The theatrics of an illusionist conceal a sinister truth...

In late 1700s Paris, a young but promising illusionist dabbles in the arcane art of phantasmagoria. But at his moment of greatest triumph—unveiling a magical lantern said to open a door to the Chinese spirit world—he is violently struck down by a vengeful phantom....

On assignment in London, archaeologist Annja Creed is hunting down a man who claims to have discovered the Jekyll and Hyde potion. On the trail of one curiosity, Annja finds herself pulled toward another mystery...the origin of a strange, old-fashioned projector once used by eighteenth-century illusionists. As Annja delves into its rich history, a dark past begins to emerge. And someone wants to harness the power of this cursed artifact...risking everything for the treasures it promises.

But Annja has a little magic trick of her own. One that she wields with deadly accuracy....

“Ms. Creed. Get in the car, please.”

Annja hesitated, but realized the window of opportunity to run had passed.

“If you attempt to flee, I will shoot you in the legs and pull you into the car.” The speaker was a man of medium height and Asian ancestry. He held the pistol with a steady hand.

“You’ll shoot me with the police just up the street?” Annja asked calmly.

“I will. And I’ll get away with it.” He waved the pistol. “Now, get in before I have you put in. We won’t be gentle.”

She’d escaped many traps in the past. Sometimes it was better to step into them. Annja folded herself into the backseat of the car. Another man, also Asian, sat in the front passenger seat, a pistol in his lap. Once she was seated, the two other men got back in. She was sandwiched.

At a word from the driver, the car pulled into traffic as smoothly as wax running down a candle.

Annja sat quietly between the men on either side of her. “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“It’s simple.” The man in the front passenger seat turned to face her. “We want the magic lantern.”

Magic Lantern

Alex Archer

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The Legend

...The English commander took Joan’s sword and raised it high.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn...

Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Prologue

Les Carrières de Paris

Paris, France

1793

In the darkness of the tunnel, the strong smell of old death struck MicThel Toussaint like a sharp blow to the face. He barely managed to keep from turning and leaving as the hair on the back of his neck rose.

Even the Revolution sweeping through Paris these past four years hadn’t affected him this much. Possible sudden death in the streets at the hands of madmen was not the same as death of an arcane nature.

Gulping back bile, he wrapped his arm over his mouth and nose and breathed through his rough coat sleeve. He peered at the darkness outside the reach of the lantern light. Most of the others in their group—three abreast in this dank passage—complained loudly.

“Where are we?”

“What is this place?”

The sound of their voices echoed and echoed again as it got lost in the long tunnel.

Their young guide raised the lantern above his head. The orange light cascaded over the nearby cave walls, chasing the shadows. The white limestone seemed to warm from the glow, but the chill air rattled Michel. He couldn’t forget that he was now dozens of feet below Paris.

God willing, he would go home again tonight.

A fat man in expensive business attire tried to seize the lantern from the guide. Michel recognized him as one of the wealthy merchants who had convinced Michel’s editor to assign him the task of covering Anton Dutilleaux’s show. As a distraction to the conflict raging throughout the city.

The boy refused to part with the lantern. Michel didn’t know if that was out of ownership or fear of the dark, which steadfastly lay in wait.

“Give me that light, you rancid bit of flotsam,” the fat man snarled. He swung his walking stick with considerable force at the boy’s head.

Outmatched, the dirty-faced street urchin let go the lantern and retreated with one hand raised protectively, scarcely avoiding the stick. Metal gleamed in the boy’s hand, and Michel knew the urchin had drawn a knife. For a moment the reporter thought blood was about to be spilled.

“I hope the ghosts get you, you oozing pox,” the boy called belligerently, backing away. He pocketed his knife and no one except Michel seemed the wiser.

The fat man snarled an oath at the retreating boy, then shined the lantern’s beam farther ahead into the waiting catacombs.

Michel hoped the man’s cruel act didn’t curse them all. Michel believed in ghosts and curses. He never walked across a grave and always went in the opposite direction if a black cat crossed his path.

I am, he thought miserably, without doubt the last person that should have been assigned to this story. Before he’d left the offices of the newspaper, he had made certain the editor had known that. Shaking just a little, he pulled his cloak more tightly around him.

“Dutilleaux!” the fat man roared. “I demand that you show yourself! I didn’t come all this way to be made to wait!” He paused as the thunder of his voice rolled down the throat of the tunnel. “Dutilleaux!”

“Quiet.” From out of the shadows, a man calmly asked, “What are you trying to do, Gervaise? Wake the dead? We all know that is my job.”

Anton Dutilleaux stepped from the shadows, but they didn’t easily part company with him. Rather, they lingered in his dark hair, his dark gaze and his black evening suit. Black gloves covered his long-fingered hands.

The three women in the crowd drew back with small, frightened cries.

“Pardon me, ladies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dutilleaux smiled disarmingly and bowed deeply.

Liar, Michel thought unkindly. You meant to scare them. He was even angrier because Dutilleaux’s appearance had scared him, as well.

“Is that your fancy, then, charlatan?” the fat man named Gervaise demanded. “Spending your nights with the dead so you can scare women and children?”

Dutilleaux smiled a second time, and it was a good smile. Michel had heard that the magician excelled with women. A number of scandalous stories had followed him through Europe.

“I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” Dutilleaux replied innocently. “I merely stayed overlong at my studies. I’ve not lost my keen fascination for the things I’m about to show you. In fact, I’d wager after I reveal them to you that you won’t soon find them far from your mind, either.”

The mocking certainty in Dutilleaux’s voice served to further unnerve Michel. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring a handful of candles. They would have been better than nothing should he need to…leave these others behind.

“Well, I hope to see these fascinations of yours before I grow much older,” Gervaise groused. “Otherwise, you won’t see a single franc from me.”

Michel gazed at the other men and women gathered around the fat man. Nearly all of them appeared to be his toadies and hangers-on. Gervaise didn’t attract friends as much as he did dependents. Michel was certain the merchant was paying for everyone.

“Please come this way.” Dutilleaux gestured.

“How much farther?”

“Only a little.” Without another word, Dutilleaux walked into the darkness as if he could see in it.

They all hesitated. Then Gervaise took a fresh grip on his lantern and walking stick and started forward. The crowd seemed to shrink in on itself as everyone began to move.

Swallowing his fear once more, Michel cast a last glance back the way they’d come. The urchin had disappeared. Doubtless he knew his way to the surface, but Michel wasn’t so sure he could find his way back even with the marks on the walls. He turned and followed the light down into the tunnel.

* * *

“AS YOU MAY HAVE HEARD,” Dutilleaux said as they walked, “I’ve recently returned from an extensive stay in the Orient. Shanghai, actually.”

Michel knew that because he’d written the piece on Anton Dutilleaux divulging that information. The reporter had interviewed one of Dutilleaux’s servants the previous week.

“While there, I learned much about the spirit world,” Dutilleaux said. The lantern light revealed him ducking beneath a low arch. “Do watch your heads here, please.” He continued down the steep incline. “The Chinese spirits and ghosts are quite active, you know. Have you heard of the huli jing?”

“No,” one of the women answered. Others echoed her answer.

Michel followed cautiously. His fingers trailed over the rough stone as he passed beneath the arch.

“The huli jing is a fox spirit,” Dutilleaux continued. “It takes the form of a beautiful maiden and seduces men, turning them weak or cruel. There are a number of stories about them.”

“Have you ever met a huli jing?” the woman asked with keen interest.

“No, sadly.”

“Why do you say sadly?”

“Because the amorous nature of the fox spirit is legendary.” Dutilleaux turned and smiled at his small audience. “I’m told it would have been quite the experience. I embrace challenges on the field of ardor.”

A couple of the women laughed.

Gervaise glared them into silence. “Dutilleaux, if I don’t see something soon, I’m going to—”

Dutilleaux clapped his hands. Immediately pale yellow flames jumped from his palms and raced along the walls to outline a small chamber filled with stacks of bones.

“God help us,” one of the men said.

“Witchcraft,” one of the women gasped.

Cotton-mouthed, Michel stared at the flames. For the first time in his life, he felt he was in the presence of something truly arcane.

As if entertaining in a well-appointed drawing room instead of beneath the city, Dutilleaux turned to face his audience and spread his arms wide. “Come. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything you see here harm you in any way.”

“Where—?” Gervaise raised the lantern and walking stick before him. “Where did you get all these skeletons?”

“He’s brought us down here to kill us,” a woman whispered. “Those are the bones of his previous victims.”

“I should think I would have been quite busy, if that were true.” Dutilleaux smiled and shook his head. “These poor souls aren’t here through any doing of mine.” He gazed at the stacks of skulls and long bones. Rib cages lay in another pile. “The church is responsible for their presence with us. Everyone interred at Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs is being moved here.” He shrugged. “The church takes care to work at night. It wouldn’t be seemly for people to see them trundling around wheelbarrows filled with skeletons, would it?”

“Dutilleaux is telling the truth,” an older man said. “I’ve talked to some of the priests. They’re emptying the graveyards so Paris can grow.”

The flames in the room continued to burn. Upon closer inspection, Michel noted that gutters had been cut into the wall for oil. Dutilleaux had simply—through some sort of sleight of hand—lit the oil.

“Did you want to talk about real-estate possibilities, gentlemen?” Dutilleaux asked. “Or did you want to talk about what I discovered in my travels?”

“Show us,” Gervaise ordered. “I’ve not got all night.”

“Don’t be so demanding,” Dutilleaux cautioned. “The spirits of China can be quite vengeful. I thought I’d already apprised you of that.”

The fat man scowled at him and his jowls quivered as he restrained what was no doubt a sharp retort.

For a time, Dutilleaux talked about his journey to the old empires of China. He mentioned the people he’d met and the places he’d seen. As he spoke, the flames depleted the oil in the gutters and the room grew gradually darker.

* * *

IT WASN’T UNTIL FULL DARK had almost returned that Michel wished Dutilleaux would hurry up his presentation. Dutilleaux was an excellent storyteller, though, and his trained orator’s voice filled the cavernous space with excitement.

“Though I saw all these things,” Dutilleaux concluded, “I saw nothing as stupendous as that which I’m about to show you.” He paced the room like a wild animal, and the darkness settled about him like a favorite cloak. “I found a way to open a gate to the Celestial Heavens. I can visit the Oriental afterlife. Tonight, I can take you with me.”

Michel leaned against the cold stone wall and waited. The room seemed colder, and he didn’t think it was his imagination.

“I don’t see a gate,” Gervaise grumbled.

“That’s because your eyes aren’t finely attuned to the spirit world. But perhaps I can help you to bring the spirit world into better focus.”

Michel’s heart thudded in his chest and blood roared in his ears.

Theatrically, as if all of this was taking place on one of the stages where he’d first honed his showmanship, Dutilleaux gestured to either side. Gray smoke billowed up from the stone floor.

It’s just a trick, Michel reminded himself. It’s nothing you haven’t seen in theaters.

But the unsettling sensation within him grew stronger. The smoke continued to swell till it nearly filled the room.

Then a glowing shape appeared in the haze. Indistinct at first, the image gradually grew sharper, till it revealed itself as a beautiful young Oriental woman. Dressed in a long flowing red gown and with her black hair pulled up, she hovered there in the smoke.

“My lady,” Dutilleaux greeted warmly. “I bid you welcome to the earthly realm.”

The apparition nodded slightly but did not speak.

“I crave a favor,” Dutilleaux said. “I have friends with me tonight. They wish to look upon the Celestial Heavens.”

Just a trick, Michel thought. It’s all done with lights and painted glass. No one is there.

But the woman in the smoke moved and pointed to her right. A moment later, a doorway appeared and hung in midair.

The crowd sat silently. Michel didn’t know if they were even breathing.

Slowly, ponderously, the doorway opened within the smoke. On the other side of the doorway, a beautiful land filled with flowers and trees lay waiting.

“Do you see it?” Dutilleaux asked softly. “Do you see the Celestial Heavens?”

“Yes,” a woman said in a strained voice. “I do. I see it. I can’t believe I see it, but it’s there. Right there.”

Dutilleaux basked in the glory of the moment. He turned to the crowd and bowed deeply.

“We must be careful at this point,” he told the audience. “We have to keep a wary eye on the gateway before someone—or something—manages to get through.”

“You brought us here to endanger our lives!” Gervaise shook his walking stick and the cover fell away to reveal a gleaming sword cane.

Dutilleaux raised his hands in a placating manner. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” Gervaise insisted. “But I won’t allow you to endanger these women.”

“I’m not endangering them. I can control the ghosts.”

“Listen to him,” another man, this one’s voice harder and more confident, interrupted. “There is nothing to be afraid of—because there’s nothing there.”

“Who’s speaking?” Dutilleaux demanded. The confident smile never left his handsome face.

Another man stepped from the back of the crowd. He peeled back his cloak and revealed saturnine features. “I am.”

For a moment, Dutilleaux seemed at a loss. Then he smiled and said, “Professor Étienne-Gaspard Robert. Welcome to our festivities.”

Michel recognized Robert’s name. The man was Belgian by birth but had recently moved to France to pursue a career in art. He was also reputed to be a professor of physics.

“Not festivities,” Robert stated. “This is merely a parlor show.” He turned to the audience. “What you’re seeing is an illusion. A play of light and shadow. Less substantial than an early-morning fog.”

“Are you so sure, my friend?” Dutilleaux asked in a calm voice. “Perhaps you’d like to be the first to go through the gateway.”

Michel stared at the professor.

“There is no gateway there.” The people nearest Robert stepped back as though afraid of being struck down by any forces that chose to punish him for sacrilege. Robert sneered at the audience. “Superstitious fools. You’re letting this bag of wind with a handful of tricks sway your good judgment.” He locked eyes with Dutilleaux. “Permit me passage, then, charlatan. Show these sheep your power. Or be cursed for your fakery.”

Boldly, Robert strode forward.

An eerie hiss came from within the mystical doorway. Michel tried to remind himself that everything he was witnessing was a trick, but the mood Dutilleaux had established held him firmly in place.

Before the Belgian professor reached Dutilleaux, a garish figure with a horribly white face darted out of the doorway. The figure raised a long-bladed knife in one hand.

Robert stepped back with a curse.

But the figure wasn’t hunting him. The phantom turned on Dutilleaux. The knife flashed down and the flames went out.

Men and women cried and screamed as they stood in the meager pool of light provided by the lantern. None of them were close to where Dutilleaux had stood.

Trembling, Michel scooped up the lantern and carried it toward Robert and Dutilleaux. The light crept across the stone floor with him.

Robert stood against the nearby wall, obviously fearing for his very life. “That thing was here. I felt it. By God, it was real.”

Michel turned the lantern toward Dutilleaux and found the man stretched out on the stone cavern’s floor. Several skulls and bones littered the ground around him.

And the large knife the phantom had carried stuck out of the phantasmagorist’s chest. Dutilleaux’s face was already pale white in death.

1

London, England

Current day

“Couldn’t you have worn something a little more…revealing?”

Annja Creed frowned as she considered the question over the Bluetooth earpiece that linked her with her satellite phone. She stood in the middle of a dank alleyway stinking with rotting garbage and Chinese takeout. Dark rain clouds hung in the sky visible between the buildings. Sporadic smog patches drifted past.

“Doug, I’m way underdressed for a potential mugging as it is.” Annja wore a silver calf-length duster over black pants and a pearl-gray silk tie-waist blouse. Slouchy microsuede boots pushed her five-ten up to something over six feet. The boots were comfortable, stylish, and she could run for her life in them if she had to. She wore her auburn hair clipped back.

“This guy’s not a mugger.” Doug Morrell sounded put out. The producer of Chasing History’s Monsters—the syndicated television show Annja costarred in with Kristie Chatham—was twenty-two, young and driven by all things Twitter.

Despite the fact that he wasn’t really interested in history or archaeology, Annja genuinely liked Doug. He was like the younger brother she’d never had.

“I know he’s not a mugger.” Annja walked through the alley with her hands in her pockets. “He’s killed three women that the Metro police know about.”

“I saw those reports, too, which is why I want you to be careful.”

“Careful, but less dressed.”

Doug hesitated only a moment. “Yeah.”

“Not happening.”

“You could at least get rid of the jacket.”

“And give it to Igor to carry?”

“Don’t make fun of your bodyguard.”

Annja resisted the impulse to look back at Ray Venard, the guy Doug had hired for the shoot tonight. Venard was a large, hulking brute who had played professional rugby before he’d gotten caught shaving points, then was injured by outraged fans. He’d gotten through the court system unscathed, but the fans had left him with a knee that would never be the same.

“I thought he was a cameraman.”

“He is. He’s both. Kind of like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Bodyguard and photographer.”

“Did I mention to you that when I met him in his office he was taking pictures of women for a skin magazine?”

Doug sighed. “You did.”

“So not only am I not going to take my coat off to be more revealing in this cold, rat-infested alley, I’m also not going to take it off in front of Igor.”

“I only mention the coat because it could help ratings.”

“The ratings are fine. We just got a two-year renewal.”

“So we could work on the next two-year deal.”

Annja kept walking. Working for the television show was sometimes a pain, but mostly it was fun. And there was Doug and a few of the other people she liked who were connected to the production. Not only did she get to travel, but the salary and bonuses were nice and allowed her to follow up on other explorations and digs.

She watched the shadows carefully. Detective Chief Inspector Westcox hadn’t been happy when she’d come to his office to discuss the recent murders that the media was attributing to “Mr. Hyde.” Of course, the reporters were only doing that because “Mr. Hyde” had written in, claiming responsibility for the murders.

Westcox had shown Annja the morgue photos of the victims. The DCI was closemouthed and professional, and he’d thought to frighten her off with the brutality of the killings. The victims had been stomped to death, their faces pulped by size eighteen Rufflander work boots.

What DCI Westcox hadn’t known was how much violence Annja Creed had seen. The police inspector had assumed she was a young woman inquiring into things much too bloody for her.

“I’m keeping my clothes on for the next two years, too.”

Doug whined. He was a good whiner when he wanted to be, but Annja was impervious.

“You have Kristie for the T and A ratings. With me, you’ve got history and archaeology ratings.”

The fact that Kristie Chatham was the fan darling because of her habitual loss of clothing and “wardrobe malfunctions” bothered Annja more than she would ever tell anyone. But she accepted it. She had her fans, too.

“Would Kristie agree to walking in a rat-infested alley at midnight so a serial murderer could leap out of the shadows and murder her?”

“No, of course not. If she got hurt, she wouldn’t be able to work.”

“And I would?”

“You’re not going to get hurt. You have Igor. Besides, you’re only there tonight to shoot a little mood footage. Igor also tells me the fog is going to have to be enhanced. Says it’s really weak.”

Annja looked back over her shoulder at the lumbering shadow that trailed her. Igor carried a portable video camera in one giant paw. “You’re talking to him?”

“Texting. I’m talking to you.”

“Great. So you’re distracting my bodyguard.”

“He’d probably be more focused on you if you weren’t overdressed.”

Turning her attention back to the alley ahead of her, Annja shook her head. Sometimes—most of the time—Doug had a one-track mind. “About the Mr. Hyde thing.”

“You said you loved the Mr. Hyde thing,” Doug said, instantly wary. “You said the Mr. Hyde thing was awesome. You couldn’t wait to do the Mr. Hyde thing.”

Annja had said that. But that had been when she’d thought her schedule wasn’t going to be so tight. She’d hoped to get out to Hadrian’s Wall. That had been the site of her first dig, and the place still held a special spot in her heart.

Then, when she’d seen those poor women in those police photographs, she realized that the “investigation” bordered on sensationalism. That the women were going to be fodder for the conspiracy mill Chasing History’s Monsters routinely set into motion didn’t sit well with her.

“You do realize Mr. Hyde isn’t real.”

“When you meet Mr. Hyde, tell him that. Either we’ve got one of London’s oldest and eeriest monsters returned from over a hundred years of being missing, or we’ve got someone who rediscovered Dr. Jekyll’s secret potion. I don’t care which it is. It’s a great story.”

“That’s what it is—a story. Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was a novella written by Robert Louis Stevenson. An allegory some say was based on Victorian views of sex.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You told me that already. And I agreed that you could put that stuff in there. As long as there’s not too much of it. Which is why we’re picking up the tab on your date with Professor Beeswax.”

“Professor Beswick. And it’s not a date. He’s an expert on film, literature and myth.”

“I suppose it doesn’t hurt that Professor Beeswax is good-looking, though. I ran a Google search on him. I see what you saw.”

“Really? You thought Professor Beswick was attractive?”

Doug nearly choked. “No! That’s not what I said. Are you recording this?” He cursed. “Now I’ve got Diet Coke up my nose. Don’t do that.”

Annja chuckled. Doug was easy to set off.

“As for this Mr. Hyde thing, I got a very convincing email stating that the Dr. Jekyll formula had been discovered on the internet and someone had re-created it.”

“Who was the email from?”

“An anonymous source.”

“Doug, it’s me and you. You can tell me.”

“I can’t. That’s how the writer tagged the email.”

“And you bought into this based on that.” Annja couldn’t believe it, then reminded herself she’d been in the same situation with Doug dozens of times before.

“Sure. There are the three murders. Mr. Hyde claims to have done them.”

Annja bit her tongue. She was looking forward to her stay in London and dinner tomorrow with Professor Beswick appeared promising.

Ahead, one of the doors suddenly banged open and four figures spilled out into the alley. Three of them were young Asian males dressed in dark clothing backing out of a restaurant. One of them held a young woman trapped with an arm across her neck. Her eyes rolled fearfully and she hung on to the man’s arm to keep her balance.

The woman was dressed in black pants and a white shirt, the typical server’s uniform for a lot of restaurants. Light shined from the open doorway and revealed tattoos on the necks of two of the men. All of them carried pistols. A handful of pound notes drifted from the cloth bag one of the guys fisted.

“Doug, I’m going to have to talk to you later.” She unclipped the Bluetooth earpiece and shoved it into her pocket. Annja was calm as she surveyed the scene. Her heart went out to the frightened young woman.

An older man in a suit raced through the back door and quickly stopped when he saw the gunmen. “Laurel.”

“Get back, old man.” One of the youths took a step forward and pointed the gun at the businessman.

“Please. You have the money. Don’t take my daughter.”

The youth opened fire. Annja didn’t know if he was trying to hit the man or not, but one of the bullets chewed into the door and the other went through the doorway.

The man dropped to the ground, covered his head with his arms and screamed for his daughter.

“Papa!” The young woman cried out in fear and tried to free herself. One of the men not holding her backhanded her across the face.

“Hey!” Igor’s loud voice thundered in the alley. “You blokes want to put the guns down before you get hurt?”

Glancing back, Annja saw that Igor had a gun in his own hand instead of the camera now. He stood holding the revolver like he knew what to do. Unfortunately, so did the three Asians. Two of them opened fire while the third hung on to their hostage.

Annja pressed herself flat against a building.

The bullets drove Igor back into cover. He rose up just long enough to fire two rounds. Both bullets went wild, and one of them came dangerously close to Annja.

In the next moment, a car roared into the alley behind Igor. The bright lights pinned him for a moment as he threw up a hand in front of his eyes. He stepped aside, but the driver opened the door and hit the bodyguard hard enough to bounce him off a brick wall. Igor rolled and dropped as the car roared by.

The driver brought the car to a rocking halt only a few feet from the three men. They opened the doors on the passenger’s side and started to get in with their captive.

Annja sprang for the driver, shoved a hand into the car and caught the man by the jacket front. She yanked hard and the man’s head cracked against the window’s edge. The driver’s eyes rolled up and showed white just before he slumped across the steering wheel. His foot pressed against the accelerator and the car sped forward before the others could climb in.

Reaching into the otherwhere that contained her sword, Annja drew the blade into the physical world. Moonlight glinted along the three-foot-plus polished steel blade. The hilt was plain, unadorned, wrapped in leather strips, and it felt completely at home in Annja’s hand. The sword had been forged for Joan of Arc and only the one destined to take up Joan’s crusade could wield it.

Annja shot forward as the car passed, and she knew she was moving too fast for the men to track. To them it would have looked like she’d appeared out of nowhere. She drove a double-fisted blow into the face of the man on the right. Propelled by the great strength she had when she wielded the sword, the man sailed backward and thudded against crates of trash. Rotted vegetables and refuse tumbled over him. Rats scattered and ran.

Whirling, Annja lashed out with the sword as the man holding the money took aim at her. Beyond him, the out-of-control car rammed into a streetlight, shuddered and died with an explosive release of steam. Her blade caught the man’s pistol as he lifted it, and drove it from his grip. She took two quick side steps forward, then raised her right leg and drove her foot into his face.

He went down in a loose jumble of flesh and blood, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Still holding his hostage, the third robber fired again and again.

Annja ducked and went low. She shoved her left leg out and swept the legs of the man and his hostage from the ground. As they fell backward, the man kept firing, wildly spraying the stone walls on either side of the alley. Trapped between the buildings, the sharp reports rolled like thunder.

She swung the sword at the gun and knocked the weapon from the man’s grip. He tried to get up, made it to his knees, but she met him with the sword hilt between his eyes. The impact snapped his head back and he sank.

Satisfied that the immediate danger was over, Annja released the sword and the weapon vanished. She walked over to the young woman and helped her to her feet.

“You’re all right.” Annja cradled the woman in her arms. “You’re going to be fine.” When her father reached them, she released the woman into his custody and went back to check on Igor.

The big man was just coming around, groaning and still trying to get his breath back.

“C’mon. Let’s get you up and get out of here.” Annja pulled him to his feet.

Igor held an arm across his ribs and stared at the men lying in the alley. Cooks and waitstaff were already taking them into custody.

“What happened?”

Annja shrugged. “The driver’s brakes must have gone out. He hit them and knocked them down.”

“The girl’s not hurt?”

“We got lucky.” That was an easier story than telling the truth to the police. “Let’s go. I really don’t want to spend the whole night in a police station being questioned.”

“Shouldn’t we stay?”

Annja looked at him.

Igor grinned sheepishly. “I mean, I did try to save the girl. Maybe a little publicity will help the business, you know.”

“Right. And that way Doug Morrell will know you got taken out by a couple thugs. Think he’s going to want to keep you around protecting me from Mr. Hyde?”

“On second thought, I’ve never been a glory hound.”

“Right.”

“But we can’t leave just this minute.” Igor looked at the side of the alley. “I have to find my pistol. I must have dropped it. Can you help give us a look?”

2

Professor Edmund Beswick stood on the curb in front of Carlini’s Magic Bullet Club when Annja arrived by cab. He was a few years older than Annja, in his mid-thirties, and was about the same height. His black hair brushed the tips of his ears and he wore a neatly trimmed goatee. His olive complexion hinted at some Indian or Middle Eastern ancestry and lent him an Old World elegance. The dark blue tux and top hat made him look like he’d stepped from the pages of a Charles Dickens novel.

He opened the cab door for Annja and thrust pound notes at the driver.

“I can get that.” Annja had her pocketbook at the ready.

“Nonsense. This evening is my treat. I insist.” Edmund offered her his gloved hand.

Annja took it, then held on to his arm. She wore a simple black dress, but it was one of her favorites and she knew she wore it well. Still, she couldn’t help feeling underdressed.

“I wasn’t expecting anything so formal.”

Edmund grinned. “You look marvelous, and you’ll find that not everyone inside is dressed as pompously as I am.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I tend toward the exotic when I’m given my head. I do hope you’ll forgive me my eccentricities this evening, but this is a special occasion.”

“You look dashing.”

“Thank you. You are most kind.”

Annja surveyed the front of Carlini’s Magic Bullet Club. The first floor of the small building was covered in wooden gingerbread that made it look positively ancient. Red velvet curtains covered the large plate-glass windows. Torchlight created golden pools against the material and shadows moved inside. A red carpet under a small canopy led to the front door, which looked like it would open to a dungeon.

“Now, that looks foreboding.”

Edmund’s smile was so big and innocent, Annja was certain she could see the twelve-year-old he had been. “Doesn’t it just?” he replied.

“And I notice there’s no doorknob.”

“So it’s mysterious, too.” His dark brown eyes twinkled. “Carlini’s is a very special place. No one gets in here who isn’t invited.” He waved a hand and suddenly there was a single red rose in it. He offered it to Annja.

Smiling, she took the rose in her free hand and smelled it. The fragrance was subtle and sweet. “You’re a magician?”

“Alas, you thought I was merely a literature professor?” Edmund feigned a look of pain.

“From what I’ve heard, you’re an authority on English literature. I saw you in an interview on the History Channel and was impressed. When I got this assignment, I knew I wanted you as a guest speaker.”

“I’d wondered about that. Your program doesn’t draw immediate confidence from a cursory look.”

“No.” Annja knew that was true, and it was one of the things she had to accept about the opportunities Chasing History’s Monsters afforded her. “I like to go below the surface of a story.”

“That was true of most of your segments that I saw.”

“Sometimes a good deal of what I’ve prepared ends up on the cutting-room floor. So I have to warn you that some of what I’m doing could end up in the same place.”

“Well, we’ll just have to roll the dice, won’t we?”

“I do put interviews on the television website.” That was a deal Annja had recently negotiated. “Added-value pieces I believe are interesting.”

“Then I shall endeavor to be interesting. I consider it a challenge.”

“That’s hardly fair for you.”

“Trust me when I say that I am a fierce competitor.”

“All right.” Annja grinned in self-satisfaction. She’d known Edmund was going to be intriguing. She was happy to be proven right.

“So how goes your hunt for our new Mr. Hyde?” Edmund looked troubled.

“We’re still looking.”

“Please don’t hold it against me for hoping you’re not the one who finds that man.” Edmund shook his head. “I saw some of the pictures and videos they released of those poor women. I would hate to think of you facing such a brute.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen. Not with Metro increasing surveillance on the streets.” Annja looked at the pub. “Tell me about this place.”

“Carlini’s has been a home to magic for over a hundred years. All the great masters have come here. Magicians. Escape artists. Illusionists. Mentalists. And prestidigitators of every stripe—fair and foul. They’ve had just as many villains as they’ve had heroes.” Edmund smiled fondly at the pub. “Houdini was here. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, though he came looking for real magic and a way to contact the spirit world. Walter B. Gibson. Robert Harbin. Chung Ling Soo. David Nixon. David Copperfield. Penn and Teller. You’ve heard of the Magic Circle?”

“The organization committed to sponsoring and reimagining magic. Of course.”

“They formed here in London in 1905. Carlini’s predated them. The Great Carlini preferred to keep a lower profile and only invited in the very best in the field. They gave private shows to the royals and other important people, perfected their craft and studied other masters. This was the place where they could be themselves and enjoy magic without the stress of an unfriendly or doubting audience. The people in this place appreciate the orchestration of a skilled magician.”

“It sounds like the hardest audience in the world to play for.”

Edmund grinned. “No. And do you know why?”

Annja shook her head, enjoying his enthusiasm.

“Because magicians want to believe in magic.” Edmund’s eyes sparkled. “Carlini’s guests are the best audience. They live to be astonished, amazed and entertained. Now, observe.” He gestured at the door.

In response, the door quivered, rattled and slowly pulled inward with a theatrical creak that gave Annja goose bumps. She’d been in scary situations before, circumstances that would have gotten her killed if she hadn’t been quick enough or strong enough or lucky enough to get through. But there was something about the atmosphere of the pub, Edmund’s story and her own awakened childish fascination with magic that affected her.

Edmund took her arm and guided her inside.

After the outside door closed, a small yellow light flared to life overhead. The tiny bulb was barely enough to reveal the three wooden doors at the end of the hallway. One door lay dead ahead and the two others were on either side. The doors were unmarked.

“Magic is all about choices.” Edmund waved toward the doors. “Tonight you have three.”

“And if I choose wrong?”

“We go hungry and I don’t get to show you my biggest surprise.” Edmund grinned. “But I have faith in you.” He gestured her forward. “Please have a look. This challenge has been designed for you.”

Annja cocked an eyebrow at Edmund. “You realize we could go hungry.”

“I’ve always found that risk increases appetite and appreciation for a meal.” Beswick looked at her. “I wouldn’t have figured you for someone unwilling to risk.”

Amused, Annja advanced. As she did, a slot opened up in each door and a three-by-five notecard slid out to hang from each of them.

“Kind of creepy.”

Edmund just smiled and waited.

Examining the cards, Annja discovered the one on the left door had a drawing of a chicken in charcoal-gray ink. The middle door had a drawing of an egg in brown ink. The third one she wasn’t quite sure of but it was black and the drawing was etched deep into the card. She pointed to it. “What’s this?”

Edmund shook his head. “The best I could do at drawing a chicken nugget.”

“A chicken nugget?”

“Yes.”

“So the obvious correlation would be that I’m supposed to pick the door that comes first?”

“If that’s what you think.”

Annja examined the cards again, more closely this time. She paid particular attention to the drawings, the ink and the shape of the lines. She even smelled them to confirm her conclusions. “If you listen to a biologist, the biologist would say that the egg comes first. But a theologian would insist that the chicken came first.”

Edmund’s face remained unreadable.

“However, a mystery lover could be tempted to pick the chicken nugget simply because it doesn’t fit, or because it’s not a natural thing, as the chicken and the egg are.” Annja smiled. “You went to a lot of trouble.”

“Then you already know the answer?”

“Yes.” Annja knew she’d surprised him. He hadn’t thought she would fail, but he hadn’t expected her to succeed so early. “But only because you went to such great detail to make your clues.”

“Elucidate.”

“The answer is in the inks, and somewhat in the drawings, but not in what was drawn.”

Edmund smiled in startled appreciation. “You are good.”

Annja pointed to the egg. “That ink is atramentum, or it’s supposed to be. It’s a replica of a Roman ink made about sixteen hundred years ago. You can tell because it’s faded out and has turned brown. That’s because it was made from iron salts and tannin. It goes on bluish-black, then fades to brown.”

She moved on to the nugget. The image was drawn deeply into the card with fine, black lines. “This ink was called masi and was created in ancient India about 400 BCE. The drawing is deep and thin because they used needles to write with. So did you. Quite a good touch on that, actually.”

Edmund inclined his head in thanks.

“This, however, was the first.” Annja touched the drawing of the chicken. “The ink is graphite based and it was drawn with an ink brush. When you look closely, you can see the brushstrokes. This ink, or at least the original, was created by the Chinese about 1800 BCE. Definitely the first.”

Edmund quietly applauded her. “Bravo, Ms. Creed. Quite the performance.”

Annja curtsied, thoroughly enjoying herself. “Did you think of this little test yourself?”

“No. I must admit that I had help. After all, I’m just a professor of English and literature. This was beyond my ken.” Edmund walked to the door with the chicken on it and the door opened before he reached it.

A large man in a good suit greeted Edmund with a warm handshake. He had a high forehead and glasses and looked to be in his sixties. “Welcome, Ms. Creed. It is indeed an honor.”

“Annja Creed, may I present Gaetano Carlini, the current owner and host of the Magic Bullet Club. Gaetano, my beautiful guest, Ms. Annja Creed.”

Totally charmed by the big man, Annja offered her hand and he took it, bowed deeply and kissed the back of it. “Please come in and make yourselves at home. I have your table this way.” Gaetano swept them into a large dining room.

* * *

“OVER THE YEARS, MS. CREED—”

“Please call me Annja.”

Gaetano nodded solemnly. “Annja. Over the years, Carlini’s has been host to a number of important and famous people.” He gave a careless shrug. “And, at times, some who were more infamous than famous.”

“But no one that was ever shot or hanged for their crimes.” Edmund swirled his wine around in the fluted glass.

“Thankfully, no. We’ve never had that notoriety.” Gaetano pushed the glasses up on his nose. “But we do ask one favor of those guests, other than to enjoy themselves while they are here.”

Annja sat at the small, intimate table in the center of the ornate dining room lined with stage magic memorabilia and framed caricatures of magicians. Her red rose occupied a small vase in the middle of the table. They were adjacent to the small, curtained stage. Noises came from the back, so Annja knew something was going on. Her curiosity was getting the better of her.

“What would that favor be?” Annja nibbled on a piece of Havarti cheese.

“To allow me to sketch a caricature to hang on our wall.”

“Gaetano is very good. Very knowledgeable about a great many things. Including history.” Edmund sipped his wine. “He’s the one who helped me figure out your puzzle.”

Gaetano waved the compliment away.

“In another life, had not magic called to him so strongly, I fear he would have been a forger.”

“Oh, now I’m offended.” But the big man’s boisterous laugh plainly indicated he was more flattered than anything.

“I would love for you to draw a caricature of me. But I’m not a magician.”

“I beg to differ.” Gaetano sat up straight in his chair. “I have seen many episodes of your television show. You are a great performer at revealing some of history’s best-kept secrets. I knew who you were before this youngster did.”

Edmund held up his hands in surrender. “Sadly, that’s true. I told him I’d gotten an email from an American archaeologist regarding the Mr. Hyde murders.”

“He was set to turn you down.” Gaetano shook his head in mock exasperation. “Silly boy.”

“In my defense, it was only because the murders were so heinous. I didn’t want to contribute to the gratuitous exposure of the misfortunes of others. That was before I spoke with you and you assured me that would not happen.”

“It won’t.” Annja fully intended that the Mr. Hyde piece, if it aired, wouldn’t dwell on the murders as much as it did the legend. Hopefully the London Metro police would have the killer in hand by then, as well.

“He might not have called you at all had I not shown him one of your programs.” Gaetano chuckled. “He was, of course, instantly smitten.”

Annja laughed. “Obviously he’s easy to impress.”

The meal came then, thick steaming platters of pastas and seasoned vegetables along with crisp salads. Annja ate with gusto, listening to the familiar camaraderie of the two men as they played off each other and took turns telling her stories.

While they dined, several magicians from other tables went to the stage and performed their acts. The audience oohed and aahed in approval and delight as things disappeared, reappeared and changed into other things.

Annja loved every moment of the shows, from the theatrics to the conversational patter that established the history and the obvious familiarity the men and women all had with one another.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return shortly.” Edmund left the table and headed for the kitchen area.

Gaetano kept Annja enthralled with stories about his adventures as a magician. He also kept the wine flowing and managed small sleight-of-hand tricks with dinnerware, napkins and coins between magic acts.

Then the stage curtain parted and Edmund passed through. He no longer wore the old-fashioned suit. He was dressed in a swimsuit and carried swim goggles in his hand.

Instantly, the dining area filled with catcalls and good-natured teasing.

“I see you’ve got nothing up your sleeve, Professor Beswick!”

“And chicken legs.”

Edmund held up his hands in surrender. “Go ahead, mates. Take your shots. Make them the best you can, because I’m about to amaze and astonish you.”

After a few more catcalls and hoots of laughter, the crowd settled into an expectant hush.

“Tonight I’m going to attempt my grandest escape ever. As many of you know, I’ve been studying to become something of an escapologist. I’m going to perform this escape in honor of my guest—Ms. Annja Creed of Chasing History’s Monsters and something of an escape artist herself, according to the stories I’ve read about her.”

An enthusiastic burst of applause followed the announcement.

“Stand up. Let them see you.” Gaetano pushed back out of the spotlight that suddenly fell on Annja.

She stood, waved and bowed, and felt more than a little embarrassed. She sat back down and glanced at Gaetano. “Does Edmund bring all his dates here?”

Gaetano smiled. “You are the only person Edmund has brought here in all the years that he’s been coming.”

Flattered, Annja turned her attention back to the stage.

“You have all heard of the Great Houdini, and you have heard of the Chinese Water Torture Cell. Or, as the master himself called it, the Upside Down.” Edmund stepped back and swept a hand toward the stage.

The curtains parted and a large glass-and-steel box filled with water was revealed. A beautiful young woman walked out of the shadows. Like Edmund, she wore a swimsuit, except hers was a spectacular yellow bikini designed to draw the attention of every male in the room.

Annja kept her focus riveted on Edmund. The assistant locked his feet into stocks, then operated a mechanical winch to lift Edmund off the stage floor, suspend him in the air and place him headfirst into the water tank.

Despite the fact that she knew the trick was part of a planned show, Annja tensed as she watched Edmund submerge. He put his hands on the glass, steadying himself as he went into the water. His hair floated around his face. She caught herself holding her breath with him and felt foolish.

A moment later, the assistant locked Edmund in. Once the woman stepped back, Edmund started working to free himself. At first, his movements were controlled, smooth and confident. Then, as time passed, he became more frantic. His hands slammed against the glass walls as he jerked and strained to pull free of the stocks.

3

“Something’s wrong.” Annja started to get up. She was already reaching for her sword, thinking that she could break the glass walls and release the water.

Calmly, Gaetano put a hand on her forearm to restrain her. “Relax. This is part of the show.” But he didn’t take his eyes from the stage.

Annja forced herself to sit, but she noticed that several of the other dinner guests were ill at ease, as well. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but she thought at least two minutes had gone by. Perhaps as many as three.

Abruptly, the assistant hurried forward and draped a bloodred curtain over the water tank. Maybe it was supposed to protect the audience from the horrid sight unfolding before them. Then the woman lifted an ax and prepared to strike.

The audience held its collective breath.

The only thing holding Annja in her seat was Gaetano’s firm, unshaking hand on her arm. And that wasn’t going to hold her back for much longer.

The assistant started her swing with the ax just as the curtain rose above the water tank. She dropped the ax and yanked the thick material away to reveal Edmund standing triumphantly on top of the locked water tank.

Annja released a tense breath as enthusiastic applause filled the dining room.

Dripping wet and looking magnificent, Edmund bowed theatrically. Then the stage curtains closed.

Gaetano smiled at Annja. “Now are you glad that I asked you to wait?”

“Yes, but that was nerve-racking.”

“It was meant to be. Magic is meant to confound or astonish. But really good magic, the kind like Houdini practiced, was more in line with a circus performance.”

“How?”

“An aerialist working without a net. A lion tamer sticking his head into a lion’s mouth. A motorcycle daredevil whirling madly inside one of those steel balls. And even someone who allows himself to be shot from a cannon. They all flirt with death. At least, they do to an untrained eye. But the reality is that even the best performers sometimes catch an unlucky break. The audience never truly wishes to see something like that, but the expectation is there that it could happen.”

“I suppose that doesn’t speak highly of us, does it?”

“We’re all human. What is life without spectacle? And risk?”

* * *

“I LOVE DOING MAGIC.” Edmund, dressed again in his tux, sat at the table and walked a euro across his knuckles. The coin flashed in the light. “Ever since I was a boy, I wanted to know how magicians did the things they did. So I worked at it.” He shrugged and smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, magic doesn’t pay much unless you get very good and very lucky.”

“Being good doesn’t always help.” Gaetano poured more wine all around. “Edmund, you are good. What you need is a dedication to your craft and luck.”

“So why didn’t you become a magician? The money?” Annja basked in the glow of the dinner, wine and company.

“I thought I needed a legitimate job. Something to fall back on. In addition to magic, I also loved stories. So I became a professor of literature.”

Gaetano threw his arm around the younger man. “Edmund is being modest, which is no way for any self-respecting magician to be. He attracted the attention of Oxford University and is now one of their shining lights.”

Annja grinned. “So I’ve been told.”

Gaetano shook his head. “Modesty ill becomes a magician. A performer of magic must be unique and daunting and commanding, while being extremely skilled at his craft. Edmund lacks the callous disregard for others that a magician must develop.”

“Appearing on Chasing History’s Monsters should help correct that.”

Gaetano licked his finger and mopped up graham cracker crumbs from the small dessert plate that had once contained an excellent blackberry cheesecake. “And that is precisely why I pressed him to agree to see you. Of course, that might not have happened, anyway, except for that little predilection of his.”

Annja was intrigued. “What predilection?”

“Oh? Usually he’s very prompt about mentioning it and the curse.”

Annja studied Edmund, who looked even more pained. “Now I’m curious.”

“Annja, you must be tired.”

She shook her head. “Not too tired to hear about cursed predilections. And I hate mysteries. If you don’t tell me, I’m going to be wondering all night.”

Edmund grinned. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

* * *

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF phantasmagoria?”

Annja walked beside Edmund as they strolled from Carlini’s Magic Bullet Club. Still feeling a warm glow from the after-dinner wine, she linked her arm through the young professor’s. “It was theater, kind of early film. Phantasmagorists projected images on walls—usually of supernatural creatures—and told stories about them. But that’s the extent of what I know.”

Cars whizzed by on the dark streets. Windows of closed shops caught their reflections as they passed. The wind held a chill and the fog had increased, but the weather was still pleasant enough.

“The images weren’t just shown on walls. They were also projected onto smoke and semitransparent surfaces, which created even more eerie effects. Phantasmagoria began in France in the late 1700s and spread all over Europe during the next hundred years. People do love being frightened.”

“The human culture seems to thrive on ghost stories. They address common fears and offer a backhanded belief in God.”

“If demons and monsters exist, then so must God?”

“Something like that.”

“You learned that in archaeology?”

“Anthropology, actually. All part of the same field.”

“Interesting.”

Annja patted him on the arm. She relished the conversation, and her curiosity about the young professor’s pastime remained unanswered. “This has something to do with your predilection?”

“Everything.”

“Good.”

“Phantasmagorists owed their success to the magic lantern.”

“That was made by the Chinese.”

Edmund grinned. “Not according to the phantasmagorists. They claim that Christian Huygens invented it in the mid-seventeenth century, and that Aimé Argand’s self-named Argand lamp made the device even better. However, I do know that the Chinese were the first to use lamps to project images painted on glass as storytelling devices. Actually, that comes into this story, as well.”

Annja continued walking and listening.

“Once the magic lantern was successfully designed, others were quick to use it. To backtrack a little, Giovanni Fontana, a physician and engineer and self-proclaimed magus, used a candle-powered lantern to project the image of a demon. The idea of the supernatural became a fixture when it came to the magic lantern.”

They paused at the street corner.

“Athanasius Kircher, a German priest, reportedly summoned the devil with his device. Thomas Walgensten called his projector a lantern of fear and used it to ‘summon ghosts.’ A man named Johann Georg Schopfer performed in his Leipzig coffee shop and summoned dead people, images projected on smoke. Later, he went insane—believed he was being stalked by devils and shot himself. He also promised he would raise himself from the dead.”

“I take it that didn’t happen.”

Edmund grinned and shook his head. “No.”

The streetlight changed and they crossed.

“The latter part of the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth century gave rise to the phantasmagorists. They began their craft in Paris, as I mentioned, but the use of magic lanterns spread quickly. At the same time, Romanticism and Gothic literature were growing. The timing for the magic lantern and the phantasmagorists, you might say, was dead-on.”

Annja rolled her eyes at the pun.

Edmund chuckled. “Suffice it to say, I am smitten by the whole splendor of the phantasmagorists and their lucrative entertainment. During the heyday of the shows, many hosted gatherings within the catacombs beneath Paris.” Edmund looked at Annja. “Can you imagine what that was like? There they were, deep under the city, and these phantasmagorists could make them feel as though they were walking through the bowels of hell itself.”

“That doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time.”

“Ever watch horror films when you were young?”

Annja smiled. “I did.”

“We take pleasure in tempting the dark, wondering if it will one day come out of hiding and pounce on us with a predator’s fangs.”

“Not me.” Annja had been there too many times.

“And yet, here you are, Ms. Creed, tracking a man who has savagely beaten and killed three women.”

Some of Annja’s good mood evaporated, though she knew Edmund hadn’t intended for it to. And he was right about her being there in spite of the danger. She was never drawn to the danger, but she was attracted to the mysteries and curiosities. “I’m not afraid of the man who killed those women.”

“I would prefer it if you were.”

“He’s just a man. The police will find him soon enough.”

Edmund nodded. “I hope you’re right. In the meantime, I’ll tell you about the particular magic lantern I have in my possession.”

4

“Anton Dutilleaux was a Parisian phantasmagorist in the late eighteenth century.” Seated at the small table in the tea shop not far from the hotel where Annja was staying, Edmund added milk to his tea and stirred. “Have you heard of him?”

“No.” Annja stuck with coffee and cupped her hands around her cup to absorb the warmth. She took a deep breath, enjoying the sweet baking smells.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Rather, I would be flabbergasted—very much so—if you had heard of him.” Edmund reached into the messenger bag he’d brought with him from Carlini’s. He took out an iPad and placed it on the table. The screen flared to life.

Not many people were in the tea shop at that late hour, and none of them paid attention to Edmund and Annja. They were mostly watching the television in the corner of the room. The low rumble of the news and casual conversation was a comforting undercurrent of background noise.

Edmund touched the handheld device and opened a folder. He sorted through images, then selected one. Immediately, a taciturn man with slitted eyes filled the screen.

“Anton Dutilleaux. This image was used on several handbills that advertised his shows. He toured Paris for three years. I couldn’t find much history on him, no parents and no idea where he lived. I just know that he traveled.” Edmund sipped his tea. “And no one ever knew much about his murder.”

That heightened Annja’s interest. “He was murdered?”

Edmund nodded and grinned. “Intriguing, no?”

“It is.”

“According to a newspaper account of the murder, Dutilleaux was stabbed through the heart by a Chinese ghost in front of several eyewitnesses.” Edmund tapped the iPad screen again and shifted to a new image. “He was pronounced dead at the scene by a doctor in the audience. Do you read French?”

Annja nodded. “Mais, oui.” And she read on.

Phantasmagorist Slain by Celestial Spirit!

On the eve of the twenty-first of June, in the catacombs, M. Anton Dutilleaux, late of Paris and previously from parts unknown, met with an untimely end at the hands of a supernatural murderer. M. Dutilleaux was a phantasmagorist conducting a group comprising this reporter and several others through a dark and winding tunnel under the city at the time of his death.

The reporter described several of the events leading up to the murder. The account meandered, as stories did in those days because the news was meant to be savored and enjoyed and—in this case—puzzled over.

M. Dutilleaux had barely begun what was to be a fascinating presentation, this reporter is convinced of that, when the crafty killer sprang from the darkness. Merciless and without hesitation, the apparition brandished a knife and drove it through M. Dutilleaux’s heart with cold savagery, like a predator pouncing on much weaker prey. The stricken man had no opportunity to defend himself or call upon his Maker before he lay stretched out dead before us.

A few paragraphs of the reactions of the crowd, the panic that had ensued and the desperate attempts to revive Dutilleaux followed.

As of this morning when I write this piece for you, Dear Reader, the Parisian police have yet to decide who killed M. Dutilleaux. There are some who believe that the phantasmagorist was the victim of a Celestial spell that followed him from the Far East during his travels. Many readers this reporter knows believe in those curses. All I can tell you is that whatever killed the poor man was not human. I stared into that White Face of Death and knew fear the like of which I have never before known.

My only prayer is that the thing that killed M. Dutilleaux has completed its mission. Otherwise, that thing may yet haunt the catacombs. At present, the tunnel has been boarded up and placed under guard by the police until such time as they deem it safe.

Annja looked up at Edmund. “I assume you followed up on this story?”

The young professor nodded. “Of course. I’ve checked for months and years following. And I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. No one ever mentioned Anton Dutilleaux again. Only a few magicians remember him. I wouldn’t have known him at all if I hadn’t discovered some of his handbills in a collection I purchased a year ago.”

“Two hundred years is a long time.”

“It is. But history has a way of making itself known, don’t you agree?” Edmund sipped his tea.

“Tell me about this lantern you found.”

Slipping his hands around his teacup, Edmund leaned conspiratorially across the table toward her. “Only a few weeks ago, I was at an estate sale.”

“Looking for the lantern?”

“No. Merely poking about. A lot of magicians have made their home—temporary and permanently—here in London. During my days off, I research those people. Occasionally I stumble across stage props or costumes while dissembling through estate sales.”

“Treasure hunting?”

Edmund smiled in pleasure. “When history is not valuable or fashionable, it is garbage and people toss it out. Or they sell it to speculators for pennies on the pound. I have assembled quite the collection of mementos and collectibles. Trust me when I say I have made several acquisitions that other fans of magic envy, and that no one else would want.” He shot her a rueful look.

Annja didn’t doubt him for a moment. Passion showed in Edmund’s dark eyes and she knew he wouldn’t easily turn away from something he wanted.

“Have you heard of Étienne-Gaspard Robert?”

Annja thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Another phantasmagorist?”

“Yes, but he was also an inventor and physicist from Liège, Belgium. His stage name was Étienne Robertson.” Edmund waited expectantly.

Annja shook her head again.

“Robertson, by either name, was one of the most important phantasmagorists who ever lived. I have copies of some of the lenses with which he used to conduct his magic-lantern shows. I can’t afford the real lenses, not on a university professor’s salary. Fascinating stuff. Especially for the time.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Do. Anyway, Robertson was there the night Dutilleaux was murdered by the Chinese ghost.”

“Coincidence?”

“No. Robertson was there to take umbrage with Dutilleaux. Robertson felt certain Dutilleaux was copying aspects of his own magic-lantern show. Which I’m sure he was. But at that time, many people were copying Robertson.”

“Was Robertson a suspect in the murder?”

“Of course.” Edmund grinned, warming to the subject. “Robertson and Dutilleaux were rivals for a long time. But the murder occurred in 1793, four years before Robertson revealed his pièce de résistance at the Pavillon de l’Echiquier. That was when Robertson left his competitors in the dust, to use a colloquialism. During that time, Robertson perfected the magic-lantern craft by putting the projectors on wheels to create moving images as well as make the images larger and smaller simply by moving the projectors.”

Annja sipped her coffee.

“The police never found any evidence against Robertson?”

“No. But Dutilleaux’s magic lantern went missing that night. I believe that Robertson, or one of his assistants, liberated that projector while the gendarmes were en route. Or perhaps it was merely a spectator looking for a trophy. Or simply theft.”

“And the lantern was taken even though it was cursed.”

“Dutilleaux claimed that he could open a doorway into another world. Maybe they didn’t think the projector was cursed so much as it was truly a miracle.” Edmund smiled. “You have to remember—magicians, the really good ones, want magic to be real. Perhaps whoever took it believed the magic lantern possessed supernatural powers. Fast-forward two hundred years.”

Annja finished the last of her coffee.

“I was tracking down Robertson’s apprentices. There were dozens of them, by the way. In 1799, Robertson’s phantasmagoria show had created such a stir that the courts ordered him to reveal his secrets to the public. Once he did that, there were many imitators. Some of them carried phantasmagoria back to the United States. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“In May 1803, the first of the magic-lantern shows was presented at Mount Vernon Garden, New York, and the entertainment caught on readily enough.” Edmund looked into his cup.

For the briefest moment, Annja felt uncomfortable, like someone was watching her. She glanced around the teahouse, but no one seemed especially interested. It was too dark to see much out the window. She returned her attention to Edmund.

“The point is, I tracked down some belongings of one of Robertson’s assistants at auction those few weeks ago.” Excitement gleamed in Edmund’s eyes. “I think someone else was searching, as well, because after I bought the lot—for a song, practically—the auctioneer informed me there was an interested party asking about the lantern I’d bought. They told me I could more than double my money if I wished to sell it. Of course I refused. What I gave for the lantern was a pittance, and it was purely for my own amusement. Even doubling my money wouldn’t leave me a rich man.”

“So you now own Anton Dutilleaux’s cursed magic lantern?”

Edmund nodded happily. “I truly believe I do.” He hesitated. “What I’d like to ask, and I wouldn’t want to impose in any way, is if you could look this magic lantern over and see if there’s a possibility of authenticating it.”

“Confirming that it was owned by Anton Dutilleaux would be extremely difficult if the man is as hard to trace as you say he is.”

“He is, and I wouldn’t ask you to do that. If possible, I’d like to confirm the approximate age of the lantern.”

“I would love to.”

“Good.” Edmund checked the time on the iPad. “We’ll have to save that for another day, though. I have a literature class bloody early in the morning, and none of my students is especially keen on Beowulf. I don’t want to go dragging in looking like one of the underclassmen. But I had an absolutely brilliant time, Annja.”

“Me, too.”

* * *

EDMUND INSISTED ON WALKING Annja back to her hotel, then he flagged down a taxi and left, promising to see her the following afternoon so they could start working on the Robert Louis Stevenson piece.

Up in her room, still slightly muddled from the rich food and the wine but not quite drowsy enough to sleep, Annja exchanged the black dress for a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. The room was just cold enough to make the flannel welcome.

She booted up her notebook computer and logged on to the internet. She checked Google for Anton Dutilleaux but didn’t get any hits on the name that had anything to do with magic lanterns or phantasmagoria.

Frustrated, but not surprised, Annja backtracked and bookmarked sites that dealt with phantasmagoria, magic lanterns and Étienne Robertson. At least that way she could meet Edmund Beswick on a more equal footing when they were together again.

Her sat-phone chirped for attention before her head hit the pillows. Caller ID showed it was Bart McGilley.

Bart was a longtime friend, a detective on the New York City Police Department and a guy who had ended up being a big part of her life—on and off. There was a definite attraction between them, and they’d been the “plus ones” for each other several times as well as going out on legitimate dates. However, the only permanent thing they had between them so far was friendship.

The caller ID picture showed Bart in his shirt and tie, which was how Annja usually saw him. He wore his dark hair cut short and was square jawed, the kind of guy women would want to have children with.

“Hey, Bart.”

“Hey. Not calling too late, am I? Wherever you are.” He sounded distant and a trifle off his game.

“London. Only a five-hour time difference.”

“It’s midnight there.”

Annja looked at the time on the computer. “Yes. But I’m not asleep. Still working on New York time at the moment.”

“Morning’s going to come early.”

“Morning is six hours away no matter how you look at it. I go to sleep and I’m awake six hours later. I don’t have to be up till eight. I’ve still got a couple hours.” Annja waited. Bart McGilley wasn’t one to call frivolously.

Bart hesitated. “Maybe I should call at another time.”

“You’ve got me now.”

“Yeah.”

Annja waited.

“We caught a bad one tonight. I don’t really want to get into it. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”

“Sure.”

“So what are you doing in London?”

Obviously the Mr. Hyde story wasn’t going to fly. That would have reminded Bart of his own problems as well as put him into worry mode. Instead, Annja talked about phantasmagorists, magic lanterns and what little she knew of Étienne Robertson.

Mostly, Bart listened. She’d seen him like this before and knew that he appreciated her talking about something, anything, while he sorted himself out. Chances were, she’d never know what he’d gotten into unless she went back and researched the news. Usually, she chose not to do that.

Finally, Bart thanked her and said he had to go. “You should be careful while you’re over there. There’s some creep in the city calling himself Mr. Hyde who’s killing women. I was watching CNN while you were talking.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.”

“Well, be careful. According to the news release, he just killed his fourth victim tonight.”

5

The streets were packed near the East End alley where the fourth Mr. Hyde murder had taken place. Annja instructed the cabdriver to get as close as he could, then paid him and walked the rest of the way.

She didn’t like being at a crime scene. Several of the digs she’d been on had been crime scenes, as well. But there wasn’t the immediacy of present-day death.

A logjam of onlookers, police and emergency teams filled the narrow street. Flashes went off from cell phones and pocket cameras. A cold breeze, shot through with patchy fog, blew in from the Thames. The blue lights of the police cars whipped across the apartment buildings and stirred the shadows.

Despite the number of people, Annja got close enough to see a middle-age woman sprawled half on the curb and half in the street between parked cars. Blood darkened the sides of the cars. Bloody handprints streaked the back windshield of one.

“She fought him.” A woman in her late forties or early fifties stood in front of Annja in a faded house robe with a grape Popsicle in one hand, talking to an older man. “’Course, didn’t do her no good. Poor thing couldn’t get away from that madman.”

Annja nudged closer. “Excuse me.”

The woman looked back at her.

“Did you see what happened?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re American?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. I recognize the accent. And yes, I did see what happened. I called in the bobbies. My name is Jane. Jane Morris.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Morris.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“Something like that.”

Jane regarded her suspiciously. “I don’t see no notepad.”

“I’ve got a very good memory.”

“No camera, neither.”

Annja nodded toward the policemen as they started out into the bystanders. “Anyone who’s taken a picture is likely to have their phone or camera removed as part of an effort to collect evidence.”

The woman watched as the police officers gathered the cell phones and cameras. Of course, the law enforcement officers didn’t get them all because the crowd started dispersing. The ones who had their grisly souvenirs were intent on keeping them. They’d pop up on Facebook, blogs and Twitter within minutes if they hadn’t already.

“This is my first murder,” Jane said in a low, confiding voice.

“Could you tell me what you saw?”

The woman pointed the Popsicle at the murder victim. “I saw that poor thing fighting with a proper big bloke. He was huge. Like some kind of gorilla. Shoulders out to here.” She placed her hands about three feet apart and the Popsicle dripped on the neck of the man ahead of her.

The man cursed and shot her a nasty look. He took a step away.

“Sorry, love.” Jane licked the Popsicle momentarily dry. “She hardly had time to cry help. I was standing up there.” She pointed at a balcony on the third floor of the nearby building. “I called the police immediately.” She shook her head sadly. “But I knew it was too late.”

“The man got away?”

“Of course he did. A man who can stomp in a woman’s head like he’s stepping on a peanut? No one around him is going to stop him. We don’t carry guns like you Yanks.”

“Do you know who the woman was?”

Jane shook her head. “Looked like she was a waitress, from the way she was dressed.”

Feeling ghoulish, Annja surreptitiously took out her sat-phone and brought up her Twitter account. Keeping the phone hidden from the police, she scrolled through the news and didn’t have to go far before she found the first tweets about the dead woman.

Audrey McClintok. A twenty-seven-year-old waitress at a diner.

Annja put her phone back in the pocket of her Windbreaker. So far, none of the victims had anything in common except for being women. The ability of the man to kill and disappear was chilling.

“Well, now here’s something.” Jane sucked on her Popsicle.

Two uniformed policemen pushed through the crowd, backing people off and heading straight for them. Probably wanted to talk to Jane, since she’d reported the murder, Annja thought.

They stopped in front of Annja. The oldest of the two was grizzled, and his bleak eyes indicated he’d seen too much over the years. “Ms. Creed.”

She nodded.

“DCI Westcox would like a word with you, miss.”

“Now?” The last thing Annja wanted to do was get involved in the murder investigation.

“Yes, miss. Now.”

The two policemen had flanked her and she got the distinct impression turning down the detective chief inspector’s invitation wasn’t an option.

“This way, miss.” The older policeman waved her forward and the crowd parted once again.

Along the way, bright flashes from cell phones and cameras temporarily blinded Annja.

* * *

“DIDN’T TAKE YOU FOR A looky-loo, Ms. Creed.” DCI Alfred Westcox was a tough, no-nonsense cop. Probably ten pounds underweight, he looked as if the excess had been hammered off him. He wore a trench coat and hat, and the tie clipped to his chest lifted as the wind gusted. His cottony white hair matched his eyebrows and mustache. He wore thick glasses over his watery blue eyes.

“I’m not.” Annja respected how the chief inspector ran his business, but she wasn’t happy with the way she’d inadvertently ended up on the wrong side of him.

Westcox didn’t like her any more than he did any of the other media people gathered around for the story. In fact, she didn’t know why he’d singled her out. There were plenty of others on hand.

“Yet here you are, Ms. Creed. In the middle of my murder investigation.”

“I came out to see if I could help.”

“Really?” Westcox cocked a dismissive eyebrow. “You? I don’t know why that idea never crossed my mind.”

“Your time would be better served solving Audrey McClintok’s murder, than coming down hard on me.”

Westcox took a deep breath and his nostrils flared. “Who gave you that name?” He glared at the two policemen who had fetched her.

“Not me, sir.” The grizzled man stood his ground.

The younger man took a step back. “Nor me.”

“Brought her here straightaway. Just as you said.”

Annja didn’t like the two men taking heat for something that wasn’t their fault. “It wasn’t either of them. I got the woman’s name off Twitter.”

Westcox turned his glare on her.

“Someone tweeted about the murder. Probably someone in the neighborhood who recognized her.”

“Or it was the killer.” He raised his voice to call, “Peters!”

A younger detective in a Windbreaker turned toward his superior.

“Get your mobile and give the lab a ring. Put one of the computer lads on to the Twitter accounts. Find out who put up posts regarding this unfortunate girl. I want their names, addresses and a chat with them.”

“Yes, sir.” Peters turned away and pulled out his cell phone.

Another uniformed policeman trotted up to Westcox. “The coroner is here, sir.”

At the end of the street, Annja saw a new vehicle with flashing lights.

“Get him over here so we can shut this circus down.”

“Yes, sir.” The policeman turned and fled.

“Now you, Ms. Creed.”

“I don’t know why you’re taking such issue with me.” Annja met the man’s gaze full measure.

“I was told this absolutely amazing story about a botched robbery last night. Apparently a few young Asian gang members held up a restaurant not far from here.”

Annja kept her face devoid of emotion.

“The restaurateur and his lucky daughter—and even the gang members—all tell the same fabulous story of a red-haired American woman with a sword who interfered with the robbery.”

“Okay.”

“Would you happen to know anything about that?”

Annja didn’t like lying, but in this case the truth wasn’t something she was prepared to tell. “No.”

“Why would the woman with the sword run off like that?”

“Perhaps she heard how appreciative you were of anyone trying to help with your investigation.”

The grizzled officer laughed, then quickly covered it with a coughing fit. “Sorry, sir. It’s this bloody fog.”

Westcox glared at him, but the man stood with his eyes averted.

“You’re not here to help me with my investigation, Ms. Creed.” Westcox returned his attention to Annja. “If you interfere, or turn vigilante with a sword, I’m going to lock you up.”

“All right.”

That answer seemed to take Westcox by surprise. He stood there for a moment. “I don’t much care for your nose in my case. Your particular television show seems dedicated to prattling on to the feebleminded about ghosts and ghoulies.”

The accusation touched a nerve. Annja liked what she did for Chasing History’s Monsters and was tired of defending her work.

Before she could speak, Peters turned back to him.

“Chief Inspector.”

“What?”

“I’ve accessed the Twitter feed regarding the murder.” Peters pointed at Annja. “They also appear to be aware that Ms. Creed is with you.” He held out his cell phone for Westcox to see.

Annja saw it, as well. Someone had snapped a picture of her talking to the detective chief inspector.

“Whoever took this is assuming you called Ms. Creed in for a consultation regarding the Mr. Hyde murders.”

Westcox looked apoplectic. “No one has even said this is a Hyde killing.”

“Actually, someone has. Mr. Hyde himself has tweeted in and claimed credit.”

Annja responded immediately. “Trace the tweet.”

“Computer forensics is already on it.”

“This is a break,” Annja said to Westcox. “Hyde has never tweeted before.”

“And he may not have…have tweeted now. Someone else may have done that. We can’t jump to conclusions.” Westcox shoved his hands into his trench coat.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Inspector.” Despite her respect for the man’s job, Annja had had enough. She wasn’t the only person interested in the Mr. Hyde story. The number of people taking note of the murders was growing every day. He had no right to lean on her while she was simply trying to do her job. “Are we done here?”

Westcox hesitated. Finally he gave a brief nod. “We are. But watch your step, Ms. Creed.”

“I always do, Inspector.” Annja walked away as the haggard-looking coroner hunkered down beside the woman’s corpse. She headed into the crowd without looking back. She’d seen more than she’d wanted to.

“Annja! Annja!” A young female reporter with blond highlights held out a microphone while a camcorder operator trained his sights on Annja. She raised a hand to block the sudden bright light.

“Ms. Creed, what kind of help do you expect to give Detective Chief Inspector Westcox regarding the Mr. Hyde killings?” That came from another journalist, one with an Irish accent.

Annja ignored them and headed for the other end of the street. A few of them followed her, but gave up when she hit the cross street.

Her phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Doug Morrell. She didn’t want to take the call, but she knew if she didn’t Doug would just keep calling back.

Just as she started to answer, a dark Jaguar S-Type glided to a stop at the curb. Both passenger doors opened and two men holding pistols got out.

“Ms. Creed. Get in the car, please.”

6

For a moment, Annja hesitated.

“If you attempt to flee, I will shoot you in the legs and pull you into the car.” The speaker was a man of medium height and Asian ancestry. He held the pistol with a steady hand.

“You’ll shoot me with the police just up the street?” Annja asked calmly.

“And I’ll get away with it. They are compromised in this area. Before they can mobilize and get here, we’ll be gone.” He waved the pistol. “Now get in before I have you put in. We won’t be gentle.”

She’d escaped many traps in the past. Sometimes it was better to step into them and work on the fly. A moving trap couldn’t stop and think, or reset itself. At least, not most of the time.

She folded herself into the backseat of the car. Another man, also Asian, sat in the front passenger seat. He held a pistol in his lap. Once she was seated, the two men who had gotten out got back in. She was sandwiched between them.

At a word from the driver, the car pulled into traffic as smoothly as wax running down a candle.

Annja sat quietly between the two men on either side of her. “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

The man in the front passenger seat turned to face her. “It’s simple. We want the magic lantern Edmund Beswick purchased from the antiquities auction.”

The answer surprised Annja. “I don’t know where it is.”

The man’s expression remained flat and unreadable. “That’s too bad. My employer will not believe you. It would be better if you knew where the lantern was.”

“Why would anyone think I knew where it was?”

“Because Edmund Beswick has shown you the lantern.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“Then he planned to. My employer knows this.”

“Planned to. Didn’t.” Despite her anger, Annja was worried about Edmund. Why hadn’t the men gone to his flat first?

“My employer will believe you’re lying.”

“Why would I lie?”

“I only asked you so that we could stop and pick up the lantern before I take you to him.” He shrugged. “It’s too bad you don’t know. He is a very determined man. Many people fear him, and with good reason.” He turned back around and watched traffic, then gave directions to the driver in Chinese.

Annja couldn’t understand what was said, but she guessed it wasn’t good. She shifted in the backseat. “How did you find me?”

One of the men sitting beside Annja showed her his cell phone. The picture of her talking with Detective Chief Inspector Westcox. He grinned. “We have been watching you. We only just missed you in the hotel.”

The commander flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror and spoke harshly.

A scowl darkened the face of the man beside Annja. He put his cell phone away.

Even in the shadows of the car, Annja saw the tattoos ringing the guy’s neck. As with the Japanese Yakuza and the Russian Mafiya, in the Chinese Triad, tattoo designs were badges of office and warnings to everyone else.

How had Edmund’s magic lantern drawn the attention of the Triad?

Since she didn’t know where the magic lantern was, she had to escape.

Her captors wouldn’t hesitate to harm her. The only edge she had was that they hadn’t been given permission to kill her.

She hoped.

At a traffic light, the car came to a stop. The man in the passenger seat turned up the radio. Techno-pop filled the Jaguar.

Focusing on what she was going to do, she breathed deeply enough to charge her lungs without drawing the attention of the men beside her. Then she threw a backfist toward the man on her right. As she expected, he was prepared for the attack and caught her arm. However, he wasn’t prepared for her to shift and slam her forehead into his face as an immediate follow-up. She repeated the move and heard the man’s nose crunch under her assault.

He cried out once, then lapsed into unconsciousness.

As the other man tried to bring his pistol into play, Annja fell into the lap of the unconscious man, lifted her left leg and thrust her foot into her second attacker’s face.

The kick slammed the man against the window and shattered the glass. His pistol fell to the floor. Annja kept her foot pressed against his jaw to hold him in place. He struggled weakly, obviously dazed from the impact.

The man in the front passenger seat swung quickly and threw his gun arm across the seat. Annja didn’t wait to see if he was going to threaten her before he opened fire. She reached up and seized his wrist, then yanked down hard and snapped his elbow.

The man screamed hoarsely and dropped the pistol.

Committed now, aware that her life was possibly measured in heartbeats, Annja opened the passenger door, pushed off the guy she had trapped against the broken window and rolled onto the street. She got to her feet at once, cognizant that the conscious men inside the car were clawing for their weapons. Even the man with the broken arm was determined to get his pistol, or maybe he had another.

Annja vaulted to the back of the car and headed for the roof. Bullets ripped through the back windshield, blowing out chunks of glass, and punched calderas in the car’s roof. She never broke stride as she ran across the hood of the car and leaped onto the next stopped vehicle.

Jumping, vaulting and changing directions like a fleet-footed deer, Annja crossed the stalled traffic and reached the sidewalk just as the light turned green. She kept running as car horns, shouts and pistol shots made a huge cacophony behind her.

At the corner of the nearest building, she risked a quick glance back. Bullets tore into the bricks and threw dust in her face. She ducked out of sight, then dared another look. Two of the men had started after her, but their hearts weren’t in it and they’d retreated to their vehicle. Annja resumed running.

* * *

SEVERAL BLOCKS LATER, ANNJA slowed to a walk. Thankfully London stayed busy nearly twenty-four hours. She called Edmund Beswick’s cell several times but didn’t get an answer.

She also debated calling the Metro police, but decided against that until she knew more of what was going on. Detective Chief Inspector Westcox was going to have a lot of questions, and she didn’t have any answers.

Doug Morrell called again and this time she picked up.

“Hey,” he whispered irritably.

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“Me? I was calling you.”

Annja would’ve smiled at that, but she was too worried about Edmund Beswick. “Still need the favor, Doug.”

“Fine. What did you find out from the police?”

“What?” For a moment Annja was thrown for a loop.

“I saw the pictures on Twitter. You and Detective Scarecrow.”

Annja couldn’t believe it. Then she checked herself. Doug Morrell lived for Facebook and Twitter. It only made sense that he’d be trailing any mentions of her or Chasing History’s Monsters. “His name’s Westcox.”

“Whatever. Man looks like an advance warning for a famine.”

“He’s not that thin.”

“Your perspective is skewed because you’re always looking at mummies and skeletons. Skinny living guys must look obese to you.”

Annja shook her head. “Let’s talk about the favor.”

“Let’s talk about Detective Scarecrow.”

“Westcox. Get his name right. The lawyer will need to know it.”

“Lawyer?” Doug’s tone changed immediately from irritated to anxious. “Did you do something?”

“No, but the chief inspector is threatening to deport me if I don’t stay out of his investigation.”

“He can’t do that, can he?”

Annja loved putting Doug on the spot. “Not if I have a lawyer. A good one.”

“We do have a good one.”

Curiosity got the best of Annja. “Why are you whispering, Doug?”

“We’re having a council meeting.”

“Who?” Then it clicked. Doug Morrell belonged to a group of would-be vampires. That was one of his hobbies and one of the interests that endeared him to the production company that underwrote Chasing History’s Monsters. “Right. You’re with the Bat Boy Legion.”

Doug refused to take the bait and stayed focused. “Did you find out anything more about Mr. Hyde?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s nothing to tell.”

“Mr. Hyde just took his fourth victim.”

“I know. I was there.” Annja looked up and down the street for a cab. If the men who had kidnapped her hadn’t doubled back around and found her by now, she felt fairly sure they wouldn’t.

“Oh, yeah, the Twitter feed. And there are a couple YouTube videos up now.”

Annja groaned.

“In fact, I think maybe Chasing History’s Monsters—” Doug’s voice grew louder “—is the only program not getting video of your meeting with Scotland Yard.”

“Shhh, you’ll wake the baby vampires.”

“I’m just saying…”

“Westcox isn’t with Scotland Yard. He’s with Metro. And he called me over when he saw me at the crime scene to warn me away. Actually, warning is too soft. It was definitely a threat.”

“Well, we’re not going to put up with that crap. He’s not going to threaten us and get away with it. We’re going to follow the Mr. Hyde story no matter where it goes.”

“You do realize that I’m the only person in danger of going to jail, don’t you?”

“There’s Igor.”

“He’s missing in action tonight.”

“What? He should be there with you.”

Annja silently disagreed. The last thing she needed was Igor going all macho. “I need the favor.”

“What favor?”

“I filled out paperwork on Edmund Beswick.”

“Professor Beeswax.”

“I need his home address.”

Doug chuckled. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t get that from Professor Beeswax. I mean, c’mon, Annja. A professor of reading? That should have been a slam dunk.”

“He’s a professor of literature. Are you sure you went to college?”

“Business degree with a minor in video productions. Got the diploma on my office wall.”

“I haven’t seen it for all the action figures and comic books.”

“Hey! Graphic novels.”

“I need Beswick’s address from the file.”

“Do I look like a walking computer?”

“You don’t go far without your computer. Just look up the information for me so you can go back and play with the other vampires.”

“We don’t play.” Sullenly, Doug put her on hold.

After a couple minutes, during which the light changed and Annja crossed the street, Doug was back on the line with the requested information.

“And keep me up to date. We’re paying for your little trip over there and we don’t want to have to put this program together from YouTube videos. Make sure Detective Scarecrow keeps you in the loop.”

“I’ll get right on that.” Annja broke the connection, tried Edmund’s number one more time, got no answer and flagged a passing taxi.

7

A few tense minutes later, Annja got out of the cab in front of Edmund’s apartment building in Chelsea. She paid the driver and walked up to the security door. Frustrated, she rang Edmund again, but he still didn’t answer.

She knew it was possible the professor was asleep and had turned his phone off. However, she couldn’t get the Triad members—if that’s who they were—out of her mind. She didn’t doubt they’d go after Edmund.

She retreated to the back of the building. Studying the old metal fire escape, she leaped up, caught hold of the bottom rung on the ladder leading up to it and was pleasantly surprised when the ladder rolled down more quietly than she would have figured.

For a moment, she lingered in the shadows, watching the windows of the back apartments to see if any lights came on or if anyone looked out to check on the sound. Then, when nothing happened, she went up the ladder. There was still the chance that someone could have called the police, but she was willing to take the risk.

On the third-floor landing, she stayed low, duckwalking under two windows to reach Edmund’s flat. The window was locked. The room was dark. When she peered inside, she couldn’t see anything.

She liked Edmund. She wanted to know he was all right. But if she got caught breaking into his flat—either by Edmund or by the police—the situation was going to be really embarrassing.

She could finesse Edmund. He’d wanted to show her the magic lantern, and her news that someone was searching for it, even to the point of shooting at her, would gloss over the forced entry.

The police would be a different matter.

Taking out the Leatherman multitool she’d purchased after arriving in London, because she hated to travel without some sort of tools, she opened the longest blade. Working carefully, she ran the blade around the glass and removed the plastic liner that held the window together.

When she finished, she set the liner aside, then used the knife blade to leverage the glass free. The pane popped out easily and she set it aside, as well. She folded the knife and put it away. Then she stepped into the flat.

Inside the room, after negotiating a small sofa, Annja moved to one side and waited for her vision to acclimate to the darkness. She also listened intently. Someone in another flat was watching television, a program with an obnoxious laugh track. In another flat, farther down, people were in the midst of an argument. And there was a crying baby somewhere in there.

Annja wished she had her backpack, where she kept her Mini Maglite. Abruptly, she realized her possessions might not be safe in the hotel. Her mysterious abductors had mentioned that they’d missed her there, but she didn’t know if that meant they’d broken in or merely seen her leave.

Eyes adjusted, Annja looked around the small studio flat. It was basically a tiny office under a miniloft that held a modest bed. Two separate areas for Edmund to work and sleep.

Clutter covered the floor. Most of the mess was books and papers, but Annja knew Edmund wouldn’t have left them like that. He was responsible for the corkboards on the walls and the books piled on the small dining table, but not for the haphazard way everything had been thrown.

The door was ajar and light from the outside hallway leaked in. Someone had broken in.

Remaining calm, Annja closed the drapes over the windows and crossed the room by memory to find the lamp mounted on the wall. She switched it on with a curled knuckle and soft yellow light filled the studio.

She closed the door, then picked up three of the biggest books she could find. She used her sleeves to cover her hands so she wouldn’t leave fingerprints behind in case any crime scene techs got overly industrious.

Moving quickly, she stacked the books against the bottom of the broken door. They wouldn’t keep anyone out, but they would serve as an early warning system if anyone tried to enter.

The small desk had once held a notebook computer. A network cable lay abandoned on the desk. She checked through the drawers, but it was obvious they had been searched. Judging from the clutter in front of the desk, the searchers had simply emptied the drawers onto the floor.

There were no thumb drives, no CDs or DVDs, nothing that could have been used to store files. A business card file folder lay abandoned upside down. Evidently the searchers had been instructed to find anything high-tech.

Again using her sleeves, Annja picked up the folder and flipped through it. Most of it was contact information for various agencies, libraries, library staff, other Oxford professors, plumbers and electricians. She guessed that Edmund didn’t entirely trust his computer to remember everything for him. She didn’t blame him. She didn’t, either. That was one of the reasons she maintained her journals as well as her private blog.

One of the cards caught her attention.

Gaetano Carlini stood out in a heavily embossed but simple font against the grayed image of a rabbit peering over the edge of a top hat. The number on the front of the card was to the club. With difficulty, Annja extracted the card from the plastic holder using her sleeved fingers.

When she flipped the card over, she found another telephone number. Feeling a little better, she tucked the card into the back pocket of her jeans, then continued her search.

Twenty minutes later, Annja was satisfied she’d combed the entire flat. Edmund Beswick lived the cramped life of a confirmed scholar with too much to do and too little space to do it in.

Although Edmund had spoken proudly of the collection of magical props he’d assembled, only a handful of small things occupied the built-in bookshelves in the office area. Decks of playing cards, coins, scarves, cups and balls, and even a gibecière, the large pouch street magicians used to hold props while putting on shows, shared space with the books on magic.

That meant Edmund kept his collection somewhere else.

Annja returned to the card file and flipped through the thick plastic pages till she found three business cards for storage units. Two of the storage businesses were in Chelsea and one was in Mayfair.

She’d been relieved to discover there was no blood in the apartment. If the men had gotten to Edmund, they’d taken him easily enough. She didn’t know if he would tell them about his storage unit. Then she realized almost in the same thought that he would. He would be fearful for his life, for good reason, and wouldn’t hold back when asked.

But what would the Triad do with Edmund when it recovered the magic lantern?

Antsy, ready to move, Annja retreated to the window and climbed out. She took a moment to replace the glass pane in the window so others—less altruistic—wouldn’t be tempted by an easy mark. Then she clambered back down the fire escape.

* * *

ANNJA BOUGHT A CUP OF COFFEE at a pub around the corner, fended off a couple halfhearted attempts at picking her up and retreated to the back area and the phone. She was happy to find one there because public phones were a dying business now that everyone had cell phones. Still, cell phones were known to go dead at inopportune moments.

She switched off her sat-phone because it had a GPS chip in it that would allow police to track her if they wanted to. After she finished speaking with DCI Westcox, she was pretty sure the man would want to find her.

She dialed Westcox’s office and was greeted by a polite male voice. She identified herself and asked to speak with Westcox.

“I’m afraid DCI Westcox is unavailable at the moment, Ms. Creed.”

“I know. He’s working the fourth Mr. Hyde murder.”

The assistant didn’t respond to that.

“I just left him less than an hour ago.”

“I understand that, Ms. Creed, but DCI Westcox asked not to be disturbed—”

“A man has been kidnapped and it might have something to do with Mr. Hyde. Do you think that will interest DCI Westcox?”

“Wait a tick, Ms. Creed.”

Annja sipped her coffee and waited anxiously. She didn’t know if Edmund’s disappearance was connected with the Mr. Hyde murders or not, but it was a way of getting Westcox’s attention. She didn’t have to wait long.

“Ms. Creed, where are you?”

Annja ignored that, but she felt certain that the chief inspector already knew. The landline would show up immediately. If he really wanted to see her, a patrol unit would already be en route.

“Professor Edmund Beswick has been kidnapped.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t have a lot of time to get into this.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to find him. I think it would be better if you were looking, too.”

“Come into my office. We’ll talk.”

“Haven’t you already sent someone to pick me up?”

Westcox didn’t bother to deny the charge.

“I don’t know what Professor Beswick is involved in—”

“The Mr. Hyde murders?”

“I doubt it. Saying that was the only way I had of getting your attention.”

“That also constitutes interfering in a police investigation. I’ll have you up on charges.”

“Fine. If that’s what it takes to get you looking for Professor Beswick, do it. In the meantime, he needs to be found. His life is in danger.”

“What makes you so certain of that?”

Annja peeked down the hallway to assure herself the police had not yet arrived. “Because the men looking for him also kidnapped me.”

“Really?” Westcox’s tone indicated he wasn’t happy, and he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Yes. Right from under your nose. Now that I think about it, maybe calling you is a waste of time.”

“Ms. Creed, you’re not doing much to endear yourself to this office.”

“You’re not very endearing, either, Inspector. I need you to help me find my friend.”

“I was given a report only a short time ago. Something about a shooting involving an automobile loaded with possible Asian gangsters and a young red-haired woman spotted fleeing the scene. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

“Have those men been taken into custody?”

“Not as yet. We’re searching for them. Nor do I intend to discuss this over the phone with you, Ms. Creed. We’ll talk in my office.”

“Thanks for the invitation, Inspector, but I’m going to decline for the moment.”

Westcox’s voice was hard as he replied, “That course of action wouldn’t be prudent.”

“With all due respect, you weren’t in the back of that car when the guns came out. I like my chances on my own at the moment. Find my friend. Then I’ll be happy to speak with you.” Annja hung up.

She regretted not having gotten her backpack from her hotel room, but it was possible that Westcox already had men there. Or that the Triad had set up camp there.

Or both, which would have been interesting.

She started for the front of the pub, noticed the police car pulling to a stop out on the street in front of the building and headed for the back door. She was in the wind before the police arrived.

8

A few blocks from the pub, Annja stopped at a bodega and used the pay phone. She called the number she’d found for Gaetano Carlini’s home and listened to it ring twice before it was picked up.

“Hello?” Gaetano sounded half-asleep.

“It’s Annja Creed. I’m sorry to be calling so late.” Annja glanced at the clock on the wall behind the counter. The young Indian male working the counter watched her, though whether he just liked looking or was suspicious she couldn’t say.

“Ah, Annja.” She heard fumbling noises over the line. “It’s very late, isn’t it?”

“Or very early, depending on your point of view.”

Gaetano chuckled. “Yes, it is. Are you all right?”

“I am, but I’m afraid something’s happened to Edmund. He’s not with you, is he?”

“No. Why would he be with me?”

“I was just hoping he was there because he’s not at home.” Annja quickly brought Gaetano up to date on her attempted kidnapping and Edmund’s probable abduction.

“Oh, dear. You’ve gone to the police?”

That required a further explanation.

“I see.” Gaetano sounded thoughtful and more awake. “I could, as Edmund’s friend, insist that something be done to find him. You said this inspector’s name is Westcox?”

“Yes. But I was hoping you might be able to help out a little more.”

“How so?”

“What do you know about the magic lantern Edmund bought from the auction house?”

“Only what he’s told me, but I can find out more. I have a number of contacts throughout the city. I’ll try to uncover what I can.”

“That would be awesome.”

“What about you? Are you safe?”

“I think so.”

“But you can’t go back to your hotel, can you?”

“Not without a forced audience with DCI Westcox. And he might be successful in putting me on the first plane out of London.”

“Well, we won’t let things go that far. However, it’s plain that you can’t do anything else until we know more, and you require safe habitation while we look. Would you feel comfortable coming here? There’s an extra room in my quarters, and I don’t mind putting you up.”

Annja almost sighed in relief. Being on the run in London, which she was partially familiar with as a tourist but definitely not as a fugitive, sounded horrible. Her chances of getting caught by the police grew exponentially the longer she stayed on the streets. The trip to London wasn’t turning out the way she’d expected it to.

“You don’t mind?”

Gaetano laughed. “One of my neighbors is an old spinster who is convinced that—because of the magic—I am in league with the devil. I can’t wait for her to catch a glimpse of you arriving at all hours.”

Annja didn’t much feel like laughing.

“Meet me here at the shop. I’ll put on some of that terrible coffee that you Americans treasure so much. And try not to fret about Edmund. He’s a resourceful lad and a skilled escapologist. I’m sure he’s handling himself just fine.”

Even though she wanted to believe that, Annja didn’t hold out much hope. Escapology was all about knowing the traps inside and out. It wasn’t about escaping from people determined to kill you.

* * *

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, ANNJA stood in front of the entrance to Carlini’s Magic Bullet Club. The morning had grown colder and the fog had gotten more thick.

Less than a minute later, it opened with the same theatrical creak as before. The weak light in the corridor flared to life as the door closed behind her. For just a moment as she stood there, alone, Annja felt nervous.

Her chances of getting out of the corridor if this turned out to be a trap weren’t good. Just as she felt ready to explode, the door on the right opened and Gaetano stuck his head through. He wore a colorful bathrobe over flannel pajamas.

He waved her forward. “Come on, then.”

Annja walked through the door. As she’d noticed earlier, all the doors actually led to the foyer outside the dining area. The puzzle was that in name only. Of course, a guest could still be wrong, but he or she wouldn’t be turned away.

“You haven’t heard from Edmund?”

Gaetano shook his head as he led the way back into the dining room. “No. I’ve tried some of the friends we have in common. Woke them up and worried them, as well.”

“Then he is missing.” The news hit Annja hard. She’d hoped that the break-in at his flat only signified that his home had been violated and that he might yet be free.

“Yes. I’m afraid so. Please. Sit.” Gaetano gestured to the table he’d set up with a coffee and tea service.

Annja slipped out of her coat and draped it over a chair. She sat in the chair Gaetano pulled out for her, then watched as the man took a seat across from her. He poured coffee and pushed the cup and saucer across.

“Would Edmund call you if he was in trouble?”

Gaetano poured a cup of tea for himself. “About something like this? Something involving magic?” He nodded. “Of course he would. In addition to knowing a lot about legerdemain and the art of illusion, I also know a great number of people. Like, for instance, the auctioneer that worked the estate sale where Edmund picked up Anton Dutilleaux’s magic lantern.”

Gaetano poured milk into his tea before continuing. “There was nothing special about the sale. Merely a descendant of a collector getting rid of items no one else cared about.” He set the creamer down and looked at Annja.

She blew on her coffee and waited. She wrapped her hands around the cup to absorb the welcome heat.

“In the case of Dutilleaux’s magic lantern, there was another interested party, but he learned of the sale too late to bid. This is where it gets interesting. And, perhaps, more troubling.” Gaetano laced his fingers. “Have you heard of a man named Jean-Baptiste Laframboise?”

From the way Gaetano said the name, Annja knew the person wasn’t a good man. She missed having her computer and a ready internet connection. In seconds she could be infinitely more knowledgeable than she presently was. “No.”

“Neither had I, but the auctioneer told me about him. As it turns out, Laframboise is a black marketer. One of those chaps who can—no matter how difficult or how illegal it is—get it for you. For a price.”

“Laframboise deals in antiquities?”

“Not as a regular field of operations, no. In fact, the auctioneer inquired after Laframboise to a policeman friend of his. A man in Scotland Yard who deals with forgeries and the like. According to the detective at the Yard, he’s made quite the name for himself in the drug trade and human trafficking.”

“Then why is he after Dutilleaux’s magic lantern?”

Gaetano shook his head. “I have no earthly idea. The auctioneer went on to tell me that Laframboise was quite distraught when he discovered the magic lantern had been sold.”

“When did Laframboise find out?”

“He talked to the auctioneer two days ago.”

“When was the sale?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Laframboise just found out about it?”

Gaetano shrugged. “Evidently. The auction was a small thing. I remember that Edmund was worried someone might snatch up his prize. Professors don’t make a lot, you know.”

Annja nodded. She knew. That was one of the reasons she didn’t teach full-time. But the main reason was because she’d rather be at a dig getting her hands dirty. The chance to see something no one had seen in a very long time was exciting. A lot of archaeologists lived for it.

And a lot of them had died for it.

“How did Laframboise find out about the auction?”

“My friend didn’t know.”

“How did Laframboise track Dutilleaux’s lantern to Edmund?”

A deep frown creased Gaetano’s face. “Two of Laframboise’s bullyboys showed up on my friend’s doorstep and assaulted him.”

“He didn’t think to tell you or Edmund?”

“This only happened a few hours ago. And they threatened him if he told anyone. He has a family to think of. He was very scared the whole time he was talking to me. Had I not gone to him and had we not been longtime friends, I don’t think he would have told me.”

Taking a deep breath, Annja pushed her anger away. “There are a lot of innocents involved in this.”

“Exactly my thoughts.” Gaetano sighed. “I fear I, too, have been remiss in the assistance I could have given Edmund.”

“What do you mean?”

“Edmund was thrilled with his acquisition. I’d promised to help him research the matter and Anton Dutilleaux and I hadn’t. I’m currently endeavoring to correct that oversight by calling in some favors.”

For a moment, Annja was silent, chasing thoughts of her own. “There is one other possibility.”

Gaetano cocked an eyebrow.

“I was at Edmund’s flat. His collection of magic props doesn’t appear to be there.”

“No. He keeps them in a storage unit.”

“Do you know which storage unit?”

Gaetano smiled when he realized what she was actually asking. “Of course I do. That’s where Edmund shows off his collection. There’s no room at his flat.” He pushed himself up from the table. “Let me go change clothes. I have a car around back.”

While waiting for Gaetano to get dressed, Annja wandered the dining area and stared at the caricatures. Most of the names were unfamiliar to her, but she recognized the famous ones.

Then, on the third wall she examined, she found a caricature that she recognized immediately, though the name was new to her. It had been drawn thirty-three years ago.

The man in the picture hadn’t changed in the intervening years. He was gaunt to the point of emaciation, had white hair that hung to his shoulders and a beard that extended to his chest. He held a long staff in one hand and was dressed in a robe and tall, pointed hat. His eyes were deep-set and she knew the color of them even though the caricature had been done in charcoal and sprayed with a fixative.

Roux.

9

The name came unbidden to Annja. She was aware that she smiled and grimaced at the same time. Roux and Garin Braden were the two people who, like her, were somehow connected to the mystical sword she carried.

Five hundred years ago, Roux had been charged with watching over Joan of Arc, and he had failed. As penance, he and his apprentice, Garin, had been assigned—or cursed—with finding Joan’s broken sword, reforging it and placing it once more in the hands of a champion.

Most days, Annja was pretty certain a mistake had been made regarding her role as a champion. But she had to admit that the sword had changed her life in a number of ways.

“What do you see?”

Startled, Annja looked at the doorway where Gaetano stood. She didn’t know what to say.

Gaetano walked over to her and pulled on a pair of glasses. He studied the picture. “Ah, yes. The fabulous Raymond the Red.” He smiled happily. “He was quite an amazing performer.”

“Was he?” Annja looked closely. “He looks kind of crotchety and unpleasant.”

“If you can see that, then my father truly captured the essence of this man in his sketch.” Gaetano shook his head. “Raymond the Red had a sweet-and-sour disposition. You never knew what you were going to get with him. Children and women loved him, though.”

“Seriously?” Annja’s own experiences with Roux had left her between camps. She loved him as a mentor, and perhaps even as a father figure—though she couldn’t be sure since she hadn’t known her own father—but he often got on her last nerve. Roux could be vexing and irritating, and incredibly demanding.

Over the time they’d known each other, she’d come to look forward to and dread every moment they spent together.

“Oh, yes. I was just a boy when I first met Raymond the Red. Perhaps eight or nine. The adults didn’t care for him so much. He was far too opinionated for their tastes, and he didn’t seem to delight over magic the way they did. But he had the gift.”

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