"I understand."

"Excellent. I came prepared." He produced a jeweler's loupe. "Mr. Latshaw, may I trouble you to move a lamp to this table?"

When the lamp was in place, Agnes stepped forward.

"This is my family's prize heirloom: Hecate's Golden Eye," she said with a well-calculated dose of hushed respect as she opened the box.

Taylor accepted the box, held it under the lamp's light, peered at the contents, and set it down on the table. He pulled on a pair of white gloves, and only then picked up the pendant. I wondered if they'd be enough to protect him from the curse.

He screwed the loupe in one eye and spent several minutes examining the gem.

Clive and Agnes exchanged worried looks, but resumed their poker-playing faces when Taylor grunted.

"The genuine thing. Superb clarity for its size. I can see that legendary flaw quite clearly. A perfect eye with pupil and even lashes. Extraordinary."

"My dear grandmother often mentioned it. She loved the piece very much."

"No doubt. I'm sure you would rather keep it in the family."

Clive worked hard to hide his alarm. "You're not interested?"

"I am, sir, but cannot offer you much for it. I collect with the intent of appreciation of value as well as for a gem's unique beauty. Without provenance—you were clear this diamond has none beyond private family records which, forgive me, can be forged—I cannot easily resell it in the future for as much profit as I would like."

"You could to another private collector."

"Humph. That would be that so-and-so Abercrombie. I'd never give him the satisfaction. I'm glad he's moved to Switzerland or he might have gotten wind of this first. I'm sorry, but I can offer you only so much and no more. You may take it or leave it as you choose."

Then he said a number that made my jaw drop.

The Latshaws failed to hide their gleeful satisfaction.

Clive recovered first. "My wife and I assure you that we would be very pleased for Hecate's Eye to become part of the Taylor collection."

"Very good." They shook hands.

"A check will suffice, and once it clears you may take possession."

"Mr. Latshaw, my train won't wait for the banks to open, but I am prepared to conclude this transaction now."

He put the briefcase on the table and opened it to reveal a respectable load of wrapped banknotes. The Latshaws were appropriately impressed. My jaw kept swinging. I'd seen bigger stacks of cash, but only in gangster-controlled gambling clubs. I drew breath for a silent whistle and could actually smell the ink.

"How can you carry all that?" Agnes asked. "What if you're robbed?"

"I can take care of myself, ma'am." Taylor opened his suit coat just enough to give her a glimpse of his shoulder rig and whatever gun it held. "If Mr. Latshaw would count the money and sign a receipt, I'll be off to catch my train."

Clive counted, and Agnes poured sherry into three stemmed glasses, making small talk with Taylor. Alone on the table was the open black box with the Eye still in it.

Even across the room I could tell it was a real gem. The glass imitation in my pocket was a vulgar peasant compared with the elegant royalty over there. Simply lying on its white silk padding, the stone glowed like molten gold. It took light and set it on fire. When I shifted, futilely trying to move closer for a better view—I swear it—the thing winked at me.

That was eerie. The longer I stared, the less I liked it. The damned thing was just a chunk of crystallized carbon in an unexpected color with a fancy name, and for some reason, people had decided it was worth something. They killed and died for such shiny baubles. Insane.

Despite that, I wouldn't have minded having a few locked up in the safe at home.

Just not this one.

Hecate's Eye twinkled goldly at me, and I fought down a shiver.

Clive finished his count and closed the briefcase. Taylor said he could keep it along with the cash.

Taylor picked up the Eye and peered through his loupe. Wise of him. He'd been distracted by Agnes; Clive could have slipped a fake in.

"It is beautiful," Taylor said. "I've seen its equal only at the British Museum, and that one had two inclusions, but neither like this simulacrum."

They made a toast, and everyone looked pleased. Agnes gently took the pendant from Taylor—to have one last look at her darling grandmother's pride and joy, she said.

"I shall miss you," she said, holding the stone to the light, gravely wistful.

Clive and Taylor exchanged glances, two men in silent agreement about the frail sentiment of the fair sex, shaking their heads and smiling. By the time they turned back, Agnes had made the switch.

She'd practiced; she was so fast, I almost missed it. She put a pendant in the box and closed the lid, handing it to Taylor. The real stone was still in her palm so far as I could tell. While the men shook hands, she slipped it into her dress pocket.

Slick, but foolish. Sooner or later, Taylor would take another gander at his toy and call the cops. How could she think she'd get away with it?

Someone eased up behind me, and I did not trust it to be Escott checking to see what was taking so long.

I ducked and twisted in time to avoid the full force of the crooked end of a tire iron on my skull. It smashed into my left shoulder square on the bone joint. Most of the time a regular person hasn't got the strength to damage me, but the application of raw kinetic force on a single spot with an unbreakable tool—something's going to give. I heard it do just that with a sickening, meaty pop and dimly knew that it hurt, but was too busy to register how much. I spun the rest of the way around to face Riordan. He was ready and punched the iron hard into my gut. It had a hell of a lot more force than a bare fist. I doubled over.

Not needing to breathe, I wasn't yet on the mat, and I lunged forward to tackle him. He danced back and almost made it, but collided violently into the dining table, tumbling it and himself over with a satisfyingly noisy crash. A woman screamed.

My left arm was completely useless and hanging. I grabbed at Riordan with my right, but he didn't stop, cracking the tire iron smartly on the back of my hand. I heard bones snap, but again felt no pain, which meant serious, crippling damage. Before he caught me another one—dammit, he was fast—I got a fist in his belly. It was a lighter tap than I wanted, since I was forced to use my right. No pain—things were moving too quick.

Riordan did have to breathe, and slowed just enough that I had time to stun him silly with an open-handed slap on the side of his head. Again, not my full muscle behind it, but it got the job done so well that I wanted to scream as my shattered bones ground against one another under the skin.

The starch left him, but he fought it, his eyes going in and out of focus. I grabbed the iron. It took effort to pry from his grip, and I had to drop it immediately as my fingers gave up working. Everything came to roaring, agonizing life. One arm dead, the other much too alive, I needed to vanish so I could heal.

"Hands up!"

William D. Taylor (the Fourth) had me covered with an efficient-looking semiauto. A.32 or.38, it gave the impression of being field artillery from my angle on the floor.

I froze. I hate getting shot. It hurts like hell, I lose precious blood, and the bullets go right through to hit anything and anyone with the bad luck to be behind me. I also tend to involuntarily vanish. With the damage I already had, I'd not be able to stop the process.

Couldn't risk it in front of this bunch. None of them needed to know that much about me. In the spirit of cooperation, I tried to raise my one moving arm. Pain blazed down it like an electric shock. I gasped and hunched over it, suddenly queasy. My left arm wasn't responding at all; a major nerve or something was gone, couldn't feel it except as a heavy dragging weight. I smelled blood where the skin was broken on my shoulder, but the black shirt hid it.