even if the notion of an immortal resting is absurd and pointless. While you do, I'm going to book return flights to London for the morning. Cynara wants you back home as soon as I can get you there."

A violent shiver rippled through Elizabeth's taut flesh as cognizance seemed to filter into her deep blue eyes, though their customary luster was nowhere in evidence Slowly, she turned her haunted gaze upon Judith. Voice flat and in a tone that brooked no argument, Elizabeth said, "No...I'm going to Boston tomorrow. Imirya has to know what's happened to her daughter...has to know that I've failed her."

She then returned her gaze to a vacant study of the far wall of the tub enclosure, while Judith struggled to digest this latest disclosure. _'Are you really so far removed from your own humanity that you can't commiserate with Elizabeth's need to bring closure to a grieving mother...as devastating as that closure might prove to be?'_

Judith grimaced against the sting of this incisive criticism and said softly, "Okay, Elizabeth...we'll go to Boston first...but then you will come back to London with me...won't you?"

Elizabeth turned that mournful gaze back upon an anxious Ranzman and after a tense moment, relieved Judith's anxiety with a tacit not of acquiescence. Judith smiled fondly and remarked, "As desperately as you want to, you can't assume the responsibility for Rebecca's death...nor can any rational personal hold you accountable."

"Contayza certainly will," Elizabeth intoned distantly.

Judith gripped Elizabeth's wet shoulders and shook her briskly and in an impassioned voice, insisted, "I've lived your life, Elizabeth...and I understand the special and baseless enmity that this Contayza harbors toward you. There is nothing you could ever do to change her perspective...and we both know it. Some people you offend simply by being alive. That hardly means that you're under any obligation to accommodate the bastards by lying down and dying!"

When Elizabeth's expression remained flinty, a pleading edge stole into Judith's vehement tone. "Please Elizabeth, stop! Flailing yourself with this misplaced guilt will yield nothing of value."

When Elizabeth responded, the sense of fatalism that radiated from the immortal nearly robbed Judith of her breath. "Judith, with Rebecca's death, I believe that my die has been cast. This life that I am living is...unnatural and it comes with an exorbitant price that those closest to me seem destined to pay." Her voice became doleful and distant, but beneath the layers of despair, Judith could discern fierce determination. "But no more...no more."

Judith shook her head in consternation. She could conjure no contradictory argument that would dislodge the immortal from her dejection. Elizabeth had reached a lamentable place where the price of eternal life was simply too extravagant and the only viable alternative seemed to be isolation...or the grim finality of death.

_'Please don't let it come to that,'_ Judith begged silently, though to whom her entreaty had been offered, she could not say. _'You have to get her back to Cynara...if anyone can rouse her from this morbid state...it will be her.'_ That stark admission grated upon Judith, who still entertained pleasing fantasies of rescuing an eternally grateful Elizabeth from her despair, squiring her off on an unending road trip...a blissfully journey that would take them to every nook and cranny of a decaying world. She now saw that this was a wistful fantasy that held no prospect for fulfillment. Still, she did not want Elizabeth to sink in the quicksand of her own guilt and despair and so she would return her to Cynara in hopes that the dark-hearted immortal would find the magical incantation to rouse Elizabeth from her torpor.

So quietly as to be barely audible, Elizabeth suddenly inquired, "Judith, what exactly happened to Rebecca? Am I correct in assuming that she caused the containment system to fail...and the release protocol to activate?"

Judith was reluctant to relate the details of Rebecca Merin's final terror-fraught moments, fearing that the account would only further aggravate Elizabeth sense of duplicity, but the immortal's expectant expression made it clear that she would not desist. Ponderously, Judith described the horrible events in the containment cell, concluding by saying, "It was obvious that Rebecca really wasn't capable of effectively controlling the power she was wielding. In the end, she couldn't control it...couldn't quell it even after I identified myself and told her that I had come to free her."

Elizabeth absorbed this thoughtfully and then commented, "Then Contayza was right...Rebecca would have benefited from her wisdom. Perhaps then she would have been able to channel the power properly."

Judith shook her head and refuted this notion. "Why ascribe to the negative perspective, Elizabeth. Frankly, had Rebecca never awakened these abilities...she would be on her way back to her family now...in which cases, Imirya's adamant refusal to see her daughter educated would have served her better. All of this is a terrible tragedy for which only Ian Barrows is culpable."

Elizabeth's inscrutable reaction gave no indication of how much credence she lent Judith's arguments. Instead, the statuesque immortal rose in the tub and stood utterly still as water cascaded over the intoxicating topography of her magnificent body. The desire to take Elizabeth in her arms...if only to banish that forlorn expression from her face...was nearly overwhelming, but Judith drew a quavering breath and turned away. Instead, she collected one of the hotel's plush towels and began to pat the excess water from Elizabeth's firm body. The immortal stood motionless...her posture submissive and meek. When Judith was done, she enfolded Elizabeth in one of the complimentary robes and guided her back into the suite's living area.

Elizabeth slumped into a wing back and Judith fetched an exaggerated sigh of consternation and chided, "Do you realize that this sudden submissiveness is driving me to distraction?" She gripped Elizabeth' chin firmly and rasped, "I'm almost twitching with the desire to drag you into the bedroom, tear that ridiculous fluffy robe off of you and ravage you until hotel security comes to see what all the ruckus is about."

Judith punctuated this by reaching for the lapel of Elizabeth's robe while sporting a wanton smirk. Before her fingers could close on the material, Elizabeth snagged her wrist in a crushing vice that forced a startled Ranzman to her knees.

"Elizabeth, you're hurting me!" Judith exclaimed in a screeching voice that declared her pain and surprise. Elizabeth regarded the kneeling woman as if she hadn't spoken; her blue eyes suddenly suffused by snaps of orange that caused Judith to go utterly still and silent.

"Do you still intend to keep your vow about protecting Imirya?" Elizabeth demanded and her tone held an odd manic quality that Judith had never heard pass the immortal's lips.

"I promised that I would, Elizabeth...and you're the one living person to whom I would never break a promise...now please, you really are hurting me!"

The pressure on Judith's bent wrist did not relent, but Elizabeth leaned closer and intoned gruffly, "Judith, you can never tell Imirya about what caused the aperture gate to open...ever. There can be no mention of Rebecca's abilities or how she was unable to control them. If Imirya thought that Rebecca had died because she would not permit Contayza to teach her about those latent abilities, it would utterly destroy her...or Contayza would flay her with that failure until it drove her mad with guilt. Imirya is destined to suffer enough, but guilt would make her grief far worse than it has to be. She is my last living link to my son...to the life I once lived...so you must promise me that you'll never utter a word about what you saw in that cell to another living soul...not even Cynara."

She then released Judith, who sat back on her haunches, absently massaging her wrist and watching the immortal warily. This simple act of aggression was a profound insight into the changes that Rebecca's death had provoked in the once gentle immortal and Judith gleaned that this new incarnation...invested with puissance beyond measuring...would be a lethally deadly creature to cross. She could also discern that the specific form of Elizabeth's concern lay in the treatment Imirya might expect to receive at Contayza's hands.

Though Elizabeth was unaware that she had just sealed her daughter-in-laws fate...it was at that precise moment that Judith decided that Contayza Prowzi would die at her hands in the not too distant future.

Her face betrayed none of this and she declared, "Elizabeth...over the course of my life, I've genuinely cared about two other living souls...Amathera...and now you. You remind me of Amathera before crushing cynicism twisted her into the malign thing she became. Frankly, I never gave a fuck about anyone else...they were all something to be used...exploited and discarded. What happened in London disabused me of the idea that I've actually changed, but I swear to you that I will devote myself to taking care of Imirya...to keeping her safe."

Elizabeth studied Judith intently and Ranzman met the gaze of appraisal unblinking. Elizabeth nodded and settled back into the chair, but Judith suddenly sprang to her feet, a triumphant grin twisting her full lips. That grin became a full and radiant smile of jubilation and Judith divulged, "Cynara's done...Barrows is dead and every trace of your existence has been effaced." When Elizabeth did not greet this news with even a hint of enthusiasm, Judith came forward and clutched her shoulders. "Don't you see what this means, Elizabeth...you're free!"

Elizabeth nodded distantly, knowing that freedom was just another of the wistful delusions to which she could no longer cling.

Chapter Thirty One

1

A haunting song that Donald didn't recognize filled the stiflingly warm interior of the small Anglican Church where Mary Langdon's funeral was being held. Outside the small stone church, a brisk wind pushed leaves, the color of fire and gold, along the Islington streets which were lit by a brilliant, but ineffective October sunshine. As the mournful elegy filled the silence, six somber-faced pall bearers carried the highly laminated casket down the aisle...the first leg of Mary's final journey.

Gansby stood at attention in the last pew, alongside a grim Ewan McGowan and several other members of the Scotland Yard force...including perhaps a dozen members of Mary's home branch. Several empty rows of pews separated the constabulary from the cluster of relatives who had made the obligatory journey from Bibury to bid farewell to Mary and disassemble the last vestiges of her life.

Feeling uncomfortable in his crisply pressed ceremonial uniform, Donald's resentful gaze swept over those who had come to say goodbye and though every face was solemn, he noted how not a single tear was falling to mark this final rite of passing. Donald's red-rimmed eyes slid back to the casket as it drew abreast of where he stood on the edge of the aisle. On impulse, he put his left hand out and let his fingers trails over the smooth surface as it slowly passed. The pall-bearers paused at the door, so that the mourners could collect their coats and follow them out into the late morning sunshine.

They filed out of the church and assembled around the rear of the hearse in a loose semi-circle. Donald's breathing hitched in his chest as he watched the six pall bearers slowly slide Mary's casket into the rear of the grim conveyance.

_'This is what it feels like to be eviscerated...to have your soul torn out and yet be forced to go on living when the very idea of continued existence seems incomprehensible,'_ he thought bleakly as the six retreated and the driver closed the rear door, cutting off Gansby's view of the woman who had made such a swift and dramatic impact on his life.

Moments later, the hearse pulled away from the curb, commencing the solemn journey back to Bibury, where Mary would be buried in a family plot beside her parents in a small cemetery on the outskirts of the village where she had been born.

Face inscrutable, Donald's gaze swept the mourners, many of whom were already starting to slip away. Some of Mary relatives...cousins, aunts and uncles...were clustered near the foot of the stone stairs. One of the group members made a remark that Donald could not hear but which was greeted by a round of laughter from the others. Gansby experienced a surge of bitter loathing for the lot of them, most of whom had come out of a sense of obligation, rather than a genuine sorrow for a woman who had left their lives years ago...only appearing at the occasional family gathering...a familiar stranger who touched their lives only peripherally.

Watching them chat about trivialities, Donald knew with unequivocal certainty, that once the matter of dispensing with Mary's few possessions had been discharged, Mary Langdon would recede into history...fading from memory until all that remained of her ever having lived was a scant few entries in government archives and church records.

The dismal thought made Donald want to scream...to rail at the jovial group and excoriate them with his outrage...demanding to know why they could not see what an extraordinary soul they had lost. Instead, he quelled the impulse and turned his attention back to the church, staring fixedly at its stone facade which was dominated by a large, stylized cross.

_'You'll never be forgotten, Mary Langdon...and the day will come when someone will answer for what's been done to you,'_ he vowed with a ferocity that caused his jaw muscles to clench and stand out in sharp relief.

Donald remained in this posture until only he and Ewan McGowan were left on the sun-bathed sidewalk in front of the church. Ewan approached Donald tentatively and intoned softly, "Go home and get some rest, Donald...or take a few hours to walk in the October sunshine. Perhaps I'm not the most attuned chap on the planet, but I'm sensitive enough to see how badly this has shaken you. If you're up to it...the Baltic Star makes land tonight and the two of us can be there to see who else might greet her arrival with keen interest."

Donald turned his haunted gaze upon Ewan and the other man was nearly seared by the enormity of the immutable pain capering behind those normally placid eyes. In a flat, inscrutable voice, Gansby remarked, "I'll be there...Mary would take a great deal of comfort in knowing that her theories had been vindicated I think."

Uncertain how to respond to this rather cryptic comment, Ewan merely nodded solemnly and clapped his grieving partner on the shoulder. "What say we meet back at the embankment at nine o'clock and drive down to the water front?"

Donald nodded distantly and Ewan left him to his solitude. Gansby lingered for another moment, trying to grasp a residual sense of the woman for whom this ceremony of passage had just been enacted. Sighing, he made his way back to the spot where he had parked his Cooper. During the drive back to Soho, Donald reflected on some of his rather perplexing actions of the past two days and the emotional turmoil that had motivated them.

He had been on the verge of leaving Mary's flat, on the day he had discovered her body, when instinct had prompted him to search for some trace of her two missing tom cats. Rummaging through the entrance closet, Donald had found two personalized harnesses hanging on pegs...a further testimony to Mary's devotion to her animals. This...as much as any of the other anomalies...has verified...in Gansby's mind, at least...that something inimical had befallen Mary...something far darker than a simple coronary.

He was about to close the door and make the dreary trek back to the embankment when he had been visited by a strong urge that he was utterly powerless to resist. Striding back into the brooding silence of Mary's living room, Donald had snatched up the picture of a smiling Mary Langdon and her elderly parents and tucking it under his arm, hurried out of the flat.

Now, as he deftly maneuvered through midday traffic, Donald attempted to decipher the riddle of why he had purloined that very personal photograph...which now resided on his nightstand. In that moment of absolute clarity...so pristine as to be excruciatingly painful...Donald Gansby realized that, in Mary Langdon, he had finally found the kindred spirit to whom he would have happily devoted the remainder of his life and in whose extraordinary presence he would have found perfect contentment. The pain this insight evoked was so agonizing that for a brief moment Donald wanted nothing but to close his eyes and jam his foot down on the accelerator...if only to see it brought to an emphatic end.

After forty plus years of muddling through the pitfalls and obstacles of human interaction, he had finally found the person with whom he truly belonged...only to have her cruelly torn away from his life by a monster that defied all characterization. Instead, he gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity and waited for the raw torment to abate to manageable levels.

When he had regained a measure of his composure, Gansby pulled into traffic and resumed his drive back to Soho, turning his thoughts back to his second perplexing action...one that still eluded his complete understanding. Ewan had left him with the task of sifting through Mary's desk and Virtua console in an effort to determine if she had been engaged in any extracurricular investigative work. What he had found had pulled the rug of his equilibrium out from beneath him and sent Gansby reeling...head over heels...into a twilight zone that he, himself, had first discovered. Mary had taken all of his tentative fumbling pertaining to Cassande Verhoeven and had deftly expanded upon his macabre line of inquiry.

He had sat at Mary's terminal over the course of that long and dreadful afternoon, oblivious to the flow of activity around him, and followed the carefully laid path that Mary had set through the macabre territory that connected Cassande Verhoeven with a young Canadian runaway teenager named Cassandra Jasic. He had read through Mary's meticulously documented notes from her conversation with a Canadian OPP officer regarding the brutal murders of this Cassandra Jasic's parents. She had made a series of succinct notations, all solidifying the vague connections from Cassandra to Karnalla Mansley's mysterious red-haired companion and finally, Cassande Verhoeven. He had not been particularly surprised by how thorough and logical her deductive work had been...far superior to his own tentative groping. It had been the final entry at the bottom of her written notes that continued to haunt Donald's dreams and his waking hours. Scrawled in large red letters, Mary had scribed the progression; Cassandra Jasic---Karnalla Mansley's companion---Cassande Verhoeven!!!

Those three bold exclamation points spoke of an incontrovertible connection between these three names as if there had been no doubt in Mary's mind that they had been one and the same person.

Mary's admonition that they must eventually be prepared to address the issue of the white elephant in the room came to mind then and only now did Donald grasp its correct context. His mind was drawn back to that first Saturday when she had derided him as a fool for harboring his bizarre misgivings about Cassande, but while her chiding had caused him to abandon his evidently strange obsession...something had enticed the tenacious Mary to take it up in his stead. Obviously, she had eventually come to wholeheartedly embrace the incredible idea that Cassandra Jasic and Cassande Verhoeven were one and the same person.

"Why couldn't you have come to me with this, Mary?" He inquired of the air. The answer was simple enough...he had failed her. The department, Donald and Ewan; all had failed Mary by being unwilling or incapable of making the difficult progression that she had negotiated so adroitly. They had all been intractable and constrained by rigid thinking, when this case clearly screamed for a more eclectic approach and thus she had elected to follow her intuition without them...first with this macabre line of inquiry and finally with her solitary interview with Hector Gentry. Mary had claimed that Gentry had adhered rigidly to his original tale, but Donald now doubted the veracity of that claim. What had Gentry divulged...and had his revelation been the catalyst for Mary's murder?

_'Donald...are you seriously entertaining the idea that Cassande...the woman you've been sleeping with for the past nine months...actually killed Mary Langdon?'_ Donald blinked and realized that...yes, as fatuous as the idea seemed, he was not only considering it, but now accepted it as the irrefutable truth.

The only question that remained was...just what did he intend to do about it?

As he crossed into Soho, Gansby was forced to admit that he hadn't the foggiest notion of how he might utilize this new-found certainty other than knowing that he was oath-bound to see Cassande held accountable for Mary's tragic death.

_'And this somehow rationalizes why you deleted her electronic files and ran her hard copies through the department shredder?'_ an inner voice demanded reproachfully and Gansby winced at this uncharacteristic breach of personal integrity...an illegal act that he still could not explain...even to himself. That inability had not prevented him from further lying to Ewan by informing his long-time partner that he had found nothing out of the ordinary in Mary's files...a lie that McGowan had accepted with a measure of relief.

Yet, only as he grew closer to his flat...with its promise of desolation and loss...did Donald begin to fathom the inclination that had caused him to abandon his integrity. Mary Langdon's death would be his loss to bear for whatever remained of his life...and his alone. The grieving portion of him...the part that had stolen her photograph...understood that the obligation to give answer to her death was also exclusively his...irrespective of the consequences.

Distracted with thoughts of retribution and how that might even be achieved against a creature that seemed immune to the limits of a mortal being, Donald pulled into his designated parking space in the building's lot. He left his car and made his way back to the street...which was bustling with the raw ebb and flow of Bohemian Soho at this time of the day...and came to a stumbling halt.

There, sitting on the stairs that led up to the main doors and appearing very much like a rare diamond on a field of coal sat Cassande Verhoeven...the very monster that had extinguished Mary Langdon's special light.

2

As they sat in their nondescript rental, parked in a spot that afforded a clear view of Imirya Merin's house, Judith could feel the intense emotional turbulence that emanated from Elizabeth. Foremost amongst these was trepidation, but profound grief and sorrow followed hard in its heels...rising from the disconsolate immortal in a blue-black miasma.

They had been sitting in this position for the better part of an hour, waiting in a charged silence for Elizabeth to muster the courage to cross the quiet street and carry the devastating news to Imirya that her daughter was dead. Unable to endure the stifling air of pervasive despair any further, Judith blurted, "Let me come with you, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth turned her red-rimmed eyes on Judith and shook her head. "This is something I have to face alone, Judith...though I can honestly say that I've never been so afraid of anything in my life. Nathaniel died when he was in his sixties...though because I had spent so little time with him, for me it felt as though he had died as a young child. Rebecca was only twenty-two and full of limitless potential and promise. I'm about to decimate Imirya's world and I can honestly see no way forward for her beyond this black moment. Though it may sound monstrous to give voice to the thought...a part of me thinks it would be a far kinder act of compassion to kill her than it will be to deliver this awful news and then expect her to try to live on beyond this moment."

Judith, for whom the idea of loss and lingering sorrow were alien and frightening concepts, could only nod dutifully and squeeze Elizabeth's hand in a gesture of feigned commiseration.

At last, Elizabeth drew a deep and tremulous breath to gather her composure and then opened the door and stepped out into the October sunshine. Bending back through the window, she remarked, "I don't know how long this might take...if you wish to go back to the hotel, I can reach you through our tether."

"I'd prefer to wait right here, Elizabeth...assuming the neighborhood watch doesn't have me carted off," Judith quipped lightly, though the specter of Contayza Prowzi figured prominently in her desire not to leave Elizabeth alone.

She watched Elizabeth stride purposefully across the pavement and as she made her way toward Imirya's front door, bearing the worst news a mother could ever receive, Elizabeth was resplendent. With her golden hair shimmering in the breeze and attired in a silver-gray full length coat with matching boots, Elizabeth seemed like the very quintessence of an upper class suburban woman. Her stride faltered perceptibly at the head of the walkway which led to Imirya's front door, but she gathered herself momentarily and started toward the house.

Elizabeth was no more than halfway up the street, when the front door suddenly burst open and a woman emerged, hurrying up the walk toward the immortal, who had come to an abrupt halt and stood rooted in a posture of utter and perfect grief.

With her advanced visual acuity, Judith could clearly discern every feature of the woman's face and as the incredible improbability of what she was seeing registered in her racing mind, the moment assumed a surreal tone for Ranzman. Judith sat up straight in her seat, small hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity. Imirya Merin was the mirror-reflection of her grandmother...Elizabeth re-imagined as a fifty year old woman. Yet her age had done absolutely nothing to attenuate that breathtaking beauty and in that first instant of seeing...Judith Ranzman found the purpose she had been seeking since she had first walked away from Tamara Hood at the end of that god-forsaken dirt road in Quinsett seventy years before. She had sworn an oath to Elizabeth out of obligation, but her first glimpse at Imirya Merin had transformed that obligation into desperate need...a commitment that could only be broken by death.

It suddenly occurred to Judith that Elizabeth's beguiling nature had absolutely nothing to do with being an immortal...it was simply something that was inculcated into the fabric of Elizabeth's being. This trait had very probably been passed to her son...and augmented in Imirya. Settling back into her seat, Judith willed herself to remain composed...hoping that Elizabeth could guide Imirya through the nightmare landscape of grief to a place where Judith could bring the fractured spirit a different form of solace.

Imirya need only one glance into Elizabeth's dispirited eyes to know that her worst fears had been realized. A choking gasp escaped her lips and her hand clamped over her mouth as if she was about to expel something ineffably vile. Then her large blue eyes rolled up in their sockets and her knees buckled, but before she could tumble to the ornate stones, Elizabeth swept her up in her powerful arms. Sparing one doleful glance at Judith, Elizabeth then carried the unconscious Imirya into the house and closed the door behind her.

In that single expression of absolute defeat, Judith saw Elizabeth Simpson's end written in black-hued, apocalyptic letters. Torn by uncertainty, she considered reaching out to Cynara for guidance, but instead...inspired by her new sense of purpose...she settled back to see how this latest chapter in Elizabeth's dark drama would resolve itself.

3

Day relented slowly to evening and for Judith, time passed at a nerve-wracking crawl. Several hours after Elizabeth had carried an unconscious Imirya into the house, a silver BMW convertible had pulled into the driveway. Two people disembarked and hurried into the house, entering without knocking. The first was an attractive, middle-aged man, who Judith correctly surmised was Imirya's ex-husband. He was accompanied by a much younger and very pretty woman. Both wore expressions that one would expect to see in photographs of bombing survivors...dazed, sorrowful and uncomprehending.

More time passed and the street lights came on to illuminate the suburban landscape. Couples walked hand in hand along the impeccably maintained sidewalks, often with their children or pets as they passed the Merin house. Focused on their own suburban happiness, they were oblivious to the tragic drama that was playing out within the walls of the Merin home.

It was almost dark when a small black Volkswagen pulled into the cobbled drive and a diminutive, silver-haired woman pushed out of the vehicle and stood staring up at the house. From her perspective in the shadowed interior of her rental, Judith could clearly see the aura of immense power that swirled around the woman. That aura was shot through with ribbons of black, purple and red...the colors of hatred, fury and despair...an extremely volatile combination that did not bode well for what was to follow.

Cognizant of the immense array of power at this Contayza's disposal and knowing Elizabeth state of guilty dejection, Judith could not be sure that Elizabeth would even raise a hand in her own defense if this woman decided to vent her fury. Making an impulsive decision, she opened the door and stepped out into the cool night, drawing up the hood of her shadow cloak and slipping out of tangible reality just as Contayza entered the Merin residence.

She sprinted across the street, fearing that grief was about to segue into emotion-fraught ugliness with catastrophic consequences.

All eyes snapped to the entrance as Contayza burst into the house and stood glaring at the four through large dark eyes that shone with rage poised on the edge of madness. Her long silver hair spilled over her black silk blouse like a corona, but Elizabeth could see the aura of power that coalesced around the diminutive gypsy as her eyes roved the room, finally coming to rest exclusively on her.

Imirya tottered to her feet on unsteady legs and stumbled toward Contayza, but an invisible force struck her in the chest and threw her back into her chair. Contayza turned her venomous gaze on her daughter and rasped thickly, "Sit down and keep your mouth shut...you, I'll deal with after."

Charles Merin started to protest, but a lunatic glare from Contayza cut off his plaintive whine like the fall of an axe. Beside him, Hudson whimpered deep in her chest and clutched his right arm, horrified by the aura of madness this daunting woman exuded.

Elizabeth rose slowly to her feet and deliberately moved away from the others. If Contayza elected to unleash her telekinetic fury, she did not want the others becoming collateral damage. Somewhere off to her right, she could hear Imirya sobbing wretchedly.

In a calm, neutral voice, Elizabeth pleaded, "Contayza, please don't add to your daughter's grief."

"I have no daughter!" Contayza declared coldly, her lips pressed into a bloodless slash, a heartless remark that drew a wail of anguish from a distraught Imirya. Contayza's ignored her own flesh and blood's piteous wailing, her blazing eyes fixed squarely upon Elizabeth. The immortal perceived the invisible strike, but did nothing to avoid it. She found herself snapped up and tossed across the room, where she collided with a delicate curio cabinet, which promptly shattered beneath her weight. The delicate wood and glass construct exploded into fragments that showered Elizabeth where she lay sprawled on the hardwood floor. Bits of crystal and glass twinkled in her golden hair like stardust. The blow and subsequent impact had no affect upon the immortal, but she made no move to retaliate...nor did she attempt to rise, fearing that to do so would only provoke Contayza further. Quietly, she adjured, "Stop this, Contayza...before you hurt your family...I'm begging you."

"Are you happy now, you simpering, self-absorbed cunt?" Contayza raged as she came to loom over Elizabeth. "You've taken away everything I love...stripped my life of every vestige of meaning. Is that sufficient, Elizabeth...you hateful bitch!"

The diminutive gypsy gesticulated and a massive oak sideboard lifted from its spot along the wall and slammed down upon the prone immortal like a wooden mallet. Hudson buried her face against her husband's shoulder and Imirya began to shriek like a wounded animal. In her fixation with Elizabeth, Contayza remained oblivious to the terror and turmoil of the house's other occupants. "I know I can't really hurt you, bitch...but I can derive a great deal of pleasure from trying. Maybe I can goad you into one final act of evil by killing me and making your genocide complete."

Elizabeth shrugged the heavy sideboard off and rose to her knees...her beautiful face a portrait of living misery. She spread her long, lean arms and declared solemnly, "Contayza, if I could give you my dagger here and now...I would let you plunge it into my heart and be glad to be done with this living hell. Stop this now and I swear that I'll soon give you the satisfaction you want."

A shadow of confusion rippled across Contayza's face and her eyes widened as she could discern only misery-inspired sincerity in Elizabeth's voice. Her mouth began to work soundlessly and she abruptly burst into mournful tears, but before the gypsy could speak, Judith materialized out of thin air directly behind her. She swiftly laid both palms on Contayza's temple and an acrid smell filled the air. Contayza's eyes rolled back in her skull and she sagged against Judith, who allowed the old woman to slide to the floor. With a murderous light blazing in her expressive eyes, Judith glared down at the unconscious gypsy.

"Enough, Judith!" Elizabeth cried, her eyes flickering a malefic orange that precluded violent eruption. Judith glared balefully at Elizabeth...vexed by her perceived ingratitude...but nonetheless retreated several steps.

Elizabeth did not rise, but rather crawled across the debris-strewn floor and knelt beside her daughter-in-law. She placed her right hand along the angle of Contayza's slack jaw as Imirya stumbled over and gazed down at her unmoving mother through tear-distorted eyes. Turning a baleful gaze upon Judith, she demanded shrilly, "What have you done to her?"

Judith tried to respond, but faltered beneath the palpable weight of that incisive stare...that was so much like Elizabeth's. The immortal reached out and gently gripped Imirya's slender wrist. "It's all right...Judith merely put her to sleep. There'll be no lingering harm, Imirya."

The statuesque blond regarded the kneeling immortal dubiously and the returned her regard to Judith, who found herself oddly tongue-tied in the other woman's presence...like an ungainly teenager who has stumbled across something precious. Absently brushing at falling tears, Imirya inquired, "Are you the one that grandmother told me about!"

Judith's glance shifted quickly to Elizabeth, who perceived how profoundly Ranzman had been disconcerted by Imirya's presence. "She is, Imirya...the three of us can speak later, but let's help Contayza for now."

Imirya's attention shifted back to her unconscious mother and Judith drew a tremulous breath and stumbled away...unsettled by how intensely the other woman's mere proximity affected her.

Elizabeth continued to massage Contayza's slack cheek and as she did, a diaphanous golden effulgence began to coalesce around the fallen woman's face. The diminutive gypsy's eyes snapped open like broken blinds and as awareness filtered back into their amber depths, she recoiled from Elizabeth's touch as if she'd been scalded by boiling water. "Don't you touch me!" she shrieked hysterically. "Keep your filthy hands away from me. You murdered my Rebecca!"

Elizabeth's face contorted into a rictus of agony, but before the words of negation could take shape on her lips, Imirya reached down and roughly hauled Contayza to her feet. She then began to herd a clearly nonplused Prowzi toward the door, growling through her tears, "You made it clear that you have no daughter...then you have no reason to be here...so get out!"

Near the entrance, Contayza recovered for her initial shock at Imirya's unexpected defiance and tried to push past the much taller woman, who continued to impose herself in her mother's path. When it became evident that Imirya would not permit her to pass, a seething Contayza burst into tears and began to rage...her tirade directed squarely at the woman upon whom she had come to blame all of her misfortune. "You've ruined everything...destroyed every life you've ever touched...mine, Nathaniel's and now Rebecca's." She flicked a scornful glance at Imirya and added, "Even this stupid bitch's...if she had the sense to see you for what you are. If you needed to kill someone...why couldn't it have been me...why couldn't that have been enough? Better still...why can't you find the courage to kill yourself?"

"Stop!" Imirya shrieked and gripping Contayza's shoulders, she threw open the door and literally tossed the diminutive gypsy out into the chilly October night. "I never want to see your face again...you spiteful, twisted bitch!"

She then slammed the door and sagged against it, burying her face in her hands and sobbing wretchedly.

Elizabeth's horrified gaze swept the room, knowing that she had just witnessed the irreparable dissolution of her son's family...a permanent estrangement that an eternity would be insufficient to heal. She surveyed the emotional carnage...bewildered horror and incredulity written plainly on every face and Contayza's parting words echoed in her mind like a death knell. _'Why can't you find the courage to kill yourself?'_

4

She did not see him at first and for the briefest instant...perhaps no longer than the blink of an eye...Donald had a nearly irresistible compulsion to draw his service weapon and empty it into her skull. Somehow he managed to repress the urge and in the next moment, she turned her head. Despite what he now believed to be true, it was impossible not to be struck by Cassande's enormous beauty. She rose gracefully and offered Donald a tentative smile which he did not return.

Her smile faltered and then her expression became somber. "I...I just found out what happened to Mary. Donald, I'm so sorry...and shocked and hurt."

"Her funeral was this morning in Islington...I've just come from there now," he informed her and though his tone was neutral, there could be no mistaking the hint of seething reproach. "How did you find out?"

She came closer and tentatively reached out a hand, laying it briefly on his left shoulder. "We were supposed to get together for a girl's night out...tonight actually. I've been messaging her for the last few days, but never received a reply. At first I thought that perhaps she might be distancing herself from me...out of loyalty to you...but then I thought that seemed contrary to her nature. I went to her flat and the manager told me what happened. I was shocked and came directly here..."

She trailed off and though her tone held the requisite amount of solemnity, Donald could not help but think that her entire speech had been...disingenuous. Her brow furrowed in consternation and she asked somberly, "What happened, Donald...she seemed so vital...so healthy?"

"The medical inquest has declared the cause of death to be massive coronary," Donald replied in a voice devoid of emotion.

Cassande chewed her lower lip...her expression pensive. "I'm really sorry, Donald. I know that you'd grown quite fond of her...as had I. Mary helped me understand some things...she was a strong woman, who made me realize how meaningless I had allowed my life to become." She hesitated briefly and then added, "I'm sorry for what happened between us as well...the way I behaved was appalling and unforgivable."

Donald's right eyelid twitched ever so slightly and he remarked, "Perhaps it was for the best, Cassande. We both know that it was inevitable that you would realize that you were...settling. Prolonging matters would only have made the inevitable all the more complicated and painful."

A flicker of indignant pain rippled swiftly across Cassande's lovely face then...there and gone in a heartbeat. She nodded slightly and Gansby felt a genuine stab of regret even as he knew that their entire relationship had been a cynical charade. She drew herself to her full height and tossed her shimmering red mane. "I've decided that I'm going back to Amsterdam...and set the gallivanting aside for awhile. Mary had said that I should stop apologizing for who I was or trying to understand how ordinary people lived...and I see that she was right. It's a monumental act of ingratitude to turn your back on who you are...on the advantages you've been given. I'm going to focus on the various family businesses...at least try to understand the rudiments of how they function. Perhaps then I'll come to understand just where my place is." Again, she lapsed into an uneasy silence and then murmured, "I'm going to miss you, Donald...and the time we spent together."

The hurt expression on her face was more prominent and lingered when Donald again offered no comment, but only continued to stare at her with an indecipherable expression set on his handsome face.

"Okay then...I'll leave you to your mourning," she intoned quietly and bending forward, brushed her full lips across his left cheek before turning on heel and striding away.

"What did your parents do to you, Cassandra...what did they do to turn you into this thing you've become?" The words virtually leapt from Gansby's lips before he had even been aware of his intention to utter them.

Cassande came to an abrupt halt and stiffened, before executing a slow pivot on the balls of her feet. Her head was bent slightly forward and she regarded him with one eyebrow arched inquisitively. Her air of capriciousness had vanished completely and in its place there shone an expression that was fraught with keen intelligence and stirring menace.

Donald Gansby knew instinctively that he was finally seeing the real Cassande Verhoeven. "What did you just say?"

"I asked what they did to you, Cassandra...that is your real name isn't it...Cassandra Jasic?" He inquired evenly.

Her mouth congealed into a scowl and she started back toward him. His hand automatically gravitated toward his gun and she shook her head in admonition. "Considering the congestion on the street, that would not be wise Donald." Her frown became a feral grin and she growled, "I think we both know that thing is worthless against me anyway...so let us have a dialogue...like reasonable adults...like ex-lovers. Perhaps we could go up to your flat and talk?"

Donald shook his head vehemently. "I don't think so, Cassandra...I doubt I'd ever see the street again."

Cassandra's lovely face blanched as if she'd taken affront with his innuendo. She pressed her hand to her full chest and remarked, "Donald, I would never hurt you and to imply otherwise is just...unfair. Now, obviously the pretence has run its course and so we find ourselves at something of an impasse...one to which I sincerely would like a happy resolution...but that will depend entirely on you."

She crossed the distance between them and linking her right arm in his, began to guide him along the busy sidewalk, her face set in a lustrous smile that never quite lighted in her blue eyes. Donald stiffened at her touch, but felt himself pulled along by an invisible power that was staggering in its enormity. She glanced at him and in those limpid blue depths, Donald could clearly discern the presence of capering madness...carefully constrained beneath her beautiful exterior, but poised to explode at the slightest provocation. In that moment, Donald Gansby realized that his life was hanging in the balance...hinging on how this macabre dialogue would resolve itself.

"You're correct, Donald...my name is Cassandra Jasic...but I've evolved far beyond that fractured little girl and so it is a name that is hardly relevant anymore. Yes, it was the deprave fucks that started me along this particular path...but they paid for their depravity with agony that you can't begin to conceive. I'll anticipate your next question as well; yes, I am responsible for the executions throughout the city over these last two years or so. To one degree or another, each of the men I slaughtered was cut from the same cloth...a cloth I'm determined to incinerate, Donald."

"So that's how you perceive yourself...a righteous vigilante crusader? You really are insane, Cassandra," Donald growled scornfully. He understood that it was suicidal folly to provoke her, but the image of Mary Langdon's slack face kept occluding his better judgment.

"Now Donald, that's hardly useful if we're to have a productive dialogue," Cassandra scolded lightly, flashing her radiant grin as she guided him along. "If you wish, I can take you through a personal tour of the mind of every deviant I executed...it would be an enlightening, but troubling journey...but perhaps you would see things from my perspective. I've recently discovered more exigent matters that require my full attention and so I will have to forego cleansing your city and move on to dramatically bigger things."

"You're talking about the Baltic Star and what you did at the warehouse, aren't you?" Donald blurted...excited in spite of himself.

She glanced at him and pursed her full lips, tossing her flaming mane. "Very perceptive Donald, though I suspect that it was the incisive Mary who led you to that particular bit of insight. The Baltic Star will make port with a cargo of children...most of whom were sold into slavery by desperate relatives in the forlorn corners of Eastern Europe. Those small children will be sold to wealthy deviants throughout Great Britain to serve as sex toys for these monsters...but Donald, I have every intention of burning this black candle from both ends. It is my intention to rescue these children and reduce those who purchased them to smoldering ash. Once that is done...I intend to root out the source...wherever it might be. I won't allow anything to interfere with that Donald...it's crucial that you believe that."

"What are you?" He asked, though he sincerely doubted that she would provide a legitimate answer.

Cassandra laughed and waved her right hand in a gesture of encompassment. "I'm everything that you believed was impossible...and really, that's the most meaningful explanation I can provide."

"Did Karnalla Mansley or the other woman...Elizabeth Simpson...do this to you?" Gansby persisted. If he was to die, Donald was determined to know the truth of just what it was that would take his life.

A shimmer of acute pain rippled across Cassandra's expressive face at the mention of these two names...like a sudden gust of wind will disturb the surface of an otherwise placid lake. Curtly, she snapped, "That no longer matters."

The implicit warning caused Donald to abandon this particular line of questioning and he struck directly to the only query that really held any interest for him. "Did you kill Mary Langdon?"

Cassandra stopped and releasing his arm, turned to face Gansby...an aggrieved expression on her exquisite face. Solemnly, she declared, "Of course not...I loved Mary."

A profound silence descended between the pair as the ebb and flow of everyday life went on around them on this autumn afternoon in weary old Soho. At last, Donald gave a tacit nod and intoned quietly, "Knowing what I do, I can't simply let you walk away from what you've done here."

Cassandra's expression became grave, but a notion germinated in her mind and she favored Gansby with a brilliant smile. "Then I'll simply have to help you un-know those things."

Before Donald could react, Cassandra swept him into a tight embrace and kissed him fervently. Gansby felt an incisive force penetrate the fabric of his mind and begin to scour his thoughts and memories. She usurped control of Donald's body and he returned her embrace and the kiss until they appeared to be lovers overtaken by a sudden rush of passion to all who watched them. The juggernaut of Cassandra's mental probe tore through Gansby's mind, permanently deleting every kernel of knowledge that pertained to the immortal's involvement in the spate of murders over the past two years. She also effaced the macabre association between Cassande Verhoeven and her past incarnations.

When Cassandra finally broke the kiss and stepped back, Donald regarded her with the slightly glazed eyes of someone who has awoken from a dream they simply cannot recall. He blinked, as if remotely cognizant of the void that had been opened in his memory...but then these trivial concerns simply vanished beneath the weight of her effervescent smile. Cassandra leaned closer until her lips were close to his right ear and delivered precise instructions on what he should do next to which Gansby nodded dutifully.

Retreating a pace, Cassandra revealed, "I see how you felt about Mary...about the excruciating pain her loss has inflicted upon your poor heart. It was never my intention to hurt you, Donald and so I've left you with a parting gift...a vivid and lovely fantasy that will ward you against the loneliness that can await us near the tail end of our lives."

Gansby greeted this with a rather quizzical grin, but nodded nonetheless. She beamed another brilliant smile and then turned and strode off. He watched her leave, with the ghost of a grin playing at his mouth. He remained standing in the same spot long after she had receded into the crowd.

After a protracted time, Donald shifted his glance up into the afternoon sky and inhaled deeply. He then returned to his Mini Cooper and drove back to Victoria Embankment for the final time. He did not speak to Ewan McGowan, his long-time partner, but went directly to Superintendent Coran's office where he tendered his immediate resignation to a flummoxed Coran, who upon seeing the intractable glint in the veteran's eyes, was left with no choice but to accept. Not bothering to gather up his personal effects, Gansby then left the Yard building and returned to his flat in Soho. Packing two bags, Donald collected Mary Langdon's photograph and then set out for her home village of Bibury, where Mary would be interred come Saturday morning.

Donald attended her funeral, watching from a distance as a small handful of mourners said goodbye to Mary. He then drifted down and sat on a bench close to her grave...his role in the dark drama that was playing out kilometers to the south now over and done.

5

Donald Gansby would live out the rest of his life in the quaint English village, nestled in the Cotswold Hills. He would find employment as a janitor, but after some time, Donald was able to find a position with the local constabulary, with whom he would remain for the rest of his working life. He lived a life of quiet seclusion...and though affable and well-liked by the locals, Donald remained a bachelor...living a life of seclusion in a small cottage on the outskirts of the picturesque village.

He was undeviatingly in his routine of spending every Saturday morning, come rain or shine, sitting on a bench near Mary Langdon's grave, staring fixedly at her gravestone...upon which he would lay fresh flowers with each visit. He would often spend his evenings sitting with her picture in his hand while listening to an ancient radio he had purchased at a local antique shop. On the few evenings he would venture out, Donald would linger at the end of the bar of a local pub, sipping bitters, watching football and listening to the conversations of the regular crowd...conversations in which he would never participate.

His thoughts of Cassande Verhoeven grew less frequent over the years and by the time Donald had retired from the constabulary, he could not recall her face or full name...only that he had dated her for a time and that she had been quite lovely. As age worked its cruel magic, Donald could not be certain if these memories were real or only a wistful fancy he had concocted to fill in the blanks in his recollections of those earlier years.

There were nights when he would awaken...covered in perspiration and gasping in fright...mercifully unable to recall the harrowing details of the nightmare in which he had been pursued through an endless maze by a fire-haired woman with crimson eyes and razor-sharp claws and fangs. Eventually, even these nocturnal connections to the fate that had befallen him would also cease to plague him.

Donald worked as a village constable until his mid-sixties and upon retiring, Gansby would spend his days wandering through the village and its surrounding hills. He could feel the fog of declining mental acuity pressing on the edges of his awareness as the years drifted slowly by and found himself spending more and more time on that weathered wooden bench, gazing wistfully at Mary Langdon's fading headstone. By his seventy-second year, Donald's health had begun to decline and he knew that he would not be able to live in his beloved cottage for much longer. He made arrangements to sell the cottage and take up residency at a seniors' home just a few kilometers outside of the village. Troubled by the erosion of Mary's headstone...Donald had paid the local mortuary to replace the stone, restoring both Mary's headstone and the adjacent stones of her parents. Then he had purchased his own plot...just down the slope from where Mary had been laid to rest.

Ever the pragmatist, Donald had recognized his declining functionality and when the periods of mental graininess began, he voluntarily surrendered his driver's license. As he prepared to take up residence at his new home, Gansby became acutely aware of the agonizing realization that he would no longer be able to visit Mary's grave.

On a bright October morning, with leaves drifting down from the surrounding trees in spectacular hues of red, orange and gold, Donald Gansby came to Mary Langdon's grave for the final time. He carefully laid fresh flowers on the new stone and let his fingertips trace her name. He stepped back and tried to commit the poignant moment to memory...every detail, from the soft stirring of the wind to the diffuse golden sunlight that played across the perfectly manicured grass. Then he buried his face in his hands and sobbed for everything that had been lost...for the beautiful dream unrealized.

After what had seemed like an eternity, Donald had straightened and brushed away lingering tears with the back of his hand. He conjured a wistful smile and murmured, "Goodbye Mary...we'll see each other soon enough, dear."

Then he turned away and shuffled slowly through the autumn morning, to the cab that would take him to his new home along with his only possessions; a small suitcase and his treasured photograph.

Not long after, the fog of dementia tightened its cruel and remorseless grip on Donald Gansby. It was then that Cassande's final, surprisingly egalitarian gift to Donald finally manifested itself, unfurling in his failing mind like a beautiful tapestry.

He recalled...in vivid detail...the wonderful and fulfilling life that he and Mary had shared together. Theirs had been a slow passing of years in the village of Bibury, where time seemed to stand still and progress could find no purchase on the life that was embraced in its rolling hills and quaint cottages.

Donald and Mary's life together had been characterized by unremitting love and the simple contentment that comes with the passing of years in the company of the one with whom you were destined to be. When he recalled the way in which he had come to find himself alone, Donald remembered returning from a stroll one winter morning to find Mary sitting in her glider rocker and staring through the garden doors that looked out over their snow-covered back lawn. The expression on her face suggested that her passing had been peaceful. Donald was eternally grateful and had taken solace in knowing that she had died in the home that she had so cherished and where they had lived happily for the nearly fifty years of their married life.

Donald's three children visited frequently and they would spend long, dreamy afternoons fondly remembering those years together...growing up in a loving environment where happiness was a boundless commodity and the future was a resplendent thing...full of promise.

The caregivers at the home where Donald spent his last years watched the old man decline and retreat deeper into dementia. Most viewed his inexorable decay with a measure of sadness despite their postures of professional detachment. In the time he spent in the senior's facility, Donald Gansby never had a single visitor, nor received a single letter. Yet, despite the years of terrible isolation and the ravaging nature of his disease, Gansby never became angry or violent. He would sit on the patio in the summer or in the sunny common room in the winter and spend his time in animated conversations with the children he never had...laughing and happy the whole while. When he would lapse into bouts of silence, Donald would hold his beloved photograph and simply stare at the faded picture for hours on end...the occasional tear tracking over his wrinkled cheek as he gazed into a beautiful world that never was.

On the day that Donald died, a young attendant who had cared for the old man and had grown fond of him and his eternal good mood and quiet dignity, had collected Gansby's few earthy possessions. She had sat on the corner of his bed and taking up the photograph, studied the image that seemed to have sustained the poor soul through his final years of empty solitude. The wooden frame was worn...all of the lacquer long since rubbed away from years of constant handling. The picture held within was sepia-toned and faded and showed a pretty young woman between an older couple...all three were smiling brightly and appeared very happy. The attendant had wondered who the woman might have been and felt a lump of poignant emotion form in her throat at the thought of being so cherished.

After her shift, she had taken the time to personally deliver the photograph to the village mortuary where Donald had been taken in preparation for burial. The funeral director had promised the young attendant that he would see it placed in Donald's casket.

Donald Gansby was buried next day with no one to mark his passing. He was consigned to the earth with his hands folded over Mary's photograph...not twenty meters from where the woman, herself, had been laid to rest.

The years would pass as they inexorably do and like the headstones that marked their resting places, Donald Gansby and Mary Langdon would fade from memory.

Chapter Thirty-Two

1

On the evening of Mary Langdon's funeral, a dense fog rolled off of the English Channel and roiled its way over the Thames estuary...eventually covering London in a dense blanket that obscured visibility to a few dozen meters. Along the new docklands, it was impossible to see more than a few meters ahead and it was under these conditions that the Polish container ship, Baltic Star, made port. Technology had render sight almost superfluous in the maritime world and the vessel coasted up along the quay, buffeting gently against the heavy layers of bolted rubber that protected the structure.

The ships engines slowly disengaged and the mooring process began. Once that had been completed, an eerie silence descended upon the ship, as its occupants settled in to wait for morning. New international shipping protocol was unflinchingly rigid in its insistence that not a single pair of boots touch foreign soil until given clearance to do so by the harbormaster or one of his agents. Ever cognizant of terrorist threat and the more ominous spread of super contagions, even the slightest failure to observe this protocol was heavily punished.

Ewan McGowan and a small contingent of Scotland Yard inspectors were positioned throughout the docklands, but the dense fog and rigid protocol had rendered the monitoring exercise pointless and he had dismissed the staff shortly after the Baltic Star made port.

As he carefully maneuvered his way through the treacherous fog toward home, Ewan's mind was preoccupied by Donald's perplexing resignation. He had been wounded by the inexplicable fact that Donald had not even bothered to see him...before or after he had tendered his resignation. He had driven to Donald's flat in search of some manner of explanation, only to find that Gansby was gone. His subsequent texts and phone calls had gone unanswered; further exacerbating McGowan's deepening concern.

As he drove through the fog, grappling with the perplexing riddle of what he perceived as Gansby's desertion on the cusp of something enormous, Ewan had no way of knowing that he would only speak with Donald on one future occasion.

It would happen three years hence and the man with whom he would have this macabre conversation seemed like a complete stranger...distant and taciturn.

Ewan and his Scotland Yard contingent were not the only ones to display a keen interest in the arrival of the Baltic Star. Unencumbered by the heavy fog, Cassande stood on the edge of a warehouse roof and watched in somber silence as the massive container ship gracefully slid into its assigned berth. Her initial instinct was to simply descend upon the ship and turn it into a charnel house, but the still rational part of her mind understood that the vast majority of workers on the ship were probably completely oblivious to the secret cargo they carried...or the iniquitous purpose for which it was intended. It was more likely than not that only one or two individuals on the entire ship were aware of the horrible evil that they were helping to propagate.

As she studied the container ship, Cassande's thoughts were disrupted by recollections of her earlier confrontation with Donald. In retrospect, her lenient treatment of Gansby had been motivated by genuine affection...a realization that thoroughly bemused Cassande, who would have believed herself immune to such influences. She wondered if her act of mercy had come in direct response to the festering guilt she felt over her lamentable murder of Mary Langdon. Cassande had never been prone to second guessing and ambivalence, but she was assailed by regret...wishing she could go back in time and extend Mary the same act of clemency that she had given to Donald.

_'Mary's mind was very much like forged and tempered steel and was not so easily manipulated, Cassande!'_ She had told herself irritably, but still the lingering sense of shame persisted. Thus, she had taken steps to insure that Donald Gansby would live and become the keeper of Mary Langdon's memory...which was the only form of restitution it was within her considerable power to grant. Shaking her head and fetching a rare, wistful sigh, Cassande dismissed the pair from her thoughts and focused her attention on the matter at hand...the Baltic Star and its tragic cargo.

All along the length of the ship, containers were stacked and secured by bolted strapping that could supposedly withstand the most turbulent of waters. These containers were standard in size and painted every color of the rainbow and labeled with an international alphanumeric code for easy identification by port authorities.

The fog made visual identification virtually impossible...for a mortal. Cassande, however, possessed the faculty to filter out the occluding fog as if it didn't exist and as her preternatural gaze swept along the length of the ship, penetrating each container's outer walls to the lightless interiors, the immortal was able to determine whether an animate being was held within. The first sweep produced nothing and Cassande initially assumed that the target container might actually be held within the bowels of the massive shipping vessel.

A deeper intuition implored her to scan the deck again...focus on what wasn't there...as opposed to what was. She did so and at the approximate center of the foredeck...the second container from the bottom of a stack of four...Cassande located her anomaly. An expression of perplexity furrowed her smooth brow as she studied the dull yellow container, identified by the alphanumeric inscription: ELECHUNG7821.

Cassande scowled and unleashed the full capacity of her sensory percipience on the container, moving her perceptive gaze over the container in slow increments. Her perception penetrated the heavy steel outer walls of the first half, nearest the two doors, effortlessly, but as she tracked across the rear segment of the container, she found herself confronted by an impenetrable wall...beyond which she could detect nothing.

Her initial supposition was that the container's interior was protected by some manner of advanced cloaking technology...designed to rebuff the x-ray technology currently employed by most post authorities around the globe. Still, her perceptive acuity could easily isolate and identify electronically generated security measures and all that she felt when she extended her diaphanous touch toward this particular container was...a void. There was not even the slightest hint of an electronic signature.

_'Unless this particular ward isn't technology driven...but rather, arcane in design!'_ The disconcerting notion germinated in her racing mind of its own accord, eliciting a gasp from Cassande. If this ward was a dampening created by magic, she would find herself up against adversaries of an entirely different caliber. A scheme this far-reaching and nefarious could only bear the fingerprint of Cynara's former masters. By throwing a very flagrant monkey wrench into their machinations, Cassande had unwittingly made herself some very powerful enemies.

Fear, argent and immobilizing, flared in her mind then, but she repressed it through a titanic exertion of will...and by drawing on her virtually infinite repository of immutable fury. The perpetrators of this evil may well be creatures of shadow, but she still possessed the advantage in that she was an unknown commodity...an entity that existed outside the boundaries of their understanding. She could make it so that the shadows that masked their evil machinations became an inimical environment where they would find no sanctuary.

She uttered a spate of humorless laughter at this grandiose declaration. Even if she possessed the requisite power to wage a running war with Cynara's former master and his legion, she had emphatically thrown down a gauntlet with the very ostentatious slaughter of Roger Pipson...one that would not be ignored. She was an abomination in the eyes of Lucifer and she need only recall the lengths to which he had went to eradicate Elizabeth Simpson to know that her existence would never be tolerated...even if she had not displayed the temerity of challenging his dominion.

Feeling suddenly alone, exceedingly foolish and vulnerable, Cassande returned her gaze to the fog-shrouded Baltic Star and her burgeoning terror was suddenly mitigated by the horrifying thought that these monsters were exploiting small children as tools of corruption. If she ran now, would she not become culpable in the miserable fate these poor, cruelly-betrayed children would suffer? Without the slightest hint of equivocation, Cassandra Jasic declared that she would. Cassande Verhoeven had smugly told Donald Gansby that she had evolved beyond the damaged child known as Cassandra Jasic, but it was Cassandra who now provided the fortitude to accept and confront the precarious circumstances into which she had inadvertently thrust herself. If this scheme was not, in fact, of mortal devising, then Cassande's obligation to see it undone was more binding than ever.

Galvanized by this renewed sense of conviction that hers was a preordained path, Cassande was about to transform into a stream of pure energy, when a furtive sound drew her attention.

2

In the days following the brutal death of Roger Pipson and the disruption of his transaction with Nassar El Tanari (a transaction that would have constituted a radical expansion in the scope of Peytor Estrovich's machination), the normally glacial Russian had been accosted by doubt. Initially, Estrovich had been confident that he could minimize the damage by setting a snare for whomever had engineered the ambush in the dockside warehouse.

As the intervening days passed and he pondered the arcane talents displayed during the course of that brazen ambush...an act that was tantamount to a declaration of war, Peytor came to glean that it might be extremely imprudent to underestimate the individual...or individuals behind the attack. Just the way the Main doors had been sealed spoke of a tremendous efficacy. It was readily apparent that...whoever had perpetrated this attack...they had not been mortal and that in itself was cause for deep concern. If things in Britain went seriously awry because Estrovich had elected not to disclose details of this disturbing incident, his rapidly rising star could plummet with equal alacrity.

Estrovich was under little illusion that the master he served was inclined to forgive misjudgment. Initiative might be rewarded, but only when it proved fruitful. If Estrovich dismissed the severity of the threat and the dark father's carefully cultivated schemes crumbled to dust, his punishment would be slow and terrible beyond imagining.

_'It would be far better to seem incapable and solicit assistance, than it would be to see this delicate web smashed and be held responsible,'_ Estrovich assured himself, but despite this certainty, he could not allay the sense of terrible apprehension he was now experiencing as he awaited the arrival of an emissary to whom he would disclose details of the complication that had arisen in the warehouse.

His entire body abruptly stiffened in response to the thickening of the air in the cavernous abandoned factory. He could feel swirls of invisible energy gathering within the crumbling concrete walls and wondered if they had the necessary structural integrity to contain the impossibly vast force that was coalescing into life before him.

The air crackled and hissed like a seething serpent as a bright burst of intense argent light filled the confines of the vast space, forcing Estrovich to shield his eyes against the searing magnitude of the glare.

As quickly as this process of materializations had begun, it came to a sudden end, leaving a brooding silence in its wake.

Estrovich lowered his arm and blinked, startled...and under whelmed by what now stood before him. The woman was diminutive and wore antiquated clothing of some gauzy material that seemed more in keeping with a costume from a movie set in ancient Egypt. Her long red tresses fell to her waist and her slender arms and ankles were encircled by a profusion of torcs and jewels. Hers was a body constructed for temptation and sin and Estrovich felt a smirk rise to the corner of his lips, but that disdainful expression vanished when he met her glacial gaze.

Her blue eyes spoke of age beyond imagining and radiated power too vast to contemplate. Peytor Estrovich understood that he was standing in the presence of one of the legends of hell...a creature that had been dubbed Lucifer's concubine, though he doubted that there were many who would dare to utter that disparaging moniker in her presence. Alexandria...sixty centuries old and claimed by some to wield power that could rival that possessed by any first tier demon and yet, standing before her, she appeared as frangible as a delicate porcelain doll.

Yet, despite this apparent fragility, her penetrating gaze fell on his skin like a corrosive acid and he could almost hear the hiss and crackle of unimaginable puissance spiraling around her. Worse still, Estrovich could discern that she regarded him with a scarcely concealed repugnance as if his very presence was somehow an affront to her.

Alexandria absorbed the measure of the very young demon before her, her full lips turned down at the corners. He possessed a variety of minor powers and she willed herself to resist the temptation to crush him like a loathsome bug.

She had arrived in London days earlier, searching for the source of the power that had first attracted her attention back in Giza. Her search had proven futile as the source of the emanation had apparently fallen dormant.

_'Cynara Saravic...surely not. After six thousand years, perhaps your mind has started to unravel,'_ she had chastised herself while standing atop a strange glass and steel recreational facility from the past century.

"Daughter!" A voice had remarked and Alexandria had been startled from her reverie to find the dark father standing not ten paces from where she hovered. Tall and handsome, with an erudite manner that belied his nature, Lucifer watched her through yellow eyes that were utterly inscrutable...and all the more disconcerting for it. Alexandria quickly recovered her composure and offered the dark father a deferential smile, though she did not drop to one knee and bow her head as was protocol. He had granted her this dispensation...along with access to abilities that only a few within his ranks could claim to wield. "It has been a long while since you have deigned to favor my court with your presence, Alexandria."

There had been a mild hint of reproof in his voice as he had offered this observation to which Alexandria had shrugged and returned, "I have been...preoccupied. I've been in a rather retrospective, solitary mood these last decades...and time has...escaped me."

"An inherent danger that comes with longevity such as ours. It can be a furtive menace, dear. In time, if you are not vigilant, you can find yourself as unmoving as a range of mountains," he cautioned and then a thread of suspicion worked its way into his tone and Alexandria suddenly found that she was wary of his unexpected presence. Her well-honed instinct informed her that his coming was an ill omen of things to come. "And yet, you find yourself here in this dreary city?"

Again, she managed to offer a cursory shrug. "It just happens to be where my meandering has led me, father."

The use of this honorific seemed to please Lucifer, whose ego was not completely above such gestures of deference. He beamed a decidedly charming smile and had remarked, "Then that proves most fortuitous because there is a task that I would have you perform here...one that requires a subtle touch...and there is none more qualified than you."

She arched a quizzical eyebrow and he disclosed the nature of the task he would set before her. By the time he had concluded, Alexandria was frowning in open displeasure...an expression that might have proven fatal for any of his other minions. "Dark father, you know I serve you in all things...but I find this scheme...repugnant."

Lucifer's eyes flared, but his tone remained even and placid, "Be that as it may, daughter...I would still set you to this task. Among other things, mine is the role of despoiler and corruption comes in many forms. I am not asking you to actively participate in this scheme...merely to determine exactly what is attempting to disrupt it. Peytor Estrovich is a young demon, but his potential is vast and I would not have him undone...just as I would see this undertaking to its end. You will perform this task for me...and then you will be free to go back to your meandering."

There had been absolutely no latitude for debate or refusal and so Alexandria had agreed to help determine just what manner of threat this Estrovich was confronted with.

Now, with this wretched beast of a creature standing before her, Alexandria was forced to draw upon her every iota of restraint not to simply incinerate him where he stood. His ice blue eyes roamed her nubile body with unconcealed avarice, but that expression faltered when his gaze met hers. Coldly, she declared, "The standard posture of deference is a bended knee."

Estrovich swallowed and settled to one knee in an ungainly rush. "I apologize," he said quickly, trying to conjure the correct tone of deferential respect...all the while cognizant of the enormous swirl of power circling the room like an invisible predator. "I did not expect someone of such...esteem."

"You know of me then?" She inquired, privately delighted that her reputation was so widespread as to have filtered down to the lowliest of servants. It would serve her well in the conflict that would inevitably come.

"I would be shocked to discover that there would be one of the dark father's servants who does not?" Estrovich replied without raising his head.

"The dark father informs me that you've encountered an obstacle that is...anomalous and formidable?"

"Yes...may I rise?" Estrovich asked, to which Alexandria signified her permission with an impatient wave of her right hand in an imperious fashion that would have made even Cleopatra envious. The Russian began to describe the events at the warehouse, while Alexandria listened with a mounting disquiet that never manifested on her exquisite face. A perplexed frown twisted Estrovich's crude features and he concluded by observing, "I understand that there are systems of crude magic that mortals can draw upon, but this seems to exceed that capacity...could this be an...Angel?"

Alexandria dismissed this with a brusque gesture that hinted at displeasure. "Angels rigidly adhere to their mandate and interference in earthly corruption falls beyond the scope of their purpose. This audacious challenge speaks of ignorance or arrogance born of supreme confidence...or power. That is what we must determine."

"How should we respond? The situation here is at a delicate juncture and could easily be undone if this shipment on the Baltic Star is disrupted," Estrovich observed anxiously.

This obdurate classification of children as a shipment evoked a sour scowl from Alexandria, who viewed the employment of children as catalysts for corruption to be ineffably vile. That she had been conscripted to protect this abominable practice was insufferable and made her realize that her time in the dark father's service was rapidly approaching an end. 'Perhaps there is a way to turn this situation to my purpose...to enlist this audacious vigilante to my cause.'

To Estrovich, Alexandria instructed, "A gauntlet has been thrown down...and as this is your endeavor, you will be the one to pick it up."

Estrovich grimaced, clearly not enamored by the daunting thought that he would be expected to face whoever had engineered the carnage at the warehouse. Alexandria gleaned his trepidation and offered him a humorless grin. "Don't fret...I'll be there to observe...and if the situation warrants, I will intervene. The dark father has entrusted you with a responsibility well beyond what your experience would warrant. You would be extremely wise to insure that his faith had not been misplaced...and bring this to an expeditious end."

Though Estrovich had been rankled by her denigrating remark and her insufferably imperious manner, he had nodded obsequiously nonetheless...vowing that the day would come...perhaps millennia off...when he would make this bitch pay for her condescension.

3

Cassande pivoted in place in time to see a very tall man float down to the roof and land lightly on the balls of his feet. He wore a broad grin that never touched his eyes and as he landed, the man spread his long arms in a gesture of placation. "This is a rather odd place to spend one's idle time," he observed with a levity that did not fool Cassande for a moment, "unless, of course, you've come in search of a very specific diversion."

Attired in a black leather jacket, flat-soled boots and black jeans, she quickly drew up her hood and settled into a defensive posture. Seeing the woman, Peytor relaxed slightly...though recalling Alexandria's deceptively fragile appearance, Estrovich did not allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. Still, he could not sense the presence of arcane energy radiating from the statuesque, slender woman...who appeared quite frightened by his unexpected presence.

Casting a brief glance over her shoulder, Cassande began to move to her left, along the edge of the roof, while never taking her eyes off the man. Seeing that she was poised on the edge of panic, Estrovich stopped and again spread his arms as if to indicate that he posed no threat. He knew that Alexandria was somewhere nearby, concealed beneath an impenetrable mantle of invisibility and that he would have to handle this situation adroitly if he wished to emerge from this encounter unscathed. Vacillation would be seen as a sign of weakness and since this woman seemed more inclined to flee than fight, Estrovich decided that direct action was warranted.

He swiftly snapped his fingers and Cassande could feel an invisible force swiftly ensnare her calves and literally pull the feet out from under her. In the next instant, she found herself dangling just beyond the edge of the roof, some twenty meters above the concrete pad that ran along the edge of the building. Rather than struggle against her bonds, which were surprisingly weak, Cassande willed herself to go limp in the hopes of lulling this crude brute into thinking that she was docile and terrified. If she could incapacitate him quickly, she could extract information about the Baltic Star's cargo at her leisure. The prospect of slowly torturing this evil miscreant roused a warm tingling in her loins.

As he approached the suspended woman, Estrovich cast a subtle glance over his right shoulder...toward the place where he had last spoken to Alexandria. Cassande noted the gesture and interpreted it perfectly, deducing that her predicament was far more dire than she had first assumed.

This vulgar brute was just a foot soldier...the real threat was sequestered somewhere in the distant shadows. Thoughts of extracting information to a chorus of shrill screams relented to the exigent need to flee and Cassande began to twist and thrash.

Estrovich uttered a bark of harsh laughter at her ineffective struggles. "I'm curious...just what was it you were thinking when you slaughtered Roger Pipson...did you truly believe that you could thwart an elaborate scheme that reaches to every corner of the globe...single-handedly? Are you really that obtuse...or arrogant?"

Cassande stopped thrashing and went utterly still, regarding Estrovich the way a child might look upon a particularly colorful insect. When she spoke, her voice carried not the slightest intimation of fear. "Perhaps it is you who is obtuse...for assuming that I am acting alone?"

Like a striking cobra, Estrovich reached out and clutched her throat in powerful fingers. The false levity was entirely absent when the Russian snarled, "Trying my patience will only guarantee that your end is long and agonizing, bitch. Believe me when I predict that...long before I peel the last layer of flesh from your bones...you will have spewed out everything I want to know."

With stunning alacrity, Cassande quickly reached out and gripped the back of Estrovich's head with her left hand. Simultaneously, she thrust her right arm forward...though her hand had transmogrified into a triangular spike that glowed a blinding molten gold. She drove the glowing spike directly into Estrovich's right eye. The howl of argent agony that tore from his lips sliced through the occluding fog like a scalpel...echoing along the waterfront in a strangely distorted way that made it impossible to determine the direction from which it had been issued.

Out of a long-honed instinct for survival, Estrovich retained the presence of mind to unleash a crude blast of arcane energy that sent Cassande spinning on her invisible tether. Still wailing like a mortally wounded animal, the Russian clutched his wounded face and staggered across the roof before falling to one knee. Although spinning wildly on the end of her invisible restraint, Cassande unleashed a powerful radial wave of energy that struck Estrovich and tossed him across the roof, where he slammed into the south wall of the structure's second level with a force that crimped the corrugated sheets of steel as if they were no more substantial that aluminum foil.

A quick gesticulation and the invisible tether was severed, allowing Cassande to right herself. She hovered in the air and struggled to refrain from simply bathing the entire structure in a lake of fire. Instead, she landed lithely on the balls of her feet and stalked across the roof toward the fallen Estrovich, who lay facedown and unmoving...apparently incapacitated.

_'Caution Cassande...that was far too easy and you know there is another...entity out there,'_ the voice of prudence exhorted, but Cassande was intent on extracting information about the Baltic Star's cargo and its intended destination.

By the time she had made her way to where he stood, Estrovich had managed to push himself to his knees, where he panted like a wounded cur. Cassande turned her gaze on a massive ventilation unit that was bolted onto a concrete pad not twenty meters from where the tormented demon struggled. With the mere flexing of thought, Cassande willed the unit to tear free of its restraints. The fifteen centimeter bolts pulled free of the concrete pad with a tortured scream and the unit leapt into the air, flying end over end like a tossed coin.

It then came to a spinning halt...like a hammer held at the zenith of its arc...and then pounced on the writhing Estrovich like a lunging predator.

Cassande strode over to spot where the unit now pinioned the demon to the concrete and effortlessly tossed it aside as if it was a paper mâché construct. Reaching down, she seized the collar of Estrovich's dark jacket and jerked his head up. He uttered a guttural grunt and gaped at his assailant with a slack-jawed, vacant expression of total confusion and horror.

A jagged hole...rimmed by blackened and charred flesh...winked a dull red where Estrovich's eye had once been. Cassande savagely thrust her right index finger deep into the oozing hole and hooked it against his temple, grinning maliciously at the harrowing shriek this savage action evoked. "Remember how you threatened to dissect me layer by layer bastard...well, it seems our situations have reversed...perhaps I'll stuff your shriveled cock into this hole...after you tell me where these children are being taken."

Estrovich groped with his right hand and as he pressed it to her abdomen, the battered demon unleashed a desperate blast of arcane energy that dislodged his tormentor, throwing her back across the roof. She rolled, but came to one knee with an inarticulate snarl of fury as the Russian collapsed to his forearms. Hoarsely, he croaked, "Help me!"

The overwhelming compulsion to lash out momentarily occluded Cassande's desire to extract information and her hands again transmogrified into molten impaling spikes as she converged upon the helpless demon.

"Enough!" The single word resonated with an undeniable authority that brought Cassande to an abrupt halt and caused her fury to dissipate, giving way to a discordant combination of dread and awe. As she gazed about with moon-eyed incredulity, the fog on the roof rolled back and created a rectangle, delineated at the edges of the roof by a roiling bank of impenetrable opalescent fog. The cloak that concealed the nearby presence vanished and the subsequent rush of nearly infinite power that filled the open space evoked a shiver and a gasp from Cassande. A shifting spiral of golden energy descended from the darkness and there was a certain indolent grace to its movements that was almost...seductive. As she watched this diaphanous vortex of light slowly coalesce into a discernible human form, Cassande could feel her churning emotions...rage, anxiety and uncertainty...drain away before a placating wash of tranquility. The creature that had coalesced before her exuded an aura that Cassande might have described as divine, but she doubted that divinity would have been capable of cultivating the impression of hypnotic sensuality that this magnificent creature projected. Despite this impression of carnal artistry the diminutive beauty possessed, Cassande could clearly glean the staggering enormity of the power at her disposal and knew that this entity could easily extinguish her with the raising of an eyebrow.

Unaware of her own intentions, Cassande sank to her knees and extended her arms like a penitent seeking salvation, dismayed by the implications of this peculiar gesture of subjugation. If this approaching creature was a product of iniquity...she certainly concealed it well. Her regard was suddenly jerked back to Estrovich, who was just now starting to stir. The ethereal creature also shifted her gaze to the fallen entity, her generous mouth twisting in a moue of disgust. Something appeared to leap from the woman...a writhing shadow that enveloped the Russian, who emitted a long sigh and then pitched forward onto his face.

Alexandria returned her attention to the kneeling woman, whose limpid blue eyes were ablaze with a blend of trepidation, petulant defiance and wonder. The ancient demon glided forward and gently laid her right palm on Cassande's upturned cheek. "I mean you no harm child, but I would have you open your mind to me now. I would glean your essence and I'm sure you understand that there is nothing you can to do prevent it, so I ask that you offer no resistance."

Cassande swallowed with an audible click and she perceived that any resistance would provoke her obliteration. She signified her absolute capitulation with a subtle nod. In the next instant, Cassande could feel a subtle force permeate the barriers of her mind and begin to selectively rummage through her consciousness. This was not the crude mental rape and plunder that she had inflicted upon Barney Tate or Roger Pipson. Alexandria explored the darkened interiors of Cassande's consciousness with the finesse and subtle grace of the most skilled of lovers...her subtle ministrations eliciting a soft sigh of exquisite pleasure from a thoroughly entranced Cassande.

When Alexandria had plumbed the full depths of Cassandra Jasic's interior darkness, she withdrew her hand and stepped back a pace. Though her countenance remained decidedly neutral, Alexandria's thoughts were a turbulent storm that reflected the extent to which she had been disconcerted by the contents of this tortured creature's mind...a mind that was perched precariously on the crumbling edge of absolute and irreversible lunacy. Above this poignant sympathy for the tribulations fate had inflicted on this poor, lost soul, there arose one unnerving revelation that threatened to shattered the unflappable Alexandria's equilibrium...this broken soul was Cynara Saravic's creature. The monster of Chevru...whose unparalleled evil had first compelled Alexandria along her road to rebellion...still walked the earth.

The implications of this horrifying disclosure left Alexandria reeling. Anxious to be done with this melodrama, the ancient demon intoned, "I doubt you truly understand what it is that you aspire to oppose and though I applaud your conviction, your meddling in this base brute's affairs has earned you a host of frighteningly powerful enemies. Good fortune has smiled upon you this night because I mean you no harm. The next seeker you encounter may well be a beast of an entirely different stripe." Alexandria offered the kneeling woman a benevolent smile and inquired softly, "If you wish, I can permanently eradicate the scars the monsters of your youth inflicted upon your soul?"

Cassande's vehement reaction to this egalitarian offer startled Alexandria. Cassande's exquisite face contorted into a mask of apoplectic horror and she rasped, "No! They're mine...my memories...please don't take them from me!"

In this strident adjuration, Alexandria deduced the full extent of Cassandra Jasic's pernicious madness. The harrowing memories of her childhood ordeal had somehow been transformed into her most precious possessions and served as a catalyst for what would, in their absence, be an utterly hollow and pointless existence. Cassandra defined her entire purpose from the hellish memories of the misery she had endured at the hands of the two people who had betrayed her so horribly. She had come to hoard those memories the way a miser might view a secreted cache of gold.

That Cynara had seen fit to turn such a torturously damaged creature was reprehensible beyond words and filled Alexandria with a burning rage. Above this staggering disclosure came the understanding that Elizabeth had also deceived her...she had not killed Cynara in Chevru. She again laid a placating hand on Cassande's anxious face and assured her, "I will not take your memories, child. Where is Cynara?"

Cassandra's expression became flinty and suspicious and she mumbled, "I don't know...it's been three years since we parted ways."

Alexandria pondered this response for a moment and then demanded more firmly, "And what of Elizabeth Simpson...where is she?"

The kneeling immortal regarded her with an expression of perplexity that was too intense to be feigned and then she retorted flatly, "Elizabeth is dead...she was killed in Seattle...by your kind." After a moment's hesitation, she added uncertainly, "Wasn't she?"

Alexandria offered no comment. Instead, she raised a slender right arm and pointed in the direction of the docks. "Go. If you are wise, you will find a burrow in which to go to ground. On the next occasion we meet, you can expect to find no mercy."

Cassande's eyes widened, but she immediate rose and stumbled away on unsteady legs. She could feel the mad angels of her nature imploring her to lash out at this ancient entity, but retained enough presence of mind to know that she would be excoriated in the blink of any eye. Stepping off the edge of the roof, she hovered in mid sir and turned back to the bemused ancient demon. "I will never stop trying to save the children...ever. The next time I set eyes upon that piece of excrement, I will tear his throat out...tell him that."

Then she disintegrated into a swirl of energy and vanished into the churning fog like a wraith.

Sighing in consternation, Alexandria glanced up into the night sky...seeing the elaborate choreography of dancing worlds through the occluding veil of fog. Elizabeth...that serene, ingenuous creature that Alexandria had come to admire...had deceived her and the ancient immortal could hardly conceive of the possible reverberations of this stunning deceit.

_'If Cynara had managed to defy death...was it possible that Elizabeth was out there as well?'_ Alexandria wondered. When she had dropped Zavora Asari's body into the Pacific Ocean, the ancient demon did not know if the imbuing process would actually succeed. She had deliberately left Elizabeth's survival to fate, thinking that everyone would be better served if she had no idea whether the extraordinary immortal yet lived. This damaged, impetuous creature had lived with Cynara for five decades and yet knew nothing of Elizabeth's existence...which would seem to indicate that Simpson had not been reanimated. _'Or it could mean that she had made the incredibly wise decision to sever all ties with the pernicious Saravic.'_

Alexandria absently drew her hand across her mouth in an unconscious gesture of anxiety. Cynara Saravic lived still and had created another immortal...an entity invested with immense power and a defective nature that made her as volatile as nitro glycerin. The ancient demon wondered how many other wayward souls the despoiler might have subjected to the ritual of turning. The energy anomaly she had detected...might that have been another deviant being born into an unsuspecting world.

Cassandra Jasic was a dysfunctional creature...devoid of humanity and infected with a kind of moralistic zealotry that would make her extremely dangerous...as evinced by the trail of carnage she had left across the city these last few years. While Alexandria found the dark father's philosophy and perverse religion insufferable, she did share his view in believing that these abominations could not be allowed to proliferate. Creatures that were invested with enormous power and whose only allegiance was to themselves would run rampant in the world like threshers...permanently upending the delicate balance of governing forces. _'This is your doing, Alexandria,'_ she chastised herself. _'In your eagerness to undermine the dark father, you've inadvertently created a threat that has the potential to undo everything. It was Cynara Saravic who first set you upon this rebellious path and if she lives...you have an obligation to seek her out and permanently reduce her to ash...along with any deviants she may have spawned!'_

Above these grave considerations, one single thought rumbled through the complex labyrinth of her mind in a discordant clatter that made coherent thought difficult. Tilting her head skyward, she murmured, "Elizabeth...you deceived me...why?"

Alexandria could produce no plausible reason, but if Elizabeth Simpson yet walked the earth, the ancient immortal vowed that she would find her and extract one. She became cognizant of scrutiny and whirled about to find Estrovich glancing up at her, his remaining eye narrowed into a speculative slit.

_'He heard me speak Elizabeth's name!'_ Alexandria released in horror, but her expression remained neutral. Her first instinct was to finish what the rogue immortal had commenced and reduce Estrovich to ash, but she prudently decided that it would be preferable to trivialize the incident and mask her anxiety with surly impatience. "Your handling of this situation could only be termed a fiasco!"

"Why did you not intervene? She took my eye!" Estrovich railed, his normally gruff voice shrill and fraught with near-hysteria.

"I would advise you to change your tone when addressing me, infant. I did not intervene immediately because I needed to assess her abilities...to discern just what it is we are facing. I will restore your eye." His obsequious expression of gratitude was revolting...especially when offered with a face that was marred by a pit of black and vivid red mottled flesh and a gaping hole. Swallowing her revulsion, she laid her right palm over the gruesome wound and the kneeling demon's entire body went utterly rigid with the coruscating waves of pure annealing puissance that flowed through it. Satisfied that she had completed the process, Alexandria withdrew her hand and pondered the results.

Where the eye had once been, a layer of smooth skin stretched over the empty socket lending Estrovich's already daunting countenance a disconcertingly inhuman aspect. The Russian gingerly ran his finger over the newly formed flesh, his good eye bulging with indignant outrage.

Rising to tower over the ancient immortal, he growled, "What have you done to me?"

Alexandria lashed the young demon with a withering scowl. "Did you actually expect that there would be no consequence for failure? Do you think that I would not ascertain that it was your chauvinistic arrogance that let your vigilance slip...and come perilously close to undoing your master's carefully cultivated scheme? Consider yourself fortunate that I have decided to leave you with a head on your shoulders."

Estrovich's good eye widened in defiance, but that defiance flickered in the face of Alexandria's unflinchingly intransigence...and the sudden flare of power that bathed her in a golden glow. "Wise choice," she intoned sardonically. "You will go about your business and I will deal with this meddlesome insect."

Estrovich regarded her with a hooded expression and then offered her a slight bow, before turning on heel and loping off into the fog. Alexandria thought that she had caught a fleeting glimpse of something furtive in the young demon's eye before he had fled her presence and it occurred to her that she would likely have to dispose of him...if she was to maintain this facade of servitude to the dark father. For now, she would have to focus on locating Cynara Saravic. Cassandra Jasic might be the most expeditious route to achieving that particular end.

Alexandria issued a warded command of summons and after a brief wait, several indistinct figures coalesced into being around her...seemingly rising out of the roof beneath her feet. The drones' featureless faces were totally inscrutable...which was appropriate as they were merely engines of their conjuror's will...constructs to serve the purpose that was imprinted into the fabric of their rudimentary minds. She surveyed the group of a dozen drones that were arrayed around her in a loose circle. She found the soulless constructs abhorrent, but they would serve their purpose in this case and if Cassandra Jasic acted in accordance with Alexandria's expectations...they would track the disturbed immortal to her maker and then...

Then Alexandria would resolve herself to a course of action that would quite possibly have earth-shaking ramifications on the very structure of the dark father's ignoble empire. She communicated her will to the drones, who absorbed her instructions like the compliant receptacles they were. She watched with dark fascination as they collectively turned their eyeless regard to the heavens and appeared to sniff at the air like hounds questing for the scent of their quarry. After a moment, they set off in unison, running in a bent over posture that reminded Alexandria of agitated apes. They would pursue Cassandra with an indefatigable tenacity that was without parallel...not stopping until they finally located the fractured immortal.

Rising into the churning fog, Alexandria set out to find a place where she could devise a method of subtly derailing the dark father's hideous enterprise, while her drones sought out his truant daughter.

4

Cassande fled aimlessly through the dreary London night...utterly unsettled by her encounter with Peytor Estrovich and his terrifyingly powerful patron. Estrovich had been surprisingly weak and gullible and she might well have succeeded in extracting the information she required from the brutish thug had the woman not intervened. Hers had been a power that defied qualification, but for some inexplicable reason, she had decided to permit Cassande to escape...why?

She could produce several plausible explanations...ranging from benign to sinister, but ultimately the creature's motivation for this unexpected act of leniency was irrelevant.

In her zeal to rectify the great injustices suffered by defenseless children, she had come into conflict with Cynara's old masters and though she remained unrepentant...Cassande was still lucid enough to know that she had bitten off far more than she could chew.

She found herself alone and faced with the prospect of confronting a remorseless and infinitely powerful enemy. To survive...and to continue her sacred mission...Cassande realized that she would need sanctuary...and allies. Her only other alternative was the renunciation of the great destiny that had been bestowed upon her...an obligation that she would never forsake. The image of her creator bloomed in her mind even as a brilliant smile lit her exquisite face. Veering to the north-east, Cassande sped forth with a new sense of purpose...and the inexorable and remorseless engine of destiny gained a new and exigent impetus.

Chapter Thirty-Three

1

As the trans-Atlantic flight descended for its final approach, Elizabeth suddenly broke her dreary silence and murmured distantly, "Something...momentous is happening below. There is an enormous power preparing to be unleashed...I can almost discern its shape."

Judith glanced at the immortal, her brow furrowing in perplexity. She tentatively unfurled her perception, but could glean nothing beyond the vast repository of welling power that occupied the seat next to her. This decidedly obscure pronouncement had been the first thing that the reticent Elizabeth had utterly since the jet had taken off from Logan. These first words were pointedly ominous and carried with them the stink of augury. Elizabeth shifted her gaze back to the window, the shade of which had been pulled down in preparation for landing. As she surreptitiously studied the immortal, Judith could see that the golden corona that had first drawn Elizabeth to her attention was conspicuously absent and Judith correctly surmised that Rebecca Merin's tragic death had permanently extinguished Elizabeth's effulgent light.

As they prepared to land, an eerie tranquility descended over Elizabeth, but Judith was not fooled into believing that she was seeing a return of the immortal's customary serenity. This new Elizabeth appeared numb...and resigned, though to what specifically, Judith could not decide with any degree of conviction. The previous day had been the longest and most excruciating of Judith's life. She had watched in helpless silence as a family had flayed itself with inconsolable grief, struggling...and failing woefully, to come to terms with Rebecca's loss. Imirya, in particular, had been thoroughly decimated...her beautiful face slack and her limpid blue eyes devoid of understanding.

Judith had sat beside the ravaged woman and took her limp right hand as Elizabeth had rose to address the three haggard mortals...apprising them of the ugly, yet salient realities of the nightmare in which they now found themselves. She had delivered this lecture in a cold, dispassionate voice that would have struck Judith as incomprehensibly obdurate had she not been acutely aware of the immensity of the immortal's torment. "I know that your inclination is to acknowledge what has happened to Rebecca...publicly...so that you might begin the grieving and healing cycle...just as I know you can't even envision finding the wherewithal to emerge from this bleak torrent of loss that has swept through your lives." She had surveyed the three glum faces and Elizabeth's tone had become grave and imploring, "I know how cruelly unfair this is...but you can never divulge that you know what has happened to Rebecca. To do so would only place your lives under an unbearable scrutiny and force you to give answer to a myriad of questions, the answers to which the authorities would never accept."

This terrible declaration had managed to rouse Imirya from her torpor and with her face twisted by a moue of indignant disgust and incredulity, she had demanded, "You can't really expect us to carry on with the charade of playing hopeful parents...that would be monstrously cruel beyond words."

Elizabeth had knelt before Imirya and taken the other woman's hands in hers...and though her voice was soft, her tone was implacable. "As grossly unfair as that is...it is precisely what I'm asking you to do. The men responsible for Rebecca's abduction are dead and nothing can bring Rebecca back...though I swear by the name of my son and your father, if I could exchange my life for her return, I would give her back to you in the blink of an eye. If you even hint to authorities that you know what has befallen Rebecca, it will throw open the lid of a Pandora's Box that will only cause further grief and might well jeopardize the three of you."

Imirya had absorbed this dire prediction in silence and then seemed to lapse back into a near-catatonic daze. Elizabeth studied her granddaughter's face for a long moment and Judith could sense that the immortal was within close proximity to emotional collapse. She glided across the room and settled onto the sofa next to Imirya, before throwing an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into a hug. Elizabeth had flashed Judith a brief smile of pure gratitude and rose to face Charles and Hudson Merin whose despondent faces were etched in misery. "I know that what I am asking of you is inordinately cruel and I have no right to ask anything of either of you. To be unable to acknowledge the loss of someone so precious is beyond monstrous. I can offer you no meaningful words of consolation for the tragic shadow that has descended upon your lives and so I won't even make the attempt. Your road forward will be as hard a path as one can traverse and I can tell you from personal experience that the pain of such a loss never truly subsides. Try to draw strength from each other and cherish the memories that you have...because in the end, they may well be the most precious possessions we have."

A despondent Charles Merin nodded distantly and Elizabeth could clearly discern the sense of disbelief still clouded the edges of his grief...that ultimately cruel hope that he would awaken and all of this would prove to be a particularly lucid nightmare.

She had returned to Imirya and bending forward, gently touched the other woman's grief-contorted face with the fingertips of her right hand. Judith could clearly see the wisps of energy emanating from the immortal's finely-boned hand...a placating current of warmth intended to temporarily dull the keen edge of Imirya's misery. "I'm leaving, Imirya...and it's unlikely we will ever see each other again. I know I promised that I would bring Rebecca back to you, but I've failed you...failed the both of you. I want you to know two thing before I go...not having the opportunity to share your life is one of the biggest regrets I have, but realizing that you filled my poor son's life with joy and sunlight is an enormous comfort that I will carry in my heart for whatever time remains to me." She bent forward and kissed Imirya's upturned cheek and then stood. "In light of what happened last night, I understand how improbable what I'm about to suggest will sound...but Imirya, I'm begging you...try to reconcile with Contayza. Though she's become hard and obdurate...and often cruel...her life has been an unforgivably brutal and ultimately lonely journey. Reach out to her and try to help her heal from this terrible tragedy."

Imirya did not respond and in her fixation on her granddaughter, Elizabeth did not notice the expression of scornful incredulity that had twisted Judith's lovely face at the mention of the obstreperous gypsy. A crestfallen shadow fell over Elizabeth's face and she concluded by saying. "Judith will come back to you shortly, Imirya...she will protect you...protect all of you...though I can say...without equivocation...that you will have nothing more to fear on my account."

Gesturing to Judith, Elizabeth started toward the door, but before she could make her exit, Imirya called out, "Goodbye grandmother...I want you to know that I don't blame you for what's happened...not in the least. I hope we see each other again someday...under brighter circumstances."

Elizabeth did not turn around to acknowledge this beautiful, egalitarian sentiment. She merely nodded vigorously and fled into the October morning sunshine. Judith hugged Imirya, and when the distraught blond offered her designated protector a wan smile, and Judith remarked, "I'll be back soon, Imirya."

Judith had followed Elizabeth to discover the distraught immortal slumped in the front seat of their rental with her face buried in her hands. The violent rise and fall of her shoulders eloquently declared the extent of her torment and Judith leaned against the car and turned her face into the weak sunshine. A space had opened between her and the immortal she had come to adore and Ranzman suddenly found that she was no longer entitled to share Elizabeth's private pain. _'Or perhaps it's just that you know she has resolved herself to something that you lack the sensibility to comprehend...and it frightens you so badly because you are utterly powerless to prevent it._ '

This last grave thought drew Judith out of her reverie just as the jet made its final approach into Gatwick. Spurred by a burgeoning sense of exigency, Judith gripped Elizabeth's forearm, drawing a questioning glance from the immortal. "Elizabeth, there are things I need to tell you...before we get back to Cynara..."

Elizabeth gently patted Judith's wrist and offered her a fey smile that tore at Ranzman's vitiated heart. "I'm listening."

"Elizabeth, I can never make a claim of being the most sensitive, empathetic being...but what I witnessed back in Boston...was excruciating beyond my faculty of words to articulate. I know the affect it has had on you...and I fear where it is leading you. I just want you to be aware of two things before you commit yourself to a course of action. When I caught that first glimpse of you in Paris...it was like you were enveloped in a golden glow...a radiant light that brought you into sharper focus than everything around you. Elizabeth...after what happened in Mexico and in Boston...that light is gone."

Elizabeth frowned and Judith could clearly see that she did not glean the silver lining that accompanied its departure. Vehemently, she insisted, "Don't you see, Elizabeth...it means that you're finally free! The light that drew the miscreants and the despoilers...like me...to you is gone and you can go out and find another Petalidi, without fear of being tracked down by the Ian Barrows of the world."

Elizabeth absorbed this thoughtful, her beautiful face set in a pensive expression. "I'm losing my humanity, Judith," she whispered softly. "That is why the light is fading...perhaps it was inevitable and this tide of tribulation has only accelerated the process."

"Elizabeth...I offered before and the offer still stands...I can give you the shadow cloak and you can leave everything behind...give yourself to the wind. You can become Amathera without the horrible weight of impossible obligation. I'll tell Cynara that you commandeered my cloak and vanished in a fit of despair. Than I can return to protect Imirya...even without the cloak, my powers are formidable."

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow and inquired, "Your extended mortality comes as a consequence of the cloak, doesn't it Judith?"

Judith grimaced, suspecting that the immortal had maneuvered her into a philosophical corner. "Yes, but I accept that fully. My chronological countdown timer will just resume its normal rhythm and I can spend the rest of my life fulfilling my promise to you...gleefully and without reservation."

Elizabeth leaned forward and bestowed a delicate, lingering kiss on Judith's pliable lips, drawing intrigued stares from the men in the adjacent row. When Elizabeth disengaged and peered into Judith's slightly glazed eyes, there shone a light in the immortal's blue eyes that was reminiscent of the iridescent glow that had so captivated Judith in Paris on the night they had dined.

_'Could that really have happened only a few short weeks ago,'_ Judith thought, completely bemused by the notion. It seemed as though they had shared an epic experience that spanned the ages.

"Judith...I have to return to Cynara. There is a bond that she and I share and though it's frayed, I cannot simply desert her. Even if she was inclined to believe your tale, she would squander her eternity searching for me and that is an injustice I won't inflict upon her."

"Elizabeth, Cynara is...is a monster. When you first traveled to Boston, she showed me the thing that resides inside of her. It's hideous and evil. She swore me to secrecy, but I think you're in a situation where you're entitled to know exactly what you're dealing with." Judith blurted, knowing that she might just have made a fearsome enemy.

Elizabeth greeted this dire warning with the same unsettling expression of grim resolve. "I see the path set before me Judith...and not only do I accept it...I embrace it...just as I hope you embrace yours."

With this fatalistic, albeit abstract declaration offered, Elizabeth settled back into her seat and closed her eyes, emphatically terminated their dialogue. Judith fetched a tremulous sigh and slumped into her own seat, fearing that the dice had been cast and all that remained to be determined was who would still be standing once the impending collision of destinies had run its course.

2

For Cynara Saravic, the days of Elizabeth's absence...particularly the period after the debacle in Mexico...were perhaps the most bizarre she had ever experienced. Where once she had found a level of hollow comfort in her sprawling manor...the cavernous rooms had now become alien and hostile terrain. Torn by anxiety and sick with worry over Elizabeth's continued absence, Cynara had strode through the silent halls like a great stalking panther in search of something on which to unleash her natural instinct for carnage. The shadows had assumed an ominous depth as if they concealed things that were poised to devour her.

More frustrating yet, Judith had deliberately severed the communication tether, leaving Cynara in the dark with her mounting anxieties. Those anxieties seemed to grow geometrically...exponentially...with every moment that Elizabeth did not appear. She profoundly regretted not killing Ranzman the instant Elizabeth had left the pair together. _'Ah, but I may well rectify that misjudgment the next time I have the scheming bitch alone.'_

_'Petty to the end, Cynara,'_ the voice of her long-dead sister chided. _'Can you not feel the abyss yawning open beneath your feet...ready to devour you whole. All things come at a price...and all debts eventually come due. That moment of reconciliation is close at hand. Can you not feel it in the marrow of your plunderer's bone...or have you grown oblivious to everything but your infantile desires?'_

Cynara scowled and spat a venomous curse at the combative ghost. She was cognizant of the gathering force that seemed to hover over London like a penumbra and she had lived long enough to divine its nature...if not its precise form. The random working of fate was poised to enact its cynical magic and unleash pandemonium on her life.

She had little illusions about the impact Rebecca's death would have upon the Elizabeth's fragile spirit and knew that it would be incumbent upon her to find a way to pull the sensitive immortal from the morass of her consuming despair.

_'Do you not discern the changes that she has undergone?'_ Alasha's restive ghost persisted. _'Try to envision what she might become when this process of transformation reaches its culmination. Can you honestly claim that the entity that so thoroughly terrorized you at the side of that country lane is the same ingenuous creature that so completely captivated your black heart?'_

Cynara came to a halt mid-stride, her eyes popping as wide as full moons...as if a nebulous contemplation had finally resolved itself into absolute comprehension. Elizabeth was evolving...into a radically higher, more powerful form of immortal entity. The power she had displayed on that dark night when she had threatened Cynara was leagues beyond what she had ever previously displayed and the carnage in Mexico illustrated that this formative power was growing at a frightening rate. Elizabeth had always been an exceptionally powerful immortal...demonstrating abilities that were far beyond the normal scope for a creature of her age. The magic that she had utilized while threatening Cynara in that dreary field defied reason. Cynara had been unable to define its shape and nature...and had been utterly powerless to give it opposition. Elizabeth could have easily obliterated her then and there had she been so inclined, but had been prevented from doing so by the constraints of her humanity. _'But if she is evolving...shedding those constraints and becoming something devoid of human sensibilities...will I be so fortunate if I ever earn her wrath again?'_

This discordant thought only exacerbated Cynara's anxiety. If Elizabeth was slowly being divested of her humanity by some infernal process, then the disaster in the Baja could only serve to hasten that loss. Elizabeth...serenity and compassion personified; this was how Cynara defined the immortal whom she had come to love above all things...even herself. To see her transformed into a cold, unfeeling entity would be more than the raven-haired immortal could suffer.

_'But what can I actually do to forestall the transformation?'_ Cynara thought, feeling abysmal at the prospect of losing the one thing that would sustain her through the unending journey of immortality.

She was grappling with this daunting conundrum when a heavy thud reverberated through the sprawling manor like the fulminating rumble of apocalyptic thunder.

3

The discordant braying of his PDA unceremoniously jerked Ewan McGowan out of the fitful doze into which he fallen. The room was pitched in near-perfect darkness; save for the hovering green number that informed him that it was just after 4 a.m. Friday morning. Beside him, Emily issued a plaintive grumble and settled back into the embrace of a tranquil doze. Ewan found himself envying that tranquility, even as he snatched up the PDA and silenced its damnable bleating. His slumber had been plagued by abstract, but terrifying dreams that revolved around poor Mary Langdon and the departed Donald Gansby...both of whom cowered in the shadow of a sinister presence that he could not see.

"Hello?" Ewan ventured gruffly, his voice rendered coarse by sleep and vexation.

"Inspector Ewan McGowan...I require that you listen carefully," a female voice declared in a tone that suggested that absolute compliance was fully expected...the voice of a person who is accustomed to issuing orders that would be quickly and efficiently obeyed. "I'm going to divulge a very specific item of information that you should immediately recognize and will prove of enormous value in resolving your persisting woes."

"I'm listening...but who am I speaking to?" Ewan inquired evenly. Two anomalies became immediately apparent as the last vestiges of shattered sleep fell away like scales from his eyes. The PDA visual display was disabled and more perplexing...and disturbing still...it's activation indicator was still red...which meant that the device was still in dormant mode!

"Who I am is not germane to the matter at hand...and quite frankly, Inspector McGowan, you would be far better served by never learning who I am," the woman replied in a tone the hinted at a terrible patience. Ewan thought he could detect a subtle trace of a foreign accent in her voice...middle-eastern perhaps. Her next revelation reduced these considerations to meaningless trivialities. "The Baltic Star is carrying a container labeled ELECHUNG7821. Sequestered within that container is the answer to all of your questions and the first step along a dark and far-flung path. You also have my assurance that the issue of the murders, which have plagued your city these last few years, has been emphatically resolved. I leave the matter in your capable hands, Inspector McGowan."

The call terminated abruptly, leaving a flummoxed McGowan gaping at his PDA...his mind racing along a hundred tangents at once.

"What is it Ewan?" His wife murmured blearily.

McGowan, who was already reaching for his pants, replied, "Go back to sleep dear...I've been called into work." Distantly, he added, "I think this is going to be a long day."

4

As a silver dawn stole of the new London docks, elements of Scotland Yard and the London Metropolitan Police Force pounced on the Baltic Star like the fall of a hammer. The ship was impounded and custom and port authorities seized all paper work and manifests related to the cargo and its intended destinations. Inspector Ewan McGowan personally took possession of the manifest for container ELECHUNG7821 and determined its eventual shipping destination.

A series of phone calls and a hastily convened video conference later and a convoy of vehicles were speeding toward the facility where Emilia Trescu and the other children were being indoctrinated in preparation for their new lives.

From the top of a warehouse some four kilometers to the north, Peytor Estrovich watched in numb horror as his carefully cultivated machinations crumbled to dust before his unbelieving eye. Panic...huge and emasculating...gripped him then and he momentarily considered fleeing London and seeking out a rock in some dismal jungle backwater under which he could hide until he could contrive a way of extricating himself from this debacle. Only the hated presence at his side prevented him from doing precisely that. Alexandria watched the monkey wrench she had thrown into the dark father's vile works wreak havoc on the ugly scheme with soaring jubilation, though her outward countenance remained unflaggingly neutral.

It had been a simple matter to devise a means to implode the scheme once she had extracted the information from Cassandra Jasic's frenetic mind. If this inspector McGowan was the tenacious sort, this entire ignoble network could collapse like cascading dominoes from one end of the globe to the next. She turned to the young demon, whose alien new appearance filled her with revulsion and intoned sardonically, "It seems you find yourself confronted with quite the problem. Now that they've latched onto this end of the thread, it is improbable that they will rest until they find the end of the yarn. I would suggest you make sure that thread is severed and that this fiasco is confined to this one shipment."

Estrovich grimaced and stole another glimpse at the container ship, where authorities were now employing a mobile ladder array to access the doors of the container which the Russian knew held his cargo of twelve children. "How could she have known...it seems impossible?"

Alexandria's expression became disdainful. "The woman was young, but I discerned that she was especially gifted, with a plethora of refined abilities...heightened perception obviously being one of them."

Estrovich started to offer an acerbic rejoinder, but his mouth snapped shut with an audible snap. There was little to be gained by provoking this despicable bitch and so he asked, "What would you have me do next?"

She appeared to give this serious consideration and then advised, "Reach the intended shipping destination before authorities do and make sure there is no trace of anything that would allow them to continue their hunt once you leave."

Estrovich's eyes narrowed and he nodded thoughtfully, already devising the means by which he would achieve this sinister objective. Alexandria managed to cling to her facade of impassive obduracy, though she knew that her callous advice might well condemn a number of innocents to a quick and brutal extermination. She could only hope that McGowan would be thorough enough to jump on the receiving end of this shipment the moment he set eyes on the manifest.

Estrovich regarded the aloof demon and her willingness to lend him advice encouraged the Russian to be more expansive. "This is a setback...but not one that can't be contained and surmounted. The man escorting the children has been handsomely rewarded for his service...and made acutely aware of the consequences of discovery. The secret compartment is sealed by an encrypted electromagnetic device and if an attempt is made to override the entry sequence...the hidden wall will automatically contract...with an explosive force that will pulverize everything within. These interfering maggots are in for an extremely gruesome revelation...one that will ultimately lead them nowhere. The delivery destination on the manifest is bogus...and the lorry drivers are drones...thus the indoctrination facility is safe. I have taken elaborate precautions to insure that every aspect of this operation is...independent and compartmentalized."

Alexandria greeted this disclosure with a sour frown, loathing the expression of smug satisfaction that this detestable cretin wore. When it became evident that the ancient demon would offer no further response to his perceived cleverness, Peytor prepared to depart, but then a sly, furtive light blinked in the depth of his one remaining eye and he inquired. "Elizabeth...that was the name of the abomination you destroyed in Seattle...was it not? Her destruction elevated you to the status of a legend in the dark father's service...if the tales are to be believed."

Alexandria turned her attention to the Russian, her delicate features contracting into a frown of what might have been dismay. Peytor felt a shiver of elation, thinking that he had just exposed a major chink in this presumptuous bitch's mantle of superiority...a vulnerability that he might well be able to exploit.

"Yes...her name was Elizabeth," she confirmed, an indecipherable emotion crafting the edges of her tone.

That emotion caused the Russia to hesitate, but he had tipped his hand and there was no room for vacillation now. "When I emerged from unconsciousness...I heard you mention her name...in a manner that intimated that the popularly held perception might be considerably less than...accurate."

Alexandria tilted her head slightly, her limpid eyes twinkling like jewels beneath a blazing sun. "What precisely are you implying, infant?"

Estrovich held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "I am merely wondering how your renown would endure if your great accomplishment was exposed as nothing more than a deceptive ploy? Perhaps we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement...you could help me smooth this unfortunate wrinkle and offer the occasional service...in exchange for my perpetual silence."

"You would actually presume to extort some manner of fealty oath from me?" Alexandria inquired evenly though her gaze had assumed a murderous glint.

The very fact that she had posed the question, rather than react with lethal violence, eloquently confirmed the Russian's suspicions and he allowed himself a slight smirk, believing that he had just managed to leash a deadly viper. "Despite your claims to the contrary...the abomination is very much alive...isn't she? It could well be that the bitch who inflicted this wound upon me is acting at her behest? I can only image how the dark father would react to the news of your odious betrayal...should it reach his ear."

"Your first erroneous presumption...and one that will now prove fatal...is that I actually care, cur!" Alexandria seethed...and with a guttural growl, she added, "Referring to Elizabeth as an abomination is the one affront I refuse to suffer."

Before Estrovich could react, Alexandria rose from the ground and gripped the sides of his skull...her fingers sinking through his cranium without resistance. She plunged into his consciousness, but without the delicacy she had employed on pitiable Cassandra Jasic. She tore the information she sought from his beleaguered mind with the delicacy of an enraged butcher. Alexandria had always harbored an intense aversion to physical violence of any kind, but since her ascension to the position of the dark father's primary enforcer, she had developed an accommodation with the need to dispense violent death...when unavoidable. Peytor Estrovich was a particularly loathsome creature and she derived a rare measure of actual delight in seeing him to his end. Like a succubus, she virtually sucked the essence...both cognitive and physical...from the demon, who made a futile attempt to resist that was wholly ineffective against the ancient immortal. Gradually his struggles ceased and Alexandria was left holding what resembled a deflated balloon. With a cry of disgust, she cast the empty sack of skin aside and watched in revulsion as it burst into flame and ash, scattering before the moisture-laden wind.

With this impulsive act of immolation, Alexandria had forged her future path in steel...all pretexts of dark allegiance exposed for the shams they were. Committed to this irreversible course, the ancient demon straightened and glanced across at the Baltic Star, where authorities had cut open the container's restraint chains and locks and were just now entering the container.

She drew a tremulous breath and was surprised by the degree of relief she felt at the prospect of no longer have to cling to the role of fawning subservience. She had lived a span of years that very nearly matched the development of civilization itself. If fate decreed that this was to be her end...she would see that end heralded by two worthy acts of personal redemption; an dismantling of this odious scheme of child exploitation...and an emphatic end to Cynara Saravic.

She realized that time was at a dearth and so she must move quickly before the dark father came to deliver his retribution. Her first priority would be preventing authorities from attempting to surmount the container's false wall. She rocketed into the damp morning air and hovering with her arms extended to either side, unleashed a powerful burst of puissance in a radial fan.

Ewan McGowan glanced up from the doors of the container in time to see a macabre ball of crimson light coalesce into being in the air directly above the Baltic Star. It was possibly a distortion of the light, but for a brief instant, Ewan thought he could see a single figure cocooned within the diaphanous ball of what appeared to be pure energy.

He attempted to bellow a warning, but before the first cry could pass his lips, the ball of energy exploded with the speed and power of a sun gone nova.

It converged upon Ewan and he managed to raise his right arm in an unconscious and futile gesture of warding. The wave washed over the terrified inspector, but it did not vaporize him. Instead, it sent him spiraling down the rabbit hole into dreamless sleep and he slumped to the wet metal deck in a boneless sprawl. Soon, every mortal creature within a five hundred meter radius had joined McGowan in an insensate slumber as Alexandria's energy retracted to form a transparent sphere around the now silent container ship.

She descended swiftly, but came to the slippery deck like the fall of a feather, where she stood surveying the drifts of slumbering bodies that were spread over the deck like banks of snow. This ostentatious display of primal power would hardly go unnoticed, but given the nature and magnitude of her treasonous act, being discreet hardly seemed to matter any longer. She moved to the mouth of the container and saw that a half dozen armored policemen were slumped throughout the stacks of carefully anchored shipping boxes.

Alexandria turned her palms toward the ceiling and in response, everything...both human and inanimate...was lifted from the floor. She rotated her torso and the entire contents slowly drifted by her and out into the damp, gloomy London morning. Then she turned to consider the false wall, beyond which her unparalleled percipience identified fourteen individual life forces...all dormant.

As she approached the wall, her hands were transmogrified into glowing balls...the heat of which caused the paint of the container's interior walls to blister. She floated slightly upward and then extended these balls of molten energy until they made contact with the false wall...which immediately and spectacularly liquefied. The slag flowed over the floor in all directions, but a simply exhalation of frigid breath solidified the flowing mass before it could reach any of the unconscious children.

Alexandria drifted over to the center of the hidden enclosure and for a small space of time, she simply hovered and swept her timeless gaze over the faces of these small children, whose life's had been fraught with such bitter misery. For the first time in millennia, Alexandria wept. She wept for the remorseless cruelty with which humanity treated the weak and the defenseless. She wept for the inability of mortals to discern the fundamental flaws in their nature, which despite their claims of enlightenment, only seemed to manifest themselves in new guises from one era to the next. She wept for humanity's seemingly infinite capacity for callous indifference, brutality and hatred...and finally, she wept for its inability to see the precious miracle of pristine innocence in the eyes of these wretchedly abused little creatures.

Then her tear-distorted gaze fell upon a tall, thin man with weathered skin and thinning hair, who was slumped over a metal table, which had been bolted to the container's floor. Fury, huge and mindless, usurped control of her then and she stalked over to the man and jerked his head up by his oily hair. His eyes snapped open like broken shutters and his mouth gaped open in a perfect O of absolute horror as he gazed into those lustrous blue eyes that shone with immutable malice.

His hand gravitated toward a holstered weapon, but before his fingers could graze the grip, Alexandria seized his forearm and broke it like a dried twig...her beautiful face set in a malicious grin. His shriek of raw agony sliced the silence like a scalpel, but before he could lapse into the cold comfort of unconsciousness, Alexandria tore the pistol from its holster and jammed it against his skull. Lips peeling away from her white teeth in a lethal smile, she rasped, "There are so many ways I could kill you...given the time. It is your good fortune that time is at a premium and thus I'll see you to hell with a haste you don't deserve."

With this, she fired six rounds into the escort's skull, reducing it to a pulverized, liquid mass of bone, brain matter and cerebral fluid. She gazed down on the carnage, her substantial chest rising and falling in indignant outrage. Then she aimed and discharged the remaining six rounds into his groin...taking an uncharacteristic delight in the way his body jerked with each impact.

She turned her fraught attention on the weapon, staring fixedly as it turned to molten slag and flowed through her fingers to reform as an indistinguishable lump at her feet.

Feeling the relentless press of time, she then hurried back onto the deck of the container ship...in search of the inspector to whom she had given the informant's tip that had spurred this morning's raid. She found McGowan lying on his side and stooped down to rouse him from his slumber by pressing a long index finger into the hollow of his left temple. Ewan sat up and gazed blearily about the deck with hooded eyes of one locked in a Mesmer's trance. She gently but firmly gripped his chin and turned his slack face to hers. "Inspector McGowan, I need you to listen carefully to what I'm about to impart and signify your understanding with a nod, after which you will return to your slumber. Ten minutes hence, you will awaken with no recollection of having this conversation...only the information I've conveyed."

Alexandria then divulged the correct location of the indoctrination facility after which Ewan conveyed his understanding with a bleary-eyed nod and then settled gently onto his side.

She stood and turning her regard from the open container to the children slumbering therein, she offered, "I hope your futures follow a far kinder course than the remorseless river that has carried you to this sorry juncture."

A slight tingle at the base of her skull pulled the ancient immortal from her moment of wistful contemplation and suffused her with a heightened sense of exigency.

The drones had found her quarry!

5

Ewan opened his eyes and for a moment, the disorienting fog prevented him from grasping just where he was and how he come to be here. Then a sense of critical exigency detonated in his mind, banishing the fog like a sudden gust of wind. McGowan staggered to his feet and saw that everyone around him was stirring back to consciousness like people groping their way up from a forgotten dream they had all shared.

He tried to recall what had happened in those finally seconds before he had lost consciousness, but something stymied his efforts to bring the bizarre mystery of this group fainting spell into focus. Shaking his head in exasperation, he instead shifted his attention to this inexplicable kernel of information that somehow germinated in his mind like a brilliant bloom that would not be ignored.

Despite his natural inclination toward caution and prudence, Ewan McGowan accepted the legitimacy of this new snippet of information without reservation. He groped for his PDA and placed the necessary calls that would authorize a redirect of the team that had been dispatched to the false destination of container ELECHUNG7821. He did this without pausing to consider the absolutely incredible and astounding circumstances in which he had obtained this information or the improbability of what had just transpired on this nondescript container ship.

He had no way of knowing that this perplexing, macabre sequence of events would lead to the single most expansive investigation of child smuggling in the country's history...an investigation that would see the disgrace and arrest of some of the most prominent men in Britain.

His new partner, a young inspector name Docherty, stumbled out of the container with a gleam of pure excitement in his brown eyes. "You really do have to see this, inspector!"

His fervent exhortation broke McGowan's reverie and he followed the young inspector into the container's shadowy interior, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the discolored slag which spread across the floor in an uneven fan. He came to an abrupt halt when he entered the exposed compartment at the rear of the large container. His jaw dropped and his mouth twisted into a frown of bafflement, but when he finally internalized just what he was seeing, Ewan McGowan knew that Mary Langdon's suppositions had proven eerily correct...validated in the tragic, precious commodity of the world's neglected and forgotten children.

"Call Child Protective Services and our Child Crime's Branch," he heard himself instruct, but even as his gaze swept the faces of these beautiful, forsaken children...the first of which was only now starting to stir...Ewan McGowan fervently wished that Mary and Donald could have been here to share this one small moment of triumph.

Chapter Thirty-Four

1

Despite a dread chill that coursed along the length of her perfectly straight spine like the tongue of some beast wrought from ice and terror, Cynara hurried to the door, where the thudding had fallen silent. After a momentary hesitation, she threw open one of the two arched doors...only to have a hooded figure slump into her arms.

Cynara lifted the figure into her arms and willed the door shut, before carrying the slumped form down the hall and into one of her reading parlors. She laid the woman on a divan and tentatively reached the hood, drawing it back with trembling fingers.

Cassandra Jasic, her left cheek distended and discolored, suddenly opened her large limpid eyes...only to find herself gazing into the amber-flecked eyes of a stunningly beautiful raven-haired woman whom she did not immediately recognize...though the aura she exuded was unmistakable. Tentatively, she ventured, "Cynara?"

Recalling that Cassandra had never actually seen her true form, the immortal nodded and demanded truculently, "Why have you come...and what's happened to you? You're dressed like a vagrant!"

"You summoned me," Cassandra replied, still trying to internalize the palpable reality of the stunning creature towering over her.

"A summons that you pointedly ignored," Cynara pointed out coldly.

"I've been...preoccupied," Cassandra retorted with a hint of her old impertinence. She then extended her hand and gently touched her creator's right cheek. "You're exquisite...why would you ever willingly hide such beauty?"

Cynara slapped her hand away and gripped her throat, "Spare the pointless flattery and answer my question. Why have you come and who did this to you?"

Cassandra went utterly still. Peering into the storming depths of Cynara's dark eyes, she immediately discerned that this was not the morose, self-pitying creature who had evicted her years ago. There was a ferocity...a new fire...that had been conspicuously absent during their long years together. The notion pleased and frightened Cassandra in equal measure. Feigning desperation and a posture of timidity, she began, "I came because I need your help...and because I have no one else to turn to."

Cynara frowned, but nonetheless released Cassandra and straightened. "Tell me what's happened."

Even as she extended this invitation, Cynara was accosted by a welling dread...suspecting that Cassandra's disclosure would initiate the onset of dramatic changes in her life. To her horror, Cassandra's dark and grim tale revealed that she had not guessed wrong. The girl related the account of her confrontation on the waterfront in a flat, dispassionate voice as if recounting something as mundane as a trip to the market.

"The murders in the city over the last two years...they were your doing?" The immortal demanded, regarding her creation with a discordant mixture of irritation and anxiety.

Cassandra raised her chin and returned, "Yes...a trail that his led me to the pair I confronted on that warehouse roof. I would have been able to destroy the first one, but the second one intervened...and she was leagues more powerful."

Trying to repress her mounting apprehension...and failing wretchedly...Cynara rasped angrily, "Describe this woman."

Cassandra complied and as she drew a verbal portrait of the entity that had spared her life, Cynara's eyes widened and her right hand gravitated to her mouth like a weak, fluttery bird, succinctly declaring how profoundly she had been disconcerted by the disclosure. Cassandra arched an eyebrow and inquired curiously, "Do you know this creature?"

Cynara gazed at the younger immortal, her expression evoking images of an animal caught in a corner with no visible means of egress to be had. "Yes...I know her all too well. You have no idea whose attention you've attracted, do you?" Cynara grunted in disgust, her mind racing to find a means of extricating them from this snare. "Is there anything else I need to know, Cassandra?"

Cassandra looked up at the older immortal uncomprehendingly and finally Cynara's temper supplanted her restraint. She reached down and plunged her fingers into Cassandra's long red tresses and unceremoniously jerked her head forward. "Is there anything else?"

With obvious reluctance, Cassandra admitted, "While I was making my way here...I had the distinct sense that I was...being followed. I didn't actually see anyone, but I could feel something bearing down on me...like ghosts shrouded in fog."

Cynara reacted with a gasp of palpable terror as she released Cassandra and stumbled back, her face constricting into a mask of horror. "Drones!" she shrieked, evoking a perplexed grimace from the flame-haired immortal. "Those things you've described...they're tracking drones...you selfish cunt...you've led them right to my front door. You've killed us both!"

This last sentence was a strident shriek of pure terror that quickly relented to killing fury. Cynara's regard snapped to the fireplace, which abruptly exploded into a blistering curtain of writhing argent flames. Hissing like a serpent, Cynara gripped the shoulders of a startled Cassandra's leather jacket and began to drag her toward the flames. "They may have me, but I'll see you dead first, bitch!"

Cassandra attempted to loose a blast of energy in the hopes of dislodging the enraged Saravic, but it merely rebounded off of Cynara and impacted back on her with the force of a collapsing brick wall. Cassandra grunted and Cynara immediately slammed a flaming fist into her face, shattering her right cheekbone.

The young immortal uttered a guttural grunt and Cynara taunted, "You mewling whelp, do you really think that you can challenge me? While you were feasting on your father's cock, I was making everyone around me grovel with terror. I was errant in not being firm with you when you groveled in my shadow all those years...but that is an oversight I intend to rectify now."

She promptly stomped down on Cassandra's right hand, shattering the delicate bones like kindling, before dragging the howling immortal toward the argent flames.

"Stop this at once!" A familiar voice cried vehemently and in the next instant, Cynara found herself being lifted from the floor, totally immobilized in hoops of unyielding invisible energy. She jerked her head around in time to see an appalled Elizabeth stride into the room with Judith at her back. Elizabeth waved her right hand and the bank of menacing flames abruptly vanished.

Cynara was slowly lowered to the floor, but her bonds remained in tact. Elizabeth stood before her...deep blue eyes glowing like twin moons in the depths of a frigid winter's night...and pointing at the fallen Cassandra, demanded, "What is the meaning of this?"

In a plaintive voice made frantic with raw terror, Cynara barked, "She's led the dark father's drones right to our door!"

The raven-haired immortal was shocked by Elizabeth's inexplicably mild reaction to this disastrous news. Elizabeth's expression became stern and she intoned, "I'm going to release you, Cynara. I want you to sit on that sofa...and be calm while I speak to Cassie."

Cynara grimaced, lashing the fallen immortal with a venomous scowl, but signified her compliance with a wounded nod. The restraints disappeared and Elizabeth gently gripped Cynara's forearm and ushered her over to the sofa, firmly pushing her into a sitting position. She then bent forward and bestowed a kiss of the other immortal's slightly parted lips...an unexpected gesture of affection that served to dissipate Cynara's anger.

"It's good to be home, Mrs. Simonovic!" Elizabeth whispered before turning back to Cassandra, who was still lying on the floor and holding her palm to her distended jaw.

The expression on her face was one of undisguised incredulity. "You're...alive!"

Elizabeth offered the girl a tentative smile and then stooped down beside her, gently removing Cassandra's hand from her fractured cheek bone. Cynara's crushing blow had reduced Cassandra's left eye to a glimmering slit and her pulverized hand reminded Elizabeth of an impaled spider. She cast Cynara a baleful glare, which Saravic met without the slightest hint of remorse. Elizabeth placed a hand gingerly along the cheekbone. Cassandra winced but gave no further expression to her pain. A muted golden glow enveloped the point of contact, causing Cassandra to gasp in amazement. When Elizabeth withdrew her touch, Jasic's face had been restored to its former state of perfection.

A fraught silence descended upon the room as Elizabeth reprised her healing magic on the hand and though the process was more complex, by the time Elizabeth had completed her ministrations, there remained no hint of the trauma it had suffered. During the entire healing process, Cassandra continued to gaze at Elizabeth unblinkingly, her expressive eyes ablaze with a turbulent storm of conflicting emotions. Again, she reiterated, "You're alive." Then she added a scathing condemnation that lacerated Elizabeth's already wounded heart. "You promised that you'd take care of me...and still you left me in the care of that...that monster!"

Cynara started to rise, her cheeks coloring with renewed fury, but Elizabeth raised a hand and she settled back into her seat. Solemnly, she intoned, "I'm sorry Cassie...this is just another in a long catalogue of mistakes I've made. Tell me what's happened...everything...and I'll do what I can to make restitution now."

She then extended her hand and assisted Cassandra to her feet before leading her to the opposite side of the room...well away from the glaring Cynara. For the second time, Cassandra began to relate events of the past few days and though Elizabeth's outward expression remained inscrutable, Judith could clearly discern the catastrophic affect Cassandra's tale was having upon the immortal.

Elizabeth absorbed Cassandra's dispassionate narrative in silence. Turning to Cynara, she inquired grimly, "She's describing Alexandria...isn't she?"

Ashen-faced, Cynara merely nodded...recalling the humiliation she had suffered at the ancient demon's hands on the last occasion their paths had crossed. The dire ramifications of this latest fatalistic twist in her life crashed down upon Elizabeth like the fall of a mallet. In the detritus left in its wake, she saw the inescapable truth of her future...a future that would not be long in duration.

Elizabeth nodded distantly and the room around her seemed to suddenly spin like a carousel. She closed her eyes against the disorienting rush and when she again opened them, Cynara's parlor was gone...as were its three other occupants.

She suddenly found herself in a place she recognized immediately. It had been here in this macabre dreamscape...this crumbling edifice to the debacle of her life...that Elizabeth had first experienced the dream that had set her along the path to this juncture. In its first incarnation, the final rooms along the hallway to what she presumed was her destiny were steeped in darkness. Now, however, the harsh light of illumination shone to reveal the moments captured within...in stark and graphic detail. In each room she passed, Elizabeth beheld pieces of broken statuary scattered across the cold marble floor. A tremulous gasp escaped her lips when she recognized the figures that had been rendered in marble. They were all there...the shattered remnants of her life...tragic fragments left in the wake of her passing. Rebecca, Imirya, Contayza and Cassie...their images rendered in fractured marble and horrible loss. There were others there as well...their faces preserved in expressions of eternal bewilderment and pain. These were people whom she did not recognize, but whose lives had been decimated by her mere proximity.

The inherent symbolism of this stylized dream was not lost on the disconsolate Simpson. On her right remained one final doorway...beyond which were the double doors leading to her own end. A woman stepped through the doorway and regarded Elizabeth with the ghost of a grin. She swept her long right arm in the direction of the double doors and smiled encouragingly. The serene reflection of who she was spoke to Elizabeth then...her words washing over Elizabeth like a soothing balm. "You have come to the place you were destined to be. The only question that remains to be answered is...will you accept this destiny with the same grace that has characterized your life?"

Slowly, the doors began to swing open and...

She came back to the present moment with a violent shudder to find the three women regarding her intently, concern prominent in Cynara and Judith's eyes. Elizabeth inhaled sharply and offered a resolute nod to no one in particular. She turned to Cassie and ushered the girl to her feet, gripping her shoulders and gazing into her eyes with a frightening focus that caused the younger immortal to shudder beneath its palpable weight. "Cassie, I'm sorry for what I've done to you. I doubt that it's any form of compensation, but I did what I did out of love for a man upon whom I had inflicted a terrible wrong. You're right...I made a fervent promise that I would take care of you...and I did not. There can be no valid excuse for that. All I can offer by way of reparation is to see you safely from this moment...to give you another opportunity to find a life somewhere else...and hopefully in far better company than ours. The drones are relentless...but Cynara and I will deal with them...and whoever sent them." She bent and tenderly kissed a thoroughly bemused Cassandra's cheek before gesturing. "Go...and don't stop running until you're far from this place."

While a disconcerted Cassie merely stared at Elizabeth, her face contorting like a roiling storm, Cynara leapt to her feet and cried, "Elizabeth, we all have to run. Do you not understand...they know I'm alive? Lucifer won't forgive what he will see as my betrayal...and he certainly won't tolerate your continuing existence, should he find that you aren't dead. He'll commit every resource to our destruction...we can't fight them!"

Elizabeth turned to the distraught Saravic and offered the older immortal a fey smile, "Yet, that is precisely what I intend to do...you, however, are under no such obligation."

Cynara's wounded expression conveyed how deeply this remark had lanced her heart. In Elizabeth's placid gaze, she saw only intransigent resolve. Sniffing in frustration, she turned away.

Trembling visibly, Cassandra stumbled toward the door, brushing roughly by Judith, who watched her warily...the way one might view a strange dog. With her flame hair billowing around her head like a corona of fire, Cassandra wheeled about and lashed Elizabeth with a contentious glare. "I want you to know that I don't accept your apology...and I don't forgive you. You promised that you would take care of me...and I believed you, but like everyone else in my life, you abandoned me. Your abandonment was the most painful because you were the one person who might have helped me heal. I hate you even more than I despise that soulless monster over there." Her face twisted into a baleful grin and she predicted, "You're going to die Elizabeth...no matter how virtuous or pure you perceive yourself to be...they're going to find you and rip you into twitching pieces...and oh how I'll laugh."

Cynara howled in indignant fury and surged forward, but found herself encased in a block of unyielding air. In a soft and doleful voice, Elizabeth intoned, "I suspect you're right Cassie and though you don't accept it, I'm genuinely sorry for the hurt I've caused you. Go now."

Cassandra bellowed an inarticulate wail of frustration and anguish and with tears flowing over the high ridges of her cheek bones, she turned and fled into the breaking dawn.

The restraints holding Cynara vanished and she stumbled to her knees, peering up at Elizabeth with a mixture of wonder and exasperation. Judith turned her miserable gaze from the doorway to Elizabeth and remarked, "Cynara was right, Elizabeth...that creature is completely insane...like a rabid dog that has to be put down. I know all too well...because I was her once."

"And yet...here you are because Amathera saw something in you that warranted giving the rabid dog a second chance," Elizabeth intoned distantly, her expression sorrowful.

Stung by the relatively mild rebuke, Judith averted her eyes. There was a sense of tragedy...of terrible finality...hovering over the room like a penumbra, making the simple act of drawing breath a laborious task. Elizabeth turned to Cynara, whose bleak expression informed Judith that she was experiencing very much the same dismal sensation. "Give me a few moments of privacy with Judith and then I'll come back and we can talk."

Seeing no latitude for argument, Cynara nodded glumly and bowed her head...still not bothering to stand. Elizabeth gently took Judith hand and firmly guided a puzzled Ranzman out into the forecourt, where a lusterless dawn was breaking over Cynara's sprawling estate.

They stopped at the base of the steps and Judith eyed Elizabeth questioningly. There was a new aloofness...an unbridgeable distance about the blond beauty that twisted Ranzman's heart in an excruciating vice. Elizabeth touched Judith's right cheek bone with her fingertips and though the contact was more like the suggestion of touch than touch itself, Judith could feel her entire body shudder in response with a need that was keen and painful. With a fey smile, Elizabeth began, "This is where you and I part ways, dear."

Judith started to object, but Elizabeth pressed a silencing finger to her slightly parted lips. "There's no place for you in what's to follow. The things that are coming...you are inadequate to the task of fighting them...and I will not have you die...for two reasons, both of which are incredibly selfish. The first is that...in the short time we've known each other...I've come to love you and I will not see you die because fate imposed me in your path. On top of everything else that has happened that would be unbearable...and I've frankly suffered all the pain my heart can endure."

Judith uttered a strangled moan and tears began to course down her face in a deluge. Elizabeth tilted her head slightly and brushed them away with her long fingers. "The second is that I need you to fulfill your promise and protect Imirya. If things transpire as I envision, the dark father will not be a concern. She needs to be rescued from the staggering weight of loss and guilt that might well bury her heart like an avalanche. I'm entrusting you with that task...begging you to devote yourself to her rescue."

"You have my solemn word...on my life, Elizabeth," Judith vowed, gazing up at the statuesque blond through tear-distorted eyes.

"Judith, be her friend...and if something more should come of that friendship...should it evolve into a more intimate relationship, treasure Imirya for the unique and beautiful soul that she is...and don't see her as a pale and distant echo of the creature you believe me to be. Become her Amathera and guide her back from the darkness...and be blissfully happy together through whatever time remains to her."

"I will, Elizabeth...I promise," Judith sobbed, her voice choked with emotion, and then added fiercely, "I wish you would let me stay here...and let me face what's coming with you."

Elizabeth tenuous grip on control wavered for a brief instant, affording Judith an excruciating glimpse into the torment behind those arresting blue eyes. She shook her head emphatically. "You have to go, Judith...now. If only we could have met on that bistro in Paris under different circumstances...a simple random crossing of fates...with no dark clouds or malevolent specters hanging over our future. Who can say what might have become of our lives? I have no way of adequately communicating what a source of comfort...of strength...you've been these last few weeks. I so glad that our paths crossed. I have very little of worth to give you...except this..."

A heavily bound envelope seemed to appear out of the very air and she pressed it into Judith' trembling hands. She glanced questioningly at the beautiful immortal who explained, "It is complete access to my holdings...my fortune. It's yours...so that you can have a real home...wherever you decide that home might be."

An anguished sob tore from Judith's twisted lips and she feared that the sorrow and pain of this terrible parting would literally set her aflame. Elizabeth mustered a fey smile and then murmured, "And this."

She pressed her lips to Judith's open mouth and drew her into a kiss. After a moment, she stepped back and stammered hoarsely, "Take care of Imirya, Judith...Amathera!"

With this, she quickly drew up the hood of Judith's shadow cloak and stepped back as the diminutive beauty vanished into the in between spaces. Brushing roughly at her tears, Elizabeth pivoted in place and strode back into the house.

It was the last time she would ever see Judith Ranzman

2

Elizabeth had managed to regain her composure by the time she'd returned to the parlor, where Cynara now sat facing the fireplace in which she had re-kindled a small fire. Her lovely eyes stared fixedly into the dancing flames and her beautiful face was shadowed and beset by turmoil. Upon hearing Elizabeth enter the room, she turned her gaze to the immortal who had exerted such a cataclysmic influence on her life, but without whom, Cynara doubted she could find the wherewithal to move beyond this dreadful moment. "I take it you've sent your plaything away."

The observation had been offered as more of a statement than a query and Elizabeth could detect the faint echo of lingering jealousy beneath the somber tone. Even this was offered with a pale facsimile of Cynara's customary passion and Elizabeth experienced a twinge of incisive pity for this extraordinary creature. Simply, she replied, "I have."

"Then it's just you and I to face whatever is to come. I suppose it was always intended to be this way...though I can't say it makes the prospect any easier to face," Cynara intoned with just a subtle hint of bitterness. She rose and crossed the room to stand before Elizabeth and gripping her shoulders, implored, "Let's leave here Elizabeth...while there is still time. Together, we can face anything and we can stay one step ahead of the dark father's assassins until they lose interest. Please...after all of these years, you and I have the chance to be together...let's not squander this one chance on a meaningless gesture of defiance."

Elizabeth gripped Cynara's wrists and smiled...a brilliant expression that was at once radiant and sad in the wistful way of one who has made an accommodation with a difficult truth. "It's over, Cynara...for me at least. I've accepted that...and take a measure of solace in knowing that the end I chose will guarantee that my son's beautiful daughter can live in peace. I have come to a place on my journey where there is only one viable path forward and I'm anxious to see this to its intended end."

Cynara shook her head, her raven tresses swaying like sleek curtains of shimmering blackness. On her face was an expression of uncomprehending consternation as Elizabeth gave voice to sentiment to that were far beyond her sensibilities...contrary to everything she believed. "What exactly are you going to do, Elizabeth? Once they have your scent...they will be relentless!"

And so Elizabeth detailed her precise plan and as she spoke in a voice that was soft and bereft of emotion, Cynara's face twisted into a horrified mask of anguish. Elizabeth fell silent and in those blue depths that had so captivated Cynara's inured heart, the older immortal could sense an intransigence that would not be dissuaded...that would be immune to all logic and pleading. Still, she felt compelled to try...knowing that her own fate was inextricably linked to this divine creature.

"Why Elizabeth...why succumb to this pernicious despair?" Cynara demanded passionately and though her voice held a combative edge, there was a glint in her dark eyes that was akin to dread. Cynara Saravic...once hell's most prolific reaper of souls...was in close proximity to open panic.

Elizabeth regarded the woman, who had granted her immortality and denied her the prospect of quiet normalcy she had so desperately craved. Gone was Elizabeth's signature aura of serenity, having given way to a dark fatalism...a grim finality that thoroughly pulverized Cynara's heart.

"You're misconstruing despair for acceptance, Cynara," Elizabeth contradicted softly. "I've accepted the fact that I was never meant to live this unnatural life. It is the diametric opposite of everything I once craved when I was nothing more than a small town girl, who regarded the future as a finite thing and held forth the hope that she could fill that span of years with as much joy and contentment as her circumstances would allow. For the briefest of moments, I held everything I'd ever wanted in the palm of my hand...but it vanished like a beautiful illusion shimmering in summer heat of a distant horizon."

Cynara interpreted this colorful metaphor perfectly, her pained reaction conveying the extent to which she'd been stung by Elizabeth unintentional barb. Seeing the degree to which she'd wounded the other immortal, Elizabeth gripped Cynara's firm shoulders and tenderly pressed her lips to the other woman's pliable mouth. She held the kiss until Cynara whimpered with need and then held her to arm's length and murmured, "I didn't say this to be cruel. Over these long years, I've looked upon you from every perspective and through the clarifying lens of every intense emotion a sentient being can experience. Now, after all that we have shared together...both the bitter and the sweet...I can say without the slightest hint of equivocation is that the only emotion I feel when I look at you...is unconditional love."

"Then why drive yourself toward this act of self-immolation like a lemming hell-bent for the cliff?" Cynara erupted, her passion punctuated by a fresh spill of tears. "Even with what has happened, we could leave this place...leave all of the heartache and darkness in the past and together, we could live a love story for the ages!"

Elizabeth shook her head and offered Cynara a sorrowful smile. "You still see me as the young girl you beguiled in Semelar all those years ago...a girl who, in turn, beguiled you. If you look at me with an unbiased eye, you will immediately discern that she is gone. When I stood before my son's beautiful daughter and delivered the cruelest news one could ever receive...her pain was a vast and blinding thing...and yet I felt it as though from down the length of a long tunnel. It touched me, but it did not resonate in my heart like the keen bite of a blade. The old Elizabeth...the true Elizabeth...would have been gutted in the face of Imirya's agony, but I watched her through the cold eyes of pragmatism...trying to assess how to move beyond this soul-rending loss. In that single moment of epiphany, I came to understand the unbearable truth...I'm losing my humanity, Cynara...gravitating toward something inured and intractable. I don't want to live to see what it is I will become."

Here, Elizabeth paused and was assailed by a violent shiver as her gaze seemed to peer inward. Cynara correctly surmised that Elizabeth might already have a firm portrait of what she might evolve to be...given time. The blond shook her head and resumed her argument. "Both you and Ian Barrows were never able to accept that it is our fleeting mortality which endows life with its intense beauty and burning passion. Joy and sorrow...all of these emotions are brought into sharper focus with the knowledge that they will someday see an end. To live without the prospect of an eventual end might seem enticing, but we both know the bitter truth, Cynara. Should we live on, we will eventually become immune to all of the things that bring genuine meaning to the experience of being alive. I will become impervious to the emotions that attracted you to me in the first place. What would we become then...distant strangers with an ever-receding recollection of what it was that drew us together in the first place? To my mind, it is far better to see an end to things long before they reach that woeful juncture."

"But you and I are such beautiful creatures. You, in particular, embody everything that is worthwhile. If anyone is deserving of immortality...of eternal radiance...it's you!" Cynara's voice was strident as she posed this argument, but beneath the plaintive edge, Elizabeth could discern a discordant blend of grim resignation and cold desperation.

Elizabeth offered the immortal a sad and wistful smile, experiencing an acute stab of pity for the woman who had once represented everything dark in her life. Still, when she spoke, her tone was resolute, making it explicitly clear that she would not be dissuaded from her intended course of action. "Everything beautiful must eventually perish, Cynara...crumble to dust and be scoured from the face of the world by the remorseless winds of time. For all of our beauty, you and I will be no different. I have decided that I will choose my own time...while something still remains of the woman I once was. I don't expect you to understand...nor do I expect you to follow my path. On the contrary, I want you to be rebellious and stay true to your nature...defy fate until the bitter end and go out clawing and screaming. We've come to a fork in the road where each of us have our own distinct and separate paths to walk...and it's time for us to part ways one final time."

To Elizabeth's surprise, Cynara recoiled as if she had been physically struck and her face contracted into a knot of excruciating pain. She reached out and gripped the sides of Elizabeth's head and pulled her closer until their faces were only centimeters apart. "Unless you intend to kill me here and now...that just isn't going to happen. I know you've surpassed me in pure power, but I would rather make you taste my blood than have you banish me again." Cynara's fiercely determined voice broke then and she stammered, "You vowed that we would never part again when you pleaded for my help with Barrows...and if you wish to renege on that promise...then you'll have to kill me to do it...Mrs. Simonovic."

Elizabeth shook her head in bewildered exasperation, sensing that the final image from her portentous dream would not be denied. Still, driven by a profound love for the flawed, tumultuous creature standing before her, Elizabeth nonetheless felt compelled to try. "Cynara, please...you're constructed from a far sterner stuff than I ever was. I can set them onto my trail and perhaps give you an opportunity to slip away. You can start again...there's bound to be another young woman somewhere who you can bedazzle...and who can bedazzle you in turn."

Cynara clamped her hand over Elizabeth's mouth, unable to endure the flow of words that were shredding her heart like a thresher. She shook her head and wailed, "Stop Elizabeth...please! On that last day in Seattle...I abandoned you...because I was a coward and wanted to escape your fate...even though you'd given me a second chance at life. All of my life...I've been a reprobate...a reprehensible excuse for a living being...even though I'd been granted every opportunity...every privilege. My brother was a noble man and I condemned him to a fate that the worst of deviants would not deserve. My sister was a beautiful spirit...whose heart was fired by kindness and compassion. Motivated by spite and jealousy, I took her head...and even then, she would not condemn me for the monster I was. Despite these heinous actions, fate still chose to guide me to you. I tried to corrupt you and shattered the life you cherished...and even then, you still found the grace to forgive me and love me. I ran like a craven to protect my own skin, but in the years that followed, Elizabeth...I paid the price for that cowardly abandonment. I came to realize that my life...my existence...was utterly devoid of purpose without you. Don't trivialize my misery by suggesting that I could simply replace you."

Elizabeth suddenly felt vile for having made the vapid remark. "I'm sorry, Cynara...for that insensitive jab...and for what I've done to you."

"What you've done to me?" Cynara repeated incredulously. "Elizabeth, you redeemed me...instilled in me a sense of humanity...or selflessness...that I never could claim...even before I allowed Gregory to bury that damnable dagger in my heart. I won't reward that compassion by deserting you again...and if you're determined to go through with this, then we'll meet this end together because I would rather die gazing into your eyes than spend eternity with only the grief of your loss for company."

The two women stared into each other's eyes for a protracted moment as a current of perfect empathy passed between the pair...a reconciliation of all the tumultuous emotions that had raged between them over the long years. After a moment, Elizabeth drew Cynara into a hug and inhaled the sweet scent of her hair, luxuriating in the warmth of the other woman's body. Reluctantly, she pushed the dew-eyed immortal to arm's length and announced, "I'm going to deal with the drones and offer an invitation to the one that dispatched them. We'll go to Chevru and make our stand there. It seems like a fitting place to end this."

Cynara mustered a weak smile, but offered no comment. All circles must invariably close it seemed and so it was only fitting that hers would do so in the place where she had been born...both into light and into darkness.

Elizabeth's countenance grew sober and she inclined her head in a posture of listening and intoned gravely, "It won't be long now...they're almost here."

A short while later, every window in Cynara's sprawling manor blew inward in a deadly hail of jagged glass.

The battle had begun.

3

"Drones!" Cynara cried urgently, "a lot of them. They surrounded the manor and I don't believe they're here strictly for reconnaissance purposes."

As if to corroborate this impression, the pair heard several loud thuds coming from somewhere in the recesses of the upper floors. Elizabeth turned to Cynara and Saravic was startled to find not the slightest suggestion apprehension in the blonde's limpid blue eyes.

_'Because she's resigned herself to whatever is to follow...made her peace with her own imminent death.'_ Cynara understood, mortified by the thought of dying...even though she had vowed that she would share Elizabeth's fate.

Near the front of the manor, a ear-shattering scream whined through the lower halls as the front doors were torn from their hinges and tossed down the length of the main hall like playing cards.

"Cynara, if you can deal with the drones on this floor, I'll clear the upper floors," Elizabeth growled with controlled urgency.

A hint of the old Saravic bravado returned then and she retorted, "It's fucking insulting that they would actually send drones against me. They're nothing but fodder."

Elizabeth smiled...an expression so unlike her normal radiant grin...so feral and dangerous...that it caused Cynara to shiver. "Show them precisely who you are, dear...hold nothing back."

Wide-eyed, Cynara merely nodded and followed Elizabeth out into the main hall. The blond pointed toward the now gaping doorway and inclined her head in encouragement. Then she raced across the vast expanse of marble entrance and up the winding staircase that led to the upper floor. Two drones appeared at the top of the stairs, each bearing the dull knives that had been designed especially for dispatching errant demons. Cynara watched in dark fascination as Elizabeth gesticulated and the pair were swiftly cut to shreds by oscillating bands of energy similar to the type which Elizabeth had used to subjugate her not long ago. The drones exploded on contact with the blades. Black ichor rained down, spattering the white marble in fist-sized drops, while their daggers clattered down the carpeted stairs. Elizabeth reached the top of the stairs and disappeared into the shadowy gallery that ran along the perimeter of the upper landing.

As she watched the beguiling immortal unleash havoc, Cynara was struck by a stunning revelation. _'She truly is...evolving. Her power has grown to a magnitude that is inconsistent with her age. She is right about one other contention as well...her humanity is eroding. The old Elizabeth would never have been able to dispense death with such casual ease. She would have found the idea morally reprehensible.'_

The upper reaches of the house were suddenly bathed in an eerie orange light, informing Cynara that Elizabeth was unleashing vast amounts of energy on the drones that had invaded the upper floors. Inhaling sharply, Cynara momentarily dismissed the perplexing riddle of Elizabeth's macabre evolution from her mind and turned toward the gaping doorway.

She had taken only a few steps when a surge of invisible energy ripped through the doorway and literally blew the startled Saravic off her feet...tossing her back along the hall as if she was no more substantial than a child's doll. Cynara collided with the rear wall...into which she had so recently slammed Judith...and collapsed to her knees with a grunt. She retained enough presence of mind to throw herself to the right, down the intersecting hall, just as a huge ball of argent fire tore through the doorway. Still on her hands and knees, Cynara gazed back to see that the main hallway had been transformed into a writhing tunnel of argent flames that was quickly ravaging the walls of the grand structure. Seeing the trappings of her life reduced to ash aroused an intense rage in the demon...though the still rational part of her mind warned her that the power being brought to bear here far exceeded anything that drones could marshal.

She sprang to her feet and raced along the back hall with the intention of finding her way into the side yard, but before she reached its end, six drones boiled into the hallway...their featureless faces trained upon her and their killing implements held before them.

Cynara quickly reversed course and charged back down the hall...only to find that an equal number of drones were converging upon her from the other end. Without thought or hesitation, she veered back into the gullet of seemingly living argent flames. She could feel the lethal kiss of the incredible heat on her flesh as the curtains of flames constricted upon her like a vice, but before they could find purchase, Cynara transmogrified into a raven and flew through the writhing gullet and out into the silver dawn.

She landed on the expanse of crushed white stone, transforming back into her original form even before her feet hit the ground. Behind her, she could feel heat pouring from the open doorway as if her manor was a living thing exhaling fevered breath. She came to an abrupt halt, staring about the vast expanse of her foregrounds with a mix of incredulity and dawning horror. A legion of drones was converging upon her and Cynara immediately gleaned that she was their specific target. _'Alexandria...you miserable whore...you've finally come to settle old grievances.'_

Drawing herself erect and summoning the old Saravic defiant pride, she bellowed into the misty dawn, "I'm not afraid of you...do you hear me, you diseased Egyptian whore...I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU!"

Seeing no reason for discretion and deciding that...if this was to be her end...she would face it as the proud night mistress she had once been...Cynara allowed the long quiescent beast to emerge from the black pit of her soul. The flesh and viscera literally exploded from her body with the accelerated force of the transformation...perfect beauty giving way to a living grotesquerie that was all claws, fangs and leathery, spindly limbs.

Bellowing an atavistic cry, it tore into the ranks of advancing drones in a mad frenzy. Its battle cry was a single word...Elizabeth.

4

Scarcely able to draw breath, Judith sagged to her knees and wailed in abnegation as she watched Elizabeth walk back into Cynara's manor. She wept for lost opportunity and for a misconducted life that had led her to this sorry juncture. She wept for the inability to protect something she had come to love...for the second time in her life. To lose two such exquisite creatures like Amathera and Elizabeth in the course of a hundred life times was ineffably cruel...but to lose both in the span of one long-lived mortal life...was beyond unbearable. Judith continued to kneel, watching the distorted world beyond from the shadows of this nether space. The shadow cloak...which had once seemed like a miraculous blessing...suddenly felt like a cloying prison and she wondered how she would ever muster the strength to move beyond this moment of insufferable loss.

Ensconced in the cloak's protective mantle, Judith's tight flesh was suddenly suffused by an intense tingling sensation...the kind that once might experience when in close proximity to a high voltage source. She wiped brusquely at her eyes and peered around the deserted forecourt...at first discerning nothing but a brooding emptiness. At once, an indistinct shadow pressed in on the perimeter of the property, gliding onto the lawn in a twisting, undulating way that was both furtive and menacing. Soon, others moved to join it, until the entire southern perimeter of the property was lined with what appeared to be a roiling curtain of black smoke.

Judith could feel her flesh rise into great hackles in response to this sudden coalescing of a tremendous amount of arcane energy and knew that the moment of judgment had arrived for Elizabeth and her abhorrent companion. Immobilized by indecision, Judith merely knelt in the in between space...desperately wanting to help Elizabeth, but knowing that she could offer no real aid in what was to come. Elizabeth's assessment had proven correct...she was inadequate to the task of fighting whatever was generating this vast quantity of arcane force.

This thought had no sooner germinating in her frantic mind when the source of this energy strode purposefully through the gates and into the forecourt. Judith blinked. The woman was diminutive and exuded a radiating wave of sensuality that made Ranzman tremble. Her porcelain fragility and exotic beauty belied the seemingly infinite repository of power contained within her nubile body and Judith feared that she would obliterate Elizabeth with the ease of one crushing an insect.

The woman gesticulated and the roiling wall of black smoke immediately materialized into ranks of black humanoid figures, whose faces were without defining features. Each held some manner of dagger with a long, triangular blade. Judith grimaced at the sheer number of these entities and though a part of her wanted to flee...to run to Imirya...she found herself transfixed by dark fascination.

_'Well isn't this just the thing...I supposed I should have expected as much,'_ the voice of Tamara Hood snorted with biting disdain. _'So you're going to cower in the dirt while these horrors tear the thing you claim to love to pieces, Judith? Why am I not particularly surprised that you'd prove to be so cowardly?'_

Judith grimaced at this allegation and lashed back at her accuser. _'If I reveal myself, I'll be slaughtered...and I'll have only failed Elizabeth by not having protected Imirya.'_

'Really...so that vast repository of knowledge you purloined from your precious Amathera can offer no assistance? How...convenient. Well, if you're going to run, you'd best make a start of it. You certainly wouldn't want to scar your last memory of Elizabeth by witnessing what is likely to happen here.'

Tamara fell silent with a disdainful laugh that caused Judith to grit her teeth in frustration. She watched the woman level her arms and unleash a massive burst of arcane energy before signaling her minions forward. They advanced behind the destructive wall of energy like inexorable juggernauts, while the woman lowered her arms and faded back toward the road. A notion blossomed in her mind then and she whispered excitedly, "Perhaps I can't intervene directly, but if this bitch can dispatch a legion of automatons, just maybe I can reciprocate and level the playing field somewhat."

Delving into the huge body of arcana, Judith extracted the incantation that would summon creatures that would achieve precisely that...the Stryges!

5

Feeling the exigent press of time, Alexandria drew on her mammoth wellspring of power to conjure a host of drones...all inculcated with the purpose of seeing Cynara Saravic to her eternal end. Once that particularly unpleasant task was done, she would accept her fate. For the last century she had engaged in acts of subterfuge and sabotage...all the while enlisting allies for her great rebellion. Now that the moment of uprising had unexpectedly come upon her, Alexandria wondered how many of those who had sworn fealty to her cause would now stand with her. Precious few, she correctly surmised. Irrespective of the likelihood of their heeding her call, Alexandria had sent out a discreet plea to those who she had deemed probable to respond. She had made alliances with miscreants after all and she couldn't hold out much hope that they would actually lend themselves to her cause...a cause that seemed destined to spectacular failure.

A harsh glare of argent fire tumbled through the gaping doorway, where the flames were already well along the way to consuming Cynara's sanctuary. Mere minutes later, Cynara burst out into the forecourt and bellowed a scathing taunt that caused Alexandria to sigh and shake her head in exasperation. _'What a base and petty creature you are? Elizabeth, how could you deceive me...to save this wretched soul?'_

Frowning, she watched as Cynara transmogrified into her vulgar beast form and waded into the sea of converging drones, dispensing devastation in a dervish. Cynara was a lethal killing machine in her beast form and she tore through the ranks of drones with a ruthless efficiency that soon left the pristine polished stones of her drive gore-spattered.

Alexandria could almost admire her fanatic's courage in confronting her legions, even as she understood that her efforts would ultimately prove futile. The drones were mindless engines of her will...with no personal interest or self-awareness. They would never be discouraged, irrespective of how many of their ranks Cynara managed to destroy. Like the tide, they would surge forward until their quarry was overwhelmed or ground down by their sheer numbers. From where she stood, Alexandria could clearly see that the entities were inflicting superficial wounds on the beast...a scoring scrape across a thigh or a shallow thrust into an exposed deltoid. Even as Cynara cut a swathe through the drones, she was beginning to display the draining effect of cumulative wounds. With a measure of intense satisfaction, Alexandria knew that she would inevitably fall.

She had instructed the drones only to bring the monster down. The pleasure of burying the killing blade in Cynara's black heart would be hers alone.

Alexandria was momentarily distracted by a blinding orange light that suddenly poured out of the windows of the manor's upper floors. An instant later, a wash of black ichor rained down on the forecourt, sullying the grass. Alexandria's smooth brow furrowed. The eruption of energy was unrecognizable...an unprecedented weave of stupefying, powerful arcane forces the likes of which she had never witnessed before.

Even as she was trying to internalize the implications of this outpouring, a deafening series of ear-splitting shrieks tore the morning air like a scythe.

She turned her gaze skyward in time to see a number of large, misshapen grotesqueries descend out of the low-sailing clouds. She had long heard tales of these creatures...these legendary and horrible amalgams of owls and humanoid females...but she had long dismissed the Stryges as just another dread-filled contrivance of the human imagination.

Yet, here they were...unleashing mayhem on her ranks of drones. The large flying monstrosities tore through the sea of drones, massive beaks and talons gouging a furrow through the press. They began to fly in a continuous circle around the beleaguered Saravic, who had only paused long enough to absorb their incredible appearance, before resuming her deadly battle.

Alexandria frowned, shook her head in bemusement and started forward to join the fray...only to pause in vacillation. Cynara had been a relatively powerful demon for her age, but had never displayed the level of power being brought to bear here. Some other unseen player was exerting a deadly influence on what should have been a simple assassination.

The high screech of the attacking Stryges served as a sharp contrast to the silence in which the drones met their demise.

Alexandria focused on the nearest flying horror and loosed a bolt of argent lightening. It struck the creature broadside and the Stryge abruptly burst into flame...its harrowing screech of agony spiraling up into the silver dawn and spread out like water rippling in a pond.

Despite its obvious agony, the bird did not fall. On the contrary, it executed a corkscrew spiral and swept closer to the ground, setting ranks of drones aflame as it tore through their midst.

Alexandria gaped, intuiting that she now found herself embroiled in a deadly contest for survival. Setting her firm jaw, she rose from the ground and streaked across the grass. She had come to this country manor with one very specific objective...and if this was to be her end...she would see that purpose served.

A mere thought compelled the drones to retreat several paces and instead turn their attention on the flying grotesqueries. The beastly incarnation of Cynara Saravic stood at the center of this small clearly, spattered in ichor and trickling a viscous fluid from dozens of small cuts and abrasions. It regarded Alexandria warily as she approached, its yellow eyes clouded with exhaustion and fear. The ancient demon drew to a halt ten paces from Cynara while the battle raged around her and snarled, "Like a rank weed, you keep turning up to defile the world." Her beautiful face twisted into a menacing grin and she promised, "I'm a skilled gardener and I will extirpate your filth...once and for all."

With this, she extended her right hand with the delicate fingers splayed open and then abruptly snapped it into a fist and jerked her arms back. Cynara screamed as an invisible force virtually tore the magic that was fuelling the beast from her body. Disoriented and aching, she found herself lying on the ground, having reverted back to her true form. Cynara's dark eyes were twin moons of apprehension as Alexandria hovered over her. In a voice bereft of all capacity for mercy or compassion, Alexandria declared, "I'm going to destroy you, Cynara Saravic...if for no other reason than the fact that you took a poor fractured soul like Cassandra Jasic and made her immutable torment eternal. Only a genuine monster would be so appallingly selfish."

Cynara snarled and launched herself at Alexandria, but quickly found that she was gathered up and flung back across the gore-slicked stones. She slammed into the side of her manor with a dull thud and slid into the shrubbery with an exclamation of pain.

From the comparative safety of her shadow cloak, Judith witnessed Cynara's moments of torment with no small amount of satisfaction...privately imploring the terrifying immortal to subject the arrogant bitch to an ultimately lethal lesson in humiliation.

Alexandria shifted her gaze toward the facade of the manor, where a series of jagged cracks appeared in the stones. The entire stone facade then peeled free from the interior structure and tons of heavy, carved stone collapsed toward the dazed Cynara.

Before they could bury the seemingly helpless immortal, a strident cry...fraught with implacable authority...rolled over the grounds like fulminating thunder. "Enough!"

A grating whine filled the air and Judith's disbelieving gaze was drawn upward, where Elizabeth now hovered in mid-air near the peak of the front section of the manor's roof. The blond immortal was completely enveloped in a diaphanous ball of energy...from which tendrils of orange light streaked like lightening. From Judith's perspective, Elizabeth seemed to resemble a deity descending to pass judgment and mete out punishment. What transpired next appeared to corroborate this impression.

The wrought iron fence that delineated Cynara's property was literally torn apart. The decorative horizontal bars detached from the vertical uprights with a nerve-rending scream and the long lengths of iron suddenly became pliable and began go writhe and twist in the morning air like blind serpents. Alexandria spun about to observe this unnerving spectacle, but before she could perceive the threat, the twisting lengths of iron pounced upon her and coiled about around her body...until the ancient immortal was ensnared in a vice of constricting iron from ankles to throat.

She was twisted about as Elizabeth began to descend, her eyes glaring a baleful orange. "Cynara is mine...and you will not harm her!"

The air vibrated with poised power and an awestruck Judith gleaned that she was about to be treated to another demonstration of Elizabeth's staggering new abilities. The verticals of the property's perimeter fence had been drilled and set into a meter thick stone foundation. They came free of their base with a titanic roar and a shower of pulverized stone. The vertical shafts leapt into the air, spun about in perfect syncopation and then converged upon the milling drones like gigantic arrows. In the blink of an eye, every drone was impaled by a spike that dug deep into the manicured lawn and forecourt.

Elizabeth waved a contemptuous hand and sizzling tendrils of orange energy leapt from the curving surface of her sphere and struck the protruding ends of each scrolled vertical shaft. There ensued a blinding flash of argent flame that quickly leapt from one vertical shaft to the next until the entire yard resembled a crude spider web. In rapid succession, each drone exploded in a spray of steaming ichor.

From the concealment of the shadow cloak, an enthralled Judith released the Stryges from their obligation. As one, they executed a surprisingly graceful choreographed turn for such large creatures and then vanished into the clouds.

Elizabeth came lightly to ground and landed next to Cynara, who was only now attempting to regain her feet. Alexandria noticed how the raven-haired immortal actually cringed back in fear when Elizabeth reached down and gently ushered Saravic to her feet. Cynara's expression suggested that she viewed the younger immortal with an emotion akin to supernatural dread. Still shackled in her inviolable bonds of coiled iron...a binding that resisted her every effort to sunder it...Alexandria could easily empathize with what Cynara was experiencing.

With her right arm cradling a battered Cynara protectively, Elizabeth turned her attention on Alexandria...her deep blue eyes shot through with glowing snaps of orange. "Cynara is mine and anyone who attempts to harm her will feel my wrath." Elizabeth reiterated. There was a stiff formality to her voice that called to mind images of an angered goddess chastising errant children. The entity standing over her resembled the Elizabeth she remembered only in the physical context. Whereas the Elizabeth she recalled had been gentle and blessed with an infectious serenity, Alexandria deduced that this woman was cold, remorseless and intractable...an immortal edifice of pure power in human form.

"Elizabeth...what has happened to you?" Alexandria inquired in a quavering, deferential voice she scarcely recognized as her own. For a brief instant, Elizabeth's rigidly maintained grip on her mantle of glacial aloofness slipped, providing Alexandria with a poignant and heart-wrenching glimpse at the flux of discordant emotions that rage behind her eyes. The enormity of the other woman's pain was agonizing to behold and evoked a gasp of pity from the ancient demon.

Then, the facade of impassivity descended like a blind and Elizabeth replied, "I've...evolved, though into what exactly...I can't honestly say."

With a hint of recrimination, Alexandria observed, "Why did you deceive me, Elizabeth...and allow her to live?"

She cast an acrimonious glare at Cynara who returned the expression and exhorted, "Kill her, Elizabeth...or let me have the pleasure of ripping her whore's head off."

Elizabeth raised a hand and commanded patiently, "Be still, Cynara." The immortal glowered, but to Alexandria's eternal amazement, complied. Elizabeth inclined her head slightly and the length of coiled iron around Alexandria's knees contracted, eliciting a cry of surprise from the ancient demon and forcing her to her knees in a posture of abjection.

Elizabeth floated closer and stood peering down on Alexandria, who met the powerful immortal's alien regard unblinkingly, still unable to fully accept the possibility that Elizabeth would harm her. "You helped me grasp the nature of my power in Chevru and spared my life in Seattle, Alexandria. I glean that you are a compassionate creature of pure heart, who seeks to make meaningful reparations for the transgressions of your past. I am going to spare your life today because I want you to carry my message back to your master. If my existence is an affront, then come and find me. I won't run, nor will I hide. In fact, I welcome the opportunity to test the limits of my new abilities...and decimate his legion of filth in the process."

She bent forward and gently pressed her thumbs into the hollow of Alexandria's temples and though it was her intention to display no outward hint of trepidation, the diminutive beauty whimpered, flummoxed by the boundless power capering in Elizabeth's touch. "The debt between us is settled and though I have no wish to do so, if I should set eyes upon you again, Alexandria, I will burn you to cinders. This is where I will be waiting."

Alexandria eyes flew open as that poised power surged through her body like a rampant electric current. Even as the familiar image bloomed in her mind, her eyes rolled up in their sockets and she went slack. Elizabeth caught her and tenderly laid her on the ground. She stood and gazed down upon the dormant immortal with an expression of wistful regret, deriving no pleasure in terrorizing such a noble creature. An absent wave of her hand and the binding coils of iron vanished like lost hope.

Elizabeth then turned back to Cynara, who was staring glumly at the detritus of her manor, which resembled the desiccating husk of a great and noble beast. There was a forlorn expression on Cynara's face imparting the impression of a lost and frightened child. There was a fatalistic symbolism to the devastation and destruction of this manor that was not lost on the creature who had once been known as the dark lady. The woman standing before Elizabeth was a pale and broken facsimile of the arrogant terror she had once been and Simpson thought sadly, _'Life has a way of dispelling our every delusion...and eternal life grinds them to dust._ '

Drifting over to Cynara, Elizabeth took her hand and murmured, "If you're still of a mind...it's time to go, love."

Cynara turned slowly to face Elizabeth, her face displaying both pallor and exhaustion from her savage battle with the drones. She studied Elizabeth in silence for a long moment...searching for a lingering hint of the woman she had first seduced in Semelar. After a moment, she replied softly, "I'll bring the car around."

Cynara started to turn away, but Elizabeth caught her wrist and roughly pulled her into an embrace and a passionate kiss that ameliorated Cynara's pain and banished her misgivings. Drawing back, Elizabeth smiled affectionately. "No cars...or planes. Let's make this final journey together...in the form that this gift has granted us."

Cynara immediately grasped Elizabeth's intention, but arched a dubious eyebrow. "It's a long way...and I'm weak from this battle."

Elizabeth traced the shape of Cynara's full lips with her right index finger and promised. "Don't fret dear...if you falter...I'll sustain you."

Cynara's eyes widened in response to this nuanced statement, understanding that Elizabeth was referring to more than just helping her through the long flight to Chevru. Without responding, Cynara returned Elizabeth smile of encouragement and nodded.

A glow enveloped each and in the next instant, a large owl and a anthracite black raven stood next to each other, both hopping anxiously from foot to foot.

The owl flapped its wings and took to the sky. After a moment, the raven followed suit and in a few seconds both disappeared into the low-scudding clouds.

6

An eerie silence descended upon the grounds of Cynara's manor after the two immortals had transformed into their avian forms and took to the skies. Judith threw back the hood of her shadow cloak and tentatively made her way over to the supine immortal. At first, Judith thought the exquisite creature might be dead, but then the slow, shallow rise and fall of her substantial breasts informed Ranzman that Elizabeth had only incapacitated her. Dormant, the stunning red head exuded an aura that could only be described as divine.

Though there was no basis for the notion, Judith was suffused by the unshakable certainty that this woman would play a consequential role in her life in the very near future.

She shifted her gaze to the tumbling sky as a light drizzle began to fall. She found herself conflicted...torn by ambivalence...between the urge to go back to Boston and Imirya and the irrepressible need to discover what fate awaited Elizabeth and her irascible companion.

Guessing that she would pass the remainder of her life wondering what had befallen the magnificent creature who had made such a profound impact on her life with such alacrity, Judith made up her mind...and set off for Chevru.

Chapter Thirty-Five

1

Alexandria came awake with a start and a small hitch of her chest. In a state of panicked disorientation, she gazed about the grounds of the badly damaged manor. The grounds were a churned horror that recalled images of muddy battle fields in World War One France and the once beautiful manor bore the scars of the grim war that had been waged here.

_'Chevru...they've gone to Chevru!'_ This thought germinated in her mind like a plant reaching full bloom in the blink of an eye. There was a stark and terrible finality about this choice of location...one that was not lost upon the perceptive ancient.

A barely perceptible hum filled the air and Alexandria could feel her flesh rise into great hackles as she found the entire forecourt swiftly enveloped in a roughly spherical enclosure composed of maroon and purple shifting light.

She drew a deep and quavering breath and prepared to meet her fate. The soft crunch of boots on crushed stone drew her gaze and she found herself staring at the dark father as he strode toward her, his handsome face set in an indecipherable expression. He stopped some ten paces from where she knelt and the glint in his yellow eyes succinctly declared that he knew precisely what she had engineered...and more astounding still, what had transpired on this dismal morning. "So it seems that Elizabeth Simpson was more than your match. It really is unfortunate that you decided to kill Estrovich to preserve your secret...a secret that was already the worst kept secret in the history of my order."

"You...you knew that Elizabeth was alive?" She exclaimed...dumbfounded by the notion.

"I did," he confirmed without a trace of vexation. "You're ruse was clever...but rather shallow if you stop to consider it."

Her tone hardened and she remarked gruffly, "I won't beg for my life...no matter what you have in mind for me."

"Nor would I expect you to dear," he countered with a slight smile. "I must confess that I'm rather disinclined to destroy you as I've found your company so...agreeable over the long centuries." As she gaped at this last comment, Lucifer pointed toward the sphere and inquired, "Do you have any notion what purpose this rather unimposing barrier serves?"

Alexandria glanced around at the encompassing sphere of light and admitted, "I do not...I can't divine the essence of its magic."

"This sphere is a vacuum of perfect isolation in which everything is invisible to the world beyond...irrespective of whatever arcane gifts they might possess. What transpires within is truly secret...except to my counterpart. This absolute and inviolable privacy will serve the purpose of our dialogue quite well."

He began to stroll around the decimated grounds with his hands behind his back in a posture that would have been more suited to an aristocrat meandering through an extensive summer garden. When he stopped to examine the ruined facade of the manor, his expression became doleful. "What a tragic waste. It's a shame how often we dismantle the edifices of our life...and with such casual ease, as if they were meaningless."

Lucifer closed his eyes then and Alexandria tensed, feeling the nascent stirring of a tremendous force, followed by a guttural rumble that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep in the earth. As she peered about in wonder, the detritus of the ruined manor lifted from the ground, slowly gravitating up toward the heavens. As if did, the broken fragments began to reconstitute into sheets of glass and blocks of stone. The crumbled facade was soon restored to its original condition, while, within the building, drifts of ash were transmogrified into wall paper and sheets of ornate paneling. These elements slid back into place like a pieces of a jigsaw puzzle being manipulated by invisible hands. When the process had reached its culmination, Cynara Saravic's mansion had been restored to its former majesty. Alexandria turned a puzzled glanced on the dark father, who smiled and offered, "I suppose that it's unexpected that I have a proclivity for creation, but I'm rather found of these old Victorian structures...they exude a quiet nobility that is...comforting."

Having no idea how to respond to this unexpected sentimentality, Alexandria remained silent. Lucifer stopped before her and offered a hand, which she accepted. He assisted her to her feet and then studied her anxious face for several moments as if weighing the merits of what he was about to convey. "At first, I was rather vexed by your act of sedition, but then I came to realize that you were ill-suited for your assigned task. Watching you lay the groundwork for your great rebellion was...enlightening."

Now Alexandria could not contain her incredulity. Staggered by the concept, she blurted, "You knew all along...and still allowed me to sow discord...even invest me with greater power...why?"

He glanced at her solemnly and she thought she could detect a sorrowful flicker in that indecipherable gaze. "Alexandria, you have lived long enough to know better than to recruit miscreants to a cause fuelled by compassion. To a one, they came to me with tales of you calumny in hopes of currying favor...a rather deplorable spectacle, really."

"And you let me persist in this delusion...like a cruel jest?" She snapped, her cheeks coloring in outrage...and anger with her own perceived stupidity.

"As I mentioned...I had no genuine desire to destroy you. Unfortunately, by killing Peytor Estrovich and dismantling his carefully cultivated scheme...at least, an aspect of it...you have left me in a very compromised position. Still, I find myself reluctant to immolate you to satisfy expectations...perhaps I have become soft and sentimental."

"What will you do to me...I won't beg and I don't expect mercy...nor will I raise a hand in my own defense." She then averted her eyes to the stones, but her placed a finger beneath her chin and gently raised her face to his. Though it was impossible to interpret the complex blend of emotions that swirled behind his eyes, Alexandria felt certain she could glean the presence of a terrible ambivalence.

"Alexandria, how do you perceive the nature of the dire eternal conflict between heaven and hell?" He asked quietly.

Her brow furrowed, not certain how to construe this puzzling query...when the answer seemed so rudimentary. "I see it as an incessant battle for possession of the souls of the living."

Lucifer sighed and removed his finger, his countenance becoming somber. "Would it surprise you to know that this titanic war...this eternal struggle for the predominance of good or evil...is really nothing more than a friendly wager between sporting gentleman? This all originated from a simple wager...though I can't quite recall whether it was revolved around the contention that no soul was beyond corruption or some souls were beyond redemption. Time has a way of making reasons rather moot. In the end, I suppose, it doesn't really matter. As to who would gain dominion over this rather entertaining construct...well, you might find it fascinating to discover that our roles were determined by something akin to a celestial coin flip. We are seen as eternal adversaries...locked in a grim struggle...when the reality is that he and I are fast friends...who find all of this infinitely amusing...and alarming in equal measure."

Alexandria gazed at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. Perturbed, she rasped, "You don't really expect me to believe that all of this misery...this endless tide of suffering and hatred...is the result of something as cynical as a bet between bored deities?"

Lucifer shrugged as if indifferent. "And yet there it is, succinctly stated and now you share a secret to which only he and I have been a party."

"Why?" She seethed, suddenly livid. "Why would you persist...upon seeing the consequences of this horrible deception...why not end it in clear and emphatic terms?"

Lucifer arched an eyebrow, "Now, that is the salient question...and there is the rub. As the old adage contends...some processes, once set in motion, cannot be undone. We extended the invitation...and oh how humanity embraced their roles. They raised theocracies and a myriad of religions...both black and white...and drew endless legions of hypnotized zealots all willing to die and spill blood in the name of their sacred causes." Here, Lucifer paused and a pained expression rippled over his handsome face. "Of course, we were both appalled by the bloodshed and the unending strife that this rather cursory little contest generated, but then we both came to discern that the intrinsic flaw in human nature demanded perpetual destruction...of something...anything...to appease gluttony that nothing could seem to satiate. As horrific as the state of events might seem...perpetual wars, infinite suffering...we eventually determined that the alternative would be ineffably worse."

"How could it possibly be worse than a history that is awash in a river of blood?" Alexandria protested angrily...loathing that she had helped perpetuate this awful charade for so long.

"Try to envision what this world would become...if the structure of this eternal dark drama was suddenly dissolved. Imagine the same insatiable appetites left to run rampant without constraints or codes of conduct...theology, if you will...to curtail them. Both he and I subscribe to the belief that humanity would destroy itself...and everything else...in a frenzy of bloodlust and so we have agreed to perpetuate the charade. I am aggrieved and sorrowful that I have been cast in the role of eternal villain, but in truth, his was the far crueler fate. Imagine what it must be like to endure the sight of watching oceans of innocent blood spilled in your name...in what fanatics believe is the service of your will. I do not envy him for a moment."

Alexandria absorbed this for a moment, her mind reeling between incredulity and inexpressible horror. Finally, she asked, "Why have you told me this?"

He gazed at her steadily and intoned, "Because you are precious to me...and I do not wish to obliterate you to propagate an illusion. I hope that we might come to an...accord so that I might spare your life." After a moment's hesitation he added, "I believe I might have a dispensation that would entice you to see things from my perspective."

"I'm listening."

"First, tell me about this...this creature you've striven so diligently to protect," he asked, his eyes twinkling with an intense curiosity.

"Elizabeth is...unique, but it is not a simple matter to qualify the nature of the characteristics that make her so...beyond saying that she seems to possess a certain...divinity," Alexandria explained, finding it difficult to articulate the precise nature of the enchantment that Elizabeth Simpson seemed to cast over everything she came across.

"How is it that such a young immortal could vanquish an ancient invested with the measure of power you wield?" He inquired, genuinely mystified by Elizabeth's resounding defeat of the six thousand year old immortal.

Alexandria attempted to conjure a coherent explanation for the ease with which she had been subdued by Elizabeth, but could only shake her head in dismay. "I honestly don't know. Elizabeth has evolved into something...unprecedented. I don't know how else to describe it or convey the enormity of the power at her disposal...except to say that she could have obliterated me in the blink of an eye...had she seen fit. I think she has become an entity that defies categorization."

Lucifer pursed his lips and nodded and though his face remained inscrutable, Alexandria had little doubt that he was disquieted by this evaluation. "Within her is the potential to destroy the fragile balance of all things and if this was not a farce...it would be necessary to eradicate her at all costs. As this is naught be an elaborate illusion and considering the cataclysmic effects of achieving her demise, I will ignore her existence...as will my counterpart. Therein lies the salient heart of my olive branch...if you return to my court, kneel and swear a fresh vow of fealty before my inner circle, I will forego any punishment for your sedition. There are members of my order who stray into savage madness...you will obliterate them for me and spend the remainder of you time following the blowing wind if you so choose. Elizabeth Simpson will become a shadow in my eyes...and his...unseen and forgotten...with no fear of our wrath."

Alexandria was stunned to silence, scarcely able to credit this staggering dispensation. Finally, she dropped to one knee and pressed her lips to the back of his proffered hand in acquiescence. When she rose, Lucifer offered the ancient immortal an ebullient grin and remarked, "I'm pleased we could reach an amicable resolution. I'm sure you will wish to carry this fortuitous news to your friend, after which you can return to me and proclaim your renewed pledge of loyalty."

With this, he turned and began to walk away from thoroughly unsettled Alexandria. He had taken only a few steps, before he turned back to her and extended his right arm toward Cynara's silent manor. "This is yours, should you wish it. I suspect that the previous owner will have no use for it. Oh yes, should you happen to see my wayward daughter, when you carry your message to the would-be goddess, tell her that she is missed and I hope she is happy."

With this astounding declaration offered, the dark father turned and walked into nothingness, leaving a stunned Alexandria alone to regain her equilibrium in the face of the astounding new reality.

2

Together, they flew out over the English Channel and then over beaches where the lingering furor of great battles still echoed...ever receding as the decades passed. They swooped down and followed the meandering course of great rivers, skimming in pure delight over the dark waters that had been the life blood of countless evolving civilizations.

The owl was indefatigable as it flew, undeterred by brisk head winds or driving rain. When the raven faltered, the owl would circle back and suddenly the older bird would find itself buoyed on a current of golden effulgence until it was again able to traverse the skies on its own.

Flying over dark forests, where the withering touch of autumn had turned the stands of ancient trees into shimmering fields of gold and red fire, Elizabeth briefly entertained the notion of forever remaining in this avian form. Though the world clearly displayed forlorn scars of humanity's cruel dominion, it was still a splendid creature...especially when viewed from this lofty perspective. What would it be like to fly to every hidden corner of the world...to stand on jagged peaks, shrouded in cloud and mist, or to perch on crags too narrow to accommodate a human foot, gazing down on valleys that had been born billions of years before? Would watching the painful passing of humanity through these alien eyes make its demise any more palatable?

Elizabeth entertained these capricious thoughts...indulging them to their fullest as she embarked on what she knew would be the final journey of her long and turbulent life. The realization bestowed a certain gravitas...an intense solemnity...on the voyage. There is a poignant sense of melancholy that comes with the knowledge that one is experiencing the essence of life for the last time...one that invites wistful reminiscence and solemn reflection on the disparity between all that we have been and all that we hoped to be. As she flew over Europe...her life-defining companion at her side...Elizabeth immersed herself in all of her cherished memories and wistful fancies of the life she had desired with such passionate longing. She had always drawn upon these memories gingerly as if fearing that their luster would be tarnished by frequent contemplation.

Now, however, she drew them forth in all of their vivid color and resonance...her preternatural acuity allowing her to experience every shiver of emotion that living the memories had evoked.

As Cynara labored to stay abreast of the seemingly indefatigable owl, she would hear it cry out...giving its strange voice to emotions that at times seemed sorrowful or suffused by unimaginable joy. She correctly surmised that Elizabeth was engaging in a sentimental journey over the landscape of her life and wondered how she must appear in the other immortal's eyes.

After flying for what seemed like eternity, the pair ascended into the Carpathian Mountains and finally came to the Saravic ancestral home in Chevru. The first snows of winter had arrived in this corner of Romania and the rugged forest and towering mountains were draped in a pristine blanket of unbroken white.

The pair of immortals transmogrified into human form even before they came lightly to earth and then they stood together, silently gazing up at the well-maintained estate that had served as Cynara's edifice for evil and Elizabeth and David's sanctuary.

The north wind was crisp and raised sheets of snow, but could find no purchase on the flesh of the two naked immortals. Elizabeth reached out and gently took Cynara's hand, smiling reassuringly at the raven-haired beauty. Cynara's answering smile was very much like a badly-cracked facade, beneath which Elizabeth could glimpse trepidation. _'This is your fate...not hers...make one final attempt to dissuade her from sharing this end you crave,'_ she thought as she regarded Cynara fondly. _'Ultimately, we meet our end alone...a maxim from which you have no right to expect exemption.'_

"Come...let's go inside before the storm breaks," Elizabeth intoned quietly and Cynara responded with a wan smile before allowing herself to be led into the brooding structure's darkened interior.

As they ascended the steps, Cynara could not divest herself of the impression that she was being led into a mausoleum.

3

It was near dusk, two days after their arrival, when Cynara found Elizabeth standing in a small clearing, at the base of a rise that led up to the estate. Though the snow lay knee deep on the forest floor, the clearing had been scoured clear and it was apparent to Cynara that the other immortal had employed her terrifying abilities to create a vortex, blowing the snow away.

A small headstone marked the final resting place of David Stillman, bearing the inscription: eternally loved and remembered.

Elizabeth stood near the foot of his grave, staring fixedly down on the plot of yellowing grass. With the approach of nightfall, deep shadows had crept across the grass, yet Cynara could still clearly see Elizabeth beautiful face...the unrelenting enormity of this simple man's loss shining clearly in her exquisite blue eyes.

Cynara experienced a strange sense of dislocation as she gaze fell upon a second headstone...upon which her name had been inscribed in an elegant script that belied the truth of her wicked existence.

"It was David who insisted that I have the headstone erected," Elizabeth declared suddenly, shattering the mid-October silence and startling Cynara out of her reverie. "He also chose the memorial phrase...in the last years of his life, Cynara...he came to forgive you."

Profoundly disconcerted by the idea that she could ever truly be forgiven by a man over whose life she had cast such a black shadow, Cynara again glanced at the headstone and read the heart-rending inscription: none are beyond redemption.

With tears streaming freely over her cheeks, Cynara's voice was choked with rampant emotion when she intoned, "When I see you standing there and peering down at his grave...see the unquenchable longing and love burning like an eternal sun in your eyes...I finally understand just what it was I stole from you...and I feel ashamed beyond the capacity of words to articulate. I'm so sorry Elizabeth...for what I've done to your life."

Cynara faltered then, her words degenerating into an inarticulate wail of anguish. Elizabeth stepped away from the headstones and crossed over to gently put her arms around the weeping immortal. She held her until the other woman's tears subsided and then observed, "They're coming, Cynara...they'll be here before the coming of dawn. I want you to go...to live on beyond this moment...please...this one last kindness for me. You've given me the courage to face this moment...let me face it alone."

Cynara sniffed and brushed tears with the back of her hand. Offering Elizabeth a sad smile, fraught with emotions too complex to define, Cynara retorted, "People often say that there is one thing that they simply can't live without...in a desultory way that lacks conviction. Elizabeth...you are the one thing I can't...and won't live without. If this is the end you were intended to meet...then we'll meet it together."

They stood in silence and as the snow began to swirl and darkness descended, Elizabeth searched Cynara's face for the slightest intimation of ambivalence. Seeing none, Elizabeth drew the statuesque immortal into an embrace and whispered, "Thank you."

Elizabeth's face settled into a portrait of unwavering resolve then and she turned back to the two graves. She extended her arms with the palms down and in reply, the ground beneath Cynara's feet began to vibrate in slow waves that sent a cascade of energy pulsing through Cynara's viscera.

With a churning screech, the two graves abruptly split open and a light of blinding magnitude poured forth, illuminating the clearing. Two daggers, one from each grave, leapt into Elizabeth's outstretched palm.

Cynara Saravic actually whimpered upon seeing the dagger of her turning and the harsh reality of her imminent demise crashed down upon her like a hammer. Elizabeth turned and handed the exquisitely fashioned killing tool to Cynara, who accepted it with trembling fingers.

"There is a certain dark symmetry in being undone by the thing that made you," Elizabeth observed in a cold, dispassionate voice that made Cynara shudder as her gaze fastened on the lethal blade.

Sensing Cynara burgeoning fear, Elizabeth again drew the immortal into an embrace as if simple proximity could efface all of Cynara's misgivings.

After a time, Cynara pushed Elizabeth to arm's length and adjured, "Make love to me...one last time...and then I'll follow you anywhere you choose to lead me."

Sensing the ferocity and desperation of Cynara's need, Elizabeth could only smile and taking the other woman's hand, she led her dark reflection back to the manor.

4

While winter held court beyond the eves, its glacial winds assailing the old stone structure with a fury that seemed willful, Elizabeth and Cynara made love before a cackling fire. The two immortals gave themselves to each other in the languid, tender fashion of lovers who are long past the stage of unbridled lust to the tender intimacy that comes with a lifetime spent in the company of a cherished companion whose mysteries have long since been discovered. Elizabeth relished the cadence of Cynara's breathing and the tremulous sighs that her touch evoked as she played her fingertips over the majesty of the raven-haired beauty's body, while Cynara lost herself in the scent and taste of the only living creature she had ever truly loved...and for an all-too-brief moment, all thoughts of the tribulations of the past and the imminent end of the hovering future vanished.

5

"It's time, love." Elizabeth murmured softly, the quiet declaration jolting Cynara back to the present. "They're almost here...and I would have us leave no doubt."

Cynara had been leaning on an elbow, watching as her right index finger traced a meandering line over the magnificent topography of Elizabeth's body. She frowned and inclined her head toward the ceiling. Beneath the discordant clatter of the howling wind, she could hear the barely audible crackle of an approaching presence...an inexorable force converging upon the pair of lovers for whom fate would provide no lasting sanctuary. A soft sigh escaped her lips and she shifted her regard back to Elizabeth, wishing she could simply vanish into the limpid blue depths that had held her heart captive from the very first instant their gazes had met.

She pushed herself to her feet and extended a hand to Elizabeth, who accepted it with a sad smile. "Where do we do this?"

By way of response, Elizabeth took Cynara's hand and led her through the halls of her sprawling manor, to a narrow stairwell that twisted along the walls of a stone turret. Cynara tried to confine her thoughts to the beguiling sway of Elizabeth's hips as the two naked women made this final climb...each carrying the ceremonial dagger that would see them to their end.

The stairway terminated at a single arched door that led into a circular space that David had used as an office. Gesticulating, Elizabeth bathed the room in muted yellow light and as she surveyed the musty space, her resolve came perilously close to shattering. After his death, Elizabeth had been unable to compel herself to enter his sanctuary and undertake the agonizing process of packing up the last vestiges of his life's work. Nearly obscured by a thick patina of dust lay partially completed manuscripts...like shattered fragments of worlds whose creator had abandoned in mid-construction.

She turned to Cynara on slightly trembling legs and murmured, "I'm sorry that I've led us to this. So much regret...so many lost opportunities...for both of us."

With his doleful sentiment expressed, Elizabeth sank to her knees on the dusty stone floor and after a moment, a visibly apprehensive Cynara did the same.

"I...I...what do we do?" Cynara asked in a thick voice that spoke eloquently of the terror with which she viewed this final act of self-immolation.

Elizabeth reached out and gripped her wrists, firmly guiding her arms until Cynara's ceremonial dagger dimpled the flesh immediately beneath Elizabeth's left breast. Elizabeth then guided her dagger to the same position and then fixed Cynara with a nuanced smile that was unspeakably beautiful. "When I lived in Petalidi, I would pass many a quiet night trying to envision the shape which the end my life might assume. I came to the conclusion that the appropriate time of that ending was vastly more significant than the actual shape of the end itself. When you come to a juncture in your life where you can reach an accommodation with who you are and the impact you've exerted on the lives of those you've touched...when you can accept your failings and forgive the wrongs that been done to you; then you can are truly prepared to face your end...in whatever form it might come."

A single tear streamed from the corner of Elizabeth's right eye and she spoke the last words that would ever pass between them. "In many ways, this life has been less than kind...to the both of us, but I find myself blessed that I can share this last moment with someone who loves me...and who I love in return."

Cynara's eyes widened in surprise at this last tender declaration. Peering intently into those great, dark eyes and watching as the amber flecks appeared to swirl like the cosmos being born, Elizabeth abruptly seized Cynara's right shoulder and pulled the pair together in one violent motion. Cynara cried out in shock, but the only sound to escape Elizabeth's lips was a soft sigh of what might have been relief.

The light guttered and was then extinguished in those limpid blue eyes and Cynara could feel a massive presence withdraw even as a mournful cry of negation rose to her lips.

The old Cynara...the one whose only concern was for its own well-being...asserted herself then. She glanced down to see her ceremonial dagger buried in her side just beneath her left breast...but it had not pierced the critical core of her essence. She could still draw back and though her wound was agonizing...it would heal, in time. She could flee this place before the executioners arrived...re-invent herself...begin again and...

She glanced down to see that she was still clutching Elizabeth's wrist...the one that held her dagger...and forced herself to meet her beloved's unseeing gaze. With a whimper, Cynara drank in the harsh reality of Elizabeth's death. Yet, the visage that had thoroughly entranced her was set in an expression of perfect contentment. The full lips that she had loved to kiss were now slightly parted and shaped into the ghost of a smile. In death, Elizabeth Simpson appeared...truly happy.

Cynara inclined her tearful gaze to the heavens and whispered, "I know I have no right to asked...but please...wherever she's gone...let me join her there."

She then locked the fingers of her right hand around Elizabeth's neck and pressed a fevered kiss against the those slightly parted lips...jerking herself forward and fully impaling herself in the process. She cried out in response to the flare of acute pain...and then everything went black.

Elizabeth slumped back onto her haunches and the hand that had held Cynara's dagger fell to the side, her knuckles making a soft sound as they struck the stone. Cynara's mouth slid away from Elizabeth's and her face settled into the crook of the other woman's neck, even as Cynara's hand released Elizabeth's slender wrist and slid down onto Elizabeth's hip.

In defiance of the laws of physics, the pair did not simply fall over, but remained in this intimate position of mutual immolation.

As these two enormous life forces vanished, an eerie silence descended upon the room...an airless vacuum in which it seemed impossible that anything could again flourish...

...and the coin of their fate...of which each woman had been one side...came abruptly and permanently to rest.

6

A tremendous force blew through the doors of the Saravic manor, propelled by a sense of acute, albeit ambiguous urgency. It sped through the brooding manor, from room to room, before coming to the narrow staircase that wound up into the darkness.

It flooded up the stairs and threw open the door...and Alexandria materialized into her tangible form and came to a skidding halt. A strident curse of denial tore from her contorted lips and then her body went as rigid as a piece of statuary

Her head tilted slightly to the left and she remained in this position...crestfallen and sorrowful...staring at the sculpture that seemed to eloquently capture the tragic futility of human existence.

After a moment, she murmured, "Come out child...I mean you no harm...and I would share this terrible moment with someone."

Ensconced in her shadow cloak, a distraught Judith Ranzman drew back her hood and took three stumbling steps forward, collapsing to her knees only paces from the intertwined bodies. Her face was a living portrait of misery and grief as she stared fixedly at the astounding creature she had found...only to lose in such horrible fashion. She shifted her distorted gaze toward Alexandria and demanded, "Are you satisfied?"

For a brief instant, Alexandria's impassive mask cracked, revealing the full extent of her pain. "I came here to tell them that the powers that shape this world...both dark and light...had decided to leave them in peace...free to live as they choose without fear of retribution."

The wail of anguish that tore from Judith's bulging throat reverberated throughout the small space like the thunder of all human despair. She pressed her forehead into the cold stones and threw her arms about her head, sobbing unabashedly before the ancient immortal.

Alexandria tried to view her grief dispassionately, but she struggled to maintain a tight rein on her emotions. When Judith's sobbing subsided, she remarked, "You loved Elizabeth."

Judith sat back on her haunches and rasped, "How could anyone who ever stood in her presence not come to love Elizabeth?"

Alexandria greeted this impassioned query with a somber nod. After a time, she inquired, "Do you know who drove her to this state of despair?"

Judith glanced at the exotic red-head sharply as if trying to divine the motivation behind her query. At last she replied, "There were three people who fuelled her despair...though instinct tells me that this was inevitable. One of the three is dead."

"And the other two...would you be willing to deliver retribution on my behalf...for their duplicity in Elizabeth's tragic demise?" Alexandria inquired and though her countenance remained neutral...her words were fraught.

Judith considered the question and then admitted, "One, I would take great pleasure in dealing with. The other, however, is like you...and I don't have the power to destroy her."

"Cassandra Jasic!" Alexandria exclaimed, her expression grave. Gazing directly at Elizabeth's slack fade, the immortal made a shocking offer. "If I was to invest you with the power more than sufficient to obliterate Cassandra...would you swear eternal fealty to me and be my agent in this matter?"

After her initial shock, Judith crawled across the stone floor on her hands and knees and taking Alexandria right hand in hers, pressed her lips to the back of the nonplused immortal's delicate hand. Without the slightest trace of equivocation, she growled, "Yes!"

Alexandria regarded the kneeling immortal with an incisive gaze of appraisal for a moment and with the swiftness of a striking adder, she drove her right hand into Judith's left breast...though the hand was now a triangular spike that glowed molten gold. A soundless cry escaped Judith's lips and her body convulsed violently...impaled by what had quickly become a constant flow of pure energy. After what seemed like an eternity, the flow abated and Judith slid from the spike and collapsed to the cold stones, where she stared up at the ancient immortal with disbelieving eyes.

"What have you done to me?" she demanded, though she could sense the answer flowing through her flesh in cascading waves of unimaginable puissance.

Alexandria answering smile was cynical and incisive. "I believe you'll adapt to immortality quite easily, Judith."

She gestured for Judith to rise and the newly-made immortal sprang lithely to her feet. The two women stood in silence for a moment, contemplating the tragic embodiment before them. Alexandria extended her right arm and a fine purple mist extruded from her finger tips, completely enveloping Elizabeth and Cynara. When it dissipated, the chilling flesh had been transmogrified into bronze...their lost immortality restored...after a fashion. Turning to a bemused Judith, a melancholy Alexandria declared, "The tragedy of this moment must be preserved for posterity...and though their story may fade into mystery and myth...the emotions that inspired this beautiful and heart-rending act must never be forgotten. This is the other task I would have you perform, Judith...I would have you bring this eternal moment into the world...so that everyone can experience the compelling emotional power of Elizabeth and Cynara's end."

Judith offered a solemn promise that it would be done and Alexandria nodded before raising a hand in a gesture of parting and dissipating into a shimmering cloud of pure energy, passed through the stone walls and out into the stormy night.

Alone, Judith turned her regard back upon the beautiful sculpture. She continued to stare unblinkingly as silvery dawn supplanted night, basking in the echoing emotions that coalesced around the immortalized depiction of death...life...and all things in between.

Finally, Judith brushed tears away with the back of her hand and began to smile.

Epilogue

1

**Six months later:** A brisk rapping at the front door startled dozing Contayza Prowzi from her fitful slumber. She cast a bleary glance in the direction of the antique grandfather clock and saw that it was just past three in the afternoon. She shook her head in consternation, perturbed to realize that she had been dozing in her chair since eleven o'clock.

_'You spend more time in a doze than you do awake, Contayza,'_ she reprimanded herself and pushed herself to her feet as the insistent rapping came again. The new pain in her knees and hips flared like a burning phosphorus strip and she emitted a shrill cry, unaccustomed to this nagging new companion, from whose company she got very little relief.

It had been six months since the horrible day she had learned of Rebecca's death and the ugly confrontation at Imirya's home that had followed. In that time, the full weight of her age had dropped upon Contayza like a vengeful hammer. Her once limpid eyes were watery and clouded, her lustrous hair had thinned and her posture had become stooped. Worse still, with Rebecca's horrible death, the voices of her lost family had fallen silent and her cherished memories had faded...until she could no longer visualize the faces of her brother and grandfather...faces that had been so vivid in her mind up until the very day she had learned of Rebecca's death.

As that hateful bitch had predicted, she found herself increasingly isolated...alone with her bitterness as the end closed in like a hungry wolf.

The world beyond her window held less and less interest for her and on this late April afternoon, the sky was dark and rainy. She had not spoken a word with her estranged daughter since their ugly parting...when Imirya had physically thrown her out of the house. Several times in the last few months...cognizant of the approaching end...Contayza had pondered reaching out to Imirya, but pride had constrained her. _'And the terrible fear that she would simply tell me to go to hell...if I'm being entirely truthful.'_

The vexing knock came again. Impatiently, Contayza called out, "I'll be right along."

It suddenly occurred to her that it had been four months...perhaps more...since she had received a call or a visit. _'Maybe it is time to take the bended knee and make amends.'_

Contayza shook her head in exasperation and opened the door. The woman standing on her door step looked vaguely familiar. Around her, like a frame fraught with dark portents, the day was rainy gloom. Her visitor was an extremely beautiful, diminutive woman. Her jet black hair was cut to frame her face and along with her slanting cheekbones, lent an exotic aspect to her beauty.

The woman's clothing caused Contayza to raise a quizzical eyebrow. She wore a full length black leather coat, adorned by decorative pewter buckles and matching leather boots. Her eyes were obscured by round-rimmed rose colored glasses, despite the gloom A round, wide brimmed black hat was perched on her head...reminding Contayza of a character from an old movie that Nathaniel had loved...Annie Hall, she believed it was.

The woman wore a sardonic in smirk that immediately rankled Contayza and she demanded curtly, "Why are you hammering on my door?"

"Hello, Contayza," she purred. "I imagine you don't remember me."

Recollection filtered through the fog of old age and Contayza recoiled against the door, her heart rate gathering momentum. She groped for the power, but recalled that it had deserted her not long after Rebecca's death...leaving her alone and defenseless.

"What...what are you doing here?" Contayza rasped.

"Ah, I see that you've conjured the memory...our last meeting wasn't under the brightest of circumstances...though you certainly did leave a lasting impression on me. My name is Judith Ranzman, by the way."

"I want nothing to do with you," Contayza grumbled and withdrew a pace with the intention of closing the door...which to her dismay, would not budge. She shifted her moon-eyed regard to Judith, who merely smiled.

"What do you want?" She reiterated, though in a voice nuanced more by trepidation than belligerence.

An envelope suddenly materialized in Judith's right hand. "Elizabeth asked me to give this to you...it's a letter she wrote." A shiver rippled over Judith's porcelain features and she added in a somber voice, "Before she died."

"She's dead?" Contayza exclaimed excitedly. Her face constricted into a mask of ugly satisfaction. "That is all I need to know...so you can do with your letter what you will."

Judith pursed her full lips and the letter erupted into flames. She held the burning paper until it curled into white ash and drifted between her fingers. "I expected as much, but I promised Elizabeth that I would see it delivered. I made another promise...a vow, actually...and I'm going to enjoy this one far more."

Before Contayza could react, Judith surged forward and drove her hand into the gypsy's chest, powerful fingers settling around her erratically beating heart. Staring into Contayza's gaping eyes, she snarled, "I've reserved a special place in hell for you, cunt."

A small burst of malign energy short circuited all electric activity in Contayza's body and extinguished her life force like a candle before a gale. The force tossed her body well back into the shadows of her entrance, where she came to her final rest in a tangle of twisted limbs.

Judith smiled and reaching for the handle, pulled the door closed...leaving it slightly ajar so that the body would be discovered before too long. Pivoting, she started down the walk of the house that had become a mausoleum long before this day. Whistling a tune about showers in April, she drew up her cloak and vanished.

2

**Two years later:** "This really is an exquisite piece. It eloquently encompasses every emotion the human heart is capable of feeling," the young man remarked to the girl standing next to him...his enthusiasm making him uncharacteristically expansive.

"It's rather tragic...ineffable sad really. Beautiful, yes...but disturbing in ways that are not easy to articulate." The girl observed, her brow furrowed by a frown as she stared at the statue of the two women immortalized in a posture of shared death. The new London Royal Museum of Art was comparatively empty on this Tuesday afternoon and the young art lovers were one of only two couples in this particular gallery. "So they really have no idea who the sculptor might be?"

"Not at all," the young man replied eagerly, his voice fraught with the mystery that surrounded this particular piece...a poignant rendering of the dark act of self-immolation that was garnering international attention. "Apparently, a wealthy patron, who demanded total anonymity, donated the piece and divulged nothing about its origins. I've never seen such detail...the emotion on this woman's face is so visceral...so poignant and accessible. It really is hard to believe that these weren't real women who had been turned to bronze by some process of dark magic."

"That's absolutely frightful," the girl protested with a visible shudder.

"Well...yes," the young man allowed, not fully discerning how his casual comment had left his companion feeling deeply unsettled. "Still, it's such a darkly evocative piece. How can you not wonder what these women might have been thinking...in the end...or try to image what might have driven them to this grim act?"

"I wonder who they were?" The girl murmured, her gaze settling on the figure with the expression of serenity permanently set on her face.

Just then, the young man's attention was drawn to the other couple, who stood near the velvet restraining ropes not ten paces away. The first woman was rather diminutive and reminded him of a living porcelain doll that had been dressed in gothic clothing and brought to life by some dark enchantment. It was the second woman, however, that suffused him with an atavistic dread. She was statuesque and beautiful beyond the power of words to describe. She wore a full length hunter green leather coat with gold buttons, inset with rubies...a sharp counterpoint to her long blond hair, which flowed to the center of her back like cascading waves of honeyed gold.

His eyes popped open and he shifted his gaze from the woman to the figure with the serene expression and then back to the woman. _'My God...they're identical!'_

As if she had heard his startled thought, the woman's eyes slid to his and it was everything he could muster not to cry out. Her deep blue eyes blazed with an alien light that would haunt his dreams for years to come...terrible and excruciatingly incisive.

The young man suddenly gripped the young woman's slender wrist and literally began to drag her away from the sculpture...which was entitled...Eternal Love in Death.

She regarded him with an indignant scowl and he muttered, "Come on...there are a few other pieces I really want you to see."

When the young couple had hurried away, the diminutive woman turned to her companion with a grin and whispered, "It seems that we've unsettled the patrons. Come Imirya...let's make a start of it."

The blond glanced at Judith and then turned her attention back to the inured figures...an indecipherable expression rippling over her face at the sight of the familiar countenance that precisely mirrored her own. After a moment, she turned away from the two vitiated immortals and allowed Judith to lead her out of the galley.

Outside, the pair stood on the steps of the museum and watched as London traffic flowed around them...oblivious to the two powerful creatures in its midst. A warm rain had begun to fall over the city as angry black clouds scudded in from the west.

Judith raised her face to the rain and inquired, "Where are you Cassandra? It doesn't matter...we'll find you...in time."

With this, Judith slipped her hand into Imirya's and the two women descended the steps...striding off into a wondrous future.

3

My name is Elizabeth Simpson. I was born a few short years after the end of the second Great War of the Twentieth Century...when its shadow still sat heavy and deep across the brow of those who had survived its horror.

I lived my entire mortal life in the small town of Semelar, Washington. There, I experienced the happiness and disappointment, joy and sorrow that one might expect in the course of a normal life. Like most young women raised in a small town, I yearned for a taste of the exciting experiences the world beyond Semelar's town limits might offer.

How darkly ironic it is that the things we actually possess are the things we often take for granted...or how frequently we come to cherish them once they are lost.

Even as I dreamed my cosmopolitan dreams and those early years raced by, I had no way of knowing that the remorseless engine of my destiny was converging upon me like a great predator.

When the shadow descended upon my life, it came in the most unexpected form imaginable. Cynara Saravic was the living embodiment of everything I aspired to become. Erudite, intelligent, stunningly beautiful and worldly; even these lavish adjectives cannot begin to adequately convey the impression that Cynara would make upon an ingenuous young woman with grand dreams.

Cynara laid my life to waste and stole my mortality in the process. Only later would I discern that she was a victim of the same inexorable destiny that had destroyed the foundations of my world.

In the years that followed, I experienced wonders...both dark and light...that defied the senses. I have wandered to the far corners of the world, like dust before a restless wind. During those years, everything I'd ever loved...and neglected...withered and died.

I see now that to stand outside of the ebb and flow of life, the unending cycle of death and birth, is in truth...a curse.

I came to find myself at a juncture where I had become...a liability...an event horizon that could only lead those unfortunate enough to love me to their undoing.

The prospect of passing eternity as a spectator...watching the parade of life from the fringes...was more than I could bear. Thus, I chose to follow the path I did.

In the end, I was granted immortality...but could not eschew the longing of my mortal heart.

After Nathaniel died, I found a sanctuary in an Ancient Greek fishing village named Petalidi. I derived a measure of contentment from its idyllic solitude. Had fate been a kinder force, perhaps I could have passed an eternity in my small villa on the shores of the Messenian Gulf. Sorrowfully...like all whimsical delusions...mine would not endure.

On the occasions when my existence reached its bleakest depths, I would draw the strength to persevere from a beautiful fantasy I had constructed over the years of isolation. I came to realize that this capricious daydream was my way of paying homage to the life I had lost.

As I mentioned, one comes to the understanding that the thing they desire the most is the very thing they've allowed to slip away...quite often, far too late to make amends.

In this elaborate fantasy, I lived my entire life in sleepy Semelar, joyfully content to be a small town girl. Upon his return, I married David Stillman and over the happy decades, we gave Nathaniel two brothers and two sisters. In one particularly vivid vignette, David and I are in our late fifties and the entire family has gathered in the back yard of the old family home. The summer day is bright and warm in that fashion that is so conducive to that lingering sense of contentment...of permanence...that we all crave.

We are gathered for supper beneath the shade of the grand tree that has served as both a swing and playhouse for our children. David is sitting at the opposite head of the long trestle table, engaged in an animated conversation with Nathaniel's two children. He glances at me and we both experience the same surge of quiet pride and perfect happiness of a couple who have found their true companion...and have arrived at the place they were fated to be.

When he returns to his conversation, I sweep my gaze along the length of the old wooden table that has played host to so many of these family gatherings over the years.

I study the faces of my children and their spouses...and of their children...as if trying to commit this single perfect moment to memory...to preserve it for posterity and that inevitable and heart-rending moment when life moves on.

I watch these cherished souls...individuals with their own aspirations, hopes and dreams. Still, they are united by...and find solace in...a sense of family and the unbreakable bond that has united us.

In that single moment, I glean what it means to be genuinely happy.

I would awaken from these reveries and as the stark reality of my life...remorseless and intractable...crashed down upon me, I could barely breathe.

I have never experienced such a moment of pristine joy and because of who and what I am, it became crushingly clear that I never would.

Making an accommodation with this unpalatable truth, I decided to meet my end at a time and place of my choosing.

I met that end in the embrace of a person I had come to love, with the prospect of being reunited with those loved ones who had gone before me, shining like a glorious beacon.

What better end could one reasonably expect to meet?

Author's after word

The epilogue of this novel might suggest that there is another tale yet to be told in the Converging universe. Elizabeth and Cynara are the heart and soul of this story...and with their passing...it has come to an emphatic end.

As to what might have happened to Judith, Imirya and Cassandra after the conclusion of this tale...their story now belongs to the imagination of the readers who have enjoyed these tales.

Elizabeth and Cynara, I bid you both a fond farewell.

George Straatman - September 4th, 2014.
