He gestured his small coterie inside and followed them down into the bowels of Lovecraft’s late, great enterprise. The elephantine Inter-Dimensional Injection Portal or iDIP sat on the old underground train tracks looking, oddly, as magnificent as ever. As they passed by the iron portal enclosure, Exeter suspected they were all thinking the same thing. The last time any of them had seen Phaeton Black alive, he had been sucked into the gigantic engine and blasted off to . . . France.

Exeter bit back an unexpected grin. Only Phaeton could get lost in Paris. He approached the round, unkempt, and affable young scientist who waited for them on the platform outside the laboratory. “Mr. Noggy.”

“G’day, Doc.” Tim Noggy nodded to Jersey and the ladies. “Nightshade and Shade-ettes.” The heavyset young inventor smoothed back a wild bunch of curly hair, only to have it spring back in his face. He gestured the group inside the lab. “As some of you already know, we moved Gaspar to an underground surgery at Black Box—my brother’s facility.” Tim rolled his eyes a bit, an expression he used with some regularity. “That would be the technology genius brother, not the short rebellious one.”

“May we speak with Gaspar, briefly?” Exeter inquired. “There must be some sort of Outremer device we can use to communicate.”

The largish inventor shook his head. “He’s being kept alive—in stasis—until we find Phaeton and reunite him with the Moonstone.” Tim exhaled a heavy sigh. “Ruby and Cutter keep a close watch.”

Exeter nodded. Gaspar Sinclair was the organizer and de facto leader of the Gentlemen Shades. The man was also unraveling. In order to preserve his brain, the decision had been made to move him to a facility in the Outremer where the disintegration would be greatly slowed, if not halted entirely.

And the security was impeccable at Oakley’s underground facility. Even in his decrepit condition, the man was still the leader of the Nightshades and, as such, was vulnerable to abduction by Prospero’s forces.

“I understand . . . Jersey mentioned that he’s cognizant for a few minutes a day.” Exeter’s inquiry was more of a statement.

“Only for a few moments. They raise him to near consciousness—keeps the brain synapses firing. I realize this sounds more like sorcery than science in this world.” Tim added with a shrug. “Ruby tells me he seems reassured that she and Cutter remain by his side.”

Ruby and Cutter, as well as Jersey and Valentine, were the foursome who made up the Nightshades guard. Normally detailed to Gaspar’s security, they had been reassigned to watch over those closest to Phaeton, which included Mia and himself, and—the gruesome truth was—anyone who might be abduction and torture worthy. The stakes were high between desperate, competing forces whose world continued to disintegrate. They would find a way to motivate Phaeton, for it was he alone who controlled access to the powers of the Moonstone—in the service of which, according to Mr. Ping, were unlimited.

There was a kind of genius on the part of the Egyptian goddess who bestowed keeper of the Moonstone on Phaeton. He was the least likely character of any of them to control such power, and yet Qadesh could not have made a wiser choice. Disdainful and delightfully dissipated by nature, Phaeton was also utterly incorruptible.

“And Professor Lovecraft’s disabled son?”

“Lindsay Lovecraft? He’s working with Oakley and Cutter.” Tim raised and lowered his shoulders. “It seems they’ve uncovered a large cache of aether buried under Prospero’s headquarters. Enough to keep the Outremer powered a while longer. They’re currently working on a way to redistribute the fuel.” Tim moved over to a tall worktable that had been cleared off.

Jersey looked about the room. “Blimey—the lab is brighter than ever.”

“The bulbs run off a turbine, electrical power converted from a steam engine in the rear of the iDIP,” Tim explained. He rolled out a huge sheet of paper. “This is the most current map I could find. According to Lovecraft’s manual, the iDIP isn’t capable of giving map coordinates outside of our own planet, which means that the location has to be—our Paris.” Tim hauled his hulking frame around the end of the lab table and spread out the street map.

“Forty eight degrees . . . fifty-three feet . . .” Tim mumbled the coordinates as he swept his hand through the streets of Paris, over Pont Saint-Michel, slowing near the University of Paris. “Puts us . . . here, Sorbonne Square.” A sausage finger, tipped with a ragged nail, stopped in a small blind court.

Exeter joined the others around the large table. He pointed up the Seine, to the larger of the two islands in the middle of the river. “Île de la Cité. A short distance away.” He traced a path across the Pont Neuf to the west end of the island. “Our base of operations.” Exeter thumped the map. “Trust the Parisians to nickname Place Dauphine ‘le sexe de Paris’ because of its suggestive V shape.”

Everyone leaned over the map to observe a perfect triangle, surrounded by uniform homes and apartment buildings. America looked up from the map and grinned. “Phaeton would approve.”

Exeter straightened. “I’ve arranged to take over the largest apartment available in the L’Hôtel Claude, Place Dauphine.” He looked around the room. “I’m hoping there will be seven of us. Jersey Blood, Valentine Smith—Mia and myself—Mr. Noggy and Mr. Ping . . . if we can locate him.”

Tim looked up in surprise. “I’m going to Paris?”

“Pack a bag, Mr. Noggy.” Exeter swiveled toward the ladies. “And America.”

America squeaked a cry of happiness, even as he narrowed his gaze. “You’re invited along for one reason and one reason only—I don’t trust you to stay put in London. If labor should start and you’re on the road somewhere alone . . .” Exeter shook his head. “As it is, we’ll have to sneak you into France—just keep that traveling coat on.”

He caught an exchange of winks among the women. “And let’s try to keep this trip discreet—we take as few people as possible into our confidence.” Exeter exhaled and looked to Tim. “Have there been any more transmissions?”

“Static. Garbled words, mostly.” A sly grin twitched at Tim’s mouth. “Then this, just before you arrived.” Tim held up a paper and cleared his throat. “There’s bit of transmission static, then a voice: ‘that’s because sexual perversion—kink—as you call it,’ . . . more static . . . ‘is only kinky the first time, and just because I’m interested in pornography, doesn’t mean I’m easy.’ ”

America grinned. “Phaeton has always been rather fond of titillating language and subject matter. He often borrows picture books from Mrs. Parker’s collection of erotica.”

Mia’s eyes widened slightly, and she moistened her lips. Exeter quickly read his ward’s response to America’s remarks and changed the subject. “What about map coordinates? Anything new? A number that might indicate a third dimension—height or depth? It would greatly narrow our search, would it not, if we knew to look on top of a building or below ground?”

Jersey sparked to his queries. “It’s obvious Phaeton is being held by unsavory elements of the Outremer. And if his captors are unraveling, they would likely hole up underground.”

Exeter nodded. “Tim’s reports indicate that deep, belowground shelter affords residents of the Outremer some form of protection.”

Tim leaned over the map and tsked. “Those nasty, destructive cosmic rays.”

“Catacombs!” Mia perked up. “At university, we spent nearly a week on the catacombs under the city—more than 180 miles of quarry tunnels snake through the foundations of Paris. I believe nearly all of them are off-limits, though I understand the ossuaries are open for public viewing. Rather fascinating, though eerie—piles of human skulls and bones arranged into columns and walls.”

Exeter’s gaze moved around the table. “A trip to the Drunken Lizard may be in order. Pop in on a cartographer by the name of Potter. If I recall, the man spent several years digging around below ground in Paris, as a surveyor for the proposed Métro—an underground rail system. For the price of a pint or two . . .” Exeter quirked up both brows. “Shall we, ladies and gentlemen?”


Mia held on to her hat as the group emerged from the abandoned train station. A strong wind whipped off the Thames and through the looming construction girders that currently made up the Tower Bridge. Would the impressive overpass ever be completed?

America trotted up beside Exeter. “Would you mind dropping me off at Mrs. Parker’s? I’d like to make arrangements to close the office. Better now, before we leave, I should think. I’m nearing my last month and it’s to be expected that I would take a bit of time off.”

America smiled sheepishly. “Once we find Phaeton and our pea in the pod arrives, we can reopen Moonstone Investigations. Try to get back to normal—if such a thing is possible for us.”

A lopsided grin tipped the ends of Exeter’s mouth, telegraphing his skeptical amusement. “The pairing of a daughter of a Cajun witch raised by a sea captain and a gifted investigator of psychical disturbances.” He shook his head. “Such a couple could hardly enjoy a mundane life.” He helped America into the carriage and then turned to Mia. As luck would have it, he failed to notice the flush on her cheeks—thank God. Because she wasn’t about to answer his prying questions.

At the very mention of Mrs. Parker, Mia’s pulse had elevated. Over the years and especially these last few months, she had either overheard or been privy to conversations that paired Doctor Jason Exeter with Mrs. Esmeralda Parker, madame to a bawdy house of notorious reputation, and home to Phaeton Black’s below-street flat.