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  He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over. Edgar stepped into the room and looked at him questioningly. Lyttleton rushed past the butler without a word. If he caught a cab now, he would reach Dr. Napier's shortly before eight.

  Luck was with him, and within minutes he found a hansom. Once he was at the doctor's house, he knocked on the massive door.

  "Mr. Lyttleton to see Dr. Napier," he said, his voice slightly breathless, to the servant who answered. "He's expecting me, and I must see him at once."

  "Sir." The servant looked a little flustered. "Sir, please wait."

  Lyttleton heard a woman's voice. "Please allow me, Poster."

  "Yes, madam." The butler bowed and permitted Lyttleton to enter, then quietly left Helena Napier and Lyttleton alone in the entry hall. The woman had been crying.

  Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong, he knew, and his insides seemed to twist. "Mrs. Napier, what's wrong? Where is your husband?"

  She put a crumpled handkerchief up to her eyes. "My husband," she said in a choked voice, "died last night, Mr. Lyttleton."

  He couldn't believe it. "Dr. Napier died? That's impossible, Mrs. Napier. He was healthy and . . ." His voice faltered.

  "I know," she said mournfully.

  That was why the man had died, Lyttleton told himself with certainty. The doctor had died because he, like Lyttleton, knew too much about August Hamilton. Had known about her and had intended to do something about her. And so she killed Dr. Napier. Which meant that she had feared Napier, and perhaps feared him.

  He guided the woman into a parlor, and once they were seated on a sofa and she had dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, he asked, "When did it happen?"

  "Shortly before dawn." Her voice was thick with emotion. "He hadn't come to bed all night — I thought he was working, for he often did that — but this morning, before breakfast, Foster found him in his study. He was slumped over his desk. He had been trying to write something, a note, I suppose, w-when he collapsed."

  "I'm truly sorry," he murmured, feeling a constriction inside at the loss of the doctor, whom he regarded as a friend.

  "We've sent for our own physician, but he hasn't arrived. I fear it must have been his heart, for David had been working so hard lately, working through the night, and running here and there. I don't know what he was working on, for he wouldn't say. He kept telling me, 'All in good time.' " Helena Napier broke down and started sobbing then, and Lyttleton clumsily patted her hand.

  "May I see him, Mrs. Napier?" he asked. "To pay my last respects?" He had to check the doctor's body, had to know for a certainty.

  "Yes, of course. Please follow me."

  Outside an upstairs bedroom door she paused to look at Lyttleton. "My poor David. I think he must have been in terrible pain before he died."

  Lyttleton swallowed heavily and entered behind her. He found Napier's body laid out on a full-sized bed. The servants had washed and dressed him, and all that was needed was the doctor to check the body.

  On Napier's grey face was an awful grimace, much like that on Tommy's face when he died.

  "Would you mind if I were alone with him for a moment or two, Mrs. Napier?"

  Seeing nothing unusual in the request, she nodded and left the room. Lyttleton stared down at the man's contorted lace. He wished he didn't feel responsible, but if he hadn't told Dr. Napier about his dreams, the man would doubtless still be alive. He sighed and slipped out a small knife and pushed back the cuff on one of the arms. Then he pressed the knife into the flesh.

  Nothing.

  He cut deeper. Not even a slight trace of blood. No blood from the cut, he told himself, because there was scarcely any left, and what remained would have settled at the lowest point of the corpse.

  The corpse.

  Yesterday this had been a living man.

  As today he was a living man.

  Ashen-faced, his fingers numb, he backed away from the corpse. He closed the bedroom door behind him just as Mrs. Napier reached the landing.

  "I'm sorry," he said hurriedly, "but I must leave. I am truly sorry again, Mrs. Napier, for your loss. Please let me know when the funeral will be held." They shook hands ! and he rushed from the house.

  Outside in the hot morning air, Lyttleton took great gulping breaths to help still his fevered thoughts. David Napier had died last night; earlier in the evening he'd joked about All Soul's Eve, the night of the demons and witches, and a demon had claimed the doctor's soul. Lyttleton shuddered. He had to warn others, but who first? Henry? Yes, for he was enamored of her and thus in danger. He had to warn Henry before he died like Tommy, like Gerald, like Napier.

  He walked away from the Napier home and did not look back. Why had August killed Tommy? After all, she'd married him ... or had she? There'd never been any proof of that; they'd had only her word. Obviously, though, she'd needed Tommy to leave India. Perhaps he gave her a name or papers or respectability, but whatever it was, once she was in England, she had no further use for Tommy, and thus he died shortly afterward.

  The first of so many to die. Perhaps, he thought grimly, Dr. Napier would be the last. He must do something; he must destroy her. But how did one destroy a demon-woman? Through exorcism? Through the Church? He knew of no other way. But first he had to warn Henry, and he prayed that he would not be too late.

  *

  "Mr. Montchalmers is not at home at present," said Xavier, Henry's butler.

  Lyttleton paused, momentarily nonplussed. He had confidently expected to find Montchalmers at home, for his friend rarely rose early and even more rarely left his house before eleven, although he did see visitors then. For Henry Montchalmers to be out before ten in the morning was completely unheard-of. Provided, Lyttleton thought, that Montchalmers really wasn't home. What if Henry were actually inside and had instructed his servant to say he was out if Lyttleton called on him?

  Impossible, Lyttleton told himself. Impossible, unless August Hamilton held his friend in complete thrall.

  "Do you know when he will return?" Lyttleton asked anxiously. It was nearly half past ten, and he needed to talk with Montchalmers as quickly as possible. They had little time left.

  "This evening, sir."

  "Damn!"

  "I beg your pardon, sir?"

  "Please tell your employer that I called, Xavier."

  "Very good, sir."

  Lyttleton turned around and walked away. He would have to wait until evening to return, but in the meantime what was he to do? He could scarcely go home and sit and do nothing and wait complacently as August hunted him down as she had David Napier. He must look for Montchalmers — check at the club, at other favorite spots; perhaps someone might have seen him.

  Lyttleton's first stop was the club, where he encountered Christopher Smyth-Fellowes, who greeted him warmly.

  "Have you seen Henry Montchalmers today?" Lyttleton asked, somewhat breathlessly.

  "That rabbity fellow?" Lyttleton only nodded. "Can't say I have," Smyth-Fellowes replied expansively, "but if I do, I'll tell him that you're — "

  "Yes, yes," Lyttleton broke in impatiently. Smyth-Fellowes glared at him. "Thank you, Chris. I apologise for my brusqueness, but it's very important that I find Henry. You might say it's a matter of life and death." He paused, then plunged ahead. "You see, it's about that Hamilton woman."

  "August Hamilton?" Smyth-Fellowes lifted an eyebrow.

  "Yes, and I think she's the one's been killing our friends off. She has somehow bewitched them — bewitched every man of our acquaintance — until they have no mind of their own; then she seduces them and uses them for God knows what — " Lyttleton stopped. Smyth-Fellowes was looking at him oddly, as were two or three other club members within hearing. "She did in poor Tommy, and Gerald Ashford, and-and ..."

  "You mean to say you're accusing that beautiful and so charming woman of coldbloodedly murdering half a dozen men?" Smyth-Fellowes demanded.

  "Well . . ."

  "I think he's gone over completely,"
Smyth-Fellowes said to the others.

  "Yes. Here, now, Lyttleton, you can't go around accusin' — "

  The men had started toward him slowly. He backed away.

  What a fool he was, Lyttleton told himself. He should have kept his mouth shut, but he'd thought he could warn them before it was too late for them, as it had been for Napier and the others. He should have known that they wouldn't believe him; he should have known.

  He turned and bolted for the door. Someone shouted to slop him, but he plowed through the two men who grabbed at him and ran out and down the steps. He didn't look back, even though he heard sounds of pursuit. He kept running and running, dodging through crowds, racing around corners, and finally, when he felt a pain in his side, he slowed to a walk. He glanced back, saw no one chasing him. He was safe for the moment, but he knew they would go to his house, so he couldn't return there. At least not for a while.

  Lyttleton continued walking, avoiding anyone he remotely recognized, and finally, late in the afternoon, he arrived at the Hamilton house. For a long time he did nothing more than stand and watch. He saw no signs of activity within. He knocked on the front door and waited, and when no one answered, he knocked again. Finally he went around to the back, where he found a window unlocked. He crawled through it and stood in the kitchen and listened. Absolute silence. The hair along his arms and the back of his neck prickled as he stepped forward. He heard no sounds of servants moving around, and he wondered what she had done to them.

  There was no one to be found on the first floor, and after starting up the stairs to the second floor, Lyttleton hesitated. He shouldn't be here. He should be someplace else, trying to hide from her, because he knew she was going to kill him, just as she had killed his friend, just as she had killed Dr. Napier. She would kill him, but she would wait and allow him to anticipate and fear when she would come to him. The beautiful lady without mercy.

  Leave, one part of him insisted, and he ignored it, knowing he couldn't leave now. He had to see her. Step by step he ascended, and when he reached the second floor, he turned left toward the master suite. The brass doorknob squeaked briefly as he turned it, and then he pushed open the door. Inside the room the drapes had been pulled shut against the sunlight, and the dimness forced his eyes to adjust; again the air was redolent of that strange scent he had smelled before.

  Opposite the door stood a large bed. And it was occupied. Lyttleton moved quietly across the carpeted floor, then paused to look down.

  Henry Montchalmers' eyes opened, and for a moment he stared at his friend without recognition; then it came, and he blinked, obviously puzzled.

  "W-What are you doing here?" Montchalmers asked, his voice hoarse. His friend had never looked worse, and Lyttleton was reminded strongly of Terris' appearance shortly before his suicide. Shadows that looked puffy and sore to the touch swelled under Henry's eyes, while his skin had paled from lack of sunlight. His hair lay untrimmed and lank, and he was sweating excessively, even though the room was cool.

  "I've come to get you, Henry," Lyttleton said as calmly as he could, but he wondered if it might not be too late for the man. No, it wouldn't be too late until he was dead, and he was determined not to let Henry die.

  "Come for me?" Montchalmers was still blinking, as though he couldn't comprehend what his friend was saying. Had he lost his mind? Lyttleton thought.

  "What he is saying, Henry dear, is that he wishes to save you from me."

  Lyttleton whirled around, and August Hamilton stood inside the doorway. He thought she had never looked more beautiful, more vibrant, more terrifying with her deep red lips and bright eyes than she did now. She seemed to glow, to radiate life, while Henry was fading, his life ebbing.

  "Henry, I must speak with you. Alone and at once," Lyttleton said.

  "I hide nothing from Mrs. Hamilton," Montchalmers replied, his voice a harsh whisper. "If you must speak to me, speak to me before her." He licked his lips. "Is it true what she says? That you want to save me from my dear one?"

  "Yes."

  "I want to stay here."

  "She'll kill you. The way she killed Tommy, and Terris — though it was by his hand, she forced him to it — and Gerald Ashford, Timmy Cleveland, that seven-year-old hoy, and now Dr. Napier. There were many others, too, Henry, men and boys we didn't know. For God's sake, she doesn't love you; she wants to murder you!"

  For a moment Lyttleton saw a faint look of desperation in the other's eyes; then it vanished and Montchalmers was shaking his head. "You're wrong, old man. She loves me. She told me. You'll see that everything turns out all light."

  "Yes," August said as she glided toward Lyttleton. "Everything always turns out all right, Mr. Lyttleton. You mustn't worry. Soon everything will be fine." She laughed throatily, and the sound chilled him.

  "No! You won't take me like the others!" Lyttleton shouted, and jumping forward, he thrust her away from him. She stumbled backward momentarily, and that gave him the time he needed. He ran down the hall, took the stairs three at a time, raced to the front door, unlocked it, and stumbled outside into the lengthening shadows of evening.

  Blindly he ran until he had no breath left, and he bent over from the pain in his chest and side, and only then did he pause. He had done nothing to stop her, had done nothing to save his friend, and he could have wept at his ineffectualness.

  He didn't know where to go; he didn't have any place to go; no friends were left; the club members were looking for him and would have him committed.

  There was only home.

  He looked around to get his bearing and began walking. When he reached the house in Eaton Square, Edgar greeted him with surprise.

  "A number of gentlemen have been asking for you all day, sir — "

  Lyttleton, ignoring him, went straight upstairs and pulled down a valise from the wardrobe and began tossing clothes and personal items in it. He would go to the house in the country. No, she would find him there. Instead, he would go elsewhere; he would go to ... to ... to Brighton. He would hide among the crowds, for surely no one would look there.

  "I've heard that Brighton is lovely at this time of the year."

  He pivoted slowly. August stood a few feet behind him, and he had not heard the door open.

  "Come, my dear, why do you resist me so? Am I not beautiful? Would you not wish our friendship to become more intimate?"

  "Get away from me." He took a step backward.

  "I won't hurt you."

  "Is that what you told Tommy and the others?"

  She shook her head. "They were weak men, each one of them. So very unlike you, my dear."

  Frantically he looked around for a weapon. All he saw was his grandmother's cross on the wall above the bed. He leaped onto the bed, snatched the cross down, and climbing down, he held the crucifix in front of him with trembling hands as she came nearer.

  She laughed, and when she was close enough for him to feel her cold breath upon his face, she stopped.

  "These feeble objects," she said as she took the cross from his numb fingers, "hold no power, especially if you do not believe." Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, and he stared at the moist redness. "You're very special to me."

  "How?" He could retreat no farther, for the bed was behind him.

  "Because you know what I am. You may not know the name, but you know in here." A long finger tapped his chest. "There is a bond between us, one that exists with no one else, and that is why I have saved you for the last." She smiled, and he thought how hideous were her white teeth and red lips. How could he ever have believed she was beautiful? She was a hideous mockery of woman. A demon-woman without mercy.

  "An interesting poem," she said, although he hadn't spoken aloud. "Keats. A silly romantic, as are all poets, I fear. Always wishing to die from love and then screaming their regrets when their wishes are fulfilled."

  She draped her arms around his neck, and they seemed to burn into his skin. "I won't take you now, my dear," she murmured. "Not yet. No, fo
r you will find that I am patient. Sooner or later I will have you, whether you want it or not. But only after you know." She bent forward, and she kissed him on the lips, and her breath smelled of the grave.

  He cried out at the icy kiss and tried to rub the fetid touch of her from him. She laughed cruelly, and as he watched, a dark fog smelling of musk and sandalwood swirled around his feet. He leaped onto the bed to avoid it, fearing what it might do, and again he heard her laugh. Then the mist billowed upward, enveloping him, and he. screamed silently, lost to the world.

  When Lyttleton awoke much later, he was alone and it was daylight. For a moment he lay there, then rose and dressed mechanically, and without a word to Edgar, left. At Montchalmers' house Xavier answered the door again.

  "I am sorry, sir, but Mr. Montchalmers passed away yesterday evening."

  Lyttleton could find nothing to say.

  He lurched away from Henry's house, grief numbing him, and he walked slowly home. He should not have been surprised; yet he had hoped that somehow Henry could have escaped her. But there was no escape. Yet there had to be. Somehow. Somewhere. When he reached his house, he went to his study and sat. He did not move, did not answer when Edgar came in, and when the light was fading from the sky, he shuddered.

  There was only one way to protect himself. He would find a sanctuary.

  He picked up his packed valise and left, walked through the streets of London until he found the street he wanted. At the end stood a massive brick building. For many minutes he stared up at its spires; then he went inside the church.

  He would believe. And she would not be able to reach him.

  The priest turned to him as he approached and smiled. "Yes, my son?" "Father, help me, for I wish to enter the priesthood."

  PART III

  Savannah, Georgia: 1889

  He fled.

  Father Daniel admitted it freely, for there was no other way to describe his abrupt leave-taking just hours ago when August Justinian had approached him, when his memory had returned, when he'd remembered what she had said to him thirty years before. There is a bond between us, . . . and that is why I have saved you for the last. You'll find that I am a patient woman. Sooner or later I will have you, whether you want it or not. Those were the words of August Hamilton, as she had been called then, that night, November 1, 1859, the day before he learned of Henry's death, the night after Dr. Napier's death. He had fled then to save his life, and tonight he had fled again.