For years, anyway, an oral legend of some kind had surrounded the triptych with an aura of mystery. The Nazi magicians—those mad black artists who hung around with all the other madmen of the Third Reich—had clearly known there was some sort of power in the paintings, some valuable secret that needed to be brought out. They had been unable to find it, unable to crack the code, because no one had known what to look for.

Until Iago. Until now.

What had led him to it? she wondered, as the darkness drew in before her. What had happened in his “little place off the Edgware Road,” that had led him to “Black Annie” and the other tales? The connections weren’t obvious, they weren’t easy to make. How had he found them, how had he even known to look? They were important questions because—from the moment Storm had read the story at the party—she had become aware of the uncanny aura of coincidence and destiny that hung over the whole affair. And if she could figure out how it had got started, she might be able to deduce the shape of it. She might be able to seize control of events, or at least outrace Iago to their conclusion.

Already, some possible answers were beginning to form in her mind. But for now …

For now, she had a plan to draw Iago into the open once again. A plan she had formulated when she was out by the standing stones with Dr. Mormo. She knew there was only one way to do it. There was only one piece of bait that was certain to work. And this time, if he rose to that bait, she would be ready for him. She would bring her quarter-century hunt to a close right away.

She continued to stand there, continued to send up plumes and tendrils of smoke from her skull pipe. Bernard went on clicking away at his computer solitaire. Storm went on drumming his fingers on the draftsman’s table. Sophia went on fidgeting nervously by the fire.

And then the phone rang.

Harper turned around. The others froze. The double chirp of the phone sounded again as Harper hobbled across the carpet to the stand beside Bernard’s desk.

She lifted the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Harper.” She recognized the harsh croak at once, the warlock’s voice. “It’s Mormo.”

“Jervis,” she said dryly. “How good of you to ring.”

“Never mind that. I’ve got it.”

Harper felt her heart hitch. She swallowed, said nothing.

“It wasn’t easy either, let me tell you. The competition’s stiff.”

“But you’ve got it in your possession now?” said Harper.

“Come after full dark,” the warlock went on. “And make bloody well sure you’re not followed.”

There was a click, and he was gone.

Harper laid the receiver down slowly. She raised her eyes to the steady gazes of the others.