The light switches worked, and the cellar flooded with illumination—bright after a minute of flashlight. “Do I wait?” she asked herself. “Like hell. We’ve got people to rescue.” She turned the handle and cautiously entered the passage that led to the servants’ stairs.

Her head ached furiously. It had been aching for days now, it seemed, and she felt worse than sick. If she stood up fast, or moved suddenly, her vision went dark. I can’t do this again, she thought to herself, leaning against the corridor wall. It’ll kill me.

Two hops in a day—one from Niejwein to New London, then another into Fort Lofstrom’s dingy cellars. If she made a return trip to Boston now, she was sure she’d pop an artery. Cerebral hemorrhage, what a way to go. Half of the others were piggybacking, staying fresh as long as possible. For her sins she’d carried Brill through on the first trip. Now she was paying the price in aching muscles and a borderline migraine.

“Matthias,” she said aloud, with a flash of rage. Bastard thought he could use me, did he? Well, she’d see about that. Once the crisis was under control, and once she’d repossessed Paulie’s stolen CD-ROM. She was certain Matthias had it, and there were only two things to do with it that made sense. Send it to the FBI, or leave it on Angbard’s desk, along with the photos of her and Roland—a potentially lethal embarrassment if Angbard interpreted it as a plot by the lovers to elope and blackmail the Clan into silence. Miriam’s money was on the latter. Once the immediate business was sorted, she fully intended to give Paulie a discreet request and a bunch of cash: enough to hire some private detectives. There were ways and means of finding people who didn’t want to be found, when your resources and patience were unlimited, and she was willing to bet that a spider like Matthias wouldn’t be able to camouflage himself as well as he thought once he left the center of his web. She’d spend whatever it took to find him, and then he’d be sorry.

After a couple of minutes she sighed, then pushed herself upright. She dry-swallowed a painkiller, which stuck uncomfortably in her throat. She was light-headed, but not too light-headed to find her way up to the basement level. Passing the scullery, she ducked inside to grab a glass of water to help the pill go down. Something caught her eye: The door to the cold store lay ajar. She looked inside.

“Oh shit. Oh shit.” She breathed fast as she leaned over the top of the pile—three, maybe four corpses sprawling and stiff, not yet livid—and saw the cruel edges of bullet wounds. “Shit.” She pushed herself upright and looked to the entrance. “Cameras—”