He suspected rats or alley cats, until he heard the scoffs and shouts that followed. Exeter stepped out from behind the chimney for a better view. Three young street rowdies sauntered down the row, up to no good. One of them emptied the last of a whiskey bottle and gave it a toss. The glass shattered against a wall.

Mia backed into a corner and hissed.

“Well now, what ’ave we here?” A brawny young man stepped closer and she took a swipe at him. “Watch yourselves—this pretty puss has claws.” The drunken sot swayed backward, then pitched forward. One of his mates had the good sense to yank him away and prop him between cohorts, who hung back. “Look at her—big, ain’t she?” Another boy gasped. “Some big green eyes on her . . .”

She curled her lip with a snarl.

“Fangs, as well.” The bolder, drunker lad stuck a thumb under his cap and scratched. “What do you suppose?”

All three ruffians stared as one spoke up. “I say this pussycat likely escaped from some rich lord’s private zoo, don’t you know.” The rowdy beside him nodded. “Mattie works fancy balls at a duke’s house in Belgravia. She says he’s got a leopard—one of those big cats with spots. Rides ’im in an open carriage through Hyde Park.”

Exeter stood at the edge of the roofline and observed the cornered panther that was Mia. She paced back and forth, eyeing the young men. Jersey Blood had warned him about tracking Mia in her shift-state. “Unless she’s in dire straits—leave her be. She needs to learn her own strengths, how to defend herself.”

Mia lunged at the doddering bullies and hissed. She was testing them.

“You suppose this one’s escaped?” one of the boys asked.

“There’s a bloke named Jamrach, has a shop over on Radcliff Highway in Shadwell—Jamrach’s Menagerie. He deals in wildlife, birds mostly, but large cats as well. I wager she’ll fetch a thumping-good sum.” The boisterous de facto leader kicked over an empty dustbin and picked up the lid. “Hand me a stick and grab one for yourselves, lads.”

Using the lid as a shield, he tried poking and prodding at her. “Let’s see if we can get this pretty puss into the bin. Go around to the side there—don’t let her give us the slip.”

A gnash of bared teeth ended in a snarling growl that quickly grew into the loudest call of the wild ever heard in the borough of Westminster. She leapt directly at the large bloke, teeth bared. At the last second, as the bully boy staggered to one side, the sleek cat veered off and took a jaw-dropping spring into the air. She jumped from window ledge to roof and landed not far from Exeter.

If he wasn’t mistaken, Mia had incorporated a bit of what Ping referred to as relic dust and champagne, or potent energy, to assist in those breathtaking leaps. Until now, he hadn’t seen such skillful maneuvering from Mia. And she had manipulated the physical universe in cat form.

The wild creature stared down at the astonished hooligans below who dropped their sticks and lids and hurried out of the alley.

“Impressive, Mia.”

The cat turned, flashing green eyes of . . . was that recognition? His heart thumped hard inside his chest. He stood his ground and held his breath as she crept closer. At the last moment, she turned her head and rubbed against his leg, arching her back. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched her curl back around for another pass. He descended to his haunches and she allowed him to rub her neck and scratch behind her ears—with one hand, then both. Her robust rumble modulated into a low purr as she closed her eyes and collapsed into his body.

A flesh-and-blood young woman lay in his arms. Exeter removed his coat and covered her. She opened her eyes momentarily and shivered. Lifting her up, he bent the physical world just enough to make it home in several leaps—from rooftop to rooftop, until he dropped down onto the balcony of her room. He pushed open the window and was greeted by Mr. Tandi, who waited beside a small copper bath. His manservant poured a steaming kettle of water into the tepid bath, as he angled Mia through the French door. “That will be all, Mr. Tandi.”

Exeter lowered Mia into the warm bath and stayed until she was revived enough to begin to bathe herself. “Are you well enough, Mia?”

She looked up and nodded. Still he waited until she smiled softly. “Leave me—you look tired, Om Asa. Get some rest.”

His servant stood in the corridor holding a brandy on a silver salver. These strange middle-of-the-night rituals had become routine of late. Exeter slumped onto one of upholstered chairs in the hallway. For months now, the Nightshades had kept vigil from these chairs—only tonight it would be Mr. Tandi.

He took a sip of the warm amber liquid. “How long has it been since you and Mia announced yourselves at my door, Mr. Tandi?”

His manservant’s eyes lit up at the memory. “My word—seems very long ago—ten years, I believe, sir.” Exeter recalled the tall, soft-spoken African man standing in the foyer, holding the hand of a doe-eyed waif of a child, the young Anatolia Chadwick. Mia, as she was called even by her parents, was at best a distant relation. But, it seemed, he and his father were all the child had left in the world.

Mr. Tandi had recounted a hair-raising tale of a bloodthirsty raid on a small town built around a mining operation. Wearing the clothes on their backs and carrying a hidden pouch filled with diamonds, they had made their way to Cape Town, sold a few gems, and booked passage on the first ship bound for London.

A last swallow of brandy slipped down his throat. Exeter closed his eyes and remembered the scrawny little girl and the African man—as dark as midnight—standing at the door. He set down his glass and rose from the comfortable upholstered chair. At Mia’s bedchamber, he tapped lightly on the door before slipping inside to check on her.

Silently, Exeter stood near the edge of the canopy bed. He swept back a veil of diaphanous curtain and watched her breathe, tempted to get out his stethoscope and listen to her heart. She had always looked like an angel in her sleep; since when had she become the devil’s own temptress?

For several months now, there had been provocative moments between them, including a few ardent displays of affection. Some of Mia’s advances had been quite shocking and affected him deeply. So much so, he wasn’t so sure he could still say that the attraction was entirely one sided. This evening, as was his custom, he had waited on a neighboring rooftop for her. From this vantage point, he had spied Mia seconds before her shift. Her nude figure bathed in soft moonlight . . . so breathtakingly beautiful, he had thought her as stunning as a painting he had once seen by Jules Lefebvre in the National Gallery of Victoria.

Just hours ago, she had stood on tiptoe and stroked the stubble along his jaw. He had captured her hand, and his lips had found the sensitive flesh on the inside of her wrist. His tongue traced a light blue vein, and her pulse had quickened. “Carus Deus, you are torture.”

How long was he going to be able to resist her?

Chapter Two

EXETER PUT DOWN THE MORNING PAPER. “I didn’t expect you up this early.” He studied his charge over the rim of a tipped cup. She appeared entirely too chipper as she poured the Earl Grey and stirred in a dollop of milk and a lump of sugar.

“I must apologize for our hasty retreat from the ball last night.” She paused to sip, silently. “You and Phoebe Armistead were having such a lovely time dancing together.”

It seemed chipper had quickly merged with testy. Mia was nearly always out of sorts after a shift. Exeter set down his tea. “I danced twice with Phoebe. Once because I asked, the second time because—”

“Once was enough, I should think.” Mia scraped a pat of butter across her toast with excessive vigor. “Phoebe is three months my junior, and yet you appear transfixed by her.”

“More like three years your senior—and I was not, in the least, captivated.” Exeter paused as he forked up a bite of smoked fish. “Phoebe’s mother pushed me on to her. What was I to do, exactly, dance with you all evening? Even if we were . . .” Exeter stuffed the kipper in his mouth rather than finish his thought out loud. No sense encouraging Mia’s lovesickness. For several months now, she had made him the focus of a girlish, adolescent admiration. He had hoped, once she became more settled with her new dual identity, this infatuation would diminish and her foolish behavior would ease. At the moment, it seemed Mia struggled less with the powerful changes to her body and more with her adjustment to her social life.

He chewed slowly and swallowed. “It would be rather selfish of me not to allow the attending bachelors a chance with the loveliest young woman at the ball, would it not?”

“Very kind of you, but which young man do you imagine might enjoy a lifelong companionship with a wife in daylight and a feline in the dark?” She bit into her toast and chewed. “Gilbert Sackville, Henry Madigan—perhaps Charles Mercer Fitzmaurice, Marquess of Shelburne?” Mia dabbed her mouth and returned the cloth to her lap before meeting his gaze.

“Mia, you must try to take this adjustment one waltz at a time—so to speak.” Exeter lowered his fork and exhaled. “I suppose there is a part of me that hopes for some semblance of . . .”

“Of what, Om Asa?”

He shrugged. “Normalcy, I suppose.”

She fixed a stiff, close-lipped smile. “Is there such a thing for a creature like me?”

When she spoke like that—softly, with that wistful look in her eyes—his heart ached inside his chest. Even now, when she was trying her best to needle and provoke, he admired her spirit, knowing it was this inner strength—this resilience of hers—that would see Mia through this most difficult time of her life. And he would do anything for his ward—short of what she wanted, which was unthinkable. No matter what his friends advised, she was his charge, and he would not take advantage of her—no matter how often or provocatively she threw herself at him.

“Never apologize, Mia. Your kind are brought in to this world for a reason.” Exeter fashioned a reassuring smile. “You have a destiny to fulfill, my dear.”

Mia chewed her toast and swallowed. “Is my new—difficulty—the reason Phoebe is old enough and I am not?”

He forked a bit of soft yolk onto a flake of fish. “Why do you keep bringing up Phoebe?”

Mia slanted sparkling dark eyes, full of devilish mischief. “Because she fancies you. She called you wickedly dashing, and once said she’d like to come upon you in a dark corner of the gallery behind the ballroom.”

Exeter nearly choked on his bite of kipper and egg. “Since when does this kind of unseemly chitchat go on between young ladies of quality?” Mia’s chortle of laughter destroyed his attempt to appear stern and disapproving. “And what about that poor young man—Cecil? You were rather rude to him, Mia.”

His slightly forlorn ward sighed. “It was unkind. But he’s always lurking about. I can’t have a glance across the ballroom without him staring at me.”

“That’s because he’s smitten.” Exeter softened his scrutiny, but continued to stare at his lovely ward. “And your prowl about last night, after the ball? Are things . . . getting any easier?”

Her expression darkened before she looked away. “You should know—you followed me from rooftop to rooftop.”

The door opened and Mr. Tandi entered the dining room. “A message, sir.” Exeter picked up the envelope from the silver tray.


Early this A.M., iDIP’s tracker picked up the following transmission from the Outremer:

Voice identified as that of Phaeton Black: “What is this insatiable lust for the Moonstone all about? According to Ping, even if I wanted to help you, the force inside this stone has a moral compass . . . (static) . . . no new army of snake heads. I’m afraid . . . (static) . . . sorry to disappoint.”

More static before an unidentified voice speaks: “Whose morals—yours or mine?”

Voice identified as Phaeton: “And no snidely trickery.”

Transmission cuts off.


A hurried postscript was added across the bottom of the message in Tim Noggy’s hand.


Doc—you won’t believe where the message came from: 48°53’59”N, 2°17’59”E


Mia swallowed. “What is it, Om Asa?”

He read the message again, this time out loud. Her eyes widened at the mention of Phaeton Black. “Do you think it’s really him?”