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Hidden	City
By	Kyra	Wheatley
	
	
Lost	in	the	Shadows
Book#1
©	2016	H.S.	Happy	Star	Games	Ltd
All	rights	reserved
Published	by	G5	Entertainment	AB
	
	
	
Other	«Hidden	City»	books	by	Kyra	Wheatley:
Lost	in	the	Shadows	(Book#1)
The	Shades	of	Silence	(Book	#2)
Darkness	Outside	and	In	(Book	#3)
The	Reality	of	Dreams	(Book	#4)
Prisoners	of	the	Mist	(Book	#5)
	
	
Are	 you	 the	 one	 to	 reveal	 the	 secret	 of	 Shadow	City?	Play
Hidden	 City®:	 Mystery	 of	 Shadows	 to	 find	 out!	 Available	 on
iOS,	Google	Play,	Amazon,	Windows,	Mac.
	
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https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0118779GQ
https://www.microsoft.com/en-us/store/p/hidden-city-mystery-of-shadows/9nblggh6j6vk?tduid=(0ca03c8952dfc544c31a267e81917537)(231759)(2781077)()()
https://itunes.apple.com/app/id1124877084?mt=12
Chapter	One
	
Nicole	 hurried	 toward	 an	 old	 house	 shrouded	 in	 mist.	 Its	 windows
glowed	crimson	in	the	twilight.	A	large,	round	clock	hung	over	the	front	door,
its	only	remaining	hand	stuck	at	a	quarter	past	two	under	the	broken	glass.
Quarter	past	two.	Why	did	it	sound	so	important?	There	was	a	wistful
memory	in	those	words—a	secret,	deep	and	dark.
A	bolt	of	lightning	pierced	the	sky,	illuminating	the	dark	shapes	of	the
trees	 and	 houses	 that	 lined	 the	 cobblestone	 square.	 Nicole	 walked	 faster,
drawn	 to	 the	 door	 below	 the	 clock.	 She	 reached	 for	 a	 black	 eye-shaped
pendant	on	her	chest.	It	was	warm	now,	and	getting	warmer	with	every	step.
The	 door	 loomed	 closer.	 Nicole	 reached	 for	 the	 handle,	 and	 it
squirmed	in	her	hand.
She	 recoiled,	 but	 the	 shriveled	 human	 hand	 that	 served	 as	 a	 door
handle	 clutched	 her	 fingers	 in	 its	 skeletal	 grasp.	 The	 pendant	 was	 glowing
orange	now,	breathing	heat,	burning	her	chest.	Nicole	 tried	 to	pull	her	hand
free.	With	a	quiet	jingle	of	bells,	the	door	began	to	open.	Behind	it,	shadows
moved	in	the	deep	crimson	haze.
The	 bells	 rang	 stronger	 and	 louder,	 forcing	 her	 out	 of	 her	 slumber.
Nicole	lay	on	her	back	in	her	own	bed,	her	hand	clutching	the	pendant.	Her
smartphone	on	the	bedside	table	kept	jingling,	stopping,	then	jingling	again.
Same	dream	again.
Nicole	reached	for	the	phone	and	saw	an	incoming	message.	It	had	to
be	yet	another	job	interview	appointment.
She	turned	and	sat	up,	still	overwhelmed	by	the	dream	she	must	have
had	a	thousand	times	already.	The	dream	had	left	her	empty	and	broken	every
time	she'd	woken,	and	now	that	she'd	lost	her	old	job,	thanks	to	this	constant
lack	of	sleep,	she	had	to	look	for	a	new	one.
There	was	only	one	message	in	her	inbox,	from	the	Quarter	Past	Two
cafe	chain.	It	was	an	appointment	form	for	a	waitressing	interview.
Oh	well.	Anything	is	better	 than	nothing.	She	was	about	to	close	the
message	when	she	noticed	the	company's	logo.
An	old,	round	clock,	its	one	remaining	hand	ornate	and	frozen	under
the	broken	glass	at	a	quarter	past	two.
The	 clock	 from	 her	 dream,	 the	 one	 over	 the	 front	 door	 of	 that	 red-
windowed	 house.	 Nicole	 sat	 up,	 wide	 awake	 now,	 her	 eyes	 fixed	 on	 her
cellphone.	How	did	this	cafe	chain	know	about	it?	Why	would	they	put	it	on
their	logo?
The	 dream	 had	 haunted	 her	 for	 many	 years	 now—her	 dream,	 her
obsession,	the	source	of	all	her	grief.	Nicole	fingered	the	pendant	on	her	chest
—black,	eye-shaped	and	cold,	as	usual.	She'd	been	wearing	it	ever	since	she
was	thirteen—ever	since	she'd	unearthed	it	in	one	of	her	mom's	storage	boxes
labeled,	Useless	Junk.	According	to	Mom,	the	pendant	was	the	only	valuable
thing	 left	 from	 Grandma.	 Nicole	 remembered	 Grandma	 surprisingly	 well,
considering	she'd	last	seen	her	many	years	ago,	just	before	she'd	disappeared.
Mom	always	used	 to	say	Nicole	 reminded	her	of	Grandma	a	 lot	 in	 the	way
she	spoke,	moved	and	even	looked.
Quarter	past	two.
Slowly,	Nicole	stood	up.	What	a	weird	start	to	the	morning.	Mom	used
to	tell	her	that	these	had	been	the	exact	words	Grandma	had	said	before	she'd
disappeared:	I'll	leave	at	a	quarter	past	two.	Not	I'll	be	back	at	a	quarter	past
or	something	similar,	but	 leave.	Then	Grandma	had	 taken	her	 favorite	black
purse	with	an	eye-shaped	buckle	and	stepped	outside	.	.	.	and	no	one	had	seen
her	since.
The	memory	of	her	dream	engulfed	her	 like	a	gust	of	wind.	But	 this
wasn't	 a	 dream.	 This	was	 real.	 Nicole	 looked	 at	 the	 tiny,	 flat	 phone	 in	 her
hand,	its	screen	glowing,	the	job	interview	message	still	in	the	inbox,	with	the
company	logo	featuring	the	old	clock	with	one	hand	missing.
The	message	listed	the	company's	address	and	phone	number.	Nicole
paced	 the	 narrow	 room	 a	 few	 times	 before	 she	 sat	 back	 down	 and	 forced
herself	to	dial	it.	She	wasn't	the	outgoing	type,	and	talking	to	strangers	gave
her	that	panicky	feeling,	even	on	the	phone.	"Completely	nuts,"	the	CD	shop
manager	had	remarked	the	other	day	when	he'd	fired	her.
Still,	 it	 seemed	 too	 much	 of	 a	 coincidence.	 She	 simply	 had	 to
investigate,	even	at	the	expense	of	her	waitressing	job.
A	woman's	stern	voice	answered	the	phone.	Nicole	cleared	her	throat
and	tried	to	sound	businesslike.
"Hello?	This	is,	er,	Kyra	.	.	."	She	desperately	rummaged	through	her
brain	 for	a	name	 that	would	sound	believable.	"Yes,	Kyra	Wheatley.	 I	work
for	the	municipal	newspaper.	I—"
She	choked	and	paused,	trying	to	conceal	the	shaking	in	her	voice.
"I'm	researching	an	article	about	our	local	eateries.	Just	places	where
one	can	go	for	a	quick	bite.	It's	not	a	commercial.	We'll	write	about	you	for
free,	 and	 you	might	 get	 a	 few	 new	 customers	 for	 your	 trouble.	 Could	 you
please	tell	me	how	long	your	chain	has	been	in	business?"
Nicole	 blurted	 it	 all	 out	 and	 stopped,	 catching	 her	 breath.	Her	 heart
was	pumping	hard	against	her	chest.
The	woman	paused	and	said	hesitantly	into	the	phone,	"We	.	.	.	well	.	.
.	we've	been	around	for	quite	a	while."
"How	 long,	 exactly?"	 demanded	 Nicole,	 wishing	 the	 earth	 would
swallow	her	whole.	"You	do	understand	that	our	newspaper's	sources	have	to
be	objective	and	verifiable,	don't	you?"
"We	.	.	.	well	.	.	.	."	The	voice	faltered.	"We've	been	around	for	quite	a
few	years,	as	far	as	I	know.	You'd	better	talk	to	Mr.	Chuck,	our	head	manager.
Or	even	.	.	.	."
Talking	to	 their	manager	didn't	 figure	 into	Nicole's	plans.	Surely,	 the
more	experienced	Mr.	Chuck	would	see	right	through	her.	So	she	licked	her
dry	lips	and	attempted	to	sound	even	more	matter-of-fact.
"We'll	discuss	it	at	a	later	date.	If	you	could,	please	tell	me	just	a	few
words	 about	 your	 chain's	 look.	 In	 my	 article,	 I'm	 planning	 to	 expand	 on
current	 trends	 in	 interior	 design—especially	 shop	 signs.	 For	 instance,	 if	 I
could	 ask	 you,	 who	 created	 your	 logo?	 And	 what's	 the	 philosophy	 behind
your	name,	Quarter	Past	Two?	It's	a	great	name,	very	memorable,	but	what
did	you	mean	by	it?"
"Er,	well,	the	idea	is	that	one	can	drop	by	for	a	quick	meal	at	about	a
quarter	 past	 two,	 I	 suppose."	 The	 woman's	 voice	 trailed	 off.	 After	 a	 long
pause,	she	asked,	her	 tone	suspicious,	"What	paper	did	you	say	you	worked
for?"
Nicole's	heart	pounded,	 the	phone	slippery	 in	her	 sweaty	hands.	She
wrinkled	her	forehead,	trying	to	come	up	with	a	name,	but	she	couldn't	think
of	 anything	 apart	 from	 an	 admittedly	 idiotic	 Happy	 News.	 The	 woman's
muted	voice	 spoke	 to	 someone	 in	 her	 office.	 "Mr.	Chuck?	 I've	 got	 a	 phone
call	for	you."
Nicole	 hung	 up	 and	 clutched	 at	 her	 pendant,	 breathless.	 It	 hadn't
worked.	What	now?	She	bit	her	lip,	thinking.	The	only	thing	left	to	do,	really,
was	to	go	to	the	address	indicated	in	the	message	and	see	for	herself.
Who	knows?	She	might	even	get	thejob	for	her	trouble.
The	Quarter	Past	Two	offices	were	in	a	small	building	in	the	industrial
zone.	Nicole	 had	 half-prepared	 herself	 to	 see	 all	 kinds	 of	wonders,	 but	 the
place	 turned	 out	 to	 be	 mundane,	 to	 say	 the	 least.	 A	 mousy,	 middle-aged
secretary	sat	at	the	reception	desk.	A	heavy,	leather-covered	door	behind	her
sported	a	dull	 sign	 that	 read,	Mr.	Chuck.	Three	girls	waited	by	 the	opposite
wall—apparently,	 job	applicants.	The	chain	had	 to	be	opening	a	new	outlet.
Either	that,	or	they	had	a	suspiciously	high	staff	turnover	rate.
The	secretary	gave	Nicole	a	critical	stare.	Nicole	was	wearing	a	cheap
pair	of	blue	jeans,	old	tennis	shoes	she	should	have	replaced	long	ago,	a	long,
baggy	gray	sweater,	and	a	scarf	around	her	neck.	Nicole	had	bought	the	jeans
at	a	sale,	and	as	for	the	sweater,	she'd	found	it	in	the	same	storage	box	as	the
pendant.	Later,	Mom	had	told	her	that	Grandma	had	loved	wearing	it,	right	up
until	 she'd	 disappeared.	 Thick	 and	 heavy,	 the	 sweater	 seemed	 virtually
indestructible.
The	secretary	pursed	her	lips,	studying	her	look.	"Your	name,	please?"
She	 was	 the	 woman	 who'd	 spoken	 to	 Nicole	 on	 the	 phone.	 If	 she
recognized	the	weird	newspaper	girl's	voice	.	.	.	.
"Stewart,"	Nicole	answered	timidly,	trying	to	change	her	tone.	"Nicole
Stewart."	Out	of	the	corner	of	her	eye,	she	glanced	at	the	secretary's	business
suit	and	hair,	which	was	styled	in	a	tight	bun.	You'd	meet	her	in	the	street	and
immediately	forget	what	she	looked	like.
"You're	 late."	The	 secretary's	words	 reminded	her	of	her	old	 science
teacher.	Nicole	used	to	be	late	for	her	early-morning	science	class	more	often
than	 she'd	 like	 to	 admit.	 "Mr.	Chuck	 is	 currently	 busy.	You'll	 have	 to	wait.
You	can	fill	in	the	form	in	the	meantime."
As	 Nicole	 took	 her	 place	 in	 line,	 she	 decided	 that	 the	 office	 was
nothing	special	or	mysterious.	Nothing	hinted	at	her	dream	.	.	.	or	Grandma.
She	cast	a	glance	at	the	others.	The	secretary,	unhurried	and	dignified,
was	going	through	some	paperwork	on	her	desk.	Her	sense	of	self-importance
was	written	all	over	her.	But	what	did	she	try	to	conceal	behind	it?	A	lonely
existence	where	your	life	was	nearly	over	and	you	were	afraid	to	admit	you
hadn't	gotten	anywhere?
Nicole	shifted	her	gaze	to	the	other	job	seekers.	Three	girls,	perfectly
normal.	The	first	in	line	kept	chattering	into	her	phone,	her	dark	hair	cropped,
her	clothes	cheap	but	flashy.	Nicole	smiled	knowingly.	She	knew	the	type.
Noticing	Nicole's	 stare,	 the	 girl	 shot	 her	 a	 hostile	 glance	 and	 turned
away.	Oh	well.	Girls	like	her	couldn't	be	interested	in	the	likes	of	Nicole.	Not
posh	enough	for	them.
The	 second	 job	 applicant	 was	 considerably	 older,	 probably	 more
experienced,	 too.	 Ungroomed	 and	 slightly	 overweight,	 her	 stare	 was
indifferent—one	of	those	women	whose	motto	was	Life's	over,	so	let's	watch
some	TV.
The	third	one	was	really	young,	fifteen	or	sixteen	at	the	most,	and	very
edgy,	biting	her	lip	and	fingering	her	skirt.	This	could	be	her	first	 interview.
The	 girl	 kept	 rereading	 her	 application—probably	 checking	 it	 for	 spelling
mistakes.
Nicole	could	see	their	life	stories	so	clearly,	as	if	she'd	known	all	three
girls	for	a	long	while.	Finally,	she	sighed	and	looked	at	her	own	application
form,	glancing	over	familiar	questions.
As	usual,	 a	wide,	 empty	 field	 stared	 at	 her	 in	 the	Education	History
section.	Her	 education	history	would	 fit	 into	 one	word.	Mom	cleaned	hotel
rooms	for	a	living	and	couldn't	really	afford	to	send	her	to	college.	Dad	had
died	in	a	car	accident	when	she	was	just	five,	and	she	didn't	remember	him	at
all.	 Nicole	 had	 started	 working	 early.	 You'd	 think,	 what	 could	 be	 so
interesting	about	her?	And	still,	she	believed	herself	special.
At	 first,	 she'd	cleaned	hotel	 rooms	with	Mom.	Then,	 she	had	parked
cars	 and	waitressed.	Most	 recently,	 she'd	 found	 the	CD	 shop	 job	 that	 she'd
now	lost.
And	all	 the	while,	 it	 felt	as	 if	 she'd	been	 living	a	 life	 that	wasn't	her
own	but	somebody	else's.	Her	existence	was	only	a	dull,	drawn-out	dream	in
anticipation	of	something	big	and	incredible.	If	she	could	only	make	an	effort
and	wake	up.
"Nicole	 Stewart,	 you're	 next."	 The	 secretary	 brought	 her	 back	 to
reality.
Without	taking	her	eyes	off	the	application,	Nicole	nodded	and	picked
up	 a	 pen.	 Name.	 Age.	 Special	 skills.	 Eh?	 She	 frowned,	 rereading	 the	 last
section.	That's	a	really	weird	question	 to	ask	a	potential	waitress.	What	was
she	supposed	to	say?	That	she	could	balance	a	tray	full	of	drinks	on	her	head?
What	a	load	of	junk.
Still,	 she	 didn't	 want	 to	 leave	 the	 field	 empty.	 Nicole	 thought	 and
wrote,	Good	judge	of	character.	You	could	call	it	a	special	skill,	couldn't	you?
Apart	 from	 the	weird	dream	 that	had	been	haunting	her	all	her	 life,	and	 the
strange	sensation	of	 the	unreality	of	 it	all—the	unreality	 that	she	would	one
day	shed,	like	one	would	shed	an	old	dress	they’re	fed	up	with,	finding	herself
in	 the	 real,	 breathing	world—Nicole	 took	 pride	 in	 that	 sixth	 sense	 that	 had
never	 failed	 her,	 getting	 her	 out	 of	 trouble	 before	 it	 even	 came.	 This	 sixth
sense	was	another	reason	she	considered	herself	special.
She	 signed	 the	 application	 just	 as	 the	 secretary	 called	 her	 name,
pointing	 at	 the	manager's	 door.	Walking	 toward	 it,	 Nicole	 glanced	 into	 the
mirror	by	the	secretary's	desk	and	stumbled,	dumbfounded.
The	pendant	wasn't	 black	 any	more—it	was	 orange!	 Just	 like	 in	 her
dream.	Mechanically,	 she	clutched	 it,	 expecting	 to	 feel	 the	warmth,	or	 even
heat,	the	way	it	had	felt	in	her	dream.	But	the	pendant	stayed	cold.
The	secretary	gave	her	a	puzzled	look.	The	door	opened,	as	if	on	cue.
It	had	to	be	Mr.	Chuck	who'd	pushed	it	open,	Nicole	thought,	and	walked	in.
She	found	herself	in	a	spacious	office.	A	man	in	a	business	suit	sat	at	a
large	 desk,	 studying	 some	 papers.	 He	 didn't	 even	 raise	 his	 head	 to
acknowledge	her	entrance.
Nicole	stepped	in	and	looked	around—who	had	pushed	the	door	open
for	her?—but	she	didn't	see	anyone	else.	Without	raising	his	head,	Mr.	Chuck
pointed	at	a	chair	by	the	desk.
When	Nicole	perched	herself	on	its	edge,	 the	manager	asked,	"Can	I
see	your	application?"
She	 handed	 the	 sheet	 to	 Mr.	 Chuck	 while	 studying	 him.	 He	 had	 a
handsome	face,	but	it	was	kind	of	weak.	His	blond	hair	was	perfectly	set.	His
smooth,	unnaturally	shiny	skin	looked	hard	to	touch,	like	a	waxed	apple	at	the
craft	store.
Behind	 the	 desk,	 next	 to	 a	 tall	 figurine	 of	 a	 rampant	wolf,	 she	 saw
another	 door	 totally	 out	 of	 keeping	 with	 the	 rest	 of	 the	 office.	 It	 was
elaborately	carved	with	prickly	vines,	 its	handle	 thin	and	gray	against	wood
so	darkly	red	it	was	almost	black.
"If	what	it	says	here	is	correct,	then	I	have	every	reason	to	believe	you
answer	our	purposes,"	the	manager	said	in	a	level,	emotionless	voice.	"Is	all
the	information	you've	communicated	true	to	fact?"
Mr.	Chuck	spoke	like	a	machine.	And	the	phrases	he	used,	have	every
reason,	 true	 to	 fact	 .	 .	 .	 no	one	 that	Nicole	knew	 spoke	 like	 that.	And	 then
there	was	this	polished	skin	of	his	and	dull,	unmoving	stare.
Nicole	 suddenly	 realized	 that	 she	 was	 clutching	 the	 pendant	 while
staring	at	Mr.	Chuck	as	if	she'd	seen	a	ghost.	He	was	patiently	waiting	for	her
to	answer.
"Sorry,"	she	hurriedly	offered.	"Yes,	sure.	What	it	says	is	all	true."
Her	 answer	 sounded	 so	 stupid	 that	Nicole	 blushed	 and	 looked	up	 at
him.	The	manager's	 unblinking	 stare	 sent	 shivers	 down	 her	 spine.	His	 eyes
were	cold	and	 lifeless,	 like	 those	of	a	 lizard's—no,	even	a	 lizard's	gaze	was
more	human.	This	was	like	a	shop	mannequin	staring	at	you.
But	 strangely,	 despite	 her	 ability	 to	 tune	 in	 to	 people's	 inner	 selves,
Nicole	 just	 couldn't	work	 this	one	out.	She	had	no	 idea	what	he	was	about.
Just	some	automaton	sitting	at	a	desk,	bossingeveryone	around	.	.	.
Finally,	Mr.	Chuck	said	 in	 the	same	emotionless	voice,	"Very	well.	 I
need	to	consult	my	superiors	now.	You	will	have	to	wait	while	we	deliberate.
If	you	will	please	proceed	through	this	door	.	.	.	."
He	didn't	even	move,	but	Nicole	 immediately	knew	which	door	he'd
meant—the	carved	wooden	one.	She	rose,	not	knowing	what	to	say,	but	Mr.
Chuck	had	already	stuck	his	head	back	into	his	paperwork.
Glancing	at	 the	wolf	 figurine—its	bronze	eyes	 fixed	on	her—Nicole
stepped	to	the	door.	She	reached	for	the	handle	and	sensed	the	familiar	grasp.
The	skeleton's	hand	was	clutching	hers.	Nicole	gasped,	recoiling.	The
memory	of	her	dream	engulfed	her	like	a	gust	of	wind.	She	must	be	asleep	in
her	bed,	and	that's	what	was	causing	all	these	weird	things—the	broken	clock
on	the	logo	and	the	machine-like	Mr.	Chuck.	She	thought	she	heard	a	voice,	a
whisper.
It	was	all	a	dream,	yes.	You'll	wake	up	now.
The	 next	 moment,	 the	 shriveled	 fingers	 grasped	 her	 hand	 tighter,
pulling	 and	dragging	 her	 along.	The	 door	 opened	wide,	 and	 then	 the	world
disappeared.	Nicole	collapsed	into	a	bottomless	void.
	
Chapter	Two
	
His	name	was	Sam,	but	everyone	in	the	City	called	him	Gumshoe.
Most	of	 the	City's	 residents	chose	 to	go	by	some	kind	of	moniker—
most,	but	not	everyone.	The	woman	from	the	House	of	Fate	didn't	really	care
whether	 people	 called	 her	 Martha	 or	 the	 Medium.	 Juliet	 had	 decided	 to
remain	 Juliet.	And	 as	 for	Valerie,	Gumshoe	 had	 a	 funny	 feeling	 she'd	 only
come	up	with	her	name	when	she'd	 first	 arrived	 in	 the	City.	She'd	probably
been	called	something	totally	different	in	the	past.
He	 stood	 on	 the	 edge	 of	 the	 cobblestone	 square.	Mist	 wreathed	 the
surrounding	houses,	 shrouding	 them	in	 the	 twilight.	This	was	 the	City	mist,
almost	 alive	 at	 times,	 unlike	 anything	 else	you'd	 seen.	Sometimes,	 it	would
reach	 into	 a	 void,	 bringing	back	 strange	 artifacts	 or	 just	 simple	objects	 that
nevertheless	 acted	 strangely.	 At	 other	 times,	 it	 came	 back	with	 dummies—
various	 objects	 that	 had	 long	 ago	 lost	 their	 power.	Martha	 insisted	 that	 the
mist	was	the	City's	blood—but	then	again,	she	often	spoke	in	riddles.
Gumshoe	adjusted	his	fedora	and	squinted	at	the	pavestones.
An	 unstable	 pyramid	 of	 decaying	 old	 casks	 was	 heaped	 up	 in	 the
center	of	the	square.	This	was	where	the	recent	bodies	had	appeared.	Young
girls.	Always	dead.	About	 the	same	age	and	appearance.	None	of	 them	had
been	noticed	in	the	City	before.
Train	Attendant	had	assured	him	that	none	of	 them	had	been	seen	at
the	Station,	although	this	was	where	most	newcomers	would	normally	arrive.
As	far	as	Gumshoe	was	concerned,	the	girls	must	have	materialized,	already
dead,	right	there	by	the	casks.
He'd	 failed	 to	 determine	 the	 cause	 of	 death.	 Their	 faces	 were	 blue,
their	cheeks	were	sunken,	and	panic	showed	in	their	glazed-over	eyes.	There
were	no	apparent	wounds,	no	signs	of	injections	or	bites,	nothing.	Could	they
have	been	poisoned?
Gumshoe	had	been	on	 the	case	 for	 several	days	now.	Still,	 he	didn't
have	the	slightest	lead.	He	had	no	idea	where	the	bodies	had	come	from.
He	leaned	against	a	dilapidated	house	wall,	watching	the	square.	Most
houses	 had	 been	 deserted,	 apart	 from	 City	 Hall	 (if	 ghosts	 could	 count	 as
lodgers),	 the	 cafe	 (long	 story	 and	 rather	 confusing)	 and	 a	 couple	 more
buildings.
The	night's	chill	clung	to	his	raincoat.	Gumshoe	lived	in	the	loft	of	an
abandoned	building	on	the	fringes	of	the	City's	inhabited	quarter,	but	at	least
he'd	set	up	his	lab	as	close	to	the	square	as	he	could.
In	 the	City,	 there	was	 plenty	 of	 living	 space—and	 clothing.	Clothes
hung	in	abandoned	shops	for	everyone	to	browse.	Gumshoe	preferred	classic
suits	 and	 light-colored	 shirts.	 He	 didn't	 wear	 ties	 but	 had	 amassed	 a	 nice
collection	of	fedoras.	As	for	shoes,	he	liked	his	soft	and	light.
His	eyes	on	the	square,	he	reached	into	his	raincoat	pocket	for	a	silver
cigarette	case	with	a	crest	on	the	top.	He	had	no	idea	what	 the	squiggles	on
the	crest	signified.	He'd	picked	up	the	case	from	the	abandoned	tobacconist's
shop	by	 the	 river.	 Inside,	 little	 rectangles	of	 rolling	paper	 lay	 clipped	down
next	 to	 a	 sealed	 tobacco	 compartment.	 The	 tobacco	 smelled	 great—high
quality.	Where	Gumshoe	used	to	live	before,	you'd	have	had	to	pay	a	fortune
for	tobacco	like	that,	and	the	riverside	shop	still	had	cratefuls	of	it	left.
He	rolled	himself	a	cigarette,	his	big	fingers	strong	and	agile.	Then	he
clicked	the	button	of	the	lighter	on	the	side	of	the	cigarette	case	and	lit	up.	He
snapped	the	case	shut,	the	sound	reaching	far	over	the	silent	square.
Gumshoe	put	the	cigarette	case	back	into	his	pocket	and	checked	his
holstered	gun.	Unlike	clothes,	guns	were	a	problem	here.	Certain	machinery
didn't	work	in	the	City	at	all.	Besides,	you'd	be	hard-pressed	to	find	anything
modern—that	is,	anything	from	the	period	Gumshoe	used	to	live	in.	The	gun
in	 his	 holster	was	 an	 older	 type	 and	 unknown	 to	 him,	 a	 basic	 break-barrel
single-shot	affair	without	a	drum.
So!	Was	anything	going	to	happen	here	tonight	or	what?	His	cigarette
glowed	red	in	the	dark.	There	were	no	lamps	in	the	square,	only	the	moon	and
some	streetlights	that	cast	their	glow	over	some	of	the	adjacent	streets.	Train
Attendant	used	to	say	that	they	were	lit	by	Lamplighter,	who	made	his	rounds
across	the	City	on	moonless	nights.
The	air	stood	still	in	the	quiet.	On	the	edge	of	the	square,	thick	clouds
of	mist	 slowly	 shifted	 their	 shapes.	 If	 they	 rolled	 closer,	 you'd	have	 to	 take
shelter	 in	 one	 of	 the	 houses,	 lock	 the	 door,	 and	wait	 till	 the	mist	 subsided.
Entering	 it	was	dangerous.	You	either	 risked	an	unwanted	meeting	or	could
lose	your	way,	ending	up	in	the	middle	of	nowhere.
A	 light	 flickered	 in	 one	 of	 the	 side	 streets	 opposite	 the	 square.
Gumshoe	 pushed	 himself	 away	 from	 the	wall	 and	 raised	 his	 head,	 lunging
forward.	What	was	going	on	there?	Cautiously,	he	skirted	the	square	along	the
house	walls.	Anyone	could	hide	in	the	shadows—anyone	or	anything	deadly
—taking	 your	 life	 or	 sucking	 your	 strength,	 turning	 you	 into	 a	 corpse	 or	 a
ghost.	The	City	produced	some	remarkable	creatures	indeed.
The	 flicker	 in	 the	 side	 street	 disappeared	 and	 came	 back	 on,	 then
another	one,	and	another—all	red.
Gumshoe	was	far	from	being	a	coward.	Still,	he	hesitated.
The	red	lights?	Could	it	be—
The	House	of	Crimson	Windows?
At	that	moment,	in	a	dull	flash	of	murky	green	light,	a	girl	appeared	in
the	 square.	She	 lay	on	 the	cobblestones.	Then,	 she	 raised	her	head,	 looking
around,	and	sat	up.	Slowly,	she	forced	herself	onto	her	feet,	shaking	the	dirt
off	her	clothes.
She	was	alive.	Did	it	mean	that	the	others,	too,	had	arrived	here	alive
and	only	died	afterward?	He	could	clearly	see	the	girl's	silhouette	against	the
pile	of	old	casks	left	here	by	God	knew	whom	or	when.
Men	in	dark,	hooded	robes	appeared	from	behind	the	casks.	Gumshoe
ran.
Nicole	 lay	on	a	hard,	cold	surface.	Pale	spots	swam	before	her	eyes,
her	 thoughts	 scattered	 and	 confused.	 First,	 her	 dream,	 then	 the	 phone
message,	 the	 company	 logo	 and	 the	 interview,	 Mr.	 Chuck,	 and	 the	 door
concealing	the	void	beneath.	What	had	happened	to	her?
A	black,	starless	sky	loomed	overhead.	To	her	right,	a	moon	hung	over
the	rooftops,	unusually	large,	its	unfamiliar	spots	forming	a	woman's	face	or
some	kind	of	crest.	The	air	was	damp	and	chilly.	Nicole	felt	beside	her.	She
seemed	to	be	lying	on	a	cobblestone	pavement.	The	stones	were	wet.
Nicole	 sat	up	and	started	shaking	 the	mud	off	her	clothes.	Her	 jeans
were	 now	 ruined,	 and	 so	was	Grandma's	 sweater.	 Slowly,	 she	 scrambled	 to
her	feet	and	looked	around,	biting	her	lip.
Nicole	 stood	 in	 the	deserted	 square	of	 an	old	 town	next	 to	 a	 pile	 of
some	 decaying	 old	 casks.	 Some	 of	 the	 buildings	 around	 lay	 in	 ruins,	 theirroofs	caved	in,	their	doors	and	windows	broken.	Others	next	to	them	looked
as	good	as	new	 though.	A	few	others	were	so	overgrown	with	 ivy	 that	 they
reminded	her	of	mossy	cliffs.
Also,	 the	 shadows.	 Lots	 of	 them.	 On	 the	 stairs,	 under	 the	 ledges,
hiding	 by	 the	 walls	 and	 in	 gateways,	 even	 between	 the	 cobblestones.	 The
entire	square	around	Nicole	was	alive	with	a	thick	web	of	moving	shadows.
Her	 gaze	 stopped	 at	 an	 old	 house	 lurking	 in	 a	 lane	 to	 her	 right.	 Its
windows	glowed	red.	A	broken	clock	over	the	house's	front	door	pointed	its
only	remaining	hand	at	a	quarter	past	two.
Shivering,	Nicole	grasped	her	shoulders.	She	had	to	be	going	crazy.
No,	 not	 crazy.	 Just	 waking	 up.	Wasn't	 she?	 Her	 old	 world,	 the	 one
she'd	been	forced	to	live	in	ever	since	she'd	been	a	baby,	had	now	dissipated
like	a	bad	dream.
The	house	with	 the	 clock	 seemed	 to	 be	 calling	her	 name,	 luring	her
closer.	Nicole	froze,	undecided.	Should	she	go	there?	Or	shouldn't	she?	With
curiosity	fighting	fear,	she	knew	she'd	end	up	answering	its	call	and	pushing
the	 creepy	 door	 below	 the	 broken	 one-handed	 clock.	 Then	 she'd	 enter	 the
crimson	haze	from	her	dream.
Only	now,	she	wasn't	asleep.	But	.	.	.	if	it	wasn't	a	dream,	why	was	the
place	deserted?
As	if	answering	her	silent	question,	the	heap	of	casks	rustled.	Several
men	 appeared	 from	 behind	 it,	 their	 faces	 concealed	 by	 the	 hoods	 of	 their
robes.	 They	 walked	 toward	 her,	 their	 feet	 unseen	 under	 their	 mantles.	 The
strangers	seemed	to	float	over	 the	pavement	 like	so	many	black	apparitions,
like	in	a	fantasy	book	.	.	.	or	a	horror	movie.
Before	 she	 knew	 it,	 the	 dark-clad	men	 had	 approached	 her.	 Five	 of
them.	Another	one	trailed	behind,	his	clothes	different	from	the	others.
Her	 chest	 burned.	 The	 pendant?	 Nicole	 touched	 it.	 Ouch!	 The	 eye-
shaped	gem	was	scorching	hot.	What	was	going	on	here?
Without	 taking	 her	 eyes	 off	 the	 strangers,	 Nicole	 licked	 her	 burned
finger.	They	walked	on,	surrounding	her.	She'd	better	run	.	 .	 .	but	where	to?
The	dark	robes	were	now	all	around	her,	stepping	nearer,	closing	in.
Then	they	stopped.	Two	of	them	moved	aside.	The	last	one—the	one
who'd	stayed	behind—walked	toward	her.
He	was	 tall	 and	 broad-shouldered,	with	 penetrating	 bright	 blue	 eyes
and	 an	 air	 of	 danger	 and	 menace.	 He	 wore	 a	 black	 velvet	 suit	 with	 silver
stitching.	For	an	instant,	the	young	man	peered	into	her	face.	Then	he	stepped
closer	and	laid	his	hands	on	her	shoulders.	Nicole	was	expecting	anything	but
that.	She	shrank	back,	noticing	a	pale	scar	crossing	the	stranger's	temple	over
his	left	eyebrow.	It	added	a	touch	of	predatory	brutality	to	his	face.
The	 thoughts	 rushed	 through	 her	 head	while	 the	man	 pulled	Nicole
close	and	.	.	.	he	kissed	her.
His	 lips	 were	 unexpectedly	 soft.	 The	 moment	 they	 touched	 hers,
Nicole's	 legs	gave	way,	her	head	spinning,	her	body	limp	in	 the	arms	of	 the
olive-skinned	young	man	with	the	scar.	Her	ears	rang.	The	night	swam	before
her	 eyes.	She	 shut	 her	 eyes,	 feeling	 the	world	whirl	 around	her.	Now	 that's
what	I	call	a	kiss,	she	thought,	and	fainted.
Then	 the	pendant	kicked	 in,	glowing,	pouring	warmth	 into	her	body,
until	 finally,	Nicole	 felt	strong	enough	 to	protest.	What	did	he	 think	he	was
doing?	 A	 total	 stranger,	 coming	 out	 of	 nowhere	 and	 offering	 his	 kisses?	 It
wasn't	 as	 if	 she'd	 led	 him	 on,	 was	 it?	 What	 nerve.	 Admittedly,	 there	 was
something	definitely	cute	about	his	decisiveness,	but	she	was	a	21st	century
girl,	after	all,	not	some	prissy	Victorian	missy	who	faints	in	a	stranger's	arms
after	one	kiss.
Nicole	mustered	her	strength	and	pushed	him	away.	His	slim	arms	slid
off	her	shoulders	with	unexpected	ease.	The	boy	looked	up	at	her,	surprised.
His	eyes,	so	mesmerizingly	blue,	glistened	as	if	he'd	seen	a	ghost.
"What	 do	 you	 think	 you're—"	 she	 started	 and	 trailed	 off	 as	 steel
glistened	 in	 the	 black-robed	 men’s	 hands.	 They	 could	 be	 knives,	 or	 even
daggers,	for	all	she	knew.	The	thin	blades	glinted	ominously	in	the	moonlight.
The	robed	figures	stepped	forward.
"Don't."	The	boy	raised	his	hand.	"Wait.	She—"
Then	a	new	character	came	on	the	scene.	And	he	did	so	with	a	bang,
or	at	least	so	she	remembered	later.
A	bang—a	shot.	One	of	 the	 assailants	 stumbled.	A	man	walked	 into
her	 field	of	vision	wearing	one	of	 those	old-fashioned	suits	 from	 the	black-
and-white	 suspense	 movies,	 the	 kind	 Humphrey	 Bogart	 would	 have	 worn.
Over	the	suit,	the	man	wore	a	raincoat.	A	hat	on	his	head.	A	gun	in	his	hand.
The	man	shoved	the	gun	under	his	coat,	lifted	a	cask	off	the	pavement,
and	hurled	 it	 at	 the	 robed	men,	knocking	 two	of	 them	over.	They	were	 still
falling	when	he	punched	another	one	in	the	jaw.
Four	of	 them	were	now	lying	on	 the	cobblestones,	 leaving	one	more
assailant	 and	 the	 olive-skinned	 young	man	with	 the	 scar.	 The	 last	 guy	 in	 a
black	robe	ran	up	to	 the	man	in	 the	raincoat,	his	back	now	concealing	them
both	 from	Nicole.	 She	 didn't	 see	 what	 happened	 next.	 Her	 attacker	 sagged
onto	the	pavement.
Her	 rescuer	 stepped	 toward	 her,	 the	 black-robed	man's	 knife	 now	 in
his	hand.
The	young	man	with	the	scar	grasped	Nicole's	shoulder	and	pulled	her
along,	but	she	wriggled	herself	free.	"Wait!"	he	shouted.
Not	 listening,	 she	dashed	 toward	 the	casks.	She	could	hear	 footsteps
running	after	her,	and	she	saw	a	flash	of	greenish	light.	The	back	of	Nicole’s
shoe	 got	 stuck	 between	 the	 thick	 cast-iron	 rods	 of	 the	 sewer	 grate,	 and	 she
stumbled	and	nearly	fell.	She	tugged	at	her	leg.	There	was	a	crunching	in	her
shoe,	 and	 her	 foot	 came	 loose.	 Nicole	 limped	 on.	 She	 stopped	 and	 looked
back.	The	murky	greenish	light	behind	the	casks	had	already	faded.	She	heard
the	footsteps	again,	and	her	rescuer	appeared	beside	her.
“Hey,	 you	 need	 to	 be	more	 careful.”	He	 pulled	 off	 his	 raincoat	 and
threw	it	over	her	shoulders.	“You	cold?	Here,	warm	up.	We	need	to	get	out	of
here.	The	sooner	we	get	to	the	Station	and	lie	low,	the	better.	We’ve	got	to	run
now.”
He	grabbed	 her	 hand	 and	 pulled	 her	 toward	 a	 narrow	 alley	 between
the	buildings.	Nicole's	head	 spun.	She	had	no	 idea	where	 she	was,	why	 the
olive-skinned	young	man	had	kissed	her,	why	the	guys	in	black	robes	wanted
to	kill	her,	or	what	kind	of	man	her	savior	was	.	.	.	but	her	gut	feeling	told	her
she	could	rely	on	him,	and	it	had	never	let	her	down	before.	Friend	or	foe,	he
was	the	one	she	could	trust.
Which	 was	 why	 she	 followed	 him,	 running	 through	 the	 thickening
mist.
Chapter	Three
	
When	 that	 stupid	 girl	 had	 pushed	 him	 away,	 Mike,	 in	 his
astonishment,	let	go	of	her	and	stepped	back.
Now,	he	gave	the	City's	new	visitor	a	second	look.
Quite	homely,	really,	 just	 like	tons	of	other	girls	he'd	met	and	kissed
recently.	They'd	arrived	in	droves,	all	thanks	to	his	emissaries	working	under
the	Quarter	Past	Two	cafe	cover.	They	arrived—and	then	they	died.
This	one	hadn't.
Mike's	surprised	 look	met	with	 the	fear	and	 indignation	 in	her	glare.
Homely.	Ordinary.	But	not	quite.
The	 Shadow's	 servants	 didn't	 normally	 venture	 near	 the	 square,	 let
alone	step	on	its	cobblestones,	as	the	City's	natural	force	flooded	the	nearby
buildings,	the	House	of	Fate	and	City	Hall.	But	for	some	magical	reasons	of
their	own,	the	girls	kept	arriving	via	the	square.	Luckily,	they	did	so	at	night,
when	shadows	were	at	their	strongest.	But	even	so,	the	Shadow's	servants	felt
weak,	especially	low-ranking	ones.	Now	Mike,	an	Inquisitor,	sensed	the	City's
invisible	pressure	enchain	his	body	and	daze	his	mind.
But	in	spite	of	it	all,	Mike	could	still	feel	the	girl's	frame	pulsate	with
the	City	 force,	 its	 source	 located	 somewhere	 near	 her	 heart	 or	maybe	 to	 its
right	 side.	You	needed	 a	Dark	Lens	 or	 some	other	 such	 artifact	 to	 be	more
precise.	And	although	he	always	used	 to	carry	varioususeful	 things	around,
now	he	had	nothing	on	him	he	could	use.	The	scar	on	his	forehead	throbbed
in	unison	with	the	force.
So	she'd	survived.	Could	it	mean	she	was	the	one?	The	one?	Or	could
it	be	a	mistake?	Maybe	she	was	just	more	resilient	 than	the	others	had	been
before	her.	As	simple	as	that.
His	men—the	Shadow's	servants,	or	the	dark	ones,	as	the	townspeople
called	them—drew	their	knives	all	at	once.
The	girl	glanced	at	 them,	then	looked	back	at	him,	her	 lightning-like
glare	piercing	his	tall	olive	forehead,	eating	his	brain.	Her	glare,	her	eyes,	and
the	depth	within	them	that	harbored	the	.	.	.	.
She	mustn't	die.	The	thought	caught	him	unawares.	She	mustn't.	Even
though	 the	Shadow	wasn't	 really	going	 to	kill	her.	Not	straight	off,	anyway.
First,	they	had	to	get	all	the	necessary	information	out	of	her.	That	could	take
a	long	time.	Only	then	would	they	exterminate	her,	erasing	her	existence	once
and	for	all.
He	 shouldn't	 let	 it	 happen.	 But	 what	 was	 he	 supposed	 to	 do	 now?
Should	 he	 allow	his	 associates	 to	 take	 her?	Although	 they	 obeyed	 him,	 the
situation	was	crystal	clear—upon	detecting	the	one,	they	had	to	immediately
take	 her	 to	Master	 Shadow.	No	 discussions	 or	 objections.	 The	 Shadow	had
given	them	explicit	instructions	in	this	respect.	Mike's	men	knew	just	as	well
as	he	did	that	they	had	to	take	the	girl	to	the	Castle	that	very	night.
A	gun	shot	interrupted	his	musings.	Everything	happened	quickly,	so
quickly.	A	cask	rattled.	A	body	thudded	over.	A	thump.
The	girl	bolted.	Mike	grabbed	her	shoulder,	but	she	wriggled	herself
free.	A	man's	voice	shouting—it	was	that	redneck	.	.	.	what's	his	name?	Yes.
Gumshoe,	a	miserable	little	squirt	like	so	many	of	those	in	the	City.	He	had	a
gun	in	his	hand,	and	one	of	Mike's	men	lay	slumped	at	his	feet.
Mike's	 slender	 hand	 slid	 into	 his	 jacket	 pocket.	 The	 gun	 could	 be	 a
single	charge	 .	 .	 .	 then	again,	 it	might	not.	Mike's	 informers	 in	 the	City	had
reported	 about	Gumshoe's	 nasty	 habit	 of	 loading	 it	 with	 silver	 bullets.	 Not
that	it	could	hurt	Mike—he	wasn't	a	shapeshifter,	after	all—but	still,	it	was	an
unpleasant	 thing	 to	 feel,	especially	here	 in	 the	square,	where	his	 Inquisitor's
force	couldn't	help	him	much.
The	sleuth	approached.	Mike	wasn't	afraid	of	him—in	fact,	he	wasn't
afraid	of	anyone,	the	Shadow	included—but	he	didn't	look	forward	to	a	fight.
He	needed	the	one,	not	this	idiot.	He	didn't	even	need	his	dead	body.
Mike's	 fingers	 squeezed	a	vial	 sealed	with	 the	Shadow's	wax	seal	 in
his	 pocket.	 The	 sleuth	 charged.	 Mike	 took	 a	 swing,	 and	 the	 vial	 smashed
against	the	cobblestones,	exploding	in	a	fountain	of	blinding	light.
The	rest	was	easy.	In	two	big	bounds,	Mike	retreated	and	ran.	A	few
seconds	later,	the	Inquisitor	disappeared	around	the	corner.
Standing	there,	he	could	see	the	light	fade.	The	one,	behind	the	casks,
collapsed	 onto	 the	 paving	 stones.	 Gumshoe	 ran	 to	 her,	 helped	 her	 up	 and
threw	his	raincoat	onto	her	shoulders	before	dragging	her	away,	all	the	while
glancing	back.	Soon,	they	disappeared	in	the	mist	enveloping	the	neighboring
streets.
Here	the	City's	force	still	pressed	against	him,	although	not	as	bad	as
on	the	square.	Mike	gave	a	sigh	of	relief.	The	throbbing	of	his	scar	started	to
subside.	Mike	 looked	back	 and	 raised	one	 eyebrow.	What	was	 it	 now?	Too
many	surprises	for	one	night,	really.
Crimson	lights	glowed	deep	down	the	lane	where	he	now	stood.	The
House	 of	 Crimson	Windows—the	 ghost	 building,	 whose	 apparition	 always
signified	 the	 approach	 of	 dangerous	 and	 peculiar	 events.	A	 legend	 in	 itself,
the	House	of	Crimson	Windows	served	as	a	source	of	dark,	spooky	rumors.
How	long	had	the	House	been	standing	there?	Who	had	been	watching
the	square	from	behind	its	windows?	And	was	there	anyone	inside	at	all?	The
crimson	spots	faded	as	the	House	vanished	just	as	silently	as	it	had	appeared.
After	a	few	more	moments,	the	legendary	building	melted	into	the	night.
Mike	shrugged.	He	left	his	hiding	place	around	the	corner	and	walked
back	 to	where	 the	 fight	 had	 taken	 place.	With	 his	 every	 step,	 the	 invisible
force	pressed	harder	against	him.	Fighting	it	felt	as	if	he	was	braving	a	strong
wind.	Mike	walked	 past	 the	 casks	 and	 looked	 around.	 One	 of	 his	men	 lay
dead,	 shot	 down.	Another	 one	 had	 already	 gotten	 back	 to	 his	 feet,	 and	 yet
another	sat	on	the	stones	holding	his	head.	Two	more	were	scrambling	back	to
their	feet.
They	had	 seen	 that	 the	girl	wasn't	 dead,	which	meant	 they'd	 tell	 the
Shadow	about	it	at	the	first	opportunity.	Master	Shadow	would	do	whatever	it
took	to	find	her	and	force	everything	he	needed	to	know	out	of	her.	Then	the
one	would	die	a	terrible	death.
Mike	listened	to	his	feelings.	He	didn't	want	her	to	die.	The	look	she'd
given	him	.	.	.	.
"You've	lost	her,"	he	accused	them.
"But,	Inquisitor—"	the	one	called	Greene	began.
"Now	you've	got	to	find	her."
"We	will,	Inquisitor.	Absolutely,"	another	one	spoke,	still	holding	his
head.	"We've	got	to.	She's	the	one,	isn't	she?"
"What	made	you	think	so?"	Mike	tried	to	sound	amazed.
"But	you—"
"I	 didn't	 touch	her	 lips.	 I	 didn't	 have	 the	 time,"	Mike	 snapped.	 "She
pushed	me	away,	and	then	Gumshoe	shot	at	us,	didn't	he?"
His	men	exchanged	unsure	glances.	It	was	true	that	 the	center	of	 the
square	had	been	too	badly	lit	for	them	to	have	seen	any	details,	but	.	.	.	hadn't
Inquisitor	hugged	the	girl,	and	hadn't	she	slumped	in	his	arms?	On	the	other
hand,	it	had	all	happened	way	too	quickly,	and	then	Gumshoe	had	come	out
of	nowhere,	shooting	.	.	.	.
Mike	wasn't	 sure	whether	 they'd	believed	him.	He	couldn't	do	much
else	at	the	moment,	anyway.	Now,	he	had	to	start	looking	for	her,	the	sooner
the	better,	before	someone	reported	his	odd	behavior	to	the	Shadow.	He	raised
his	voice.
"Everybody	listen.	They're	heading	for	the	Station.	It's	a	good	hiding
place,	 but	we	 can	 find	 them.	Call	 the	 others,	whoever	 else	 is	 around.	Now
go!"
The	mist	between	the	houses	was	so	thick	that	Nicole	could	barely	see
her	own	feet.	Her	torn	tennis	shoe	made	it	hard	for	her	to	walk.	She	thought
she	could	hear	an	occasional	whisper—an	echo	of	 laughter,	 an	exchange	of
ethereal	voices.	Good	thing	her	rescuer	held	her	hand	tightly.	Otherwise,	she'd
have	lost	her	way	a	long	time	ago.
As	 they	 ran,	 she	 kept	 thinking	 about	 the	 olive-skinned	 young	 man
who'd	 kissed	her.	And	 about	 the	 scar	 on	his	 face.	Nicole	 could	 have	 sworn
that	when	she'd	pushed	 the	 stranger	away,	his	 scar	pulsated	with	a	greenish
light.	 It	 couldn't	have	happened,	 surely?	And	still,	his	 scar	had	 resembled	a
thin,	neon	wire,	flashing	on	his	high	forehead.
Nicole	stumbled	and	looked	underfoot.	Railroad	ties.
"Are	we	at	the	Station	already?"	she	asked.
"Not	very	far	now.	Try	to	keep	up."
Hurrying	along	the	railroad	tracks	wasn't	 the	easiest	 thing	to	do.	Her
rescuer	had	outrun	her.
"Nearly	 there,"	 he	 said	 over	 his	 shoulder.	 His	 breathing	 was	 level,
even	though	he	was	running	quite	fast.	"Follow	me	and	don't	get	sidetracked."
Here,	 the	mist	 thinned	 out.	 Ahead,	 she	 noticed	 the	 outlines	 of	 long
one-story	 structures.	 Some	 formed	 neat	 rows	 while	 others	 were	 scattered
every	which	way.	Railroad	cars.	Lots	of	them—enough	for	a	few	dozen	trains.
Beyond	 them,	 she	 could	 make	 out	 a	 large	 building	 and	 a	 deep,	 dark	 arch
swallowing	the	tracks.
The	man	 slowed	down	 and	walked	off	 the	 track.	He	offered	 her	 his
hand,	and	Nicole	accepted	it.	She	liked	the	comfort	of	his	touch.
"We	can	hide	in	a	car,"	he	said.	"Not	an	easy	job	to	find	somebody	in
one	of	them.	That	one	over	there	looks	good	enough."
He	led	Nicole	to	a	rusty,	peeling	freight	car.
Nicole	frowned.	The	railway	here	was	littered	with	a	riot	of	old	stuff.
Old	watches,	purses,	gloves,	and	bottles	could	have	a	logical	explanation	in	a
place	like	this,	but	pillows?	Lamps	and	frying	pans?	An	enormous	pumpkin?
She	stumbled	firston	a	harmonica	and	then	an	old	teddy	bear.	Right	next	to
the	car,	she	had	to	step	over	a	huge	grandfather	clock.
Something	 shiny	 on	 the	 ground	 drew	 Nicole’s	 attention.	 For	 some
reason	Nicole	wouldn’t	have	been	able	to	explain,	she	bent	down	and	picked
up	an	unfamiliar-looking	object.	She	realized	it	was	a	hairpin	with	a	gleaming
head	 in	 the	 form	of	 a	mocking,	 spiteful	 smiley	 face.	As	 she	walked	behind
Gumshoe,	 she	 turned	 the	 hairpin	 over	 in	 her	 fingers.	 There	was	 something
about	 this	object	 that	caught	 the	eye.	Was	 it	 some	sort	of	 spark?	There	was
something	unusual,	 even	 though	on	 the	 surface,	 it	was	nothing	more	 than	a
hairpin.	 Nicole	 didn’t	 particularly	 need	 such	 an	 accessory,	 but	 after	 a
moment’s	thought,	she	stuck	it	into	the	back	of	her	hair.	She	felt	a	light	caress
and	nearly	cried	out	and	pulled	away	her	hand.	It	was	as	if	an	invisible	hand
were	 smoothing	her	hair.	The	 feeling	 immediately	went	away,	 so	 she	didn’t
remove	the	hairpin	because	she	didn’t	feel	threatened	by	it.	What	interesting
things	this	place	threw	her	way!	In	fact,	the	whole	City	was	intriguing.
Gumshoe	 looked	at	her.	Noticing	her	surprised	glance,	he	explained,
"The	mist	carries	all	kinds	of	stuff	around.	It	brings	it	here,	then	takes	it	back.
I'll	tell	you	later."
He	 leaned	 against	 the	 car's	 heavy	 sliding	 door	 and	 pushed	 it	 aside.
There	wasn't	 even	a	 fold-down	step	 to	help	her	up,	which	worried	Nicole	a
bit,	seeing	as	her	biggest	athletic	achievement	had	been	climbing	a	bar	stool.
Sensing	her	embarrassment,	the	man	said,	"Ladies	first,"	and	lifted	her
quite	effortlessly	as	Nicole	scrambled	into	the	car.
The	inside	was	empty,	if	you	didn't	count	the	large	canvas	bag	by	the
wall.	 Her	 rescuer	 climbed	 in	 with	 ease	 and	 slid	 the	 door	 closed.	 The	 car
became	completely	dark,	apart	from	some	vent	holes	overhead.
When	Nicole's	eyes	had	gotten	used	to	the	dark,	she	saw	that	the	man
was	crouching	next	to	the	bag,	studying	it.
"Sand,"	he	explained.	"Good	for	what	we	need	it	for."
She	wanted	to	ask,	What	do	we	need	it	for?	But	the	man	had	already
pushed	the	bag	on	its	side	and	rolled	it	toward	the	wall	with	the	air	vents.	He
climbed	onto	the	bag,	stomped	on	it	for	a	bit,	and	called	her.
"Climb	up	here	with	me	for	a	look."
Nicole	 sensed	 his	 offered	 hand	 rather	 than	 saw	 it.	 She	 grabbed	 at	 it
and	climbed	up	next	 to	him	to	 look	out	 through	the	vent	grate.	The	vantage
point	was	perfect.	From	here,	they	could	see	most	of	the	Station.
"Who	 are	 they?"	 Nicole	 whispered,	 her	 eyes	 on	 a	 far-off	 group	 of
black-robed	men	walking	between	the	trains.	"What	do	they	want	from	me?"
The	man	gave	her	an	appraising	glance.
"No	idea	who	they	are.	I	don't	think	anybody	in	the	City	knows	much
about	 them,"	 the	man	 stressed	 the	word	City	 like	 he'd	 done	with	 the	word
Station,	as	if	both	were	proper	names.	"They	don't	frequent	us	too	often.	Good
thing	they	don't.	I	meant	to	ask	you	why	they'd	been	hunting	you	down,	but	it
looks	like	you	don't	know	it	yourself,	do	you?"
Nicole	shook	her	head.	The	man	stared	at	her	for	a	second.	Finally,	he
said,	 "Well,	 as	 neither	 of	 us	 seems	 to	 know	who	 they	 are	 and	what	 they're
capable	of,	I	suggest	we	shut	up	before	they	hear	us."
Nicole	 nodded	 and	 clung	 to	 the	 grate,	 studying	 the	 guys	 in	 black
robes.	They	approached,	clustering	together	on	the	tracks.	Then	she	saw	the
olive-skinned	young	man.	He	walked	rapidly	toward	her	car.	One	of	the	men
in	 black	 robes	 showed	 him	 something	 he	 was	 holding.	 Nicole	 strained	 her
eyes—and	grasped	at	her	neck,	desperate.
"What's	up?"	the	man	asked.
"My	scarf,"	she	answered.	"No	idea	how	I	could	have	lost	it.	That's	it
over	there,	in	that	guy's	hands."
"Not	good,"	the	man	said.
The	 olive-skinned	 boy—whose	 forehead	 scar	 wasn’t	 glowing	 any
more—seemed	to	be	giving	orders.	Then,	he	walked	back,	followed	by	some
of	 the	 fellows	 in	 black	 robes.	 Those	 that	 had	 stayed	 began	 to	 check	 the
surrounding	cars	one	by	one,	closing	in	on	Nicole's	hideout.
"We'd	better	run,"	she	whispered.	"This	place	is	a	trap."
"The	whole	City	is	one	big	trap,"	her	rescuer	answered	in	a	low	voice.
"We'd	better	stay	put	for	the	time	being."
She	raised	her	hand	in	the	dark	and	clutched	her	pendant.	It	was	barely
warm,	not	hot.	Did	it	mean	that	they	were	not	yet	in	danger?
The	dark	shadows	approached.	Nicole	 looked	behind	her,	wondering
if	they	could	still	leave	unnoticed.	Then	she	heard	a	voice	right	next	to	the	car.
"You	don't	think	Inquisitor	was	acting	a	bit	funny	earlier	on?"
Her	 rescuer	 laid	his	 hand	on	her	 shoulder.	Nicole	 froze,	 holding	her
breath.
"It's	none	of	our	business,	Greene,"	another	voice	answered.	"Who	are
we	 to	 discuss	 an	 Inquisitor's	 motives?	 The	 Shadow	 works	 in	 mysterious
ways."
Nicole	gasped	and	covered	her	mouth.	 It	had	 to	be	 two	of	 the	 robed
men	searching	for	her.	Judging	by	the	sound,	they	stood	right	next	to	the	car
door.
"That	may	be,"	objected	the	one	called	Greene,	"but	the	Inquisitor	has
changed	since	he	kissed	that	girl."
"You're	 too	 suspicious	 for	 your	 own	good,"	 the	other	 one	 answered.
"Let's	check	the	car.	Help	me.	This	door's	too	heavy."
The	 screeching	 of	 the	 door	 was	 unbearably	 loud.	 Nicole's	 rescuer
squeezed	 her	 shoulder.	 Then,	 from	 outside,	 came	 quiet	 bubbling	 noises,
followed	by	a	scream.
"It	attacked	me,	may	the	mist	swallow	me	whole!"	the	voice	yelled.
"Where	did	it	come	from?"	Greene's	gasping	voice	asked.
"I	don't	know,	do	I?	It	just	jumped	out	of	thin	air!"
Dull	light	flashed	outside,	gleaming	through	the	cracks	in	the	railcar's
sides.	 Somebody	 swore,	 and	 more	 bubbling	 sounds	 were	 followed	 by	 a
thump.	Somebody	must	have	fallen	down.
"Damn	spirits,"	Greene	barked.	"Get	up,	you	idiot!	Run!"
Nicole	 heard	 the	 stomping	 of	 fleeing	 feet.	 Dull	 rays	 of	 light	 crept
across	 the	 car	 as	 its	 source	moved	 outside.	 Then	 the	 light	 jerked	 aside	 and
went	out.	The	bubbling	had	stopped,	too.
For	 a	while,	Nicole	 and	 the	man	 didn't	 say	 a	word.	Then	 she	 asked
what	sounded	like	the	only	reasonable	question	in	her	situation.
"What	was	it?"
"Spirits."	He	 removed	his	hand	 from	under	his	 raincoat.	 "How	can	 I
explain	.	.	.	I'd	better	tell	you	all	about	it	bit	by	bit,	or	you	might	get	confused.
Look—they're	leaving."
Nicole	peered	through	the	grate.	The	men	in	black	robes	were	walking
away,	sliding	soundlessly	between	the	trains,	one	by	one,	disappearing	in	the
dark.	And	soon,	 the	Station	was	deserted—not	one	of	her	attackers	 in	sight.
The	car	drowned	in	the	deep	silence	of	the	large,	empty	building.
The	man	jumped	off	the	bag	and	opened	the	door.	"Hold	my	hand."
Nicole	 scrambled	 down	 onto	 the	 car	 floor,	 her	 legs	 numb	 and
unfeeling.	 She	 stepped	 toward	 the	 door,	 tripped,	 and	 collapsed	 into	 her
rescuer's	arms.	He	sat	her	on	the	car's	edge	and	jumped	down	to	the	ground,
then	helped	her	out.
"About	time	I	introduced	myself,"	he	said.
Chapter	Four
	
To	 contact	 the	 Shadow,	 all	 Mike	 needed	 was	 a	 straight	 wall	 and	 a
source	of	bright	light.
This	time,	his	source	of	light	was	a	little	magic	lantern	he'd	picked	up
at	the	toy	shop	behind	City	Hall.	The	shop	had	been	long	deserted,	of	course.
Dolls,	 teddy	 bears	 and	 all	 kinds	 of	 cuddly	 creatures	 had	 stared	 at	 the
unwanted	guest	 from	 their	 dark	 shelves,	where	wooden	 cannons	 and	hobby
horses	stood	next	to	faded	building	blocks	and	deflated	footballs.
Mike	had	 already	 removed	 the	 colored	 lenses	 and	 turned	on	 the	gas
inside	the	lantern.	The	silvery	refractor	sent	a	beam	of	bright	light	through	the
round	hole	in	the	box.	Mike	placed	the	lantern	on	a	stool,	directed	the	beam
onto	 the	 toy	 shop's	 empty	wall,	 and	 stood	 in	 the	beam	with	his	back	 to	 the
lantern.
His	shadow	loomed	up	on	the	wall.	Mike	froze.	He	stood,	motionless,
for	almost	a	minute	until	 the	 shadow	deepened,	 its	 shape	unnaturally	black.
Slowly,he	 stepped	 aside.	The	outline	on	 the	wall	 didn't	move.	The	 scar	 on
Mike's	forehead	ached	a	little.	He	looked	down.
He	didn't	cast	a	shadow	any	more.
Mike	walked	around	the	stool	and	stood	behind	the	lantern.
The	shadow—his	silhouette—had	become	a	window	leading	into	 the
depths	 of	 darkness.	 There,	 gradually,	 two	 dull	 lights	 emerged,	 glowing,
approaching	until	they	became	eyes—eyes	without	pupils	or	eyelids.
An	enormous	face	pressed	itself	against	the	other	side	of	the	window.
"Speak,"	the	Shadow	said.
The	toys	on	the	shelves	rattled	with	the	sound	of	his	deep	voice.	The
room	shook.	The	scar	on	Mike's	forehead	throbbed	with	pain.
"The	girl	has	escaped,"	he	said.
He'd	been	rehearsing	this	conversation	for	quite	a	while.	Now,	he	was
weighing	 every	word	before	 he	 spoke.	He	wasn't	 afraid	of	 the	Shadow,	but
Master's	displeasure	could	cost	him	dearly.
"How?"	the	Shadow	asked.
"Gumshoe	 interfered.	He	helped	her	 escape.	 I	 think	he	 stands	watch
on	the	square	every	night	now."
The	Shadow	paused.	"How	many	of	you	were	there?"
"Five.	And	myself."
"And	he	was	alone?	One	man	against	all	of	you?"
Mike's	scar	ached	in	unison	with	Master's	words.	Although	he	couldn't
see	 it,	 he	 knew	 that	 every	 sound	 of	 the	 deep,	 low	voice	made	 his	 forehead
pulsate	with	a	strand	of	green	light.
"He's	 got	 silver	 bullets	 in	 his	 gun,"	 the	 Inquisitor	 explained.	 "Plus
some	kind	of	protection	against	my	relics.	I'm	sure	it's	Martha	helping	him,	or
maybe	someone	else."
"Who?	Landlady?	Or	Collector?	No,	he	couldn't	have.	He's	been	gone
a	long	time.	But	then	.	.	.	."	the	Shadow	paused.
"Our	 strength	 fades	 near	 City	 Hall,"	 Mike	 added,	 stating	 what	 his
Master	knew	very	well	himself.	"It's	only	on	misty	nights	that	we	can	venture
there	at	all—"
"We	shouldn't	miss	a	single	girl,"	the	Shadow	interrupted	him.	"What
if	she	was	the	one?	You	didn't	kiss	her,	did	you?"
Mike	shook	his	head,	trying	to	look	impassive	under	the	void's	gaze.
"What	now?"	the	Shadow	said.
"Gumshoe	 took	 her	 to	 the	 Station.	 I	 sent	 13	 of	 my	men	 there	 with
orders	 to	 find	her.	Those	were	all	 I	 could	gather.	But	 the	Station	 is	one	big
hiding	place."
The	Shadow	paused.	"I'll	send	you	Albino."
With	those	words,	he	stepped	back	into	the	depths	of	the	darkness	that
lay	behind	the	human	outline	of	the	window.	The	dull	eyes	faded	away.	The
enormous	face	disappeared.
The	 Inquisitor	 breathed	 a	 sigh	 of	 relief.	 So.	 Albino.	 He	 hadn't
expected	 that.	Albino	could	 surely	 find	her.	He'd	 sniff	 about	 the	 square	and
the	site	of	the	fight.	He'd	single	out	the	girl's	smell	among	all	the	others	.	.	 .
quite	possible.
Mike	walked	around	the	stool	and	stood	at	the	same	spot.	He	looked
down	 at	 his	 feet,	 then	 up	 at	 his	 shadow.	Shifting	 ever	 so	 slightly,	 he	 froze,
then	 stepped	 aside.	 His	 shadow	 moved	 with	 him	 now,	 broken	 at	 an	 angle
where	the	floor	met	the	wall.
Mike	rubbed	the	scar	on	his	forehead.	When	he	took	his	hand	away,	he
saw	 a	 thin,	 greenish	 residue	 on	 his	 fingers,	 as	 if	 he'd	 dipped	 them	 into
fluorescent	powder.	The	green	shimmer	evaporated	 from	his	 skin.	Mike	put
out	the	magic	lantern	and	left	the	toy	shop.
The	Station	was	quite	close.	He	saw	Greene	from	afar—the	Shadow's
zealous	 servant	 who	 couldn't	 wait	 to	 become	 an	 officer	 himself.	 Greene
waved	his	hand,	pointing	at	something.
When	Mike	came	closer,	he	saw	that	Greene	was	holding	a	blue	polka
dot	scarf.	The	girl	had	been	wearing	it,	Mike	remembered.	She	must	have	lost
it	as	she	and	Gumshoe	were	jumping	up	and	down	the	tracks.
His	 servants	 were	 now	 gathering	 around	 him,	 waiting	 for	 his	 new
orders.	Mike	was	treading	a	very	fine	line	between	loyalty	to	his	Master	and
deceit.	To	avoid	piling	lie	upon	lie,	he	only	told	them	the	last	piece	of	news.
"Albino's	joining	us.	He'll	be	here	soon.	This	scarf	is	exactly	what	he'll
need.	Let's	go	now."
"They	call	me	Gumshoe	in	the	City."	The	man	lifted	his	hat.	"Nice	to
meet	you.	And	what's	your	name?"
"Nicole,"	she	answered.	To	her	surprise,	she	wasn't	embarrassed	at	all.
Normally,	her	face	flushed	every	time	she	gave	her	name	to	a	man,	but	now,
Nicole	 felt	almost	calm.	Calm	and	strangely	self-confident.	"Have	you	been
living	here	long?	In	the	City?"
He	nodded.
"And	how	did	you	.	.	.	I	mean,	how	did	you	get	here?"
"If	you	really	must	know,	I	used	to	be	a	detective.	I	was	working	on
this	 really	 complex	 multiple	 disappearance	 case.	 I	 got	 so	 carried	 away,	 I
hadn't	even	noticed	that	I	swallowed	the	same	bait.	So	I	was	sucked	in	here,
like	 all	 those	 I'd	 been	 trying	 to	 bring	 back.	 Somebody	was	 leaving	 strange
clues	 in	my	hometown	for	me	 to	 find.	 I	 followed	 them.	Anyway,	 it's	a	 long
story.	Some	other	 time.	So	you're	Nicole,	 right?	Nicole	 .	 .	 .	 ."	He	rolled	 the
name	 on	 his	 tongue.	 "Beautiful	 name.	 I	 like	 it.	 So	 how	 did	 you	 get	 to	 the
square?"
Casting	cautious	glances	all	around,	Gumshoe	led	her	along	the	tracks.
Nicole	 told	 him	 her	 story	 as	 clearly	 as	 she	 could	 in	 her	 perplexed	 state	 of
mind.	She	told	him	everything,	starting	with	her	recurring	dream	and	ending
with	the	door	in	Mr.	Chuck's	office,	which	wasn't	really	a	door,	but	a	portal	to
other	 worlds.	 She	 had	 a	 funny	 feeling	 that	 she	 could	 trust	 this	 Gumshoe
person.	 Sharing	 her	 story	 with	 him	 made	 her	 feel	 protected.	 And	 he	 was
definitely	good	at	helping	people,	no	doubt	about	it.
The	 only	 thing	 she	 didn't	 tell	 him	 about	 was	 the	 pendant	 inherited
from	Grandma.	For	some	reason,	she	didn't	want	anyone	to	know	its	story.
"You	haven't	told	me	your	name,"	she	concluded.	"Gumshoe	is	a	kind
of	nickname,	isn't	it?"
He	shrugged.	"Of	course	I	have	a	name.	But	it's	in	the	past	now.	These
days,	I'm	Gumshoe.	There	aren’t	so	many	people	left	in	the	City,	and	most	of
those	I	know	choose	 to	go	by	similar	aliases.	We	have	Cardsharp	and	Train
Attendant—wonder	where	he	is,	by	the	way?	Train	Attendant	lives	here	at	the
Station,	and	we	haven't	seen	him	yet!	I	wonder	 if	he's	 lying	low	too,	hiding
from	 the	 dark	 ones.	 I	 suggest	 we	 take	 a	 walk	 to	 the	 dining	 car.	 If	 he's
anywhere,	he'll	be	there."
Confident,	Gumshoe	led	her	along	the	tracks	and	picked	up	an	empty
wooden	crate	on	the	way.	The	dining	car	looked	slightly	newer	than	the	rest.
Gumshoe	placed	the	crate	under	a	window,	stood	on	it,	and	peered	inside.
"There,"	he	said.	"We	didn't	need	to	worry,	after	all.	Train	Attendant	is
fine.	 He’s	 just	 sleeping	 it	 off.	 He	 likes	 his	 bottle,	 that	 Train	 Attendant.	 Or
rather,	he	 likes	his	 flask.	 It's	 a	very	 special	 flask	 indeed.	 It's	probably	not	 a
good	time,	anyway."
He	jumped	off	the	crate.	Now	was	the	right	moment	to	take	the	bull	by
the	 horns	 and	 ask	 him	 a	 question,	 which	 was	 perfectly	 natural	 under	 the
circumstances.
"Listen,	eh,	Gumshoe,"	Nicole	began,	not	at	all	sure	of	what	she	was
about	to	say.	"You	think	you	could	tell	me	where	we	are?	But	please,	no	more
riddles.	No	more	of	 this	 'the	City	is	one	big	trap'	stuff.	You	think	you	can?"
She	spoke	louder	with	every	word,	nearly	shouting	it	in	his	face	now.	"I	don't
understand	anything.	Nothing	at	all!	What	is	this	place?	Where	is	it?"
He	sighed	and	patted	her	shoulder.
"You	have	any	idea	how	many	locals	would	be	happy	to	have	a	hand
chopped	off	if	only	to	get	answers	to	these	questions?	The	City	is	a	riddle	in
itself."	 He	 noticed	 Nicole's	 fierce	 glare	 and	 stopped	 mid-word.	 "Come	 on,
let's	go.	I'll	show	you	the	City	in	all	its	beauty.	Are	you	afraid	of	heights?"
"I'm	not,"	Nicole	 lied	without	batting	an	eyelid.	She	wasn't	going	 to
miss	this	chance.	Just	like	Gumshoe's	real	name,	her	stupid	fears	belonged	in
her	old	life.
He	took	her	to	where	the	last	railcar	stood	close	to	the	Station	wall.	As
Nicole	approached,	she	discovered	a	steel	door.	Gumshoe	unhooked	a	bunch
of	keys	 from	his	belt	 and	browsed	 through	 them,	 then	chose	one	and	put	 it
into	the	keyhole.	He	turned	thekey,	and	the	door	opened.
Whatever	 Nicole	 had	 expected	 to	 see	 there,	 she	 hadn't	 expected	 a
spiral	staircase.	They	took	the	steps	until	Nicole	lost	her	breath,	arriving	at	a
ceiling	 hatch	 with	 a	 folding	 ladder.	 As	 Nicole	 climbed	 the	 ladder,	 she
suddenly	realized	she	was	quite	hungry.
Gumshoe	 climbed	 out	 onto	 the	 roof	 first.	 Following	 him,	 Nicole
cautiously	approached	the	fenced-off	roof	edge	and	peeked	out.
From	here,	 the	City	was	spread	out	before	her.	The	mist	didn't	cover
all	of	 it.	 It	 lay	 in	 thick	off-white	 swirls	amid	 the	buildings	 that	 looked	as	 if
they	were	piercing	the	clouds.	She	could	see	animal-shaped	weathervanes	on
the	 roofs.	 Bronze	 handles	 and	 door	 knockers	 glistened	 in	 the	 moonlight.
Roofs	 and	 pavements	 lay	 silver	 under	 the	 moon,	 guarded	 by	 gargoyles'
winged	shadows.
Suddenly,	 one	 of	 the	 shadows	 shook	 its	 wings	 and,	 it	 seemed	 to
Nicole,	looked	directly	at	her.	Impossible!	But	then,	as	if	to	confirm	that	she
wasn’t	 imagining	 things,	 the	 gargoyle	 lifted	 its	 wings,	 stirring	 up	 a	 small
cloud	of	 sparkling	blue	dust.	 It	 floated	 toward	City	Hall,	 leaving	 a	 flashing
plume	 in	 its	wake.	Nicole	gasped	quietly	 and	 recoiled,	 but	 the	dust	 quickly
dissipated	in	the	air.
When	Gumshoe	returned,	the	gargoyle	was	impassively	sitting	where
it	had	been	before,	motionless,	just	like	a	sculpture	should	be.
“What’s	wrong?”	he	asked.
“I—it’s	 nothing.”	 Nicole	 had	 the	 impression	 that	 the	 gargoyle	 had
winked	at	her.	No,	it	couldn’t	be.	At	this	distance,	there	was	no	way	she	could
make	out	the	stone	beast’s	eye.	Yet	she	still	felt	implicated	in	a	new	secret—it
was	as	if	the	City	had	just	revealed	its	interest	in	her.
“No,	it’s	nothing.	It	just	looked	like—”	she	stammered.
Now,	she	felt	it	clearly.	The	City	was	alive.	Nicole	sensed	it	just	as	she
could	 sense	people's	 true	 selves.	 It	had	an	enormous,	quirky	mind,	not	evil,
although	not	quite	benevolent,	either.
Nicole	stood	still,	listening	and	looking.	She	sensed	the	City's	power.
Its	intellect.	The	hidden	pain.	It	 lay	deep,	its	source	far	away,	somewhere	in
the	maze	of	mists	in	one	of	the	City's	secret	quarters.
Gumshoe	 stood	 behind	 her	 and	 started	 pointing	 out	 different
buildings.
"That’s	 the	square	right	 in	front	of	us,"	Gumshoe	began.	"Over	there
are	the	remains	of	the	Angel	statue.	City	Hall	 is	on	the	left.	A	very	peculiar
building.	I	know	a	woman—you'll	probably	meet	her	quite	soon—who	says
that	City	Hall	 is	 the	City's	mouth.	 It	can	suggest	a	way	out	when	 the	going
gets	too	tough."
He	was	standing	so	close	to	her	that	his	breath	tickled	her	neck.
"How?"	Nicole	wondered.
"I	don't	 think	 I	 can	 tell	 you.	There	 are	 lots	of	 things	here	 that	 aren't
easy	to	explain	to	a	newcomer.	You	can	only	see	through	them	with	time.	The
river	is	over	there,	and—do	you	see	the	light	in	that	window,	barely	a	gleam?
That’s	 the	Red	Rose	Cafe.	A	very	peculiar	place,	 too.	No	one	can	enter	 it.”
Gumshoe	lightly	grasped	her	by	the	shoulders	and	turned	her	toward	the	cafe.
“Next	to	it	is	the	House	of	Fate.	Martha,	our	Medium,	lives	there.”	He
suddenly	grabbed	her	by	the	hand.	“Do	you	see	who’s	walking	there?”
Nicole	strained	her	eyes	and	made	out	a	dark	shape	sliding	away	from
the	 Red	 Rose	 Cafe.	 In	 the	 light	 of	 two	 streetlamps	 nearby,	 it	 resembled	 a
puddle	 of	 darkness	 shaped	 like	 a	 man.	 Shadows	 gathered	 around	 him.
Leaving	 their	 hiding	 places	 between	 the	 cobblestones,	 they	 snaked	 toward
him	 and	 merged	 with	 his	 shape,	 making	 Nicole	 think	 that	 the	 ghost	 was
stalked	by	an	overflowing	spot	of	darkness	feeding	him,	filling	him.
"Who	is	it?"	she	whispered.
"A	Disciple."
"Do	they	come	here	often?"
"Not	 really.	 They're	 a	 rare	 sight	 here.	 At	 least,	 near	 City	 Hall.	 You
have	a	much	bigger	chance	of	encountering	shapeshifters.	Yes,	shapeshifters.
Why	does	 it	surprise	you?"	he	added,	noticing	 the	astonishment	 in	her	face.
"If	you	do	see	them,	just	run	and	hide.	Over	there,	 there's	a	place	called	the
Mansion.	To	its	right,	there's	a	burned-out	house,	and	to	its	.	.	.	er	.	.	.	and	to
my	left	stands	a	beautiful	girl	of	a	most	delightful	green	shade.	I	thought	you
told	me	you	weren't	afraid	of	heights?"
Nicole	suddenly	realized	that	his	fingers	were	still	squeezing	her	hand.
Trying	to	free	them	so	it	would	look	as	natural	as	possible,	she	said	the	first
thing	that	came	into	her	head.
"I'm	hungry.	I	haven’t	eaten	anything	since	yesterday."
"Say	 no	 more."	 Gumshoe	 led	 her	 away	 from	 the	 roof’s	 edge	 and
toward	a	large	brick	chimney.	"Sit	down	here	for	a	bit.	I	won't	be	long."
He	disappeared	through	the	hatch.
Gumshoe	ran	down	the	steps,	but	once	back	at	the	Station,	he	moved
with	more	caution,	constantly	glancing	around.
No	one	there.	Apart	from	the	dining	car	window	glowing	further	on,
the	large	station	building	loomed	dark	and	empty.	The	moonlight	illuminated
the	wide	arch	and	the	rails	disappearing	through	it.
He	 hurried	 across	 the	 tracks	 toward	 the	 car.	 The	 girl	 shouldn't	 go
hungry,	but	he	had	his	own	reasons	for	leaving	her.	Gumshoe	wanted	to	make
sure	she	wouldn't	try	to	escape	in	his	absence.	There	was	only	one	way	down,
and	he	kept	glancing	back	to	see	if	Nicole	attempted	to	slip	out	unnoticed.
Remembering	to	reload	his	gun,	Gumshoe	took	it	from	his	holster	and
reached	for	his	cartridge	belt.	He	pulled	a	bullet	out	and	rolled	it	in	his	hand.
It	glistened	silver.	Although	no	guarantee	against	the	men	in	black	robes,	his
bullet	had	indeed	brought	one	of	them	down.
He	loaded	his	weapon	and	walked	on,	thinking	about	the	girl	still	on
the	roof.	There	was	something	in	her,	something	fascinating	and	alarming	at
the	 same	 time—a	 foreboding	 feeling	of	 a	dark	 secret	 she	harbored,	 big	 and
dangerous.	A	secret	that	could	affect	the	fate	of	the	City	and	its	inhabitants.
Why	did	the	Inquisitor	kiss	her?	At	 the	time,	Gumshoe	had	acted	on
the	spur	of	the	moment,	breaking	the	circle	of	dark	human	shapes	surrounding
the	girl.	He'd	shot	one	of	them	and	punched	another.	But	later,	as	the	two	of
them	 had	 approached	 the	 Station,	 he'd	 asked	 himself	 what	 had	 really
happened.	The	picture	 still	 stood	before	his	 eyes:	 those	 two,	 surrounded	by
the	guys	in	dark	robes,	holding	each	other	tight,	kissing.	Was	he	sure	he	could
trust	her	after	that?
He	climbed	 the	 steps	 to	 the	dining	car	and	headed	 for	 the	bar.	Train
Attendant	was	 hunched	 in	 his	 seat,	 snoring,	 his	 legs	 outstretched	 under	 the
table.	Next	to	him	lay	a	small	flask.	A	wonderful,	most	amazing	flask,	or	"my
precious",	as	Train	Attendant	called	it.	Gumshoe	wouldn't	mind	having	one	of
those.
But	 right	 now,	 he	 was	 most	 interested	 in	 a	 Victorian-style	 cabinet
decorated	with	intricate	patterns.
Gumshoe	scratched	the	back	of	his	neck	and	wondered	what	a	girl	like
Nicole	might	like.	He	had	little	experience	in	such	matters,	so	he	decided	to
let	the	cabinet	do	the	work.
“You	choose,”	he	said	to	it.
He	 waited	 a	 moment	 and	 opened	 the	 doors.	 Inside,	 he	 found	 fried
potato	wedges	from	a	fast	food	chain,	a	small	plastic	tub	of	ketchup,	a	slice	of
cheese	pizza,	and	a	can	of	cheap	beer.
So	this	is	what	a	Victorian	cabinet	comes	up	with!
“I	don’t	think	so,	buddy,”	Gumshoe	said.	“How	about	something	more
.	.	.	I	don’t	know	.	.	.	sophisticated?”
He	 shut	 the	 doors	 again	 and	 banged	 on	 the	 side	 panel	 for	 good
measure.	 The	 cabinet	 let	 out	 an	 insulted	 creak.	 There	 was	 a	 rustle	 inside,
followed	by	a	clanking	noise.
On	 the	 second	 try,	 it	offered	asparagus	 in	 sesame	sauce,	baked	duck
breast,	 and	 a	 bottle	 of	 dry	 cider.	 Everything	 was	 laid	 out	 on	 a	 silver	 tray,
complete	with	a	full	array	of	utensils.
“Good,”	Gumshoe	said.	He	pulled	the	tray	out	and	shut	the	door	again.
He	 muttered,	 “And	 now	 for	 me,”	 and	 opened	 the	 door	 for	 the	 third	 time.
Another	 silver	 tray	 stood	 inside,	 this	 one	 with	 a	 plate	 holding	 a	 coupleof
sandwiches	and	a	glass	of	beer.	Gumshoe	nodded	approvingly,	piled	the	food
from	the	second	tray	onto	the	first	one,	and	set	off	back	the	way	he	had	come.
Before	stepping	out	of	 the	dining	car,	he	glanced	at	 the	sleeping	man.	Train
Attendant	was	snoring	away—he	didn’t	have	a	clue	about	what	was	going	on
that	night	in	the	Station.
Nicole	 wrapped	 the	 raincoat	 around	 herself	 and	 closed	 her	 eyes,
leaning	 against	 the	 chimney.	She	 listened	 to	 the	City's	wadded	 silence.	She
hadn't	asked	Gumshoe	about	the	boy	with	the	scar,	the	one	who'd	kissed	her,
nor	had	Gumshoe	mentioned	him	again.	Why	hadn't	 he?	She	couldn't	 think
straight.	Too	many	things	had	happened.	He	was	rather	cute—handsome,	had
it	not	been	for	the	scar.	And	as	for	the	way	he'd	kissed	her	.	.	.	.
"Dinner	is	served,"	a	voice	said.
With	 a	 start,	 Nicole	 opened	 her	 eyes.	 Before	 her	 stood	 a	 tray	 piled
with	food.
"I've	borrowed	this	stuff	from	Train	Attendant,"	Gumshoe	explained.
"He	 wouldn't	 object.	 Normally,	 it's	 his	 job	 to	 welcome	 newcomers,	 even
though	today,	I	had	this	pleasure.	I	still	think	it’s	strange,	you	arriving	at	the
square	and	not	at	the	Station."
"You	need	to	talk	to	Martha,"	he	mused.	"I	don't	know	if	it's	her	real
name.	 Townspeople	 also	 call	 her	 the	 Medium.	 She	 knows	 her	 stuff."	 He
waved	his	hand	as	if	trying	to	explain	something	ephemeral	and	non-existent.
"You'll	 see	 for	 yourself.	 Martha	 will	 tell	 you	 how	 to	 get	 along	 with	 the
townsfolk.	All	I	can	do	is	give	you	a	couple	of	tips.	Tip	one:	don't	stray	too
far	 away	 from	 the	 square.	Not	 alone,	 anyway.	Tip	 two:	 if	 ever	 you	 see	 the
building	 you've	 been	 dreaming	 about,	 do	 not,	 I	 repeat	 do	 not,	 enter	 it.	 It's
called	the	House	of	Crimson	Windows,	and	.	.	.	well,	you	just	can't	enter	it,	all
right?	Feeling	better?"
"Yeah."	Nicole	nodded	with	her	mouth	full.
They	went	back	down	the	steps.	As	Gumshoe	took	her	along	the	lamp-
lit	 streets	away	 from	 the	 square,	Nicole	 said,	 "You	seem	 to	know	your	way
around."
"Wish	 I	 did.	 This	 is	 the	 only	 part	 I	 know	 really	 well,"	 Gumshoe
admitted.	 "Nobody	 can	 say	 they	 know	 the	 City.	 How	 can	 I	 put	 it	 .	 .	 .	 it
changes?	The	mist	comes	and	goes.	The	streets	you	think	you	know	become
something	else.	I	can't	really	explain.	You'll	have	to	experience	it."
"How	many	people	live	here?”	Nicole	asked.	She	had	started	to	limp
again—her	 torn	 tennis	shoe	was	making	 it	hard	 to	walk.	“If	 I	can	call	 them
people,	of	course."
He	 shrugged.	 "Nobody	 knows	 for	 sure.	 People	 come	 and	 go,	 too.
Some	of	the	old	ones	go	missing,	while	new	ones	keep	coming	all	the	time.
There	 are	 a	 few	 permanent	 residents,	 though.	 Train	 Attendant	 is	 one.	 Or
Martha.	Or	myself.	The	City	is	anything	but	boring.	There's	always	something
going	on.	When	I	first	came	here,	I	 thought	my	private	eye	days	were	over.
Boy,	was	 I	wrong.	There's	 something	nasty	going	on,	and	 I've	been	 looking
into	it	for	quite	a	while.	Want	to	know	what	it	is?"
She	nodded.
"They	 keep	 finding	 girls'	 bodies	 right	 in	 the	 middle	 of	 the	 square
where	we	met.	Dead	bodies."
As	Gumshoe	spoke,	he	gave	her	a	piercing	look.	There	was	something
in	his	stare	that	didn't	quite	agree	with	his	mild	manners—something	prickly
and	 unkind,	 making	 Nicole	 want	 to	 recoil.	 She	 sensed	 that	 he'd	 asked	 the
question	 on	 purpose,	 as	 if	 all	 that	 time,	 he'd	 been	 studying	 her.	He	 seemed
nice	 and	obliging,	 but	 he	was	 an	 ex-detective	nevertheless.	He	was	used	 to
solving	 crimes	 and	 suspecting	 everyone.	 It	 went	 without	 saying	 that	 he'd
saved	her	from	the	men	in	black	robes	.	.	.
Or	had	he?
The	thought	caught	her	unawares.	What	had	happened	on	the	square?
The	 individuals	 in	 black	 robes	 had	 surrounded	 her,	 but	 maybe	 they	 just
wanted	to	make	sure	she	didn't	run	away	in	fright?	The	olive-skinned	young
man	had	kissed	her—why?	It	just	didn't	make	sense.	Maybe	he	just	liked	her?
Kind	of	a	crush	at	first	sight	.	.	.	.?	Whatever.	It	had	only	been	a	kiss,	and	it
could	 hardly	 be	 considered	 a	 threat.	 On	 the	 contrary.	 And	 what	 happened
next?	The	guys	in	black	robes	had	drawn	their	knives.	Now	 that	had	been	a
threat,	pure	and	simple.
But	could	they	have	done	so	because	they'd	seen	Gumshoe	aiming	his
gun	at	them?
The	pause	dragged	on.	Gumshoe	waited	for	her	to	answer.
"I	 know	 nothing	 about	 girls'	 bodies	 in	 the	 square."	 Nicole	 tried	 to
speak	nonchalantly,	but	her	voice	cracked,	betraying	her	emotions.	"I've	told
you	everything	I	could."
But	her	 inner	voice	whispered	in	her	ear,	Everything?	You	sure?	You
didn't	 tell	 him	about	 the	 pendant	 you'd	 inherited	 from	Grandma,	 nor	 about
Grandma	 herself.	 If	 you	 have	 secrets	 from	 him,	why	 can't	 he	 have	 his	 own
secrets	from	you?
"Very	well,	then,"	Gumshoe	said.
As	 he	 led	 the	 way	 along	 the	 streets,	 Nicole	 studied	 him	 out	 of	 the
corner	of	her	eye.	Gumshoe	was	shorter	and	stockier	 than	 the	olive-skinned
stranger.	His	features	were	regular,	but	far	from	delicate.	He	had	a	broad	chin
and	a	large	nose.	She'd	heard	someone	call	this	type	of	face	"roughly	hewn.”
She	couldn't	 tell	his	hair	color	under	 the	hat.	His	arms	were	powerful,	with
broad	hands	and	strong	fingers.	He	stood	and	walked	straight,	 the	way	only
self-confident	men	did.
Her	 torn	 shoe	 was	 slowing	 her	 down.	 She	 stopped	 and	 suddenly
caught	sight	of	a	small,	shining	spot	on	the	pavement	a	bit	ahead	of	her.	One,
two,	three	.	 .	 .	yes,	 they	were	footprints!	The	smooth	arc	they	created	led	to
the	 side,	 behind	 the	 corner	 of	 a	 building.	 They	 were	 like	 footstep-shaped
puddles	of	 soft	 light.	Nicole’s	mouth	widened.	What	 a	 surprising	place	 this
City	was!	 She	 set	 off	 alongside	 the	 footprints,	 stretching	 her	 neck	 out	with
curiosity	and	peering	behind	the	corner.
“What’s	 up?”	 Gumshoe	 asked.	 “Wait,	 it	 could	 be	 dangerous.	 Come
back!”
She	 didn’t	 obey—she	 didn’t	 feel	 threatened.	 Nothing	 about	 these
footprints	 was	 dangerous.	 They	 were	 unusual,	 strange,	 inexplicable,	 and
maybe	even	magical,	but	not	dangerous.
Around	the	corner,	she	spotted	a	 large	stall.	 In	 it	was	a	pile	of	every
kind	of	shoe	imaginable.	The	footprints	stopped	at	the	stall.	It	was	hard	to	see
well	in	the	semidarkness,	but	Nicole	could	see	that	in	front	of	the	stall,	there
lay	 .	 .	 .	but	what	wasn’t	 lying	 there!	Shoes,	 sturdy	 rubber	boots,	huge	work
boots,	wooden	sandals,	 felt	sandals,	high	fur	boots	 .	 .	 .	and	more	shoes—an
entire	 pile	 of	 every	 kind	 of	 shoe,	 from	 suede	 shoes	with	 sumptuous	 bands
instead	of	laces	to	tiny,	smooth	pumps.
“What	 is	 it?”	 Nicole	 whispered	 to	 Gumshoe	 when	 she	 heard	 him
breathing	next	to	her.
“How	do	I	explain	this?”	he	stammered,	examining	the	stall.	“It’s	the
City	with	all	of	its	stuff.	There	was	no	shoe	stand	here	before.”
“And	does	the	City	often	throw	things	like	this	at	you?”
“As	 far	 as	 I	 can	 see,	 tonight,	 it’s	 getting	 strange	 ideas,”	 Gumshoe
answered	thoughtfully.	“Let’s	go.”
“No.	Wait	a	second.”
Nicole	caught	sight	of	a	pair	of	beige	shoes.	Knitting	her	brow,	she	ran
her	 fingers	 through	 her	 hair	 and	 felt	 for	 the	 hairpin	 she	 had	 found	 at	 the
Station.	The	same	feeling	as	before	went	through	her	again.	Something	about
those	 shoes	 pulled	 her	 toward	 them.	 They	 immediately	 stood	 out	 from	 the
other	objects.	Nicole	knew	she	needed	 the	shoes.	They	were	meant	 for	her!
Mechanically	 grabbing	 Gumshoe’s	 shoulder,	 she	 pulled	 off	 her	 torn	 tennis
shoe,	took	a	shoe	from	the	stall,	and	put	it	on.	It	was	made	of	very	soft	leather.
Her	 foot	 slid	 in	 easily,	 as	 if	 into	 someone’s	 caressing	palm.	Nicole	 lowered
her	foot,	putting	all	her	weight	on	it.	It	was	as	though	the	shoe	were	stitched
especially	for	her.	She	put	on	the	other	shoe,	took	a	few	steps	beside	the	stall,
and	jumped	up	and	down	a	couple	of	times,	reveling	in	the	feeling.
“I’m	going	to	keep	going	in	these,”she	said,	turning	to	Gumshoe.
“So	I	gathered,”	he	said,	looking	at	her	seriously.
“It’s	just,	don’t	we	need	to	pay	somehow?”
Her	companion	shook	his	head.
“There’s	no	money	in	the	City.	You	can	just	leave	your	tennis	shoes	in
the	stall.	But	actually,	I	think	it’s—”	He	looked	at	her	new	acquisitions.	“It’s	a
gift	from	the	City	to	you,	as	a	new	guest.”
“If	 that’s	 the	 case,	 thank	you!”	Nicole	 shouted	 to	 the	dark	buildings
that	surrounded	them.
Nicole	placed	her	tennis	shoes	on	the	stall	and	set	off	with	Gumshoe.
After	a	short	while,	he	said,	“Here	we	are.”
They	 stood	 in	 front	 of	 a	 yellow	 brick	 building,	 heavy	 curtains
concealing	its	bay	windows.
"This	 is	where	Martha	 lives.	 The	 place	 itself	 is	 called	 the	House	 of
Fate.	 I	 could	 be	 wrong,	 of	 course,	 but	 I	 have	 a	 funny	 feeling	 Martha's
expecting	 you.	 She's	 a	 very	 powerful	 medium,	 too	 powerful	 to	 be	 caught
unawares.	Go	in	now."
"Aren't	you	coming?"	Nicole	asked,	surprised.
Gumshoe	shook	his	head.	"It's	better	you	go	in	on	your	own.	Martha
never	tells	fortunes	in	public.	In	the	meantime,	I	need	to	go	back	to	the	square
and	study	the	crime	scene.	I	might	find	some	evidence	if	I'm	lucky."
"Thanks	a	lot	for	your	coat.	I'm	nice	and	warm	now."	Nicole	removed
the	 raincoat,	 handed	 it	 back	 to	 Gumshoe,	 and	 blurted	 out,	 "Will	 I	 see	 you
again?"
Gumshoe's	prickly	stare	softened.	A	smile	touched	his	lips.
"Depend	upon	it,"	he	answered.
He	threw	his	raincoat	across	his	arm	and	hurried	away	without	looking
back.	Within	a	few	seconds,	he'd	disappeared	into	the	mist.
When	Mike,	 accompanied	 by	 two	 of	 his	men,	 entered	 the	 dark	 lane
where	he'd	seen	the	lights	of	the	House	of	Crimson	Windows,	a	two-wheeled
buggy	emerged	from	the	dark.
The	 buggy	 was	 drawn	 by	 two	 soulless	 zombies.	 Unlike	 the	 real
undead	ones,	soulless	zombies	were	still	alive—if,	of	course,	their	existence
devoid	of	all	will	and	emotion	could	count	for	a	life.
One	of	the	Shadow's	servants	sat	in	the	coachman's	seat,	lashing	them
with	his	whip.	Behind	him,	a	 tall	cage	was	mounted	on	 the	buggy	 floor,	 its
bars	strong	and	thick.	Inside	sat	a	white-haired	werewolf.	Much	larger	than	a
normal	 wolf,	 it	 stood	 a	 head	 taller	 than	 Mike	 when	 it	 reared	 up.	 Its	 eyes
gleamed	 crimson,	 as	 if	 filled	 with	 blood.	Mike’s	 eyes	 went	 straight	 to	 the
werewolf’s	hairy	neck.	He	saw	a	cord	braided	from	wolfsbane	and	closed	in
place	with	 the	rune	of	obedience.	Good.	That	meant	 that	Albino	would	stay
under	control.	As	strong	and	ferocious	as	the	werewolf	was,	he	could	neither
pull	the	cord	off	nor	withstand	the	magic	of	the	rune—in	other	words,	the	will
of	whoever	imposed	this	magic.
The	buggy	stopped.	The	men	opened	 the	cage.	They	 shrank	back	as
Albino	sprang	out,	sending	one	of	them	sprawling	to	the	ground	with	a	casual
swing	of	his	paw.	Albino	was	one	of	 those	werewolves	who'd	stayed	 in	 the
wolf's	 body	 for	 so	 long,	 they'd	 all	 but	 given	 up	 their	 human	 nature.	 He
growled,	rearing	up	and	baring	his	teeth,	each	a	finger	long.
Mike	shoved	the	girl's	scarf	into	his	face.	The	werewolf	sniffed	it	deep
and	long.	He	growled	again,	dropped	on	all	fours,	looked	to	his	right	and	left,
and	trotted	along	the	street	past	the	recoiling	men,	sniffing	the	air.
Mike's	 men	 started	 an	 agitated	 conversation	 with	 the	 coachman.
Mechanically,	Mike	 rubbed	 his	 scar	 as	 he	 watched	 the	 werewolf	 disappear
from	under	his	half-closed	eyelids.
Now	the	hunt	for	the	one	had	truly	begun.
Chapter	Five
	
Nicole	 paused	 on	 the	 doorstep,	 plucking	 up	 courage.	 Then	 she
knocked	on	the	door.
"Come	in,	girl,"	a	deep,	hoarse	voice	said	inside	the	House	of	Fate.
How	would	someone	look	if	they	had	a	voice	like	that?	Nicole	timidly
pushed	the	door,	imagining	a	monstrous	red-faced	woman	with	a	broom.
A	half-open	door	at	the	end	of	the	hallway	emitted	a	beam	of	muffled
light.	It	illuminated	the	carved	back	of	a	long	bench,	an	empty	coat	rack,	an
umbrella	with	an	ornate	handle,	and	several	pairs	of	boots	under	the	bench.
Nobody	here.	But	someone	had	spoken,	surely?	The	voice	had	seemed
to	 come	 right	 from	 behind	 the	 front	 door,	 not	 from	 some	 far-off	 nook	 or
cranny.
Nicole	 cleared	 her	 throat	 and	 stepped	 inside.	 She	 closed	 the	 door
behind	herself	and	turned	her	head,	sensing	a	movement	on	the	bench.
She	nearly	choked	on	a	scream.	A	snake	lay	on	the	bench—a	python,
judging	by	the	size	of	it.	She	hadn't	noticed	it	earlier	because	it	had	only	just
moved,	 slithering	 along	 the	 bench,	 its	 head	 facing	 her,	 its	 narrow	 eyes
studying	Nicole.
She	 froze	 in	 place,	 unable	 to	 breathe.	 Discovering	 a	 huge	 snake	 in
someone's	 hallway	 was	 bad	 enough,	 but—wait—had	 the	 python	 actually
asked	her	in?
She	 shook	 her	 head,	 trying	 to	 overcome	 her	 confusion.	 Snakes
couldn't	speak,	period.	Even	in	a	spooky	place	like	this	City.	Their	lungs,	their
larynx,	their	entire	body	—none	of	it	was	meant	for	talking.	Only	for	hissing.
Just	look	at	a	snake's	tongue—try	to	have	a	conversation	using	something	like
that!
As	 for	 the	hoarse	woman's	voice,	 it	must	 have	 come	 from	 the	 room
behind	the	half-open	door.
In	the	meantime,	the	python	had	disappeared	in	the	doorway.
"Nicole?	Come	in,	girl,"	she	heard.
This	 voice	 was	 totally	 different—deep	 and	 velvety.	 It	 definitely
belonged	to	a	woman.
Timidly,	 Nicole	 started	 along	 the	 hallway.	 Then	 she	 spread	 her
shoulders	and	continued	more	resolutely	toward	the	door.	She	pushed	it	and
entered.
A	 dull	 lamp	 under	 a	 torn	 lampshade	 added	 its	 weak	 light	 to	 a	 few
candles	 that	 struggled	 to	 illuminate	 the	 room.	 The	 room	 seemed	 to	 be	 in
desperate	need	of	a	spring	cleaning.	Nicole's	eyes	hurt	from	all	the	clutter.	A
small,	 round	 table	 in	 the	 center	 of	 the	 room	groaned	under	 the	weight	 of	 a
dangerous-looking	 knife,	 three	 piles	 of	 thick	 books,	 several	 half-burned
candles	in	bronze	candlesticks,	a	human	skull	with	a	ruby	instead	of	one	of	its
eyes,	a	coffee	pot,	 five	cups,	a	dusty	wine	bottle,	 a	 large	pitcher,	 a	 stack	of
colorful	cloths,	a	bunch	of	dried	herbs,	a	modern-looking	plastic	timer	.	.	.	and
dozens	of	other	things.
Glass	 jars	 and	 test	 tubes	 crowded	 the	 nearby	 cabinets,	 shelves	 and
chairs.	 You	 couldn't	 see	 the	 walls	 for	 all	 the	 ritual	 masks	 and	 pictures	 of
unearthly	 landscapes	 next	 to	 a	 deer	 head,	 an	 enormous-looking	 glass	 in	 a
silver	frame,	and	a	heavy	antique	clock.
No	wonder	it	took	Nicole	some	time	to	make	out	a	small	woman	in	a
plain	 gray-blue	 dress	 sitting	 in	 a	 heavy	 armchair	 by	 the	 table.	 It	 had	 to	 be
Martha	 the	 Medium,	 her	 hair	 falling	 onto	 her	 shoulders	 in	 thick	 auburn
waves.	The	woman's	face	looked	young,	and	still,	 it	seemed	to	belong	to	an
ancient	hag.	Her	skin	was	smooth	but	pale,	but	her	eyes	.	.	.	with	their	vaguely
observant	gaze	.	.	.	.
The	woman	looked	Nicole	over.	"So!	Who	do	we	have	here?	Don't	be
shy,	 girl.	 Come	 in	 and	 have	 no	 fear.	 I	 don't	 bite.	You	 can	 take	 a	 seat	 over
there."	Her	 hostess	 nodded	 at	 the	 only	 chair,	 vacant	 but	 for	 a	marble	 head
whose	features	mirrored	Martha's	face.
"And	the	snake?"	Nicole	ventured.	"Where	is	it?"
Then	she	saw	it.	The	python	had	slithered	onto	the	top	of	the	dresser
and	was	now	coiling	up,	making	itself	comfortable.
Nicole	sat	on	the	edge	of	the	chair	and	forced	her	gaze	away	from	the
python.	She	 looked	 at	 the	woman,	 suddenly	 realizing	where	 she'd	 seen	 this
pale	skin,	these	bright	lips	and	hazy	eyes.	A	doll—a	wax	lady	doll.
"No	need	to	fear	Uroboros,"	the	little	woman	added	from	the	depths	of
her	armchair.	"You	have	other	things	to	beware	of."
"Yes,	er	.	.	.	thanks,"	Nicole	said.	"And	.	.	.	Uroboros,	is	it?"
Martha	 nodded	 at	 the	 python,	 who	 flashed	 his	 eyes	 in
acknowledgement	and	began	nibbling	at	his	own	tail.
"Interesting	 name,"	 Nicole	 said.	 "So	 what	 was	 it	 you	 said,	Ma'am?
What	is	it	I	shouldbeware	of?"	For	some	reason,	she	couldn't	force	herself	to
call	the	woman	by	her	first	name.
Instead	 of	 replying,	 Martha	 leaned	 forward	 and	 peered	 at	 the	 girl.
Nicole	 froze,	 gazing	 into	 the	 depths	 of	 her	 eyes.	 For	 a	 while,	 both	 sat
unmoving,	 staring	 at	 each	 other.	 Nicole	 felt	 as	 if	 she	 were	 falling	 down	 a
deep,	dark	well,	faster	and	faster.	Then	Martha	sat	back,	and	the	illusion	was
gone.
"That's	weird,"	the	Medium	said.	"Very	weird."
"What	is?"	Nicole	asked.
"You	must	be	very	careful	here	in	the	City.	I've	no	idea	where	danger
can	come	from.	I	can't	see	a	single	sign	of	it.	I	don't	think	I've	ever	seen	such
a	 closed	 aura	 as	 yours	 in	 all	 my	 200	 years	 here.	 Your	 future	 seems	 to	 be
encapsulated.	It	looks	as	if	it's	wrapped	in	a	cocoon."
This	was	funny.	Whenever	Nicole	went	to	bed,	she	liked	to	wrap	the
comforter	 around	herself,	 imagining	 she	was	 inside	 a	 cocoon.	The	 idea	had
brought	her	peace	and	comfort,	lulling	her	into	sleep.
Only	 then	 did	 it	 dawn	 on	 her.	 200	 years?	 This	 woman	 was	 two
centuries	old?	Impossible.	But	if	not	.	.	.	how	old	was	she,	then?
"I'll	 try	 and	 read	your	 fortune,"	Martha	 said.	 "It	might	give	us	 some
clues	about	your	future."
Hearing	this,	Uroboros	raised	his	head	and	seemed	to	stare	at	Nicole
with	some	interest.	Martha	rose,	looked	around	the	room,	and	sat	back	down.
"Same	thing	again,"	she	said.	"Can	never	find	anything."
"What	is	it	you	can't	find?"	Nicole	had	a	look	around,	too.	It	would	be
quite	a	job	to	find	anything	in	this	mess.
"Nothing,"	Martha	said,	annoyed.	"Same	thing	every	 time.	They	tear
the	place	apart,	they	move	stuff,	they	lose	my	things	or	misplace	them	.	.	."
"Who	 are	 you	 talking	 about,	 Ma'am?"	 Nicole	 wasn't	 sure	 she
understood.	"I	don't—"
"Do	 me	 a	 favor	 and	 fetch	 the	 crystal	 ball,	 will	 you?"	 Martha
interrupted	 her.	 "It	 may	 look	 crystal,	 but	 it's	 in	 fact	 woven	 from	 dreams,
reveries	 and	 phantoms.	 It's	 a	 large	 ball	 that	 kind	 of	 looks	 crystal,	 you
understand?	It's	kind	of	blue	.	.	.	has	to	be	in	that	cabinet	over	there.	On	one	of
the	shelves.	Has	to	be."
Nicole	 shrugged	and	walked	 to	a	 large	doorless	cabinet	 that	 took	up
the	entire	opposite	wall	of	the	room.	So	much	stuff!	How	could	she	find	the
crystal	ball	in	this	warehouse	of	weird	and	wondrous	things?
Nicole	 stepped	 back	 and	 looked	 up,	 inspecting	 the	 outside	 of	 the
cabinet,	when	she	noticed	a	clear	blue	sphere	to	her	left,	at	the	same	level	as
her	 eyes.	 She	 reached	 out	 to	 take	 it—and	 the	 cabinet	 came	 alive.	 Several
bright	lights	jumped	off	its	shelves	and	scattered	around	the	room,	flying	up
to	 the	ceiling.	One	of	 them	danced	 in	 front	of	Nicole's	 face.	A	mischievous
little	face	came	through	the	light	with	two	specks	for	eyes	and	a	thin,	curved
mouth	.	.	.	a	smiley.	It	was	a	real	flying	smiley!
The	 other	 smileys	 swirled	 around	 her,	 bubbling	 like	 a	 thousand
blocked	sinks,	while	 this	one	glared	up,	 sending	a	 thin	 red	bolt	of	 lightning
toward	Nicole's	head.
"Careful,"	the	hoarse	woman's	voice	said	behind	her—the	same	voice
Nicole	had	heard	when	she'd	knocked	on	the	door	of	the	House	of	Fate.
But	the	lightning	didn't	hit	her.	Something	struck	it	halfway,	dragging
it	down.	The	lightning	hit	the	pendant	on	her	chest.
The	black	gem	flared	up,	swallowing	 the	 lightning,	 then	spat	 it	back
out.	The	 lightning	 split	 into	 several	 thin	 threads,	hitting	 the	 smiley	 that	had
sent	it	and	its	friends.
All	 hell	 broke	 loose.	The	 agitated	 smileys	 started	 flashing,	 bubbling
and	hissing.	The	one	that	had	caused	the	commotion	flared	up,	unhappy	with
its	 punishment.	Bubbling	 and	gurgling,	 it	 somersaulted	back	onto	 the	 shelf,
where	 it	 splattered	 the	wall	 and	 slipped	 down,	 leaving	 bubbles	 of	 light	 and
some	shimmering	goo	in	its	wake.
The	 other	 smileys	 flew	 every	 which	 way,	 taking	 cover	 until	 the
shelves	were	quiet	and	dark	once	again.
"Oh	yeah,"	the	hoarse	voice	said	behind	her.
Biting	her	lip,	Nicole	gingerly	removed	the	crystal	ball	from	the	shelf.
It	was	unexpectedly	light,	as	if	made	of	down	feathers.	She	walked	back,	set
the	ball	on	the	table,	and	sat	on	the	edge	of	her	chair,	trying	not	to	disturb	the
marble	head.
Only	then	did	she	raise	her	eyes	to	Martha	and	the	python.	Both	stared
back	at	her.	Finally,	Martha	shifted	in	her	chair	and	said,
"It's	amazing	how	easily	you	controlled	the	poltergeist,	my	dear	girl."
"It	wasn't	me,"	Nicole	started.	"It	was—"
She	 stopped,	 realizing	 that	 her	 hostess	 couldn't	 have	 seen	what	 had
happened.	Nicole	had	stood	with	her	back	to	the	table,	hadn't	she?	And	still,
Martha	 seemed	 to	 know	 that	 it	 had	 been	 the	 pendant	 that	 had	 made	 the
poltergeist	flee.
The	Medium	was	looking	at	it	now.
"Where	did	you	get	it?"
Once	again,	Nicole	felt	she	didn't	want	to	tell	anyone	about	Grandma
and	her	pendant.
"Just	found	it	in	a	box	with	some	old	junk,"	she	said.
"So	you	don't	know	what	it	is,	do	you?"
"No.	Just	an	old	piece	of	jewelry.	Why?"
Martha	glanced	at	Uroboros	and	held	out	her	small,	pale	hand.	"May
I?"
Nicole	shifted	in	her	chair,	nearly	pushing	the	marble	head	over.	She
touched	the	pendant—which	was	slightly	warm—and	said,	"I	.	.	.	I'd	rather	it
stayed	where	it	is."
The	 woman's	 eyes	 glistened.	 She	 removed	 her	 hand	 and	 leaned
forward,	about	to	give	Nicole	a	piece	of	her	mind.	Then	she	reconsidered	and
rose.
"Very	well,	then.	I	suppose	I'd	better	make	the	ball	work,	hadn't	I?	Sit
still	and	don't	interfere."
With	these	words,	she	took	the	sphere—supposedly	woven	of	dreams,
reveries	and	phantoms—and	placed	it	on	a	large	steel	plate	on	the	edge	of	the
table.	She	walked	over	to	Uroboros's	dresser—coiled	up	on	top	of	it,	he	was
still	busy	nibbling	at	his	tail—and	took	a	few	vials	and	a	gold	bowl	off	a	shelf
and	returned	to	the	table.
Martha	 opened	 a	 vial	 and	 poured	 some	 shimmering	 yellow	 powder
into	 the	 bowl.	 She	 unscrewed	 the	 top	 off	 another	 one	 and	 added	 a	 drop	 of
white	flame	to	the	mix.	With	a	wooden	spatula,	she	scooped	some	thick	white
substance	out	of	a	tiny	carved	box	and	stirred	it	in.
Strange	processes	started	in	the	bowl.	Nicole	couldn't	get	a	good	look
from	where	she	was	sitting,	but	the	mix	bubbled,	releasing	tiny,	shimmering
flakes	into	the	air.
Gingerly,	Martha	took	the	gold	bowl	with	two	fingers	and	lifted	it	over
the	crystal	ball.	Then	she	turned	it	upside	down	and	jerked	her	hand	away.
The	sparkling	cloud	of	 the	bowl's	contents	covered	 the	ball	and	 then
disappeared.	 The	 ball	 darkened.	 Vague	 shadows	 clouded	 the	 inside	 of	 the
crystal	and	dashed	around,	trying	to	break	free.	Nicole	was	dying	to	get	closer
for	a	better	look.
Martha	stooped	over	the	ball,	peering	inside.	The	room	froze	in	time,
the	hostess	now	a	statue,	Uroboros	a	motionless	shape.	Nicole	didn't	breathe
for	fear	of	disturbing	the	perfect	silence.	The	shadows	inside	the	ball	moved,
curling	and	merging,	then	falling	apart.
Then	 something	 changed	 imperceptibly.	 The	 ball	 had	 grown	 black.
With	a	loud	pop,	the	shadows	rushed	out	and	escaped.	The	air	darkened,	the
flickering	candlelight	shrinking,	the	lamp	over	the	table	fading.	With	a	clatter,
the	ball	burst.
Martha	gasped	and	collapsed	into	her	armchair.	Uroboros	twitched	his
head.	Nicole	blinked.
An	ugly	crack	ran	across	the	surface	of	the	ball.	The	crystal	had	grown
cloudy	and	not	at	all	pretty.	Looking	at	it	gave	you	the	creeps.
"You."	Martha	 turned	 to	 the	 girl.	Her	 face	 had	 grown	 old.	Her	 chin
had	shrunk,	and	crow’s	feet	webbed	around	her	dark-circled	eyes.	"I	want	you
to	leave.	Now."
Her	voice	had	changed,	too.	Broken	and	raspy,	it	had	lost	 its	velvety
softness.	"Out."
"But	why?"	Nicole	stood	up.
"You're	danger."
"How	dare	you!"	the	girl	gasped,	indignant.	"I	haven't	done	anything
to	you.	Come	to	think	of	it,	I've	done	nothing	at	all.	It	was	you	who	.	.	.	oh,
for	crying	out	loud!"
Lack	of	understanding	breeds	anger—and	now,	Nicole	feltshe	didn't
understand	anything	at	all.
"I	don't	care	if	you	all	live	or	die!"	she	shouted.
"The	 City's	 wrong	 side	 is	 seeking	 you.	 Its	 gaze	 follows	 you
everywhere,"	Martha	replied	in	a	dull,	detached	voice.	"You're	being	hunted
by	powers	that	one	had	better	leave	well	alone.	I	have	no	intention	of	getting
caught	between	you	and	them."
"The	 wrong	 side	 of	 the	 City,"	 Nicole	 repeated.	 "The	 powers.	What
kind	of	nonsense	is	that?	Surely,	you've	just	made	it	all	up."
"I	 don't	 make	 things	 up,"	Martha	 snapped.	 "I	 see	 things	 that	 others
can't.	It's	all	to	do	with	the	House	of	Crimson	Windows.	It's	the	Warp.	I	might
try	again	later,	but	not	now.	Go."
Indignant,	Nicole	stomped	her	foot	and	turned	to	the	door.
"The	other	door,"	she	heard	behind	her	back.
"Pardon	me?"	she	turned	around.
"The	exit	is	through	that	archway	over	there.	Down	the	corridor	to	the
back	door."
Nicole	peered	at	the	archway	to	the	left	of	the	dresser.	She	could	have
sworn	that	it	hadn't	been	there	before.	Or	had	it?	She	ran	a	hand	over	her	face
and	walked	 toward	 it,	 but	 stopped	 in	 front	 of	 it,	muttering,	 "What	 do	 I	 do
now?	Where	can	I	go?"
The	 question	wasn't	meant	 for	Martha.	Nicole	 spoke	 so	 quietly,	 she
was	sure	her	hostess	hadn't	heard	her.	Still,	Martha	replied	from	the	depths	of
her	chair,
"Go	 to	City	Hall.	 That's	why	 I	 told	 you	 to	 take	 the	 back	 door.	City
Hall	can	give	answers	to	one's	questions,	even	unasked	ones.	It's	not	afraid	of
the	Wrong	Side	and	its	powers.	City	Hall	is	the	City's	mouth.	You	just	might
find	 something	 out	 about	 your	 past	 and	 your	 future.	 Seek	 clues	 inside	City
Hall.	Now	go."
Nicole	stepped	forward	and	glanced	over	her	shoulder.	Martha	shrank
into	her	 armchair,	 shrouded	 in	 shadows—the	weak	and	helpless	old	woman
that	she	truly	was.
A	 long,	 dark	 corridor	 lay	 behind	 the	 archway.	Nicole	 crossed	 it	 and
pushed	the	back	door.	A	man's	voice	said	behind	her,	hoarse	and	deep,
"Don't	forget	to	have	a	dose	of	youth	potion	with	your	milk."
Nicole	slammed	the	door	shut	behind	her	and	stepped	into	the	night.
Chapter	Six
	
Gumshoe	 crouched	 next	 to	 a	 motionless	 body.	 So—the	 dark	 ones.
He'd	heard	about	 them	before,	of	course,	and	even	had	caught	a	glimpse	or
two	of	them	in	the	past.	Still,	he	knew	very	little	about	them.
Martha	 and	 Train	 Attendant	 wouldn't	 tell	 him	much	 about	 the	 dark
ones.	Even	Cardsharp,	the	chatterbox	from	hell,	seemed	to	avoid	the	subject.
One	 thing	 Gumshoe	 was	 sure	 of:	 the	 dark	 ones	 had	 to	 be	 human.	 Not
shapeshifters,	neither	spirits	nor	Disciples—just	common	human	folk.
Gumshoe	 unbuttoned	 the	 dead	 man's	 black	 robe	 and	 saw	 that	 he'd
been	 right.	 This	 was	 an	 ordinary	 human	 body	 dressed	 in	 ordinary	 human
clothes.	 But	what	 if	 the	 gray	 shirt	 concealed	 animal	 fur,	 a	 tortoise	 shell	 or
even	fish	scales?
Gumshoe	unbuttoned	the	shirt.	Just	a	human	chest.	The	bullet	wound
was	right	under	the	heart.	He	could	still	shoot.	You	had	to	give	him	that.
He	checked	 the	dead	man's	pockets	but	didn't	 find	anything	worth	 a
second	look.	Then	his	fingers	felt	a	bulge	in	the	robe's	collar.	Gumshoe	took
out	a	penknife	and	ripped	the	lining	open.	Within	was	a	small,	black	leather
purse.	Something	rustled	inside.	Gumshoe	put	the	purse	into	his	pocket.	He'd
check	it	out	later.
The	 dark	man	 lay	 on	 his	 back,	 his	 broad	 hood	 pushed	 to	 one	 side,
concealing	 his	 face.	 Gumshoe	 drew	 the	 hood	 away.	 The	 dead	 man	 wasn't
much	in	 the	 looks	department.	He	had	thinning,	cropped	hair,	a	hollow	face
with	sunken	cheeks,	and	a	sharp,	bony	nose	with	pale	lips.	Wonder	why	the
others	hadn't	come	back	for	his	body?	Had	they	really	been	in	such	a	hurry?
On	 his	way	 here,	Gumshoe	 hadn't	 seen	 a	 single	 black-robed	 figure.	Where
could	they	all	be?	Probably	still	searching	the	streets,	looking	for	him	and	the
girl.
He	 searched	 the	 body	 one	 last	 time	 but	 didn't	 find	 anything	 worth
checking	out.
Normally,	the	dark	ones	avoided	this	part	of	the	City.	Either	they	had
no	business	here,	or	 something	scared	 them	off.	They	were	 sometimes	seen
on	the	outskirts	of	 the	City.	At	other	times,	 their	 long	robes	were	reportedly
noticed	in	the	mist	by	the	square.	Train	Attendant	swore	he'd	once	seen	a	tall,
swarthy	man	with	two	enormous	dogs	straining	at	the	leash.	Wonder	if	he	was
the	same	as	whoever	had	kissed	Nicole?
The	 thought	 made	 Gumshoe	 frown.	 The	 girl	 was	 definitely	 hiding
something.	She	could	be	the	dark	ones'	associate,	for	all	he	knew—not	yet	a
fact,	maybe,	but	still,	it	was	a	high	probability.	How	else	could	you	explain	all
that	 hugging	 and	 kissing	 in	 the	middle	 of	 the	 square?	 For	 some	 reason,	 he
didn't	like	thinking	about	the	scene,	and	not	only	because	it	showed	her	in	a
new	light.	Bewildered,	Gumshoe	realized	that	he	just	didn't	like	the	memory
of	the	girl	being	kissed	by	another	man.
Nicole	Stewart,	damn	it.	Gumshoe	always	tried	to	be	painfully	honest
with	 himself,	 so	 the	 thought	 caught	 him	 unawares.	 She	 was	 none	 of	 his
business.	His	interest	in	her	was	purely	professional.
Without	 even	 noticing	 it,	 he	 opened	 his	 tobacco	 pouch	 and	 started
rolling	a	 cigarette.	Gumshoe	had	 sent	 the	girl	 to	Martha,	hoping	 for	 a	 short
break	 that	 would	 allow	 him	 to	 think	 it	 all	 over	 and	 investigate	 the	 crime
scene.	 Also,	Martha	 could	 see	 in	 Nicole	 something	 he'd	 failed	 to	 find	 out.
Speaking	of,	they	must	have	already	finished	their	little	seance.
He	heard	footsteps	and	stood	up.
Men	in	dark	robes	walked	around	the	square	and	toward	the	old	casks
where	 Gumshoe	 was	 standing.	 Had	 they	 come	 back	 to	 their	 senses	 and
decided	 to	collect	 the	body?	There	were	at	 least	 ten	of	 them.	There	was	no
way	he	could	pick	another	fight,	which	meant	it	was	time	for	him	to	go.
Gumshoe	set	his	hat	right	and	ducked	a	little	so	they	couldn't	see	him
from	behind	the	casks.	Stooping,	he	hurried	toward	the	House	of	Fate.
Before	leaving	the	square,	he	looked	back.	The	dark	ones	stopped	by
the	 casks.	 It	 looked	 like	 they	were	 collecting	 their	 friend's	 body.	He	 should
have	thrown	the	corpse	over	his	shoulder	and	taken	it	to	Martha's.	She	could
have	studied	the	body	and	hopefully	gleaned	a	few	more	things	for	him.
Not	bothering	to	knock,	Gumshoe	opened	the	front	door	of	the	House
of	Fate.	Knocking	was	pretty	pointless,	 really.	The	door	was	 either	open	or
locked.	When	it	was	locked,	no	amount	of	knocking	would	let	one	in.	But	an
open	door	meant	you	were	welcome	and	expected.	Martha	had	more	powerful
tools	at	her	disposal	than	some	ordinary	locks	and	keys.
Two	muffled	voices	came	from	inside	the	house,	one	hoarse,	the	other
deep	and	velvety.	When	Gumshoe	had	crossed	the	short	hallway	and	entered
the	 room,	 the	 voices	 subsided.	Martha	 sat	 in	 her	 usual	 armchair,	 her	 small
hands	folded	in	her	lap.	Uroboros	was	coiled	up	on	the	edge	of	the	table	next
to	a	tall	wine	glass	full	of	pink-tinged	milk.
The	 Medium	 turned	 her	 rosy,	 sanguine	 face	 to	 Gumshoe.	 "You
shouldn't	have	sent	her	here."
"Shouldn't	 I?"	 Gumshoe	 crossed	 the	 room	 and	 lit	 up	 a	 cigarette.
"Why?"
He	swept	some	fancy	trinkets	off	a	chair	by	the	table,	sat	down,	and
drew	deeply	on	his	cigarette.	Uroboros	slid	across	the	table	closer	to	Martha.
His	thick,	heavy	body	breezed	across	as	if	he	were	a	delicate	little	snake,	not	a
big	old	hulk	of	a	python.	Reaching	the	edge	of	the	table,	Uroboros	coiled	up
and	slithered	onto	Martha's	shoulders,	hugging	her	neck	like	a	scarf.
"Where's	the	girl?"	Gumshoe	said.
Martha	stroked	the	python.	"I	sent	her	to	City	Hall."
"I	see.	So	what	can	you	say	about	her?"
The	Medium	shook	her	head	and	pursed	her	lips.
"Come	on,	say	something."	Gumshoe	raised	his	voice.	"I	saw	her	with
my	 very	 own	 eyes	 when	 she	 appeared	 on	 that	 square,	 the	 one	 with	 dead
bodies.	The	dark	ones	were	there,	too."
"Were	they?	How	interesting."
"I	 should	 say	 so!	And	not	 just	 the	 darkones,	 but	 also	 one	 of	 those,
what	d'you	call	them	.	.	."
"An	Inquisitor."
"Exactly.	He	had	a	scar	on	his	forehead.	He	grabbed	the	girl,	and—"
"Was	the	scar	on	his	head	glowing?"	Martha	interrupted.
"Pardon	me?"	Gumshoe	lost	his	train	of	thought.	"I	didn't—"
He	stopped	mid-word.	He	had	indeed	seen	the	scar	on	the	Inquisitor's
forehead	 glow,	 hadn't	 he?	 Later,	 he'd	 thought	 that	 it	 must	 have	 been	 his
imagination	playing	tricks	in	the	heat	of	the	fight.	"Actually,	it	did.	The	scar
did	glow.	Why?"
"No,	nothing.	Go	on."
"Nothing	more	 to	 say,	 really.	 I	 rescued	 the	 girl	 and	 took	 her	 to	 the
Station.	 Then	 I	 sent	 her	 to	 you.	 Thought	 you	might	 tell	me	 something,	 but
instead,	I'm	the	one	who's	doing	all	the	telling.	Have	you	tried	to	find	out—"
"I	have,"	Martha	interrupted	him.	"I	could	only	find	out	one	thing.	The
Wrong	Side."
"The	Wrong	Side?"	he	repeated.
"Those	from	the	Wrong	Side	of	the	City	want	her,	for	some	reason."
For	a	while,	Gumshoe	was	studying	 the	Medium	through	 the	veil	of
tobacco	smoke.	Then	he	asked,	"Are	you	all	right?"
"I'm	scared,"	she	admitted.
"Scared?	 You?	 But—"	 He	 made	 a	 helpless	 gesture,	 his	 cigarette
dropping	 ash	 onto	 the	 table.	 "You're	 to	 the	 City	 as	 a	 fish	 is	 to	 water.	 This
place	 is	 pure	 magic.	 I	 can't	 stand	 the	 word.	 Magic	 is	 illogical.	 But	 that's
exactly	what	it	is.	You	yourself	are	quintessentially	magic,	so	you	should	be
enjoying	this	world	much	more	than	the	one	you've	left."
"Magic	 is	 logical,"	Martha	 snapped.	 "In	 any	 case,	 the	 girl	 is	 now	 at
City	Hall.	And	she's	being	hunted.	You'd	better	go	there	straight	away."
He	nodded	and	rose.	"Anything	you	can	tell	me	about	kissing?"
"What	kind	of	question	is	that?"
"When	I	arrived,	the	Inquisitor	was	kissing	the	girl.	So	it's	either	that
they'd	been	dating	each	other	for	a	long	time,	or—"
Uroboros	raised	his	head	from	Martha's	lap	and	looked	up	at	her.	She
said,	 "Do	me	a	 favor	 and	bring	me	 that	 book	off	 that	 shelf	 over	 there,	will
you?"
"Are	you	talking	to	me	or	to	your	serpent?"
"To	you,	apparently."
"Which	 book?"	 Undecided,	 Gumshoe	 turned	 to	 the	 cabinet
overflowing	with	all	kinds	of	odds	and	ends.
"The	one	with	the	crimson	cover."
"And	what	about	 those	spirits	of	yours?	 I've	 just	met	one	of	 them	at
the	Station	scrounging	for	free	energy.	It	was	as	fat	as	a	melon."
"The	girl	must	have	scared	them	away.	Bring	me	the	book,	please.	It's
called	Amor	et	Mors."
Gumshoe	 rummaged	 through	 a	 dozen	 loose	 volumes	 on	 one	 of	 the
shelves.
"Amor	et	Mors,"	he	muttered,	turning	to	her,	book	in	hand.	"Whatever
could	that	mean?"
"It's	Latin	for	Love	and	Death.	Can	I	have	it,	please?"
As	Gumshoe	stepped	back	toward	the	table,	he	tried	to	open	the	book,
but	Martha	raised	her	voice,	indignant.	"Don't	you	dare!	These	books	are	not
meant	for	those	who	think	there's	no	logic	in	magic."
"What's	 gonna	 happen,	 then?"	 He	 chuckled	 as	 he	 laid	 the	 heavy
volume	on	the	table.
"The	book	may	suck	you	in.	Or	if	you	do	open	it,	it	may	bounce	you
back,	sending	you	into	the	thick	of	the	mist."
Not	 that	Gumshoe	had	believed	 any	of	 it,	 but	 as	Martha	opened	 the
book,	he	stepped	back	just	 to	be	on	the	safe	side.	A	large,	ornamental	script
covered	 thick	 yellow	pages	with	 fancily	 decorated	margins.	 She	moved	her
lips	as	she	read.	Uroboros	recoiled	and	raised	his	head,	staring	into	the	book.
The	two	exchanged	glances.	Finally,	Martha	shut	the	book	closed.
"That's	what	it	is,"	she	said.
"What's	what?"	Gumshoe	asked.	"Haven't	we	had	enough	riddles	for
today?	I	still	have	to	get	the	girl	from	City	Hall.	Just	tell	me."
"The	kiss	of	death,"	Martha	explained.
"The	kiss	of	death?"
"Have	 you	 turned	 into	 a	 parrot	 or	 something?	 Stop	 repeating	 my
words.	The	kiss	of	death	 is	a	curse.	Spells	 like	 that	are	hard	 to	cast	and	are
even	trickier	to	lift.	And	living	with	them	is	not	easy.	The	curse	carrier	kills
everyone	he	or	she	kisses.	No,	not	everyone.	Let's	put	it	this	way:	a	creature
more	powerful	 than	ordinary	people	won't	 die,	 although	he	or	 she	may	 feel
weak	for	a	while."
That's	 what	 it	 was.	 The	 Kiss	 of	 Death.	 That	 changed	 everything.
Without	 saying	 another	word,	Gumshoe	 turned	 around	 and	 hurried	 out.	He
had	to	find	Nicole	before	it	was	too	late.
She	looked	around	a	large	semi-circular	hall.	A	tall,	light	brown	statue
in	its	center	depicted	a	stone	man	in	a	hooded	robe.	Robes	again.	Good	thing
this	one	wasn't	black.	The	man	raised	his	hands	over	a	thick	book	that	lay	on
a	 tall	marble	 lectern	 in	 front	of	him.	He	 looked	as	 if	he	was	about	 to	cast	a
spell.
On	 both	 sides	 of	 the	 statue,	 two	 staircases	 arched	 up	 to	 the	 second
floor.	The	walls	of	the	hall	were	lined	with	cluttered,	overflowing	shelves—
the	place	looked	more	like	a	dump	than	City	Hall.	She	could	make	out	some
familiar	 everyday	 objects—a	 broken	 bike	 and	 a	 large,	 lidless	 suitcase
shedding	armfuls	of	rags—but	some	of	the	objects	were	truly	unusual:	a	ship's
helm	leaning	against	the	wall,	the	lower	part	of	a	shop's	mannequin,	a	wooden
model	of	a	horse	coach	 the	size	of	an	armchair,	all	bathed	 in	 the	moonlight
pouring	in	through	the	high-vaulted	windows.
What	was	 it	Martha	had	said?	City	Hall	was	 the	City's	mouth.	She'd
also	 said,	 “Seek	 clues	 inside	 City	 Hall.”	Was	 Nicole	 supposed	 to	 seek	 for
clues	 among	 all	 this	 clutter?	What	 kind	 of	 clues,	 even?	Where	 should	 they
lead?
Nicole	 paced	 the	 hall	 absentmindedly.	 She'd	 been	 doing	 whatever
Gumshoe	had	told	her	to,	but	it	looked	like	it	was	about	time	she	made	up	her
mind	about	what	she	wanted	to	do.
Stay	in	the	City.	She	nodded.	That's	what	she	wanted,	surely.	To	stay
here,	whatever	this	place	was.	True,	she	didn't	know	much	about	it	yet,	apart
from	 the	main	 square	 and	 a	 couple	 of	 side	 streets	 plus	 a	 few	buildings	 she
hadn't	 even	 had	 a	 chance	 to	 explore,	 but	 already,	 the	City	was	 holding	 her
tight	in	its	invisible	grasp.
She	had	to	stay.	She	had	to	find	out	what	was	going	on.	She	needed	to
know	what	it	was	the	men	in	black	robes	had	wanted	from	her,	why	the	olive-
skinned	 stranger	 had	 kissed	 her,	 and	 what	 exactly	 Gumshoe	 was	 trying	 to
conceal	from	her.	She	needed	to	know	what	he	suspected	her	of.	Why	had	he
given	her	that	funny	look	when	he	handed	her	the	brandy	glass?
She	also	needed	 to	 find	out	what	 it	was	 that	Martha	had	seen	 in	 the
crystal	ball.	What	kind	of	evil	force	was	hunting	her	down?	Why	should	she
avoid	 the	 House	 of	 Crimson	 Windows?	 Then	 there's	 Grandma	 and	 her
pendant.	No,	she	had	to	put	everything	right.
Nicole	started	searching.	She	was	going	to	do	it	methodically,	moving
clockwise	and	inspecting	all	movable	objects	on	her	way.
A	 glittering	 hair	 grip,	 a	 fur	 hat,	 a	 jar	 of	 orange	 marmalade,	 a	 toy
monkey	on	a	spring,	an	ancient	typewriter,	a	straw	hat	with	a	feather	stuck	in
its	brim,	a	book	in	an	unknown	language,	a	mismatched	shoe	.	.	.	wrong,	all
wrong.
She	went	through	the	clutter	until	her	eyes	were	quite	sore.	Time	for	a
break.	A	 large	 leather	 armchair	by	 the	 front	door	was	 just	 the	 thing.	Nicole
lowered	herself	into	it	and	sat	back,	closing	her	eyes.
A	 rattle	 behind	 her	 back	 made	 her	 jump.	 Clutching	 the	 pendant—
which,	by	now,	felt	almost	like	a	weapon—she	looked	around	and	breathed	a
sigh	of	relief.	A	false	alarm,	luckily.	A	sloppily	replaced	book	had	apparently
fallen	 to	 the	 floor.	Nothing	 else	 seemed	 to	 stir.	She	was	 alone	 in	 the	whole
building.
And	still,	something	felt	not	quite	right.	But	what	could	it	be?	Nothing
had	changed,	surely?
Nicole	 tensed	 up,	 realizing	 the	 cause	 of	 her	 anxiety.	 The	 pendant
pulsated	 in	her	hand.	She	 let	go	of	 it,	 and	 it	 sent	 its	beats	even	 through	her
clothing,	just	like	a	living	thing.	It	felt	as	if	two	hearts	were	now	throbbing	in
her	body.
Nicole	paused,	then	reached	again	for	the	black	eye-shaped	gem.	She
thought	she'd	detected	a	weak	responseechoing	the	beat	from	somewhere	to
her	left.
She	 turned	 and	 took	 a	 few	 steps,	 nearly	 walking	 into	 the	 statue,	 or
rather,	into	the	tall	marble	lectern	with	its	open	book.	Not	just	any	old	book.
This	was	a	tome	to	end	all	tomes.	She	wouldn't	even	be	able	to	lift	it.	It	was
open	somewhere	 in	 the	middle.	On	one	page	was	a	 red-pointed	star.	On	 the
opposite,	 several	 lines	 of	 unfamiliar	 words.	 They	 looked	 like	 Latin	 .	 .	 .
probably	.	.	.	and	the	star	had	to	be	a	pentagram,	right?
Nicole	 clutched	 the	 pendant	 hard	 and	 tried	 to	 tune	 in	 to	 her	 senses.
The	response	signals	seemed	to	be	coming	from	below.	She	knelt	and	made
out	in	the	moonlight	the	outline	of	a	face	carved	into	the	lectern's	base.	On	its
forehead	was	an	indentation	shaped	like	a	third	eye.
The	pendant	pulsated	harder,	 fluttering	 in	her	hand	 like	 a	 tiny	heart.
Carefully,	Nicole	removed	it	from	her	neck	and	held	her	breath	as	she	brought
it	toward	the	indentation	and	placed	the	pendant	into	it.
Something	 clicked.	 The	 front	 panel	 of	 the	 marble	 lectern	 snapped
open,	revealing	a	tiny	chamber	with	two	objects	in	it.
A	big,	round	magnifying	lens	framed	in	gold	was	mounted	on	a	short,
black	handle,	and	a	glass	ball	sat	on	a	flat	stand.
The	marble	panel	opened	all	 the	way	down	to	 the	floor,	clicked,	and
then	began	to	close	again.	Nicole	hurried	to	put	the	pendant	back	around	her
neck,	 and	 then	 grabbed	 both	 the	 lens	 and	 the	 ball.	With	 a	 snap,	 the	 panel
closed.
Nicole	stood	up.	Now,	nothing	could	be	seen	of	the	hiding	place	inside
the	 lectern.	Had	 it	 not	 been	 for	 the	 pendant,	 she'd	 never	 have	 found	 it	 in	 a
million	years.
She	 inspected	 the	 ball.	 She	 used	 to	 have	 one	 like	 it	 when	 she	 was
little,	 only	 hers	 had	 had	 a	magic	 castle	 inside.	 If	 you	 shook	 the	 ball,	 snow
started	to	fall	on	the	castle.	Nicole	had	never	quite	forgiven	the	neighbor's	cat
for	breaking	it.	It	had	been	a	magical	toy,	one	of	her	favorites.
She	 brought	 the	 ball	 closer	 to	 her	 eyes	 and	 froze,	 open-mouthed.
Inside	 this	 one,	 there	was	 no	magic	 castle.	 In	 place	 of	 it	was	 the	House	 of
Crimson	Windows.
Her	hands	instinctively	shook	the	ball,	 raising	a	whirl	of	 .	 .	 .	no,	not
snowflakes,	but	mist.	What	a	weird	 trick.	Nicole	knew	that	 these	balls	were
normally	filled	with	water.	So	it	had	to	be	some	sort	of	white	muck,	a	residue
rising	from	the	bottom.	Whatever	it	was,	it	looked	very	similar	to	the	mist	that
covered	the	streets	next	to	the	square.
She	 brought	 the	 ball	 even	 closer	 to	 her	 face,	 peering	 into	 it.	A	 dark
human	shape	seemed	 to	be	standing	 in	one	of	 the	windows.	Somebody	was
watching	her	from	this	tiny	building	hidden	inside	the	glass	ball.
She	blinked,	 and	 the	 shape	disappeared.	Nicole	 shook	 the	ball	 again
and	again,	but	the	silhouette	didn't	come	back.
So	was	this	the	clue	she'd	been	looking	for?	If	so,	what	could	it	mean?
Nicole	put	 the	ball	 into	her	pocket	and	turned	to	the	other	object.	Its	handle
was	made	of	some	kind	of	sparkling	stone.	The	round	magnifying	glass	was
set	in	a	solid	gold	frame—an	ordinary	lens,	nothing	special	about	it.	But	.	.	.	.
Nicole	peered	at	the	lettering	that	ran	along	the	gold	frame.	It	looked
like	 Latin.	 Video	 inuisibilis	 tenebrosaque	 secreta	 aperiuntur,	 she	 read,
moving	 her	 lips,	 and	 shook	 her	 head	 in	 dismay.	 Some	 clue!	Martha	would
have	probably	known	the	meaning	of	it.	Well,	Nicole	didn't.	She	shoved	the
lens	into	her	pocket,	her	fingers	brushing	the	flat	stand	of	the	ball.
She	pulled	 the	ball	out	and	 turned	 it	upside	down.	On	 the	bottom	of
the	stand,	someone	had	attached	a	small	photo.	The	glue	had	long	dried	out,
and	with	the	slightest	tug,	the	picture	came	off	in	Nicole's	hands.
Two	 people	 stared	 at	 her	 from	 the	 photo.	 One	 was	 a	 tall	 man	 with
black,	curly	hair	and	an	aquiline	nose.	A	pretty	woman	stood	next	to	him,	her
eyes	intelligent.	Both	seemed	to	be	smiling	at	their	own	thoughts,	not	for	the
camera.	The	man	wore	a	light-colored	shirt	and	a	pair	of	suspenders	over	his
old-fashioned	 pants.	 The	woman	 had	 on	 a	 long,	 flowing	 skirt	 and	 a	 baggy
sweater.
Nicole	 just	 shrugged	 when	 she	 recognized	 the	 House	 of	 Crimson
Windows	in	the	background	of	the	picture.	What	else	did	she	expect?
She	studied	 the	woman.	Unbelievable.	Nicole	shook	her	head,	 trying
to	rid	herself	of	the	illusion,	but	it	wouldn't	go.	Either	she	was	going	slightly
mad,	 or	 she	 was	 the	 spitting	 image	 of	 the	 woman	 in	 the	 photo.	 Even	 her
clothes	 .	 .	 .	wait.	This	was	Nicole's	 sweater	 the	woman	was	wearing.	What
was	going	on?
Nicole	 frowned	as	 she	 studied	 the	picture.	Then	she	put	 it	back	 into
her	pocket	and,	weighing	the	glass	ball	in	her	hand,	started	for	the	door.
Her	head	was	the	same	kind	of	mess	as	City	Hall.	She	was	failing	to
finish	a	single	thought	that	she	started.	She	had	long	realized	that	her	arrival
in	 the	City	had	been	anything	but	 accidental,	 but	now,	 she	 just	 didn't	 know
what	to	think	about	it	all.	Besides,	she	could	do	with	a	nap.	She	might	think
straighter	after	a	few	Z’s.	Then	she'd	work	out	what	to	do	next.
She	pushed	 the	door	open	and	walked	out	onto	a	wide	porch.	A	few
steps	led	down	from	it	to	the	sidewalk.
When	Nicole	saw	the	creature	standing	by	the	steps,	she	screamed	and
darted	back	inside.
Chapter	Seven
	
Gumshoe	walked	briskly	toward	City	Hall.	He'd	never	liked	entering
it—there	was	something	about	the	building	that	had	always	given	him	a	bad
feeling.	Whenever	he'd	ventured	inside,	he	couldn't	shrug	off	the	sensation	of
being	watched	everywhere	he	turned.
He	 went	 past	 several	 houses	 overgrown	 with	 ivy.	 Something	 was
moving	on	the	City	Hall	steps,	still	quite	a	distance	ahead.	Gumshoe	hurried
his	step.	Was	it	Nicole	over	there?	It	didn't	look	like	her.
The	 silhouette	 shifted.	 It	 couldn't	 be	 the	 girl.	 She'd	 been	 dressed	 in
blue	jeans	and	a	drab	sweater.	The	shape	over	there	was	light-colored	and	too
large	 to	be	her.	 It	 stood,	whatever	 it	was,	 right	on	 the	 steps	 leading	 to	City
Hall's	wide	front	doors.	It	didn't	 look	like	the	Inquisitor.	Having	said	that,	 it
didn't	look	human	at	all.
Gumshoe	 was	 covering	 the	 last	 few	 blocks	 when	 City	 Hall's	 doors
opened,	letting	out	Nicole	Stewart.	He	ran,	pulling	his	gun	out	of	its	holster,
realizing	 that	whatever	was	 standing	 in	 front	 of	 the	 building	 had	 taken	 the
shape	of	an	enormous	white	wolf—werewolf,	rather.	Having	left	the	building,
Nicole	found	herself	face	to	face	with	it.
Her	 reactions	 were	 excellent.	 You	 had	 to	 give	 her	 that.	 The	 girl
recoiled	and	tried	to	dive	back	inside,	but	 the	monster	 took	the	stairs	 in	one
long	 leap	 and	grabbed	her,	 growling.	Then	 the	werewolf	 reared	up,	 jumped
off	 the	 steps	 with	 Nicole	 in	 its	 front	 paws,	 and	 ran	 along	 the	 wall	 of	 the
building.
Gumshoe	turned	onto	a	parallel	street	to	block	the	creature's	exit.	The
girl	struggled	in	the	werewolf’s	paws,	then	it	was	as	if	she	were	yanking	on
something.	Gumshoe	 couldn’t	 figure	 out	what	 had	 happened.	He	 just	made
out	a	dull,	bluish	flash.	The	magic	rune	flickered	and	dissolved	in	the	air.	It
went	out.	The	werewolf	quietly	howled,	 and	Nicole	went	 limp	 in	his	paws.
Without	stopping,	Gumshoe	raised	the	gun	and	aimed	at	the	beast's	hunched,
hairy	 back,	 but	 the	 werewolf—an	 enormous,	 shaggy	 travesty	 of	 a	 human
being—continued	to	run	on	its	hind	legs,	took	another	turn,	and	disappeared
around	the	corner	of	City	Hall.
Nicole	 writhed	 in	 the	 creature's	 claws,	 gasping	 with	 pain	 in	 its
inhuman	 hug.	 Her	 fingers	 clutched	 the	 fur	 on	 the	 thick	 neck.	 She	 felt
something	under	its	fur,	like	a	thin	string	or	a	cord.	She	pulled	on	it,	heard	a
snap,	 and	 saw	 a	 blue	 flash.	 A	 strange	 sign,	 seemingly	 made	 from	 the
flickering	smoke,	appeared	and	then	dissolved	in	the	air.
The	 beast	 carried	 her	 like	 a	 baby,	 only	 no	 baby	 could	 survive	 in	 its
grip.Right	in	front	of	her,	she	could	see	its	broad	muzzle	covered	with	white
hair.	 The	 night	 street	 around	 her	 jerked	 up	 and	 down	 with	 the	 werewolf's
every	leap	and	bound.
Again,	Nicole	struggled,	trying	to	scream,	but	the	monster	lowered	its
head	and	growled	into	her	face.
Its	eyes	glowed	crimson.	Its	hot,	fetid	breath	hit	Nicole's	senses,	and
she	went	 limp	 in	 the	monster's	 front	 legs,	 still	 conscious,	but	barely	able	 to
react	to	the	world	around	her.
She	was	being	dragged	somewhere.	The	werewolf's	grasp	on	her	body
became	 at	 times	 harder,	 then	 softer.	 A	 growl,	 and	 claws	 scraped	 the
cobblestones.	Then	 she	was	 lying	on	 something	hard,	 the	 animal's	 red	 eyes
glowing	 just	 above	her,	 its	 eyes	 shining	with	 intelligence.	The	 terrible	 jaws
opened,	and	froth	dripped	from	its	curved	fangs,	its	tongue	like	a	large	chunk
of	bloodied	meat.	The	jaws	came	closer.
Nicole	 didn't	 know	 what	 happened	 next.	 A	 hoarse	 growl,	 and	 then
reality	started	jerking,	shifting	and	darkening	before	her	eyes.	Looks	 like	 I'm
dead,	she	thought.	But	if	I	am,	how	come	I	can	still	think?	I	must	be	alive.	My
eyes	are	closed,	that's	all.	But	if	my	eyes	are	closed,	what's	this	pale	light	I'm
seeing?	So	my	eyes	have	to	be	open.	There	must	be	something	wrong	with	my
eyesight.
Gradually,	 reality	 started	 to	 return,	 even	 though	 she	 felt	 very,	 very
sick.	She	was	still	being	carried	somewhere.	Water	splashed	nearby.	But	who
was	 carrying	 her?	 It	wasn't	 the	 beast	 any	 longer.	 She	 couldn't	 sense	 its	 hot
breath,	and	her	body	wasn't	tossed	around	as	the	beast	leapt	up	and	down.	It
had	to	be	a	human	being,	then.	The	arms	were	strong,	but	gentle.	It	has	to	be
Gumshoe,	 she	 thought,	 closing	 her	 eyes	 and	 drifting	 off	 into	 a	 warm,
comfortable	nothingness.
When	Mike	heard	the	growling	and	the	shriek	coming	from	behind	the
houses,	he	knew	Albino	must	have	caught	the	girl.
As	 it	 happened,	Mike	was	walking	 toward	 the	Red	Rose	Cafe	with
three	 of	 his	men,	Greene	 and	 two	 others	whose	 names	 the	 Inquisitor	 didn't
remember.	When	the	growling	repeated,	they	came	running.
They	skirted	the	cafe.	A	soft,	reddish	glow	was	radiating	from	its	wide
windows.	The	cafe	emanated	the	smell	of	hot	wine	and	warm	cinnamon	buns.
Mike	could	hear	eerie	voices	and	the	soft	sound	of	playing	cards	slapping	on
the	 table.	Wine	glasses	clinked,	and	still,	he	could	see	 through	 the	windows
that	the	cafe	was	empty.
"There	 he	 is."	 Greene	 pointed	 at	 City	 Hall,	 where	 Albino	 was
bounding	along	the	wall	of	the	building,	clutching	the	girl	in	his	front	paws.	A
man	was	 running	 toward	 him,	 trying	 to	 block	 the	werewolf's	way.	His	 gun
glistened	silver	in	the	moonlight.
"Gumshoe!"	one	of	Mike's	men	gasped.
They	ran	across	the	square,	but	once	they'd	passed	the	cafe,	the	City's
pressure	grew,	choking	their	throats	and	making	their	legs	leaden.	Mike	had	it
better	 than	 the	other	 three,	who	 immediately	began	 to	pant	and	wheeze,	 the
sound	of	their	boots	growing	heavier	and	louder	against	the	paving	stones.
Mike	glanced	in	their	direction.	He	had	to	catch	Albino	by	himself.	If
he	didn’t,	the	one	was	as	good	as	dead.
"You	need	to	head	him	off	from	the	left,"	he	ordered.
Without	stopping,	his	men	exchanged	puzzled	looks.	"But,	Inquisitor,"
Greene	started,	"he's	just	turned	the	corner	to	your	right—"
"He	might	go	around	City	Hall	and	come	back.	So	you	go	left	to	cut
him	off.	I'll	go	right."
"Yes,	 sir,"	 Greene	 barked	 and	 turned	 left,	 shouting	 to	 the	 others,
"Follow	me!"
Mike	kept	 running	 toward	 the	City	Hall	 corner	where	he'd	 just	 seen
Albino,	 Gumshoe	 and	 the	 girl.	 His	 associates	 were	 keeping	 to	 the	 left,
increasing	 their	 distance	 from	 him.	 Their	 breathing	 grew	 more	 and	 more
strained.	 Every	 step	 across	 the	 square	 must	 have	 been	 a	 struggle	 for	 the
Shadow's	servants.
"Inquisitor,"	 Greene	 shouted.	 "What	 do	 we	 do	 if	 Albino	 comes	 out
right	in	front	of	us?"
"Just	 stop	 him,"	Mike	 replied.	 "Don't	 let	 him	kill	 the	 girl.	You	 can't
trust	a	shapeshifter	to	follow	his	orders."
He	didn't	specify	how	exactly	they	were	supposed	to	kill	an	enormous
rampant	wolf	who	 could	 take	 people's	 heads	 off	with	 his	 razor-sharp	 claws
and	 fangs	 as	 long	 as	 a	 human's	 thumb.	 It	 was	 their	 problem	 now.	 Mike's
objectives	were	different.	He	had	 to	outrun	Gumshoe	and	catch	up	with	 the
werewolf	before	he	killed	the	girl.
Albino	would	have	no	scruples	about	doing	 it.	His	orders	must	have
been	 to	 bring	 the	 girl	 back	 alive,	 but	 by	 now,	 he	 was	 little	 more	 than	 an
animal—a	huge,	angry	beast	oblivious	of	his	human	past.	He'd	keep	dragging
the	girl	along	for	a	while	until	hunger	and	the	desire	to	kill	took	their	toll.
Twice,	Mike	 had	 very	 nearly	 caught	 up	with	 them,	 and	 both	 times,
he'd	ended	up	lagging	behind.	The	square	was	by	then	far	in	the	distance,	and
so	were	his	associates.	For	a	while,	he	didn't	have	to	bother	about	them.	He
was	now	running	through	the	maze	of	riverside	streets	and	going	off	road	as
he	leapt	across	ravines	and	cracks	in	the	pavement.
Soon,	the	sidewalk	ended	in	a	dirt	path.	Mike	stopped	and	listened.	He
could	 barely	 hear	Gumshoe's	 footsteps.	As	 for	 the	werewolf,	 he	 seemed	 to
have	disappeared.
Mike	closed	his	eyes	and	laid	a	hand	across	his	forehead,	covering	the
scar.	He	stood,	motionless,	as	the	scar	was	filled	with	a	green	glow,	sending
the	decaying	light	down	his	fingers,	enveloping	his	wrist,	then	sliding	onto	his
face,	turning	it	into	a	radiant	mask.
Mike	snatched	his	hand	away	and	opened	his	eyes.	He	ran	to	his	left
and	 leapt	over	a	decrepit	narrow	gate	 that	 led	 into	a	neglected	 little	garden.
His	heels	tapped	on	the	wobbly	footbridge	as	he	crossed	a	black-water	ditch
and	descended	to	the	river.
The	 moon's	 reflection	 rippled	 in	 its	 waters.	 A	 dirt	 street	 traced	 the
river	 bank	 past	 little	 gardens	 in	 the	 houses'	 back	 yards.	 The	 opposite	 bank
sank	into	the	mist,	revealing	nothing	but	a	few	flickering	lights.	Two	of	them
moved.
Albino	staggered	along	the	riverside	street.
He	 stooped	 under	 his	 load,	 carefully	 stepping	 on	 his	 hind	 legs,
clutching	the	one	to	his	chest.	His	eyes	glowed	crimson.	An	enormous	tongue
hung	down	from	his	half-opened	 jaws.	His	 fangs	gleamed	 in	 the	moonlight.
Saliva	was	dripping	from	his	quivering	muzzle.
Mike	walked	toward	him.	Albino	growled.	The	girl	in	his	hands	didn't
move,	 one	 of	 her	 arms	 hanging	 listlessly.	Albino	 growled	 louder,	 a	 hungry,
greedy	growl.	The	last	drops	of	human	nature	had	left	him	during	the	chase.
The	werewolf	had	orders	to	deliver	the	girl	alive,	but	now,	he	viewed	her	as
his	prey	and	was	prepared	to	tear	her	apart.
Mike's	heart	sank.	Have	I	really—he	shook	off	the	unwanted	thought.
Impossible.	 I'm	 Mike	 Ciaretti,	 Inquisitor	 to	 the	 Shadow.	 I	 have	 no	 human
sentiments	left.
Once	he	was	a	couple	of	dozen	paces	away	from	the	werewolf,	Mike
stopped	and	said,	loud	and	clear,	"Leave	her	and	go."
The	 creature	 dropped	 the	 girl	 to	 the	 ground	 and	 stood	 over	 her,
growling,	protecting	his	prey,	which	made	him	so	much	more	dangerous.
Slowly,	 Mike	 drew	 a	 sharp	 knife	 from	 its	 sheath	 on	 his	 belt.	 It
resembled	a	surgeon's	scalpel	with	its	narrow,	pointed	blade.
The	knife	was	made	of	plain,	untreated	steel.	A	toy	weapon	like	that
would	make	any	of	 the	Shadow's	 servants	 laugh.	And	as	 for	 truly	powerful
creatures—like	 shapeshifters,	 disciples	 or	 the	 underground	 folk—it	 couldn't
harm	them	any	more	than	a	paperclip.	Still,	it	was	a	weapon,	a	threat,	and	that
caused	the	werewolf	to	tense	up.
Clutching	 the	knife	 in	his	 lowered	 right	hand,	Mike	outstretched	 the
left	one,	turning	it	palm	up	and,	drawing	his	fingers	together,	pointed	them	at
Albino's	chest	as	if	his	hand	was	a	blade.
"Leave,"	he	said.	He	didn't	add	anything	else.	Words	had	no	meaning
any	more.	From	that	moment,	actions	decided	everything.
The	 enormous	 whitewerewolf	 raised	 his	 head	 to	 the	moon	 shining
bright	 in	 the	 black	 sky	 and	 howled.	 The	 girl	 lay	 sprawled	 at	 his	 feet.	 His
howling	embraced	his	hatred	for	humankind,	his	anger	and	fury,	his	pain	and
his	 frustration.	 Then	 he	 dropped	 onto	 all	 four	 legs	 and	 charged	 along	 the
narrow	dirt	road	at	the	motionless	man.
Mike	 didn't	 move.	 The	 werewolf	 careened	 toward	 him,	 his	 claws
digging	deep	into	the	earth	and	raising	mounds	of	black	soil.	Mike's	left	arm
kept	pointing	at	the	beast.	His	right	one	hung	listlessly	at	his	side.	Glistening
with	rage,	the	wolf's	crimson	eyes	came	closer	with	every	second.	And	still,
Mike	 remained	 motionless	 until	 the	 very	 last	 moment.	 Only	 when	 a	 mere
meter's	distance	separated	him	from	the	monster	did	he	act.
Like	a	bolt	of	black	lightning,	the	Inquisitor	slipped	aside,	avoiding	a
powerful	paw.	He	jerked	the	knife	up	while	keeping	his	other	hand	down.	The
knife's	sharp	point	cut	through	his	own	left	wrist.
Blood	spurted	out	in	a	sparkling	emerald-tinged	crimson	jet.	The	knife
didn't	 stop	 until	 it	 had	 cut	 through	 the	 skin	 all	 the	way	 down	 to	 his	 palm.
Mike	now	stood	 to	one	side	of	Albino,	who	had	accelerated	so	much,	 there
was	no	way	he	could	stop	in	time.
Mike	stepped	toward	the	werewolf	and	let	the	knife	go.	The	bloodied
blade	left	a	dull,	greenish	trace	in	the	air	as	it	pierced	the	beast's	ribs,	burying
itself	to	the	hilt	in	Albino's	side.
Not	 trying	 to	 retrieve	 his	 knife,	Mike	 sprang	 aside.	 His	 unbuttoned
jacket	 flared	 around	 him	 as	 he	 froze	 not	 three	 paces	 away	 from	 the	 beast,
clutching	his	left	wrist.
Green	muck	oozed	from	the	werewolf's	wound.	Albino	collapsed	and
started	rolling	on	the	ground,	leaving	a	shimmering	greenish	trace	in	the	air.
The	werewolf	gave	out	a	howl	that	soon	turned	to	a	whimper.	He	rattled	and
wheezed	in	agony	from	the	pain	surging	over	his	body.
Rearing	up,	the	beast	made	one	more	faltering	step	and	collapsed	into
the	river.	He	flapped	around,	raising	a	cascade	of	spray,	then	started	paddling
away,	still	whimpering,	leaving	a	watered-down	greenish	trace	in	his	wake.
Mike	 took	off	his	 jacket	and	hurried	 toward	 the	girl	sprawled	out	on
the	ground.	She	stirred	and	groaned	weakly.
Gumshoe	stopped	and	cast	a	glance	around.	The	chase	had	taken	him
to	 the	 riverside	quarter,	 a	 confusing	maze	of	back	 streets,	blind	alleys,	dark
nooks,	 crannies	 and	 backyards.	Despite	 his	 load,	 the	werewolf	 had	 run	 too
fast	for	him.	Gumshoe	had	made	a	couple	of	chance	turns	and	almost	thought
he'd	lost	the	beast	when	he	heard	him	growl	over	to	his	left.
Gumshoe	pointed	his	gun	up	and	lunged	at	the	sound.	He	slid	through
a	low	archway,	crossed	a	backyard	overgrown	with	grass	and	forced	his	body
through	a	hole	in	the	fence,	finding	himself	on	a	narrow	dirt	street.	One	side
of	it	was	lined	with	houses'	backyards,	and	the	other	opened	onto	the	river.	A
fragmented	moon	reflected	from	the	rippling	water.	A	tall,	thin	man	dressed	in
black	walked	along	the	riverbank	away	from	Gumshoe.	In	his	arms,	he	held
Nicole.	 There	 was	 no	 sign	 of	 the	 werewolf,	 but	 Gumshoe	 could	 hear
splashing	 coming	 from	 the	 river.	 Soon,	 the	 sound	 stopped,	 replaced	 by
sniffing	and	stomping.	When	the	sounds	died	away	in	the	distance,	he	raised
his	gun	and	aimed	it	at	the	tall	man's	back.
"Stop,"	Gumshoe	ordered.
The	 river	 splashed	 gently.	The	moon	 rocked	 in	 the	waves.	The	man
was	walking	away	steadily	without	looking	back.
"Stop	and	turn	around,	or	I'll	shoot."
He	said	it	in	a	firm	and	decisive	voice.	The	man	stopped.	Slowly,	he
turned	around.
"Inquisitor,"	Gumshoe	said.
The	tall	man,	young	and	olive-skinned,	looked	at	him	without	saying	a
word.	A	scar	pulsated	on	his	forehead.	Nicole	didn't	stir	in	his	arms.	Gumshoe
couldn't	tell	whether	the	werewolf	had	injured	her	or	if	she	was	even	alive.
A	black	velvet	jacket	lay	on	the	ground	in	front	of	the	young	man.
"Lay	the	girl	on	the	ground,"	Gumshoe	ordered.
The	young	man	sized	him	up	and	said	in	a	quiet	voice,	"I	won't	hurt
her."
"I've	got	a	silver	bullet	in	my	gun."	With	every	word,	Gumshoe	took	a
step	forward.	"I'm	a	decent	shot.	It's	dark	here,	but	the	distance	isn't	so	great.
I'm	 gonna	 hit	 you	 right	 between	 the	 eyes.	 You	 think	 you	 can	 survive	 it,
Inquisitor?"
After	 a	 pause,	 the	 young	 man	 said,	 "I	 can	 kill	 you	 here	 and	 now,
Gumshoe."
"So	can	 I.	Who's	gonna	 start?"	Gumshoe	gave	him	a	crooked	 smile.
"I'll	 take	three	more	steps,	and	then	I'll	shoot.	The	discussion	is	closed.	You
have	to	understand	I'm	not	joking."
"I've	saved	her,"	said	the	Inquisitor.	"You	were	too	late."
Gumshoe	 took	 his	 first	 step.	 The	 young	 man	 didn't	 budge.	 Second
step.	Nicole	stirred	in	the	Inquisitor's	arms,	groaning	quietly.	Gumshoe	raised
his	foot	again.	His	finger	tensed	on	the	trigger.
The	 olive-skinned	man	went	 down	 on	 one	 knee	 and	 placed	 the	 girl
onto	the	ground,	resting	her	head	on	a	soft	mound	of	grass.	For	a	few	more
seconds,	he	studied	her	face.	Then	he	stooped	over	her	and	kissed	her	on	the
forehead.
He	 stood	 up.	 For	 an	 instant,	 the	 two	 stared	 at	 each	 other.	 Then	 the
Inquisitor	turned	around	and	walked	away.	His	left	wrist	was	bandaged	with
his	jacket	sleeve.
Without	 lowering	his	gun,	Gumshoe	strode	after	him.	Twice,	he	was
on	 the	 verge	 of	 pulling	 the	 trigger.	 But	 he	 reconsidered,	 allowing	 the
Inquisitor	to	merge	into	the	darkness.
Gumshoe	replaced	the	gun	and	crouched	over	Nicole.	Her	eyes	were
open.	He	lifted	her	head,	slid	his	other	arm	under	her	knees,	and	rose.	With	a
long	sigh,	Nicole	clung	to	him,	cuddling	up	to	his	shoulder.
"You,"	she	said	weakly.	"I	knew	it."
Chapter	Eight
	
The	 sun	 shining	 in	 the	 window	 woke	 Nicole.	 Despite	 all	 the
adventures	she	had	experienced,	she	felt	fresh	and	vigorous.	She	lay	on	a	sofa
under	a	checkered	comforter.	All	of	 this—the	sofa	and	 the	comforter—gave
off	an	air	of	something	comfortable	and	homey.
She	 heard	 even	 breathing	 coming	 from	 the	 corner	 of	 the	 room.
Gumshoe	was	 sleeping	 there,	his	 chin	on	his	 chest.	His	 fedora	and	 raincoat
lay	on	a	small	table	beside	him.
Nicole’s	 eyes	 rested	on	 a	 small	 side	 table	 to	 the	 right	of	 the	 sofa.	 It
held	a	pitcher	with	a	glass,	and	next	 to	 them	were	 the	gold-framed	lens	and
the	glass	ball.	When	Nicole	reached	toward	it,	the	sofa	creaked,	and	Gumshoe
woke	up.
He	immediately	stood	up,	stepped	over	to	the	sofa,	and	studied	Nicole
under	the	comforter.
"I'm	all	 right,"	 she	hurried	 to	 answer	his	yet	unasked	question.	 "Not
even	dizzy."
"Still,	you	should	stay	here	for	a	while."	Gumshoe	sat	on	the	edge	of
the	bed,	filled	the	glass,	and	handed	it	to	her.	"Drink	this.	This	is	water	from
the	riverside	well.	According	to	Martha,	it	can	heal	a	lot	of	things."
Nicole	reached	for	the	glass	and	felt	Gumshoe's	hand	linger	over	her
fingers,	 just	 like	 it	 had	 done	 on	 the	 roof	 earlier	 that	 day.	 It	 only	 lasted	 a
fleeting	moment,	then	he	removed	his	hand	a	bit	hastier	than	normal.
Nicole	took	a	few	gulps.	The	water	tasted	just	like	any	other.
"What	 happened?"	 she	 asked,	 handing	 him	 back	 the	 glass.	 "Outside
City	Hall.	There	was	a	huge	.	.	.	er	.	.	.	beast."
"A	 shapeshifter,"	 he	 explained.	 "A	werewolf.	 And	 I'm	 pretty	 sure	 it
was	sent	 to	apprehend	you	by	the	crowd	you	saw	on	the	square	when	you'd
first	arrived."
"Did	you	chase	it	away?	Thanks."
Gumshoe	 frowned	 and	 turned	 his	 gaze	 to	 the	 table.	 "This	 ball—did
you	find	it	at	City	Hall?"
She	 leaned	 back	 against	 the	 pillows	 and	 nodded.	 The	 light	 in	 the
window	grew	brighter.	A	bird	chirruped.
"Did	you	use	it?	Did	it	help	you	understand	anything	at	all?"	he	asked.
"Not	 really.	 I've	 still	 no	 idea	what's	 going	 on,	 and—"	Nicole	 leaned
forward	and	took	Gumshoe's	hand.	"You	must	tell	me.	You've	got	to	answer
my	questions,	now.	I	need	to	understand."
He	 gave	 her	 a	 reserved	 smile,	 not	 even	 trying	 to	 reclaim	 his	 hand."Very	well,	then.	Ask	your	questions."
"This	City,	what's	it	called?	Has	it	been	here	before?	Why	is	it	the	way
.	.	.	the	way	it	is?	And	if	you	want	to	leave,	how	do	you	do	it?"
He	spoke	slowly.
"No	one	knows	its	name.	One	thing	we	do	know	is	that	it	once	used	to
be	 an	 ordinary	 city	 in	 our	 ordinary	 world.	 Somewhere	 in	 Europe,	 I	 think.
Then,	something	happened.	Something	changed	it.	Some	old	records	mention
the	Warp.	We've	no	idea	what	it's	supposed	to	mean.	The	Warp	made	the	City
what	it	 is	now."	Gumshoe	waved	his	hand	in	the	air.	"It’s	kind	of	pulled	the
City	out	of	our	reality	and	transferred	it	here."
"Which	is	where?"
"Who	knows?	Now,	the	City	is	cut	off	from	our	time	and	space.	Still,
there	are	some	secret	passages	 left	 leading	both	 to	and	from	our	 real	world.
There	must	be	some;	otherwise,	how	would	you	explain	all	our	new	arrivals?
Unfortunately,	none	of	us	knows	how	to	use	them.	No,	sorry,	I	think	Collector
did.	But	he	disappeared	a	long	time	ago."
"How	did	you	get	here,	then?"
"Didn't	 I	 tell	 you?	 I	 was	 investigating	 a	 case.	 Long	 story,	 though.
Some	other	time.	You'd	better	sleep	now."
"No,	wait.	I	won't	be	able	to	sleep	if	you	don't	tell	me	more	about	it.
So	 no	 one	 can	 leave	 the	 City,	 right?	 And	 what	 if	 you	 just	 walk	 in	 one
direction	without	turning,	or—oh	no,	you	can't.	I	see	now."
"The	 mist."	 Gumshoe	 nodded.	 "Our	 mist	 is	 much	 more	 than
condensation	in	the	air.	It's	a	particular	substance,	a	force	that	has	something
to	do	with	the	Warp.	That's	what	the	mist	does—it	warps	reality.	It	displaces
the	streets	and	moves	houses.	It	also	breathes	new	life	into	ordinary	objects,
things	you	might	find	in	people's	homes,	on	the	streets	or	in	shops.	Some	of
them	 stay	 unchanged	 while	 others	 acquire	 new	 properties.	 Some	 objects
merge,	creating	something	totally	new—we	call	them	artifacts.	There	are	also
relics—fantastic	things	created	by	the	City	itself."
"And	these	dark	ones,	or	whatever	you	called	them?	Who	are	they?"
"We	don't	know.	There's	 something—or	someone—living	 in	 the	part
of	 the	 City	 separated	 from	 us	 by	 the	wall	 of	mist.	 Sometimes,	 it	 visits	 us.
Other	times,	it	sends	its	servants.	Monsters	like	that	werewolf	could	well	be
its	creations,	too	.	.	.	having	said	that,	they	might	not	be."
"And	 this	 force	 or	 whatever—does	 it	 live	 in	 the	House	 of	 Crimson
Windows?"
Gumshoe	shook	his	head.	"I	don't	think	so.	We	know	virtually	nothing
about	 the	 House.	 Some	 of	 us	 see	 it	 in	 our	 dreams.	 I	 know	 Martha	 does.
Cardsharp	says	that	the	House	can	fulfill	any	wish	as	long	as	you	find	it	and
enter."
"That's	him.	But	what	do	you	think?"
"I	haven't	come	to	any	conclusion	yet.	And	still,	 I	 think—I'm	almost
sure—that	 the	 House	 of	 Crimson	 Windows	 has	 something	 to	 do	 with	 the
Warp.	Enough	now.	You'd	better	crash	out	for	a	few	more	hours."
He	 stood	 up,	 but	 Nicole	 demanded,	 "No,	 wait.	 One	 last	 question.
Didn't	 you	 say	 that	 you'd	 gotten	 here	 from	 our	 reality?	 Already	 after	 the
Warp,	right?	So	when	you	came	here,	the	City	was	already	the	way	it	is	now.
But	how	about	the	others?"
"Martha	used	to	live	here	before	the	Warp.	And	so	did	Landlady,	the
owner	of	the	Mansion.	A	few	others,	too.	None	of	them	can	tell	you	what	the
Warp	 is,	 if	 that's	what	you	mean.	They	say	 it	all	happened	at	a	quarter	past
two	in	the	morning,	although	they	can't	explain	now	how	they	knew	it.	One
night,	 something	 had	 happened	 that	 none	 of	 them	 could	 then	 explain	 or
describe,	 something	 petrifyingly	 scary.	 When	 everybody	 woke	 up	 in	 the
morning,	the	City	was	already	as	you	see	it	now."
Quarter	past	two,	Nicole	repeated	in	her	head.	Quarter	past	two	.	.	.	.
"Do	new	people	arrive	here	often?"	she	asked.
"Not	really.	Most	of	them	soon	disappear	into	the	mist.	But	some	do
stay,	 like	 myself.	 Sleep	 now.	 The	 dark	 ones	 never	 come	 in	 the	 daytime.
Besides,	this	house	is	near	enough	to	the	square,	so	it's	always	been	safe.	I'll
keep	 an	 eye	 on	 them	 anyway,	 just	 in	 case.	You're	 on	 the	 third	 floor.	 I'll	 be
downstairs.	Sleep	tight."
He	headed	for	the	door,	but	stopped	and	turned	to	her.	"I'm	sorry."
"Sorry?	What	for?"
"I	 suspected	 you.	 I	 had	 no	 idea	 that	 the	 Inquisitor	 .	 .	 .	 never	mind.
Now	sleep."
He	left	and	closed	the	door	quietly	behind	himself.
Nicole	lay	in	bed	for	a	while	with	her	eyes	closed.	She	saw	two	faces
in	 her	mind's	 eye.	 One	 belonged	 to	 the	man	who'd	 just	 left	 the	 room.	 The
other	 was	 young	 and	 olive-skinned,	 delicate	 and	 brutal—the	 face	 of	 a
dangerous	man.	Gumshoe	had	called	him	 the	 Inquisitor	and	had	averted	his
eyes	when	he	said	it.	No	idea	what	that	could	mean.
But	whoever	he	was,	Nicole	couldn't	forget	the	young	man.	Now	she
could	clearly	see	his	face,	as	clear	as	Gumshoe's,	even	though	it	had	been	a
while	since	she'd	met	the	stranger.	It	was	impossible	to	tell	which	of	the	two
she	liked	the	most.
Outside,	the	day	was	breaking.	The	bird	had	stopped	singing,	and	the
morning	air	was	silent	and	peaceful.	Slowly,	 to	avoid	dizziness,	Nicole	 rose
and	walked	over	to	the	window.	She	pulled	the	curtain	aside	and	peered	out.
The	 rising	 sun	had	 transformed	 the	City.	Nicole	 drew	 in	 the	 air	 that
smelled	 of	 ground	 coffee	 and	 freshly	 baked	 bread.	 A	 leprechaun-shaped
weathervane	creaked	in	the	breeze	in	front	of	the	window.	Nicole	was	looking
out	 over	 a	 sea	 of	 roofs.	 Covered	with	 red,	 orange	 or	 yellow	 tiles,	 some	 of
them	seemed	old,	others	brand	new,	and	yet	more	were	decayed	and	mossy.
The	morning	light	bathed	them	all	in	its	invisible	veil.
Nicole	recognized	City	Hall	and	the	Station.	On	the	house	to	her	left,
two	stone	gargoyles	spread	their	webbed	wings.	One	of	them	seemed	to	turn
its	head	toward	Nicole,	but	this	surely	had	to	be	an	optical	illusion.
A	bell	started	jingling.	Nicole	startled.	Was	it	her	smartphone?	Oh,	no.
She'd	wake	up	now,	and	the	City	would	disappear.
She	squeezed	her	eyes	shut,	expecting	to	find	herself	back	in	her	old
bedroom.	Clutching	the	edge	of	the	curtain,	she	took	a	step	back	and	opened
her	eyes.	No.	The	City	was	still	there.
Nicole	 breathed	 a	 sigh	 of	 relief.	 She	 didn't	want	 to	 leave.	Not	 now,
anyway.
Letting	 go	 of	 the	 curtain,	 Nicole	 went	 back	 to	 the	 sofa.	 She	 could
barely	keep	her	eyes	open.	But	before	falling	asleep,	she	reached	for	the	glass
ball	on	the	table.	She	peered	into	it	but	didn't	see	the	silhouette	in	the	House
of	Crimson	Windows.	She	 replaced	 the	ball,	 picked	up	 the	 lens	 and	 fiddled
with	it	for	a	while,	studying	the	black	stone	handle	and	the	fancy	lettering	that
snaked	along	its	gold	frame.
Then	she	 remembered	 the	picture.	Where	could	 it	be?	Could	 it	have
fallen	out	of	her	pocket	when	the	werewolf	abducted	her?	Nicole	reached	for
her	jeans	folded	on	the	stool	and	checked	the	pockets.	The	picture	was	there.
Had	 Gumshoe	 seen	 it?	 Probably	 not.	 Otherwise,	 he'd	 have	 surely
asked	 her	 why	 she	 resembled	 the	 woman	 in	 the	 picture.	Mom	 used	 to	 tell
Nicole	that	she	was	the	spitting	image	of	Grandma.
She	peered	at	the	photo,	studying	the	woman	and	the	man	who	stood
next	to	her.	Then	she	turned	the	picture	over.	Nothing	there.	The	lens	in	her
other	 hand	 bothered	 her,	 and	Nicole	was	 just	 about	 to	 put	 it	 back	 onto	 the
table	when	she	glimpsed	something	through	the	thick	magnifying	glass.
Nicole	bit	her	lip	and	drew	the	lens	closer	 to	the	picture's	back,	 then
moved	it	a	tad	farther	away.	She	could	now	clearly	see	an	inscription	on	the
yellowed	 paper.	 But	 what	 was	 it	 made	 with?	 It	 looked	 as	 if	 someone	 had
dipped	a	magic	brush	into	the	darkest	night	sky	and	written,
	
My	dear	Nicole,
	
I'm	so	happy	you're	here.	You	might	be	the	one	who	will	save	us	all.
Find	the	Heart	of	Chaos.	You'll	get	help	from	some	Objects	 that	I've	left	 for
you,	but	I	can't	tell	you	exactly	where	they'll	be	when	you	arrive	in	the	City.
Everything	is	so	unsettled	down	here.	The	Child	of	Lightwill	point	you	in	the
right	direction.
	
You're	the	only	person	who	can	release	the	City.
	
Yours,
	
Angelica.
	
Nicole	reread	the	letter	three	times	until	the	words	written	in	darkness
ink	made	her	head	ache.	Her	 lens-clutching	hand	shook	with	 the	effort.	She
laid	the	lens	and	the	picture	on	the	table,	leaned	back	against	the	pillows,	and
closed	her	eyes.
Angelica	 was	 Grandma's	 name.	 She'd	 written	 this	 letter.	 Somehow,
she'd	known	that	Nicole	would	come	to	the	City	and	read	it.	How	could	she
possibly	have	known	it?	Why	was	Nicole	here?	What	forces	had	brought	her
to	the	City?	The	only	answers	she	had	were	those	offered	by	Gumshoe.
The	 bird	 started	 singing	 again.	 Somewhere	 behind	 the	 window,	 a
faraway	 door	 slammed,	 followed	 by	 the	 sound	 of	 footsteps.	 Somebody
yawned.	Muffled	voices	spoke.
Nicole	 Stewart	 lay	 with	 her	 eyes	 closed,	 listening	 intently	 to	 the
sounds	 of	 her	 new	 home.	 From	 now	 on,	 she	 was	 the	 one	 to	 find	 all	 the
answers.
(To	be	continued)
	
The	 intrigue	 surrounding	 Nicole	 is	 growing	 more	 intense.
The	Dark	 Inquisitors	are	starting	 to	hunt	her.	And	 then	 there's	 the
secret	 of	 the	 Collector	 and	 his	 mysterious	 house.	 Nicole	 and
Gumshoe	 are	 headed	 there,	 and	 they’re	 about	 to	 learn	 something
incredible.	 Read	 the	 next	 novella,	 Hidden	 City:	 The	 Shades	 of
Silence.	
	
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N7JCSZT
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City®:	Mystery	of	Shadows	game.
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Table	of	Contents
Chapter	One
Chapter	Two
Chapter	Three
Chapter	Four
Chapter	Five
Chapter	Six
Chapter	Seven
Chapter	Eight
	Chapter One
	Chapter Two
	Chapter Three
	Chapter Four
	Chapter Five
	Chapter Six
	Chapter Seven
	Chapter Eight