Of course she hadn’t phrased it quite that way, in front of the doctor, but a lady could enjoy a momentary flight of fancy, couldn’t she? She lifted her skirts enough to ascend the stairs. Reaching the third floor, she checked to make sure no one was looking and raced down the corridor to America’s room.

At times like this she felt completely normal and estranged from the part of her new life that frightened her, terribly, at times. But when those dark urges came—always in the evening, and always so . . . irresistible. At the fifth door on the left, she rapped quietly and poked her head in the doorway. “America?”

Phaeton Black’s exquisitely beautiful paramour waved her into the bedchamber. “Come in, Mia.” America Jones stood near the tall windows in her room. Her profile was haloed briefly by morning light. She was large and round with child—an earthy fertility goddess—and she had never looked lovelier.

Exeter had made the remark the other afternoon at tea. And Mia wholeheartedly agreed. America had put on a bit of weight, and her cheeks glowed a rosy peach color, The effect over fawn skin tones was stunning. Everything about her spoke of the new life growing inside her. Phaeton’s child.

Mia thought about the hopeful news she carried in her hand and smiled. She opened and shut the door quietly. “Exeter received a message from Tim Noggy.” She paused, making sure to measure her words. “It seems Mr. Ping’s flies on the wall have captured a conversation . . .”

America searched her face. “What are you saying, Mia?” Her voice was hesitant, as if she already knew but wouldn’t dare let herself hope.

“One of the voices has been identified as Phaeton’s.” Mia held out the folded paper. She felt the tremble in America’s hand as she passed her the note. “Perhaps you should sit down.” Mia guided her over to the settee.

America held onto her hand as she read and Mia bit back the urge to speak until she could stand it no longer. “Well? I do think there is room to be hopeful, even though Exeter advises caution.”

America held up a finger. “Shh! Let me read his speech again.” Her gaze slid back and forth across the notepaper and stopped. “Snidely trickery.” Her eyes sparked with light. “That certainly sounds like Phaeton vernacular—don’t you think, Edvar?”

Large yellow eyes blinked as the gargoyle gradually made his appearance. A snort or snuffle from the leathery gray beast ended in a whiny, high-pitched yuk-yuk. America grinned. “There is always a little bit of no in every yes from Edvar, ” she explained. “Phaeton claims Edvar is contrary by nature, but I have come to believe he’s just a grumbler.”

“Contrary and curmudgeon do go hand in glove.” Mia agreed. She had only recently become aware of Edvar’s presence, though Exeter had always been able to see the little fiend. Not much larger than a medium-sized terrier, the gargoyle had been Phaeton’s companion since he was a child. Mia thought it quite charming and wonderfully protective of the creature to remain at America’s side all these months. Mia squeezed her hand. “Tim was able to get map coordinates.”

Near breathless, America looked up and whispered, “Where?”

“Paris!” Mia could contain her excitement no longer. “We’re going after him.”

America’s gaze searched her face. “How—when?”

“Very soon. Tomorrow, if possible. I’ve sent messages to Tim Noggy, as well as my travel agent at Thomas Cook & Sons.” Exeter stood in the doorway. “May I come in?”

“Please.” America waved him in.

“Jersey and Valentine are downstairs breakfasting.” Exeter cocked his head and examined her breakfast tray. “I see your appetite remains hearty.” Gently, he took hold of America’s wrist and removed his pocket watch. “Strong pulse—perhaps a bit fast, but after the news”—he smiled at her—“understandable.”

America wiped away a tear and smiled. “Phaeton is alive.”

Chapter Three

LAST ONE IN THE CARRIAGE, Exeter took a seat between Mia and America. Across the aisle, their bodyguards sat rather cozily together. He studied the two Nightshades, both darkly beautiful and private beings, who had revealed little about themselves until recently. Valentine Smyth and Jersey Blood had been wonderfully helpful in the first days and months of Mia’s shocking transformation.

Jersey was a strapping male half-breed, tied by birth legacy to an aristocratic line of Normans, who in ancient times had consorted with fallen angels. The result was a race of demon shifters. To his credit, the captain of the Nightshades appeared to be very much in control of his inner Beelzebub, who had never been seen by any of the other members of the clandestine order of sentries with the exception of Valentine, the stunning female Nightshade, who was also Jersey’s consort.

“His kind are known as watchers.” Valentine had once explained, after Jersey had left the room. “Rebellious angels in ancient times—they roam the earth in search of duties to perform. No matter what you may hear about them, they are warriors and heroes among men.”

Sensing Exeter’s notice, Jersey lifted his gaze and tried to probe his thoughts. When this Nightshade gazed at you, it was as if he met your soul, not your eyes, and if he was not mistaken, the very private man under the cloak was a surprisingly compassionate creature.

Exeter dipped his head to see out the carriage window. They were passing Green Park. He settled into the plush squabs of the spacious town coach and smiled at the bodyguards across the aisle. “Was it a good trip into the Outremer?” His gaze moved from one to the other. “Safe journey, I take it?”

“We had an informative meeting with an Eden Phillpotts—double l, double t—proprietor of the Antiquarian Bookshop, 77 Charing Cross Road.” Jersey’s gaze shifted to Mia, who raised an inquiring brow. Before she could question him any further, Exeter addressed her directly. “On a private matter.”

This was nothing he wanted Mia to know about—at least not until he heard what they both had to say in detail. Valentine had briefly mentioned something of their findings at breakfast. She and Jersey had apparently met with a shopkeeper who claimed to be able to help shifters acclimate to their new dual personas. Exeter had found her brief cap sum both alarming and, frankly, salacious. “Hard to take anyone seriously with a name like Phillpotts.” Exeter coughed a bit and changed the subject. “I don’t believe you have ever told us how you and Valentine met.”

A smile cracked the ends of Jersey’s mouth. “She tried to kill me.”

Valentine grinned. “Back in my novice demon-slayer days.”

“Novice as in novitiate,” Jersey added, “Sister Valentina.”

“It’s true. I was a Sister of Mercy for a month or two. I spotted Jersey one evening in the garden. He was wearing black robes. Mistook him for a possessed priest I was tracking and endeavored to—”

“As I said—you tried to kill me.” Jersey’s gaze moved over Valentine Smyth with such intimacy, Exeter was forced to look away. He had seen that same expression on Jersey’s face before the two had left for the Outremer.

Several evenings past, he had met with Jersey and Valentine in his study to discuss a method Mia could learn to use to control the time and place of her transformations. Jersey had talked about a little-known technique practiced by ancient shape-shifters, and a rare and collectible bookshop on Charing Cross Road. There had also been talk of a strange proprietor, not of this world.

“Who told you about this creature?” Exeter had asked.

“Tim Noggy.” Valentine offered, quite seriously.

He had shaken his head. Since Lovecraft’s death, the rotund Mr. Noggy, inventor and pseudo scientist, had overseen the repair of the professor’s underground factory and labs. And he had done an admirable job of it—case in point: the message that had arrived at breakfast this morning. But what did Noggy know of such things as shape-shifting?

Frankly, Exeter found it exasperating. Still, what could it hurt to inquire? So it was agreed that, while in the Outremer, Jersey and Valentine would pay a visit to the proprietor of the bookstore recommended by Noggy.

Before leaving his study, Valentine had intimated the involuntary shifts were caused by pent-up desire, and stressed Mia’s need for release. The number and frequency of her transformations suggested that she was—for lack of a more delicate description—sexually frustrated.

Exeter must have appeared unconvinced, as Valentine went on to explain: “Have you ever seen a cat that has been kept indoors, away from prowling toms in the alley? Pussy lifts her rump and cocks her tail to one side. If you stroke or scratch her scruff she’ll go into raptures. Doctor, you admit seeing the panther assume the lordosis position—she was soliciting you to mount her.”

Exeter had stared at Valentine. “What can be done about it, short of marrying her off?” He had wanted to add “and to whom” but the thought disturbed.

The carriage turned onto Lower Thames Street and hit a pothole, rousing Exeter from his troubled thoughts. Mia brushed against his shoulder. She wore a dark blue high-crowned hat, set at a jaunty angle. She looked up and met his gaze through the netting over her eyes. Once again he experienced a momentary falling sensation.

What was he to do with this brave and lovely young woman? The question continued to remain unresolved. He hoped that by the end of this day, he’d have some answers.


Exeter read the sign above the door. “Deus Ex Machina, God in the machine.” Metal letterforms circled the large initial L—for Lovecraft. The insignia appeared to be scorched, and the x in Ex Machina hung askew, but the factory entrance was otherwise tidy and presentable. All the debris from the invasion had been cleared away. In fact, there was barely a trace of the mayhem and destruction that had taken place here just months ago.