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skittering before it. A few of them jittered into the pool of weak yellow light
cast by an aging streetlamp-a converted gaslight that was a relic of the
previous century. It was old and tired, its pea-green paint flaking away; as
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weary as this neighborhood, which was older still. Across the street loomed
an ancient church, whose congregation had dwindled over the years to a
handful of little old women and men who appeared, like scrawny blackbirds,
every Sunday and then scattered back to the shabby houses that stood to
either side until Sunday should come again. On the side of the street that the
lamp tried (and failed) to illuminate was the cemetery. Like the
neighborhood, it was very old-fifty years shy of being classified as "Colonial."
There were few empty gravesites now, and most of those belonged to the same
little old ladies and men that had lived and would die here. It was protected
from vandals by a thorny hedge as well as a ten-foot wrought-iron fence.
Within its confines, as seen through the leafless branches of the hedge,
granite cenotaphs and enormous Victorian monuments bulked shapelessly
against the bare sliver of a waning moon.
The church across the street was dark and silent; the houses up and down
the block showed few lights, if any. There was no reason for anyone of this
neighborhood to be out in the night.
So the young woman waiting beneath the lamppost seemed that much
more out of place.
Nor could she be considered a typical resident of this neighborhood by any
stretch of the imagination-for one thing, she was young; perhaps in her mid-
twenties, but no more. Her clothing was neat but casual, too casual for
anyone visiting an elderly relative. She wore dark, knee-high boots, old, soft
jeans tucked into their tops, and a thin wind-breaker open at the front to
show a leotard beneath. Her attire was far too light to be any real protection
against the bite of the wind, yet she seemed unaware of the cold. Her hair was
long, down to her waist, and straight-in the uncertain light of the lamp it was
an indeterminate shadow, and it fell down her back like a waterfall. Her eyes
were large and oddly slanted, not Oriental; catlike, rather. Even the way she
held herself was feline: poised, expectant-a graceful tension like a dancer's or
a hunting predator's. She was not watching for something-no, her eyes were
unfocused with concentration. She was listening.
A soft whistle, barely audible, carried down the street on the chill wind.
The tune was of a piece with the neighborhood-old and timeworn.
Many of the residents would have smiled in recollection to hear "Lili
Marlene" again.
The tension left the girl as she swung around the lamppost by one hand to
face the direction of the whistle. She waved, and a welcoming smile warmed
her eyes.
The whistler stepped into the edge of the circle of light. He, too, was dusky
of eye and hair-and heartbreakingly handsome. He wore only dark jeans and
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a black turtleneck, no coat at all-but like the young woman, he didn't seem to
notice the cold. There was an impish glint in his eyes as he finished the tune
with a flourish.
"A flair for the dramatic, Diana, ma cherie?" he said mockingly. "Would
that you were here for the same purpose as the lovely Lili! Alas, I fear my luck
cannot be so good___" She laughed. His eyes warmed at the throaty chuckle.
"Andre," she chided, "don't you ever think of anything else?"
"Am I not a son of the City of Light? I must uphold her reputation, mais
non?" The young woman raised an ironic brow. He shrugged. "Ah, well-since
it is you who seek me, I fear I must be all business. A pity. Well, what lures
you to my side of this unseasonable night? What horror has Mademoiselle
Tregarde unearthed this time?" Diana Tregarde sobered instantly, the
laughter fleeing her eyes. "I'm afraid you picked the right word this time,
Andre. It is a horror. The trouble is, I don't know what kind."
"Say on. I wait in breathless anticipation." His expression was mocking as
he leaned against the lamppost, and he feigned a yawn. Diana scowled at him
and her eyes darkened with anger. He raised an eyebrow of his own. "If this
weren't so serious," she threatened, "I'd be tempted to pop you one- Andre,
people are dying out there. There's a 'Ripper' loose in New York." He
shrugged, and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. "So? This is new?
Tell me when there is not! That sort of criminal is as common to the city as a
rat. Let your police earn their salaries and capture him." Her expression
hardened. She folded her arms tightly across the thin nylon of her
windbreaker; her lips tightened a little. "Use your head, Andre! If this were an
ordinary slasher-killer, would I be involved?" He examined his fingernails
with care. "And what is it that makes it extraordinary, eh?"
"The victims had no souls."
"I was not aware," he replied dryly, "that the dead possessed such things
anymore." She growled under her breath and tossed her head impatiently,
and the wind caught her hair and whipped it across her throat. "You are
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