“There must be another hidden switch,” Swinburne whispered.

His voice broke Burton’s paralysis. The explorer lowered his lantern and immediately saw the eye design near the base of the wall. He crouched and, with his right hand, took the pistol from his waistband. With his left, he turned off the lamp, reached into the darkness, and placed his fingers against the brick.

“Not a sound, Algy,” he hissed.

He pressed—clunk!—then reached up and pushed against the barrier. It gave a little, clicked, and swung inward to reveal a dimly lit vault.

Burton leaned forward and peered out. There was no one in sight but light was streaming past a corner to his left and he could hear voices. He crawled from the secret tunnel and straightened. Swinburne emerged and stood beside him. They exchanged a glance, then—bending low and moving on tiptoe—crept past coffin-filled alcoves and gated bays toward the illumination.

A weird shadow convulsed and quivered across the wall opposite the end of the passage, as if cast by a tangle of struggling bodies. Burton and Swinburne froze and stared as a part of it extended and uncurled, and they recognised a hand. It possessed too many fingers and the limb it was attached to had three elbows.

A voice echoed, “Is something wrong, Mr. Hare? You appear to be agitated.”

A dreadful gurgling voice responded, “I sense something, Mr. Burke. A presence.”

“Check, but don’t be long. The storm is almost at its height. Your assistance may be required.”

The shadow lurched. Parts of it unfolded. Other parts coiled.

Seven clawed talons curled around the corner of the wall.

Burton tried to raise his pistol but was transfixed by a dreadful fascination. Swinburne, too, was rooted to the spot.

With terrifying swiftness, the source of the shadow floundered into view and rushed at them. There was a brief glimpse of thrashing multi-jointed limbs; of an incomprehensible knot of arms and legs and boneless appendages; of many black, glittering eyes and a hideous fanged maw; then it was upon them, and Burton felt himself gripped, crushed, and smothered.

He yelled, fired the pistol, and blacked out.

“In Magick, on the contrary, one passes through the veil of the exterior world (which, as in Yoga, but in another sense, becomes ‘unreal’ by comparison as one passes beyond), one creates a subtle body (instrument is a better term) called the Body of Light; this one develops and controls; it gains new powers as one progresses, usually by means of what is called ‘initiation’: finally, one carries on almost one’s whole life in this Body of Light, and achieves in its own way the mastery of the Universe.”

—ALEISTER CROWLEY, MAGICK WITHOUT TEARS

Burton opened his eyes and saw, inches in front of them, orange light wavering across white silk padding. Something was burning his hand. He moved it and recognised the shape of his clockwork lantern. He realised that he and it were inside a coffin.

Buried alive.

With a yell of terror, he slammed his hands into the lid. It came loose, slid aside, and fell away with a loud crash. He threw himself out of the box and tumbled to the floor, panting wildly, his fingers digging into the crevices between flagstones, clinging to physical existence.

Panic slowly loosed its claws and his senses stabilised. He glanced around. He was in one of the bays; its iron gate closed, chained, and padlocked. There were five coffins occupying the shelves; the one he’d been in, three that were dusty and cobwebbed, and another that appeared new. From inside the latter, he heard movement.

Burton pushed himself to his feet, took hold of the coffin’s lid, and eased it open. Swinburne was inside. The poet blinked and mumbled, “I’m famished. What’s for breakfast?”

“It’s not morning, Algy. We’re in the catacombs.”

Swinburne sat up, his eyes widening. “By my Aunt Tabitha’s terrible touring hat! I dreamt a horrible monster!”

A familiar chorus of voices said, “No dream, Mr. Swinburne. It was Gregory Hare.”

Burton turned. Perdurabo—still inhabiting the body of Thomas Honesty—was standing on the other side of the gate, his eyes black and his mouth twisted into a nasty smile. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He said, “You caused him considerable damage, Burton; left him a bruised brain inside a burned and mangled carcass. You have my gratitude.”

“Gratitude?”

“Growing a new body from material harvested from corpses is a complex business even in 1918, where it’s a well-established science. My people have had to cobble equipment together from what they could find here in your primitive time. Our first creation was an utter mess, but Mr. Hare, who would otherwise have died, allowed us to transfer his consciousness into it, which kept it alive and thus allowed us to examine its faults and perfect the technique.” He held an arm out to the left, and from that direction a shuffling and dragging sounded. The abomination that had captured them flopped into view. Its many eyes glittered. Its profusion of knees and elbows angled chaotically. Its long, many-jointed fingers twitched and trembled. A large nodule at the side of its misshapen core split wetly open to reveal long, uneven fangs.

“Good afternoon, Sir Richard,” it bubbled. “Had I known it was you at Down House, I would have broken your neck rather than your arm.”

“Hello, Mr. Hare,” Burton replied. “You’re looking well.”

Swinburne gave a screech of amusement.

“Let me have him,” Hare said to Perdurabo. “I’m hungry.”

His master waved him away impatiently. “Later. I want him to witness my rebirth. Go and check the other catacomb, Mr. Hare. He may have brought more men with him.”

Reluctantly, the creature scrambled away, its talons clicking and scraping across the floor.

Perdurabo wiped his face with his sleeve and closed his eyes. He swayed slightly, appearing to lose himself momentarily.

“You’re pale,” Burton said. “Weak. The hour, I suppose.”

The black eyes met his. “Indeed so. It is difficult for me to move this body during the daylight hours. Tom Honesty is a good deal stronger than he looks. He’s a very uncomfortable vehicle, Burton. I shall be glad to be rid of him.”

Perdurabo turned his attention to Swinburne. “I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr. Swinburne. In my history, you are regarded as England’s finest romantic poet. I have admired your work since I was a boy.” He stopped, frowned, and continued, “It is curious, though—during the final days of the war in Africa, I sensed a vague but omniscient presence which I could never identify. You exude the same charisma. Have you travelled to the future, sir?”

“Knowing I’d find you there?” the poet responded. “Most certainly not.”

Perdurabo threw his arms wide. “Ah. Such are the convolutions of time. What is true of this history is not necessarily the truth of another. Confessions and denials mean far less when every possibility gives birth to a new reality.” He closed his eyes again and put his head back. Dreamily, he continued, “I can feel them; all those futures. Division after division; an infinity of causes and consequences blurring together. Time itself is evolving, my friends, and mankind must review his relationship with it if he is to survive.”

“The 1918 you came from,” Burton interrupted, “it is not a part of this world’s future. Why did you cross into an alternate past? And of all of them, why this one in particular, Crowley? ”

At the use of his real name, Thomas Honesty’s eyebrows shot up. “You know more than I anticipated! How?”

“I have my resources.”

“And are hardly likely to give them away. Very well. I understand. You play a very good game, but in vain, I’m afraid, for there is but one of you—” the abundant tones of his voice suddenly intensified and separated from one another slightly, so, even more, it sounded as if a crowd was speaking all at once, “—while I am manifold.”