Tamara had been to the Egyptian Hall once before. When she was a young girl, her grandfather Ludlow had taken her and William to see the magnificent landscapes by Turner while they were on exhibition there. Art was not the hall's main focus, however. It had been built in 1812 for William Bullock as a museum in which to display his vast collection of artifacts reflecting the natural history and art of ancient cultures. The focus had been Egyptology, of course, and the architecture of the place reflected that, its façade vaguely resembling an Egyptian temple. Seven years later, Bullock had sold both his collection and the building, and it had become an exhibition hall. Many of the exhibits that had been shown there in Tamara's lifetime had maintained the original intent, but there had also been entertainment productions and art exhibits, such as the Turner showing that had so impressed her as a girl.

She had been only five or six at the time, but she remembered distinctly the way the colors almost danced off the paper. To her, Turner was some sort of magician-the way he was able to capture light on paper and tame it to his will. So often, she wished that she were an artist; that she could bend words the way painters bent light. Sometimes she found herself so frustrated with her own writing that she rent the paper and threw it into the fire-

"Where has your mind wandered off to, Miss Swift?" John Haversham asked, peering at her curiously.

She blinked, not liking to be caught.

"I am sorry. It's just that the day has been so awful, you see. Horrid, if the truth be told. I would not have come, except that I thought I might go mad if I didn't have something to distract me from my thoughts tonight."

She had been trying desperately all evening to focus on the paintings that were so beautifully arranged around the hall. The subject was fascinating to her-hundreds of canvases depicting the savage Indian tribes of North America by an artist who had traveled and lived among them, the art richly textured and bright with color and life-but her mind had been drifting ever since she and John had arrived at the Egyptian Hall. Time and again she glanced over at Farris, who stood in a shadowed corner keeping watch over her excursion.

I should never have come, she thought. It felt inappropriate to her that, rather than being at home with her grief, she was passing an ostensibly pleasant evening with a man who fancied her.

Tamara had argued with William over his insistence that she keep her appointment. Their exchange had grown heated, but in the end she acquiesced, in part because she knew that William was right. Haversham had been at the bishop of Manchester's party. He knew Frederick Martin quite well. If he knew anything about the strange transformation that had befallen Frederick and the earl of Claridge, Tamara owed it to Helena to ferret out the truth.

So she had gone home to Ludlow House and put on a soft butter-yellow evening dress. She had wanted to climb into her bed, curl herself into a ball, and allow herself to cry, but instead she dutifully dressed her hair and applied a small amount of perfume to her neck. She realized afterward that the sweet-smelling jasmine would probably send John Haversham the wrong message, but it had been a present from her grandfather. She loved the scent, and the way it made her feel bold and attractive. It had helped even to wake her from the nightmare of the day, though she was certain nothing could fully shake her from the numbness that touched her heart.

A flutter of humor passed through her. Poor John had invited her out for the evening with no idea what he would get in the bargain. He was taking it rather well, though, this handsome young man who seemed far less a scoundrel this evening. In truth, he seemed quite the gentleman when he didn't have an audience to entertain. How shocked Sophia would be to discover that her cousin wasn't nearly the rogue he purported to be.

Tamara turned toward John, then, and found him staring at her, appearing slightly befuddled.

"Oh, I'm sorry, John. I must have been drifting again. Please forgive me. I probably shouldn't have come at all."

His expression softened, and the charm of his smile was undeniable. Only a few inches separated them, and Tamara was sure she could feel the heat coming from his body. Even in the midst of the Egyptian Hall, with Farris watching from across the room, there was a surprising intimacy to their closeness.

"No apology is necessary, Miss Swift. I'm pleased to offer any sort of distraction. I can barely begin to imagine what you must be going through.

"What a terrible blow, the loss of such a close friend. When you told me of Helena's fate, I was resigned to suffering without your company this evening. But now that you're here, perhaps art can dull the sharp edge of your pain. If that's the case, then I am grateful to the artist."

Tamara felt her face flush. She was attracted to the man, but her pleasure had more to do with his kindness than his other appealing attributes.

"It's not only the artist who provides the distraction I sought, John," she confessed.

He bowed with a dramatic flourish. "In that case, my wit and charm are entirely at your service."

Tamara smiled. She liked this man, liked his surprising sensitivity, the way he tried to distract her from the pain she knew must be etched on her face. Under normal circumstances, she would have thrilled at his attentions, but tonight she was simply grateful for the easy companionship.

"And what of the paintings, Miss Swift? Are they to your liking, as well?" John asked, studying her intently.

Tamara thought before answering, not sure how to put into words the emotion the images called forth, the gleam in the eyes of the Indians portrayed, the smoothness of their copper skin, the exotic quality of their clothing, and the customs on display in those paintings. She had never been to the Americas, but found the idea enticing.

Of course, she had never gone abroad at all except under the power of magic. In recent months, their battles to protect Albion had taken them to Italy and to northern Africa, but only briefly. Even before that, she and William had accidentally translocated to a French brothel, at the very beginning of their magical training. William had been appalled, and she had tried to act as though she had been disgusted, as well, by the things she had seen and heard.

But a part of her had been extremely curious as to what really happened behind closed doors between a man and a woman.

She had heard tales from her married friends but had, herself, never even been alone with a man, let alone a naked one. That brief glimpse of undulating flesh in the shadows of a French brothel had been her only firsthand experience with such things.

"Miss Swift?" John said. "The paintings?"

Tamara blushed, afraid that her expression might have given him an inkling of the nature of her thoughts. How silly of me-there's no way he could know. She would have been mortified if he even suspected, though.

"I like the paintings very much," Tamara replied. She moved to one of the nearby portraits and stood before it, studying its composition. "For instance, Catlin has achieved the essence of this man. He seems majestic, almost beautiful, and yet . . . he exudes such strength."

"The Indian Gallery is impressive," he agreed, nodding. He took her arm and moved her closer to the portrait. When he spoke again, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I must confess that I would like to go to America. But only in the company of someone special, someone who would appreciate the journey."

His words were soft, his lips only a few inches from her ear. A tremor went through her, a wave of prickling warmth. Tamara took a single, shallow breath and ran her tongue over her lips to wet them.

I can't allow this to continue, she thought, chiding herself harshly. This isn't the time. It isn't proper.

"I'm sorry, John, but I'm rather tired. Might we find a place to rest a moment?"

John smiled, showing his even white teeth to good effect.

"Of course, Miss Swift. Whatever you wish." His dark eyes bored into her own so intently that she had to glance away. Tamara was alarmed by this look, concerned that he might have misinterpreted her request. What if she had only convinced him that she was falling under his spell, that she wanted to be alone with him in some dark corner?

And what if he isn't mistaken at all? she wondered. She glanced over his shoulder and nodded to Farris. He followed after them, silent as a shadow.

They stopped at a small bench and Tamara sat down, her eyes suddenly heavy and burning with exhaustion. She felt strangely nauseous, a bitter taste forming at the back of her throat.

The hall was almost empty and the corner in which they sat completely deserted. Farris took up a position at the far end of the room. She knew she was close to placing herself in a compromising position with this stranger, something she wasn't emotionally prepared for, especially this day, but she was unable to change her course. She felt like the captain of a capsized ship, standing on the prow and watching the sea slowly pull her vessel into the depths.

John sat down beside her, and before Tamara knew what she was doing, her eyes were closed and she was leaning her head against his shoulder. The smooth cloth of his coat was cool against her burning forehead. She could feel the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and she squeezed her eyelids tight, trying to assuage the sense of panic that was quickly consuming her.

"Tamara? May I call you that?"

She nodded, keeping her face pressed against his shoulder.

"Tamara, please don't cry. It is agony for me to watch."

She looked up, and much to her surprise she saw that John's own eyes were wet with tears. It somehow made her grief seem that much worse, seeing such tenderness in a man.

"Helena was my oldest . . . my dearest . . ." She faltered and began to sob openly, horrible, shuddering gulps of air that caught in her throat and choked her.

Farris started toward her, a look of concern etched into his face, but Tamara gave him a small wave to indicate that she was all right, and that he should remain where he was. Any other day he might have thought John the cause of her distress, but Farris knew as well as anyone how much she had been through today. He nodded, but he crossed his arms and kept a vigilant eye upon her.

John had wrapped a strong arm around Tamara's shoulder. She could feel his muscles taut against her, and felt oddly comforted, as though part of the weight of her grief had been lifted from her. That was all she had really wanted since the day had begun, and Frederick had brought her his terrible news.

Frederick.

"You knew her, as well," Tamara said, composing herself as best she could. "It isn't right, John, that such a wonderful girl, so full of light and life and talent, should be taken so violently from the world."

"I never knew her very well, but I had the pleasure of watching her sketch several times. She was quite an artist."

Tamara nodded, drawing slow breaths, and then she paused. She turned to face him. All the questions about Helena's death and Frederick's transformation mingled with her grief and became too much to contain. She needed to speak, to release some of the emotion within her.

"What is it?" John asked.

"It may be difficult for you to hear, but I believe that Frederick had something to do with his sister's death." Tamara gazed at him without wavering now. She had said it. Let the cards fall where they may, let him think her crazy, but at least she had said the words out loud, to someone other than William.

"I don't think-"

"He tried to . . . hurt me, this morning," Tamara began. She waited for him to stop her, but he didn't. Instead he just leaned forward, listening intently.

"Go on."

"He wasn't himself, John. Not at all. In fact, there was something profoundly wrong with him," she continued, watching his expression carefully. "I've even heard whispers of a dinner party where the earl of Claridge-"

John's face went pale as a ghost's, and he spoke up, interrupting her.

"Do you mean to say that Frederick tried to have his way with you? I was at the bishop's party. I, myself, had to pull the earl away from the young woman he was-" His voice trailed off.

Tamara shook her head.

"Frederick tried, but it did not go that far. I had . . . help to fend him off." She spoke quietly, remembering the mottled reptilian skin, the thick membrane that slid over Frederick's eyes before he attacked her.

"It was terrible," she said, her voice low.

John squeezed her tightly to him. She felt like a piece of Venetian glass, and hoped that he would not crack her. She could feel his heart beating against her, and at that moment it seemed as if the humanness of that heartbeat terrified her more than anything else had that day.

She pulled away, causing him to release her.

"I'm afraid I've been too familiar with you, Mr. Haversham. I have done us both a terrible disservice. I have . . . I . . ."

Tamara stood up abruptly. As she stood there, she was barely aware that she was swaying. Her heart raced, and she couldn't seem to catch her breath. Her grief had flooded her completely and seemed about to boil over, so that she couldn't construct a single coherent thought.

The darkness coalesced about her, and she fainted.

When she came to, she found herself in Farris's thickly muscled arms. He cradled her as if she were a wee babe in swaddling clothes. His wide, worried eyes stared down at her, and she felt guilty for frightening him so.

"You went right down on the floor, you did, miss," Farris said. He helped her to sit, but her head lolled back against his chest, too heavy for her to hold up herself.

John Haversham crouched on her other side, looking equally concerned.

"Are you feeling better, Tamara?" he asked, clasping one of her slender hands between both of his. His touch was warm and rough, his callused palms holding her gently.

She looked into his eyes-and for a moment she swore her heart stopped beating.

He was a handsome man, John Haversham. Yet there were tiny crinkled lines that curved in ellipses around his tired gray eyes. Laugh lines encircled his full mouth, and all of this made him that much more appealing to Tamara's eye. She wanted to reach out and touch him, make sure that he was real. Instead she looked away, letting time begin to flow again.

Letting her grief back in.

THE CELLAR WAS dark, but William still could make out stacks of coal lying neatly in their bins, waiting to be burned. He could smell and taste the sharp, acrid stink of burning coal coming from the topmost floors of the house, and knew that meant someone was upstairs, enjoying the light and heat.

Only moments earlier he had whispered the spell of translocation and been swept away, the whole of the tangible world disappearing from around him. The Protectors had powerful magic within them, and he and Tamara had mastered translocation soon after they had inherited the power their grandfather had wielded before them. Even so, he would never get used to the moment during the casting of that spell when he was between the point of origin and his destination. It was a single, wrenching instant in which he hurtled through a swirling maelstrom of shadows, much too quickly to make out more than glimpses of insubstantial shapes he presumed were the parts of the world he was traveling past.

Translocation always gave William a vertiginous feeling. The act itself was inherently dislocating, and attempting it without his sister's far steadier grasp on magic to anchor him only increased the vertigo. He had once likened the experience, in conversation with Nigel Townsend, to "paddling 'cross the English Channel in a teacup after having had far too large a breakfast."

William hadn't wanted to translocate at all tonight, but Bodicea had insisted that hailing a hansom cab would only waste precious time. He and the ghostly queen had agreed that it was best for her to remain behind to guard the thing that had once been David Carstairs. Then William had set off to begin tracking down the buyers who had purchased the artifacts that Carstairs had smuggled from India. The statuettes appeared to be a part of the bizarre curse that was transforming men into monstrosities, and the faster they gathered up those artifacts, the more lives they might save. The first name he had come across in Carstairs's records was that of Ernest P. Widly. Now he stood in the cellar of the building where Widly had his rooms and took several long breaths, trying to steady himself. Whispering the same protection spell he had used before, he steeled himself and moved with as much stealth as he was able toward the stairs and whatever awaited him above. He took another deep breath, fighting residual nausea, and threw himself upward, taking the stairs two at a time.

Blue flame curled and eddied around his fingers as he approached the door of the flat that was his destination, and he cast a quick spell, making short work of the iron bolt on the other side. He stepped through and into the kitchen, then slowly eased the door shut behind him. Remembering how stupidly he had blundered into Carstairs's rooms earlier in the evening, he was determined to keep the element of surprise with him now.

The kitchen was a mess, flour and rotten meat from the cupboard spread all over the floor and counters. It looked as though someone had ransacked the cupboard without finding anything to their liking. William's stomach gave another lurch, but he managed to swallow back the delicious pudding he had eaten earlier. He picked his way through the foul-smelling bits of a raw rack of lamb, and crossed the threshold into the living area.

With Carstairs's sales slips tucked safely in his pocket, William moved through the dining room, pausing outside a closed door. Inside, he could hear someone speaking in a harsh, guttural dialect. Part of him wanted to flee, but against all reason, he took a deep breath and opened the door.

The room was Widly's study. Four men in various states of dress were huddled around the fireplace, staring at the firelight. The coal hood had been upturned, and someone had tried to eat several pieces of coal before realizing that it made much better tinder than food.

As one, they turned and stared at him, their eyes bulging so enormously that they seemed about to burst from the sides of their skulls. Their skin was mottled and had the rough texture of scales. It gleamed in the firelight.

On the floor was the half-eaten corpse of an elderly woman. From what he could tell, she wore the uniform of a household servant.

William had seen death before, but the butchery with which this old woman had been dispatched made his blood run cold. Half the flesh on her face had been stripped away, baring bone and muscle. One of her arms was missing, presumably being digested by the same stomach that had enjoyed her face.

The creatures hadn't moved a muscle. They just crouched, staring at him.

He took a step backward, bumping into the door frame. His motion seemed their cue to act. The monster farthest into its transformation flopped toward him, long toadlike tongue hanging wet and flaccid almost to the floor. The twisted changeling tensed its hind legs, preparing to pounce, even as William fled into the corridor and toward the parlor. He needed room to fight.

The accursed creatures all burst into activity then, and scrambled after him, their odd croaking rasps unnerving William. He found a spot that placed his back safely to the wall and turned to face them. Crouching, they shambled from side to side as they moved in on him, but this time he was ready.

His command of magic was by no means complete, nor as acute as his sister's, but there existed an array of spells he had rehearsed over and over. Now he contorted his fingers into arcane symbols and muttered under his breath.

The things leaped at him.

The last words issued from William's mouth, and the reptile men froze in midleap, their malformed bodies hanging almost obscenely in the air. One by one, they dropped like stones and began to shrink until each was roughly the size of a hazelnut. William jogged to the sideboard in the nearby dining room and grabbed an empty bottle of wine and its stopper.

With the bottle in his hand, he reached down, picked up each of the twice-cursed miscreants, and dropped it through the mouth of the bottle. He forced the stopper back onto the bottle and chanted a simple yet powerful spell to seal it. The glass took on a subtle red glow, then slowly returned to its natural state.

"Well done, William," he whispered to himself. Someone had to appreciate his ingenuity, after all.

He put the wine bottle down on the large rectangular dining room table and went back to the study in search of the Indian statuary that had led these men to their abominable fates.

In the study, William snatched a throw rug from the back of a love seat that faced the fireplace and covered the corpse on the floor. With the woman's ravaged face out of view, he paused to admire the library her employer had amassed. The bookshelves had been lovingly carved from a rich, dark oak that glowed almost auburn in the firelight. They bore a beautiful design of intertwined grapevines. The small, pointed leaves looked so real that William had to resist the urge to reach out and pluck one of them.

From the many languages that graced the spines of the books, and the artifacts that sat in niches throughout, he discerned that Ernest P. Widly was a man of admirably eclectic tastes. William found himself hoping that he and Tamara could find a way to transform the man back to his normal state when this crisis was over. For now, though, he would have to remain content knowing Widly was secure at the bottom of a wine bottle.

Combing the shelves for any sign of an Indian artifact, William found that one of Widly's pieces was newly missing. It had sat in a small niche above the mantelpiece until very recently, for the mantel had a light covering of dust, save on the spot where the object had rested.

William stared at the empty space for a long moment, questions swirling in his mind. He took a breath, and then began again, thoroughly searching the flat in the hope of finding the missing piece. It made no sense. The only reason he could think of for the creatures to be there was that they also sought the accursed figurine, but he had arrived while they were still there. That meant it had been missing before they had paid their visit. It was possible, he supposed, that Widly had gotten rid of the artifact himself, but William thought it highly unlikely. What he had seen thus far of the influence the objects had on their owners made him believe Widly would not have had the moral strength to dispose of it.

Which meant someone else had removed it.

The idea troubled William deeply. If someone else was on the same trail as he was, he felt the odds were against the thief having some benevolent purpose. No, if someone had stolen the accursed thing, there must be some sinister purpose behind the theft.

William stood in the midst of the flat, trying not to feel as though he had botched the job. He shook his head, not letting the negative thoughts overtake him. There were many other names on Carstairs's list he had yet to visit, and there was not a second to spare. Not only did he need to stop the spread of this horror, but it seemed he now had competition for possession of the accursed artifacts.

Steeling himself, he muttered the words to the translocation spell and quickly vanished into the ether.

SAVAGE AS SHE was in battle, Bodicea was not heartless. The spectral queen had empathy for those who had been mistreated in life, but she could summon not an ounce of compassion for the malformed creature that lay before her. David Carstairs was not some poor unfortunate soul. He was a criminal by trade-a liar, a thief, and a robber of other people's history and culture-and that was unforgivable. Others-even other ghosts-might have been appalled at remaining in the company of the accursed amphibian monstrosity, but Bodicea found his presence all the more distasteful because of what Carstairs had been, rather than what he had become.

"Water-" croaked the thing that had once been David Carstairs.

Bodicea scowled.

"I think not."

"Water, please . . . ," the thing croaked again. It was pathetic.

She stared at the creature, truly studying its deformities for the first time. Its head had grown too large for its spindly neck, its chin so weighted down that it almost touched its throat. It had bulging yellow eyes that protruded unevenly from the sides of its face, and its mouth was a gash of razor-sharp teeth.

"Water," it pleaded, in a thinner voice now.

Sick of its mewling, Bodicea laid aside her spear and approached it cautiously. The thing was bound, and lay on its side on the bed. As an ethereal being, it was easier for her to move the creature to the water than to bring water to the bed. It required focus and effort for a ghost to make physical contact with solid objects, and even more concentration for her to touch a human being, but she could easily grip the flesh of a supernatural. And as weakened as the scaly beast seemed now, she doubted it would put up any fight.

Bodicea picked up the thing, slinging it easily over her shoulder, then started toward the jug of water that stood on a table by the window.

She had taken only a few steps when the thing grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked. The ghost howled in rage, dropping Carstairs onto the floor. William had cast his binding spell too quickly and inexpertly, and as the monstrosity thrashed against those magical bonds, they fell to ribbons of shimmering energy and then disappeared altogether.

Bodicea snarled and tensed for the attack, the pain in her scalp feeling all too physical, though she had been without flesh for centuries. Phantoms could inflict pain upon creatures of the supernatural, yes, but the converse was all too true, as well. She and William would have a talk about this.

The thing crouched, leering at her, then sprang with blinding speed. It collided with her, claws sinking into her spectral form, tearing at her spiritual essence and dragging her down to the floor.

"You bitch-" it snarled, dragging her across the floor.

Her ghostly essence sank partway into the floor. For a moment she slipped from its grasp and began to crawl away, but it caught her foot and pulled her back. Her naked body fell in and out of the wooden floor as she was dragged back toward the bed. The thing didn't seem to understand that Bodicea was a ghost. All she had to do was to dissolve this form and slip into the ethereal realm.

But her rage got the better of her. Bodicea reached out and grabbed her spear. Just as the thing pushed itself back on top of her and began rutting against her leg, she punched the tip of the spear through the creature's skull.

It let out a terrible scream, then abruptly ceased to move altogether, its body becoming deadweight.

She pushed its carcass away and spat on the thing that had been David Carstairs. Memories of the rape and murder of her daughters, and her own ill use at the hands of the demon Oblis, were fresh again in her mind, as though the crimes had taken place that very morning. Such was the reality of her daily existence. The constant presence of the demon in the home of the Swifts had wreaked havoc upon her emotions, and this creature had reignited all her grief and rage.

Queen Bodicea dropped to her knees, reached out a spectral hand, and ripped the monster's genitals from between its legs with a wet, tearing noise and a splash of brackish, stinking blood.

"No one takes liberties with me," she whispered. "Never again."

Bodicea let the fiend's manhood drop to the floor, where it lay limp and shriveled. Then, with no prisoner left to guard, she vanished into the ether.