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.