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the half-demon Jack the Ripper who hid inside.
And will be unleashed to wreak unholy terror on an unsuspecting world, Clay drawled. He s doing a
half-assed job of it so far.
Maybe he s just warming up.
Two hours later, Jeremy walked into our room, looked around and sighed.
So much for resting, he said as he righted the broken floor lamp.
It wasn t us, I said. Anita Barrington stopped by and all hell broke loose.
Another sigh.
You think I m kidding? Seems Shanahan wasn t the spellcaster who broke into our room last night.
We told him what had happened.
And after all that plus nearly giving me a concussion last night she had the gall to ask again if she can
speak with Matthew Hull.
Probably hoping he knows more than he s saying, which, after speaking to him today, I doubt. But as
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for the letter, I can t imagine what she hopes to learn from that.
Our theory? She s hoping to use it as leverage with Shanahan. If the zombies seem to want it back,
what better offering to the man she believes may hold the secret to immortality.
Did you confront her on that?
I shook my head. It seemed better not to. Not yet.
Good. She may still prove useful.
Our lunch having been interrupted, we ate a delayed one with Jaime, Nick and Antonio in the hotel
restaurant. The restaurant was bright and open, with huge windows and market umbrellas the feel of
eating on a patio without the bugs, heat and smog.
According to Jeremy, Hull had scored about 80 percent when he d quizzed him on the geography and
minor current events of 1888 London the kind of things it would be hard for a nonresident to answer,
but equally hard for a resident to get perfect.
Jeremy had even mentioned that we had a source who might attempt to contact Jack the Ripper through
the portal tonight, to see how Hull reacted, but he d been all for it, and even offered to help, making no
attempt to retract or change his story.
The server appeared with our plates before he could continue.
So, Clay said after the server left. He seems legit. But besides winning the sympathy vote, can he do
anything for us?
Antonio opened his mouth to answer, but Nick cut in. He thinks he can lead us to Shanahan. He says
he can feel a pull or something, like Shanahan is trying to control him. He s offered to try following that
pull tonight.
Antonio swirled a french fry through his ketchup puddle, gaze down.
You aren t buying it, I said.
It felt like when a middle manager books a meeting with me, shows up and swears he can get some big
industry name on board for a joint project because his third cousin married the guy s niece. He might
have convinced himself he has an in, but all he s really doing is trying to find an in with me, to get the
attention of the guy whose name is on the sign outside. Hull might think he feels some connection to
Shanahan, and he ll probably try his damnedest to make it work, but what he really wants is some
connection tous, to make himself seem useful so we ll help and protect him.
Parasite, Clay said.
Antonio nodded. A harsh way of putting it, but yes. Still, can you blame the guy? He s lost and alone in
a strange world. All he wants is a little of our time.
I glanced over at Jeremy. So are we going to give it to him tonight?
Yes, but only because it s a lead, and we don t have many else to follow.
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You do have one more, Jaime said, then looked up from her salad and met his gaze. Dimensional
portal fishing, courtesy of your very underworked necromancer.
After eating, we switched hotels& again. Dealing with Anita Barrington was a complication we really
didn t need.
Notorious
JAIME STOPPED AT THE END OF THE PORTAL ROAD. THISis it?
It s not going to be easy, is it? I said.
Jeremy warned me it was a residential area, but I figured, being downtown, that meant high-rises,
walkups, busy roads& She scanned the empty street. & people. We re going to be a tad obvious,
conducting a séance at dusk, in the middle of the road.
If it s not going to work
There are two ways we can do this. One, come up with a plausible story to explain why we re hanging
out on a sidewalk for an hour or so.
The other? Clay said.
I play me flaky celeb spiritualist trying to contact the souls of those who disappeared.
Option A, Clay said.
I thought you d say that. Let s get some props then.
We bought an inexpensive camera and a notepad, and Jaime assigned us our roles. Clay would play
photographer. I d do the note taking. Jaime would be our boss, gathering source material for a proposed
television special on recent events.
We d still attract attention. If it was too much, we d have to abort.
Clay and I wandered up the road, taking notes and pictures. I knew Jaime wouldn t accept help if
offered; she didn t even allow onlookers when she was doing the setup work. I guess even seasoned
performers can get stage fright, particularly when they aren t comfortable in a role.
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Once Jaime was ready, she called us over and began peeling back the dimensional layers, looking for
our lost souls. Less than ten minutes later, she had one: seventy-eight-year-old Irene Ashworth.
Only Jaime could hear Irene, so the conversation was pretty one-sided. After a few minutes of
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