Allen stood in his dorm room, a white towel wrapped around him, pulling clean clothes out of his duffel bag. He felt nearly human again after the eternal night, a hot shower having washed away the stale beer and sweat and cigarette stink that had clung to him. He still needed sleep, but at least he didn’t feel disgusting.
A second later the door opened and Amy slipped inside, shutting the door quickly behind her. “Nobody saw me.”
The towel barely contained her. Amy’s blond hair hung past her shoulders, a tight bundle from wringing it out. The smell of wet, freshly shampooed girl made things stir beneath Allen’s own towel. He turned away, his cheeks going pink.
“We can’t stay long,” Amy said. “They’ll think to look here sooner or later.” She tossed her pink outfit onto the floor underneath the bunk bed. “And I’ll need some clothes.”
“I’m not sure what I have that will fit you,” he replied, spilling the contents of the duffel onto the top bunk and sorting through the wrinkled, hastily packed clothing.
“We’ll make it work.” She stood right next to him and began to pick through the clothes.
Her bare shoulder brushed against his chest. It was so warm and soft that Allen thought he might faint. He moved away from her before he embarrassed himself. This was no time to be thinking of her tan skin and her red lips and how easily that towel could fall to the floor, revealing her ripe-
Stop it. Think of baseball.
Allen knew nothing of baseball.
Then think of Emily Brontë.
Somehow that was worse.
“I like that.” Amy pointed at his chest.
Really? Allen had never considered himself a spectacular physical specimen. His chest was flat and hairless. He was, overall, a skinny, pale, and nerdy individual. Maybe Amy liked that sort of thing. Maybe she was a Ben Folds fan.
She reached out and took the crucifix in her hand, her fingers brushing against his chest where the cross dangled from the chain. “It’s smart to wear it.”
Allen shivered at the slight contact. He was making a tent in front of his towel. He turned away, and the crucifix slipped from Amy’s hand. He sat on the bottom bunk, his back to her. “What’s that on your shoulder?” he asked, referring to a tattoo about the size of a nickel.
“It’s the Society’s mark,” Amy said. “It’s the Freemason symbol, but with a pentagram in the middle instead of a G.”
Allen lay his head on the pillow. “I think I just need a quick nap.” A monster yawn swallowed his face.
“We can’t stay here.”
“Just five minutes.” Allen closed his eyes. “I’m exhausted.”
She sighed. “Me too.”
The narrow bunk shifted with her weight as she scooted in next to him, her bare shoulder touching his back, her slender pink foot brushing his calf.
Are you kidding me? His erection was so full and painful that he thought he might need medical attention. He recalled a Viagra advertisement he’d seen on cable. For erections lasting longer than four hours, please consult a physician. This is how he would die, Allen thought. To come through a night of abductions and machine-gun fire only to die of an excessive hard-on.
Amy yawned. “Just five minutes. Then we have to move.”
“What if I went to Father Paul?” Allen said. “Explained that I have nothing to do with this. I could get on a plane, go straight back to the States.”
“He wouldn’t believe you, and besides, it isn’t true. You’re his link to Evergreen. The Vatican wants whatever Evergreen is after, that’s for sure. I’m telling you, your best chance is to stick with me. We’ll get word to a Society elder and get this all figured out. In the meantime, the only thing we can do is avoid being captured or killed.”
They lapsed into silence. In thirty seconds, she snored lightly. A minute later she rolled over against him. He felt her chest rise and fall against his back with each breath.
Forget it. You barely even know her. Just go to sleep, idiot.
And somehow he did. Deep fatigue seeped into his bones, sapped him, pulled him into downy slumber.
“Allen. Alllleeeeeenn.”
Oh, hell.
He wore the ruffled shirt again, found himself jogging through a green, misty forest. The voice kept calling his name. The fog swirled in so thick that it swallowed the trees around him. He glided through it, his boots touching down on cobblestone. The fog parted to reveal an iron gate and a stone wall, a graveyard beyond, large monuments as looming and eerie as a scene from a Hammer film.
Allen knew it was a dream. Or was it more? Some kind of visitation.
Cassandra stood at the gate, and Allen felt chilled to look upon her. She wore a bloodred dress, the half moons of her white breasts erupting from her bodice. This seemed less Brontë to Allen and more Harlequin. The entire scene seemed a bit off, in fact, fading in and out of focus as the fog ebbed and flowed.
“I can barely reach you, My Allen.” Cassandra’s voice sounded as if it came from the far end of a long tunnel. “This place.” She gestured to the cemetery. “I cannot enter here. You must go. It is your task.”
“Why?” Allen’s own voice sounded too loud. “What’s in there?”
“My life.”
Cassandra slowly melted into transparency, blew away like smoke on the wind, melting into the fog.
“Wait!” shouted Allen. “What’s in there?”
The fog closed in, and everything went gray.
Allen opened his eyes.
How long had it been? More than five minutes certainly. Amy still curled next to him, her warm breath on his neck. He checked himself and was never so happy to find himself flaccid. Now maybe he could get dressed with a minimum of embarrassment. He propped himself up on one elbow, prepared to nudge Amy awake.
A light knock at the door. “Allen? Are you in there?” It was a familiar voice.
The door opened slowly. A young woman stuck her head inside the dorm room. “Allen?”
Penny.
Allen pictured himself hovering over Amy, both of them in towels, and realized how it must have looked.
“Is that you, Allen?” Penny opened the door wider, allowing light from the hallway to stream in. “My flight got in yesterday late, so I waited until- Who the hell is that?”
Amy’s eyes flickered open, and she saw Penny. “Hello.”
Penny crossed her arms. “Hello yourself.”
A my slipped into a pair of Allen’s gym shorts, then pulled them tight with the drawstring. She knotted the too-large, red T-shirt (which read CCCP in yellow letters) at the waist and somehow made the outfit work. Meanwhile, Allen turned his back to the girls and put on boxers, jeans, a dark green T-shirt, and socks and running shoes.
“I’m sorry,” Amy said to Penny. “I know you came to visit your friend, but we have to leave now. This is extremely urgent.”
“Yes, I saw how urgently you both occupied the bottom bunk without any clothing,” Penny said. “Perhaps urge is the key element in the word ‘urgent’ in this case.”
“Damn it, Penny, you don’t understand,” Allen said, spraying deodorant under his shirt. “A lot has happened since I’ve arrived.”
Penny’s eyes shifted to Amy, then back to Allen. “Yes, I see you work fast.”
“This is serious. I don’t think Father Paul is the person you think he is.”
Allen tried to explain the late-night firefight, the special-forces priests bursting in, the flight to the secret witches’ lair beneath Zizkov, the story of the philosopher’s stone. He tried to imagine how the story sounded.
It sounded like bullshit.
“I’ve known Father Paul a long time,” Penny said. “There has to be a rational explanation.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear the part about the machine guns,” Allen said. “He tried to kidnap me.”
“Actually, it sounds like your girlfriend and her pals kidnapped you and Father Paul was trying to rescue you,” Penny said.
Allen opened his mouth, paused, closed it again, and turned to Amy. “She has a point.”
“The Society is only trying to help,” Amy insisted. “We’re the good guys here.”
Penny scoffed. “That’s debatable.”
Allen shook his head. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Whatever you think, we can’t stay here,” Amy said. “Now let’s move. Please.”
“I have a place,” Penny said.
Amy and Allen looked at each other.
“Well, they won’t think you’re with me, will they? We can go to my place and figure things out,” Penny offered. “I’m sure you’re wrong about Father Paul.”
Amy chewed her thumbnail. “I don’t know. You might not want to get involved with this.”
“Listen to me, new girl.” Penny jabbed a finger toward Amy. “I’ve know Allen a little longer than you have. I’ve invested a good bit of time in him, and I’m not ready to see him machine gunned or kidnapped. Let’s get one thing straight right here and now. I’m on board for the party now, you get it? So if it’s so damn important we get out of here before the sky falls, then let’s shut up and get moving. Anyone got a problem with that?”
Allen blinked at her. “When did you get so assertive?”
Penny smiled, lips tight. “Get used to it.”
They caught a tram a block from the university.
“You have metro passes, right?”
Amy and Allen both shook their heads.
Penny sighed. “They’ll give you a ticket if they catch you riding the tram or subway without a pass. We’ll have to risk it for now.”
“Penny, this is dangerous,” Allen said. “I don’t think we should get you involved.”
“Oh, just… shut up.”
The tram took them over the Charles River and back past Letna Park. They entered a much less touristy part of the city, and Allen recognized the working-class suburb as Holešovice from The Rogue’s Guide.
“The next stop is ours,” Penny said.
The tram squealed to a stop, and they piled out with a dozen others, mostly Czechs scattering back to their homes. Penny led Allen and Amy down a side street. The neighborhood became residential. They stopped in front of a narrow, two-story house constructed of dull gray stone.
“Three of us went in on an apartment,” Penny said. “We thought it would be more interesting and more comfortable than staying in the dorms. Come on, we’re upstairs. An old couple live on the bottom.”
They trudged up the stairs along the side of the house, and Penny unlocked the door and let them in.
Amy went ahead of them, peeking into every room. “Are we alone?”
Allen and Penny followed her. “I think,” Penny said. “Blanche and Ian don’t arrive until next week. I came over early to see you.”
“Who’s Ian?” Allen asked.
“Nobody that has anything to do with you,” Penny said.
The apartment consisted of three bedrooms, a sitting area in the middle, and a kitchen with a small table.
“I call the furniture Commie Surplus,” Penny said. “It all looks like drab leftovers from the fifties.”
Allen dropped himself into a padded chair of faded orange. Some kind of fake leather. Amy helped herself to the narrow couch.
“There’s nothing in the refrigerator, I’m afraid,” Penny said. “I’d planned to hit the market later.”
“Can I use your phone?” Amy asked. “I think I’d better get in contact with my people.”
“There’s no phone.”
Amy nibbled her bottom lip, concern crossing her face. “They’re going to be wondering about us.” She looked at Allen. “About you. I’ve got to let them know we’re okay and get instructions for what to do next.”
“There’s a pay phone near the tram stop,” Penny offered.
“Wait a minute,” Allen said. “I’m not interested in your calling your Society pals just so they can stuff me in a trunk again.”
“We should get in touch with Father Paul,” Penny insisted. “I’m telling you there’s some kind of mistake. You’re wrong about him.”
“No!” Sudden heat in Amy’s voice. “I need to get in touch with the Society. There are things happening, and we need to know. Come with me to the pay phone.”
“To hell with that,” Allen said.
“Then I’ll go make the call myself,” Amy said.
“If you do, I’ll run out of here as fast as I can. As soon as you’re out of sight, I’m gone,” Allen warned. “Unless you promise not to tell them where we are.”
She opened her mouth to object.
Allen cut her off. “Just tell them we’re fine. Find out what’s going on if you want to, but just give us some time to rest. Please.”
Amy went a little pink in the face, clearly frustrated.
Too bad, Allen thought. I’m tired of getting shoved around.
“Okay,” Amy said. “But you’ve got to promise to wait here until I get back. I could spell you, compel you to stay, but I don’t want to do that.”
Allen rolled his eyes. “Yes, fine. I promise. Please don’t spell me.”
“Okay. I’ll be back.”
She left. They listened to her footfalls fade down the outside stairs. The silence stretched a full minute.
“She’s very attractive, Allen,” Penny said. “I suppose I can understand why you’d be interested.”
“Oh, just… we’re not… I barely even know her and… what do you care, anyway?”
“Me?” Penny’s hand went to her chest, her eyebrows arching in innocent surprise. “Oh, I don’t care. None of my business. How you conduct yourself is of no concern to me.” She made a low, disapproving noise in her throat, almost like a growl.
Allen sighed, then sank into the chair. “Don’t be that way.”
“What way?”
“That way.”
“Okay, okay,” Penny said. “It’s just that we’re close friends, and well, I don’t know. I guess I feel a little proprietary about you or something, and it was just kind of sudden seeing you guys together in bed and, anyway, I don’t even know what I’m saying so I’ll just shut up.”
Penny had always been there for him; she’d talked him back to sanity when he’d gone through the gut-wrenching breakup with Brenda. She’d been solid as a rock, a steadfast friend and classmate. Why was she so suddenly bent out of shape about a minor misunderstanding?
It was almost as if she was… jealous? She’d said she felt a little proprietary about him, but she’d meant like a sister. Right?
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He couldn’t think about this right now.
“My head is swimming,” Allen said. “If I don’t sleep soon, I’ll drop dead.”
Penny said, “Take my bed. The sheets are fresh. I should have offered sooner. Frankly, you look terrible.”
He smiled weakly. “Thanks.”
“I’ll hit the market. You’ll want something to eat sooner or later.”
Allen pushed himself out of the chair and headed for Penny’s bed.
“Allen?”
He paused in the doorway to her bedroom and looked back at her. “Yes?”
She smiled, warm, all earlier irritation gone from her face. “Never mind. I’ll be back soon.”
Allen crawled into Penny’s bed and was asleep in less than ten seconds.
Father Paul and Finnegan stood in Allen’s dorm room.
Finnegan poked through the random clothing spread out on the top bunk. “The boy’s not much of a housekeeper, is he?”
“They left in a hurry.” Father Paul’s sharp eyes took in the small room quickly. “Just like in those chambers below Zizkov.” He nudged a damp towel on the floor with his boot. “They showered and changed.”
The big priest raised an eyebrow. “They?”
Father Paul pointed at the floor. “Two towels.” Then he pointed at the pink wad in the corner. “Women’s clothes. I saw her wearing them when we stormed the Society safe house. I think we fouled up, Finnegan. When we went in guns blazing to save Cabbot, it made us look like the bad guys, didn’t it?”
“We’ll set him straight, sir.”
“We’ve been doing this all wrong,” Father Paul said. “Instead of chasing after him, we need to get ahead, wait for him someplace down the line.”
“Where?”
Father Paul stuck a cigarette into his mouth without lighting it. “What’s the word on Evergreen’s apartment?”
“About a block from here. We’ve got somebody watching,” Finnegan said. “But intelligence still thinks it’s a decoy. The professor has probably rented a place under a different name, maybe out in one of the suburbs.”
Father Paul lit the cigarette, puffed. “Let’s find out where.”
Allen opened his eyes and looked at his watch. He’d slept three hours. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, felt fuzzy-headed. He shuffled into the tiny bathroom, splashed water in his face. The dim light over the sink buzzed. The face that looked back at him in the mirror had dark circles under the eyes.
Back in the sitting room, he spotted Amy on the couch, shoes off, breathing lightly. He tiptoed past her into the kitchen. Penny had left a note on the small table:
Allen,
There’s food in the refrigerator. I’m going to let you and your Friend sleep. I can tell you’ve both had a tough time. I’ll be back soon. Please wait for me.
Penny
Allen built himself a salami sandwich on dark bread with some soft kind of orange cheese. A bottle of water. He sat at the small kitchen table, chewing and considering his situation.
Had Amy kept her promise to keep her Society friends at bay? He finished the sandwich, put the plate in the sink. And where had Penny gone? The sudden notion she’d gone to fetch Father Paul sent a shiver of anxiety up Allen’s spine. Penny refused to believe the priest could possibly be one of the bad guys. She might be bringing him back here at this very minute in some misguided attempt to help Allen. Amy claimed to be one of the good guys too. Everyone said they wanted to help him.
So why did Allen feel like a rabbit with hounds on his heels?
He leaned against the doorframe between the kitchen and the sitting room, looked again at Amy curled on the couch. It could be a lot worse. He could be stuck with Clover. If he’d been on the run with the punk rock girl, he’d probably have been hog-tied with tape over his mouth, stashed in some closet.
Allen had to admit his time with Amy had not been entirely unpleasant. Perhaps that was why he’d felt slightly defensive with Penny earlier. He’d not been doing anything wrong with Amy when Penny had walked in on them-not that Allen would have refused any offers.
And yet… Penny. He was starting to see her in a way that hadn’t occurred to him before. Or had it? Hadn’t he always wondered about her? Just a little.
Okay, this was ridiculous. The completely gorgeous girl on the couch in front of him had been part of a plot to kidnap him. His close friend Penny was a devout Catholic who was likely on her way to a priest who seemed to favor automatic weapons over rosary beads.
Allen turned away from the sleeping girl and walked softly across the kitchen. He’d promised to wait until she returned. Well, she’d returned. Yeah, he was splitting hairs, but the fact was Allen had to figure things out, and Penny and Amy would only continue to cloud his thinking. He opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it quietly.
Allen needed answers. He walked quietly down the steps and headed toward the tram stop. The man who seemed to be at the core of this shit-storm would have those answers, Allen hoped.
Allen hopped the next tram headed toward Letna and Professor Evergreen’s apartment.
Jackson Fay sat at the oversized wooden desk. It was too big for his small faculty office at St. Sebastian’s College, but he liked the artificial sense of power it gave him, although he did not admit this to himself, not exactly in that way.
Power. It filled him yet left him hungry for more. The most powerful aphrodisiac he’d ever known, yet the climax never came. It was the curse of power that the more he had, the more he needed.
He looked out his dingy window. London was as drab and gray as his mood.
A knock, the one he’d been waiting for, sounded at his door. “Enter.”
The door swung open and an old woman entered. She had steel-colored hair and deep lines at her eyes. She wore a black pantsuit, starched white blouse, and a bloodred brooch at the throat. An apple-cheeked man in a slightly garish pin-striped suit followed her, closing the door behind him. They stood crowded up against the desk.
“Professor Fay,” the old woman said, nodding at him. Her companion nodded too.
“Margaret. Blake.” He returned the nod.
“There is bad news out of Prague,” the old woman reported. “Our people were hit hard, scattered. News trickles in, but we don’t have the complete picture.”
“The Vatican?”
Margaret nodded. “A crack squad of Battle Jesuits, if I’m reading the situation correctly. The cardinals are giving us top priority, it seems.”
Fay steepled his fingers under his chin, sat back in the oversized leather chair. He considered the bad news. Jackson Fay was a lean man, with straight shoulders and eyes so green it seemed as if someone had airbrushed them. He had thick black hair with streaks of white above each ear, and a sharp chin and cheekbones. He wore a tan tweed jacket and a muted red vest.
“We have perhaps overreached,” Fay admitted. “What does the Council say about withdrawing our operation?”
“There’s more,” Margaret said. “Evergreen is apparently very close to the philosopher’s stone.”
“A little too damn close for comfort, if you ask me.” Blake’s voice had a mild Irish lilt.
Fay leaned forward and rested his elbows on the enormous desk. “That’s not acceptable.”
Margaret shook her head. “No.”
“The stone in Evergreen’s hands would be… problematic.”
Margaret nodded. “Yes.”
“Suggestions?”
Blake cleared his throat nervously. “We think our position toward Evergreen should… ah… be taken to the next level.” He tugged at his tie, as if he was suddenly uncomfortable.
“We want him killed,” Margaret clarified. “Before he gets the stone and uses it.”
“That has already been attempted,” Fay told them.
Margaret raised an eyebrow. Although the Society bylaws allowed the high councilman to take emergency actions without consulting the rest of the Council, the elimination of a rogue member would usually be seen as significant enough to call a meeting.
“And are we convinced he even knows how to use it?” Fay asked.
“The Council would prefer not to take that chance.” Margaret shrugged, a slight movement.
“What if,” posed Fay, “we let our Mr. Evergreen find the stone?”
Blake made a vague choking sound and tugged at his tie again.
Margaret asked, “To what end?”
“Finding it is the hard part,” Fay said. “It would not be so difficult to then take it away from him.”
The old woman considered, then said, “Naturally, if the stone were to come into our possession for safekeeping, that would be best. Perhaps our people could even divine a way to destroy the blasted thing.”
“I suppose,” Fay said. “But that’s not precisely what I meant. What if we could find a way to use the stone ourselves?”
Blake went pale. Margaret frowned.
“This could be one of the most powerful arcane items in recorded history,” Fay said. “Can we not harness its power, use it for our own purposes?”
Margaret and Blake looked at each other. Tension grew thick in the room.
“I would oppose such a scheme,” Margaret said. “As I believe would the rest of the Council.”
Blake nodded apologetically. “Yes, I’d quite have to agree, old chap. Just too damn risky, don’t you see?”
Margaret’s eyes were hard as granite. “I think our high councilman understands our feelings in this matter.” Her gaze remained unwavering, locked on Fay.
Another long tense moment.
Fay sighed, relaxed back into his chair. “Naturally you’re right, Margaret. You too, Blake.”
The old woman’s gaze softened microscopically. Blake actually laughed, wiped sweat from his forehead.
“As high councilman, it’s my responsibility to consider all possibilities. I hope you can appreciate that. Still.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice and encouraging the others to lean in to hear him. “There is one minor aspect of this situation you may have failed to consider fully.” He reached for a small, wooden box at the corner of his desk and lifted the lid.
Margaret raised an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”
Fay reached into the box with thumb and forefinger, pinched out a small portion of the dull silver powder within. “This.”
Fay blew the powder into her face, harsh syllables flying from his mouth immediately after.
The dust particles hardened to tiny diamond shards, blasting the old woman’s face, shredding flesh and bone. Blood sprayed against the door and wall behind her. A scream began somewhere deep in her throat, but it was cut short as glittering death flayed her tongue, turned the back of her throat into hamburger. She dropped dead onto Fay’s expensive Persian rug.
“Bastard.” Blake looked appalled, confused, betrayed. Terrified. His hand glowed blue-green as he raised it toward Fay.
Fay was already out of his chair and across the desk. He grabbed Blake’s wrist and twisted, the karma bolt discharging harmlessly into the ceiling.
With his other hand, Fay thrust a thin dagger into Blake’s gut.
Blake grunted, eyes going wide. He looked down where Fay still held the blade in his belly. A silver skull at the end of the hilt grinned up at him. Blake’s mouth tried to form words. Fay twisted the dagger, and Blake coughed blood.
“Anticlimactic, isn’t it?” Fay said, acid in his voice. “All of the intricate and deadly magic at my disposal, yet you meet your end with a simple dagger thrust.”
Fay jerked the blade out and thrust it home again. “Never underestimate the mundane.” Blake twitched. Fay gave another stab to be sure, and Blake’s eyes rolled up like cartoon window shades.
Fay let the man go, and Blake fell facedown across the desk, a pool of blood spreading to a stack of ungraded essays on King Arthur and the Holy Grail.
He looked from Blake’s dead body to Margaret’s ruined face. The sweet sensation of power still hummed along his bones. He’d been itching to try out the spell he’d used on the old woman. It had felt exactly as good as he’d anticipated. No heroine junky could know this feeling, no coke-head. And it was getting more difficult to reach this euphoria each time. Jackson Fay needed the philosopher’s stone. He’d outgrown the Society, had long suspected his personal ambitions would have forced him to make some sort of decision like this sooner or later.
And he’d never liked Margaret anyway, possibly because he’d been able to tell she’d never really liked him. A shame about Blake, though. A nice enough fellow, eager to please, but ultimately useless and a bit weak.
Fay took a pocket handkerchief from his jacket, wiped the blood from his hands and dagger. Fay appraised the mess he’d just made. There was no time to deal with it now. A simpler aversion spell would keep people out of his office until he had time to tidy up. He really should try to discover a simple spell that made dead bodies disappear.
He picked up the phone and dialed the extension for his department’s administrative assistant. “Edna, can you book me a flight to Prague? Right away, please.”
Two hours later, Jackson Fay sat aboard a Virgin Airways flight to Prague, sipping a glass of Pinot Noir and contemplating the savage things he would do to Professor Evergreen to make him divulge the secrets of the philosopher’s stone.
But a mere twenty minutes after Fay left the still warm bodies of his fellow Council members lying on his office floor, the red gem of Margaret’s brooch began to glow at her throat, dully at first, then more brilliantly. A stranger walking his basset hound below Fay’s office window paused to consider the sudden red glow, then shrugged and went about his business.
This is when Margaret joined me among the legions of the untimely dead. I wish I could have been there to show her the ropes. Still, she seemed to have a natural talent for it. In her own limited way, Margaret made a reasonably effective ghost.
The tram let Allen off at the edge of the residential neighborhood across from Letna Park. Had it really only been twenty-four hours since Allen had been here to supervise Evergreen’s strange delivery? It seemed a lifetime ago.
Now he would get answers. He would make Evergreen give him answers. After all Allen had been through, he could not find the brusque professor intimidating anymore. The guy owed him an explanation.
He entered Evergreen’s building and knocked on his apartment door. No answer. He knocked again. “Professor Evergreen?” He tried the knob. It was open.
He went inside.
“Professor?”
Allen noticed the suitcases straightaway, stacked in the entranceway next to an old-fashioned-looking steamer trunk. So they’d arrived. Good. Allen stepped into the apartment. The large crate Evergreen had been so concerned about was nowhere in sight. In a swivel chair across the room, Evergreen sat at a desk with his back to Allen.
“Professor Evergreen.”
Evergreen didn’t turn around.
Allen spotted the headphones, the wire leading to the MP3 player on the desk. Evergreen probably had the volume up to max and hadn’t heard Allen knock or enter the apartment.
Okay, man. Time to do this.
Allen crossed the room, tapped the big man on the shoulder, raised his voice. “Professor Evergreen. We need to talk. A lot of strange fucking shit has happened since I got here and-”
Evergreen toppled over, slid from the chair, and landed at Allen’s feet. His skin was as white as notebook paper. His eyes stared at the ceiling and his mouth hung open, tongue halfway out.
Allen hopped back. “Fuck!”
A ragged pink crater in the side of Evergreen’s neck, like somebody had taken a giant bite of undercooked ham.
Allen swallowed hard. “Oh, man. That’s not cool.”
He backed to the center of the room, turned his head from side to side. What the fuck had happened here? Allen should call somebody. The local police, maybe. Or he could turn and haul ass. Why would anyone do this to the professor? Yeah, most of his students pretty much thought he was a dick… but this?
The light coming from the balcony dimmed, as if a dark cloud had passed in front of the sun. Allen went cold. The hair on his neck stood straight.
“Allen.”
The voice so familiar it made Allen gasp. He stood frozen, wanting to back out of the room, but something sapped his will.
“Allen.”
This time he turned his head, looked toward the half-open door of the apartment’s master bedroom. The lights were off. A cold breeze picked up and came through the open balcony doors, tugged at Allen’s hair and clothing. He thought he could just make out the shape of someone back in the dark bedroom.
“Who is it?” But Allen knew who it was.
“Allen, come in here, please.”
Allen spoke slowly, like he was having trouble remembering how words worked. “Maybe you should come out here.”
“I need you, Allen, need you to help me. Please. Come to me.” There in the darkness. The eyes. They latched onto him. “Come to me, Allen.”
He shook his head. “No.” But he’d taken a step forward. His other foot moved. Another step.
He crossed into the darkness. Even with his head in a fog he noticed that the windows had all been covered with thick blankets. The room smelled of moist earth. She stood right in front of him now. The wind gusted behind him, and the bedroom door clicked shut.
“Allen,” she said in a voice of clear crystal. “I need your help.”
“Mrs. Evergreen, your husband is dead.”
“Yes, Allen. I know. It was such a long trip, so hungry. I just couldn’t wait. You must try to imagine how it was. You can imagine it, can’t you? The longing and the need until nothing else matters. Nothing matters but satisfaction, and it burns, you need it so bad. Such a shame. So many plans. He’d brought me so far. I don’t think he minded in the end. If it helps you to think of it like that, Allen, I don’t think he minded at all.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Evergreen.”
“I want you to call me Cassandra.”
Allen did not want to call her that. But he said it. “Cassandra.” The word tasted good in his mouth, delicious and painful. Like Thai food.
She put a cool hand on his arm. Her eyes filled the room, the rest of her face and body only vague shapes in the darkness. “He can’t help me anymore, Allen. I need you. I need you to go a place I can’t go. You will do this for me.”
No. He opened his mouth to deny her, but the words that came out were, “I will help you.”
She was right up against him now. He felt her along the length of him, his breathing so shallow, head dizzy. He realized she was naked. Her hands roamed him. He stood still as a statue, afraid and enthralled and wanting her. She rubbed his erection, and her lips brushed his.
He felt faint. Felt like he was floating out of his own body. No. He needed his body. Wanted it to do things to her body.
Cassandra ripped off his shirt. She hissed and backed away, pointing at his chest. Anger flashed in her eyes. “Get rid of that!”
Allen’s hand went to his chest, felt the cold metal of the crucifix hanging there. “This?”
“Throw it away.”
Allen pulled it over his head, and cocked his arm to toss it out of the room. Hesitated. Something-faces flashing before his mind’s eye-stopped him. Father Paul. Penny. He couldn’t throw it away.
“Allen.” Waves of pure sex radiated from Cassandra’s naked body. “I’m waiting for you.”
Allen tossed the crucifix over his shoulder, heard it rattle and clank somewhere out of the way.
What followed was a patchwork of sensations and memory. He was naked and on top of her, her back arched, mouth open, animal growls coming out of her. Long fingernails raked his back. Then she was on top. Had hours passed or minutes? The eyes. Always the eyes burning, branding her ownership of him onto his soul.
And there was pain.
Along his inner thigh, a white-hot intensity, her mouth on him.
But the pleasure flooded back again, arms and legs wrapping him up, like she was trying to climb inside. A tangle of sheets. Relentless pleasure, sapping him, leaving him a spent husk. Exhausting, pulling him down.
Allen gave himself to exquisite oblivion.
He awoke to the night.
Allen sat up in bed, clueless where he was until patchy images clanged and tumbled through his brain. The windows had been thrown open, the curtains fluttering on a gentle breeze.
“Cassandra.” He looked, but she wasn’t there.
More memories, as they lay together in the darkness, her hot breath on his ear as she whispered his instructions. Somehow her words penetrated his fogged brain. He knew what he had to do to serve her.
He was way too naked. He saw his clothes on the floor and stood, winced at the slight pain in his thigh. He stood with legs apart, bent over to examine himself. Two dark punctures along his thigh about six inches from his scrotum.
He scratched his head, rubbed his eyes. Where am I?
He dressed himself. Every muscle ached. He grunted as he put on his shoes.
Back into the living room, and he saw The Professor’s dead body still where it had fallen. Oh, yeah. He’s dead. That fact no longer seemed very urgent.
Something cut through the haze of his programming, some prick of curiosity. Yes, he had his mission. He should get on with it, but he looked around the apartment, wondered. Where was the large wooden crate?
He headed for the second bedroom and walked into it. Completely dark. He felt along the wall for the light switch, found it, and flipped it on.
The room was barren of furnishings. There was only the crate in the dead center. The lid had been pried off and sat to one side. Allen approached, looked inside.
He saw an open casket with silk lining and a pillow for the comfort of the deceased. Between the crate and the casket, moist dark earth had been packed in tight, completely surrounding the outside of the casket. Allen’s hand went to his throat. He stood there a moment, putting two and two together.
He ran out of the bedroom, darted into the bathroom, flipped on the light switch. He stood in front of the mirror, lifting his chin, feeling along his throat. Only smooth skin. He let his hand wander down to rub his thigh and considered the marks there.
He pictured the chunk that had been bitten out of Professor Evergreen’s throat. He shivered. The man staring back at him in the mirror looked like a pale, shadow-eyed wraith. Some deranged derelict.
Allen left the bathroom, stumbled from the apartment, downstairs and into the street. The night was cool. Distantly he heard voices, somewhere a dog barking. He realized he was walking. Somehow his feet knew the right direction. South and west.
Strahov Monastery. The words had been put into his brain. So many words and images jumbling together, instructions and books and names and places all mixed up with a picture of himself, arms wrapped around Mrs. Evergreen-Cassandra!-her legs around him, heels digging into his ass, so many grunts and moans and just so much relentless thrusting.
He walked through the night, all of this information like a buzz in his brain growing louder and louder. Two words above all others throbbed within his cranium.
Edward Kelley.
Wake up, bitch.”
The girl on the couch blinked, rubbed her eyes, focused on the other girl standing over her, hands on hips. Penny was doing her best to sound simultaneously pissed and accusatory, with a hint of righteous indignation thrown in.
“What did you do with him?” Penny jabbed a finger at the witch. “And don’t mess with me. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”
Amy sat up, shook the cobwebs out of her head. “What?”
“Pay attention, blondie. Where’s Allen?”
Amy stifled a yawn. “Is there any coffee?”
“This isn’t fucking Denny’s. I asked what you did with Allen.”
It registered in Amy’s eyes what Penny was asking. She sat straight, suddenly alert. “Allen’s missing?”
“Duh.”
“What happened to him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” Penny said. “I let you guys sleep because you were wiped out, but I just looked in on him and he’s not there.”
Amy stood, went to the bedroom, and looked inside. “No signs of a struggle. Did he leave a note?”
Penny frowned. “Are you trying to say you didn’t have anything to do with his being gone?”
“Why would I still be sleeping on your couch if I’d called my people to come kidnap him?”
Penny shrugged. “Hey, I don’t pretend to understand your cloak-and-dagger bullshit.”
“You’re coming off a bit hostile.”
“Fuck you.”
“See? That’s what I mean.”
“Two years!” Penny held up two fingers. “Two damn years I’ve been working on that boy. I nursed him back from the edge after he broke up with that Goth whore Brenda. Two damn years invested, and you come along with your blond hair and suntan and tight little ass and get your hooks into him in twenty-four hours.”
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
“The hell you don’t.” Penny folded her hands under her chin and batted her eyelashes. “Oh, my. I’m just so tired. Let me climb into this tiny narrow bunk next to you with nothing but a towel on.”
Amy frowned. “Hey!”
“I’m not doing the soft sell anymore,” Penny said. “Allen’s mine, and that had better be crystal clear right now or somebody’s going to get hurt. And I don’t mean me.”
“Is that a threat? Are you actually threatening me? Do you know who I am, what I can do to you?”
Penny’s grin was pure wicked. “And you don’t know anything about me either, blondie. I can turn your day real bad real quick.”
Muscles tensed, both women looking like they might pounce at any second.
See, now this is where we should have a totally awesome catfight.
Have you ever seen two women go at it? I mean, two furious women with blood in their eyes, claws out, teeth bared? It’s pretty hot. Lots of long hair thrashing around and clothes getting ripped off.
If I were in charge of such things, it would be catfight time. But I have no such power to manipulate the universe. Alas, my role has been relegated to that of observer. And reporter. The cosmos has put me into this position for the sake of posterity. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the occasional naked catfight. Not this time.
Instead, this happened:
Amy held up her hands, took a step back, and exhaled. “Whoa.
Hold on.”
Penny eyed her with suspicion.
“I’m not after Allen,” Amy said. “Not like that. Hey, I understand what it looked like. Sorry about that. But my only concern is keeping some very powerful magic out of the wrong hands. Nothing else.”
“That’s all Father Paul wants too,” Penny insisted. “And he said he wants to keep Allen from getting hurt.”
“Wait. Hold on. You talked to the priest.”
“Uh…” Penny bit her bottom lip, looked away.
Amy backed away, tensed, glanced at the doors and windows.
“Oh, my God. Are they coming here?”
“No!” Penny said quickly. “No, I… I didn’t think Allen would want me to do that. As a matter of fact, I went in to wake him up so I could talk him into seeing Father Paul. I wanted to convince Allen he could help.”
“Oh, yeah? Like your priest helped back at the safe house. With machine guns.”
“They were trying to rescue Allen because you kidnapped him.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” Amy said. “Did you mean it when you said you didn’t tell the priests Allen was here?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t told my people either,” Amy said. “So let’s say we’re both being fair and honest. Who does that leave to help Allen?”
Penny narrowed her eyes at the witch. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s out there somewhere. If the Society didn’t snatch him, and if the priests didn’t take him, then where is he?”
Penny frowned. She was trying to think it through. “You think he left on his own.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was trying to get away from me, or maybe he just didn’t want to put you in danger. But right now we’re the only people who can help him. Neither one of us wants to see him hurt. Let’s put our heads together and go find him.” Amy offered her hand. “How about it?”
Penny eyed the outstretched hand a little longer than was probably polite. She took it, and they shook.
“I’m going to need a cup of coffee,” Amy said.
“There’s a place down the street,” Penny told her. “Let’s move.”
Allen glided through nighttime Prague as if on autopilot.
He passed the dark and empty Sparta Stadium, crossed Milady Harakove, and entered the western reaches of Letna Park, where the bike paths and walking trails crisscrossed through the trees. Allen never lost his way. One foot plodded in front of the other. The small chunk of his brain that was still thinking independently fretted over Cassandra Evergreen. Had he made a covenant with evil? Would he contract some kind of unholy venereal disease?
Must… obey.
Trees closed in around him, and the complete darkness was terrifying and comforting. He trudged on. An owl hooted, and Allen froze. Eyes in the night. Never mind. Keep going.
The trees opened suddenly, and there was Prague Castle before him, sprawling and magnificent, high walls and towers lit for the tourists. Even compelled as he was to move on, Allen made himself pause a moment to take in the view, to gaze upon the onetime seat of the Holy Roman Empire.
Then the urge to obey grew uncomfortable enough to spur him on. He passed Sternberg Palace on the north side. Schwarnbersky Palace came into view soon after. The whole area was lousy with historical crap.
He cut through another thin patch of forest and found the old monastery at the foot of Petrin Hill. The Rogue’s Guide entry to Strahov Monastery read like this:
Old libraries. No action.
Allen crossed the rambling cobblestone courtyard to the wide, wooden front-entrance double doors. He read the hours posted on the front door. The place opened for tourists at eight in the morning. Allen looked at his wristwatch.
1:36 a.m.
Stupid arbitrary half-assed vampire hypnotism bullshit.
A nudge in his ribs. Somebody was yammering foreign talk at him.
Allen blinked his eyes open, then looked up into the bored face of a uniformed man. Badge. Gun. Cop. The inside of Allen’s mouth tasted like old cabbage and feet. He sat up, his back, shoulders, and neck aching from six hours of sleeping on a stone bench.
The cop jabbered in Czech.
“I’m sorry.” Allen rubbed his neck, stretched. “I’m waiting for the monastery to open.”
Already a small crowd of tourists gathered at the front entrance, cameras around necks, khaki shorts and hats, T-shirts with the Czech flag on the front.
The cop sighed. “American.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He pointed to the big double doors. “Over there. Almost open.” He tapped his wristwatch.
“Thanks.”
Allen fell in with the rest of the tourists and waited. It opened, and he soon found out there was a separate entrance fee for the libraries and the picture galleries. It was eighty Czech crowns to tour the libraries, but they told him university students could get in for fifty, about the price of a cup of coffee. He paid and shuffled inside with the others.
He paid another forty crowns for a guidebook in English. The two libraries were known as the Philosophical Hall and the Theological Hall. The guide described the Theological Hall as housing the collection of ancient arcane learning. Allen went there first.
The hall was impressive, and Allen stood a moment at the entrance, taking it all in. The ceiling vaulted overhead like a barrel, giving the place a feeling of space, rich stucco, paintings. Globes and lecterns with books on display lined the walls, bookcases at least a dozen feet high. It was immediately clear one could not simply approach the shelves and start pulling off books as in a normal library. The guide said there was a reading room with specific hours that didn’t start until later, and all handling of the books was carefully supervised.
Allen left this library and found the Philosophical Hall.
This library was even more impressive than the last.
The bookshelves rose fifty feet high on both sides, all the way up to a richly detailed ceiling painted-according to the guide-by Franz Anton Maulbertsch, depicting scenes showing mankind’s search for ultimate wisdom. The shelves towered over Allen, made him feel like a spec.
Books. Lots and lots and lots of books.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
Allen was considered by his professors to be an outstanding researcher. He could walk into any university library back in America, plop himself in front of a computer terminal, spend an hour getting the hang of the system, initiate a search, and walk out with anything he needed. The dust on these books was older than any library in America. Nothing appeared to be computerized, at least not at first glance.
Okay. Stop. Think. What’s the smart way to do this?
He went back outside, found a cart selling hot coffee, sat down with the guidebook. He devoured a brief history of the monastery. It had been founded in 1143, had been burned to the ground in the 1200s, and had survived Hussites and Communists. Allen paged through again, tried to find passages that involved the relevant time frame.
There wasn’t enough here. He needed a computer.
He finished the coffee and began asking directions. The same cop who’d hustled him off the bench pointed him toward an internet café. Allen thanked him and started walking.
Allen realized it was no longer Cassandra’s control that compelled him. It was his own curiosity. Whatever the vampire had done, it must have worn off with time and distance. He still felt the urge to investigate, the need to get to the bottom of… of whatever the hell it was that had taken over his life. Or maybe he was kidding himself. Maybe it was part of her spell that made it seem like it was Allen’s own will that propelled him forward.
It didn’t matter. He was going to solve this. He was going to get answers.
He circled the base of Petrin Hill to the east and veered south until he ran into a busy street and a cluster of shops, cafés, and other businesses. He followed the boulevard about five minutes until he found the internet café more or less where the cop had indicated. He ordered another cup of strong, black coffee and paid for an hour of web time. At the end of the hour he paid for two more and switched to espresso.
The monastery had its own website; it must have been a popular attraction, because there was an English-language option. Allen steadily worked his way through a more detailed history of the place. He borrowed a pen and jotted notes on a paper napkin.
He was narrowing it down, getting a workable plan together for finding his prize.
A man named Jan Lohel was abbot at Strahov from 1586 to 1612, which covered the time period in question. Perhaps they organized their materials according to the time at which they were acquired. Some collections might be attributed to particular abbots. Allen made a note.
It would likely be a handwritten manuscript, and in English. Narrowing it to works in English would help a lot. There! What was that? He hit the Back button and read more carefully. There was a special treasury room that housed rare volumes and fragile manuscripts. Any handwritten originals would be there. He was certain of it. Allen was a step closer.
He guzzled espresso, the excitement of impending discovery fueled by caffeine.
Allen poured over detailed summaries of a dozen historical anecdotes that seemed pertinent at first, but ultimately he scrolled on.
And then he had it. By 1603, a number of longtime residents of Prague Castle had left for good, including astrologers and alchemists. Many personal effects and written documents had been sent to storage in Strahov Monastery.
Allen knew the room he had to search, and he’d narrowed it down to the exact year.
Very soon he would be reading the last written words of Holy Roman Alchemist Edward Kelley.