CHAPTER ONE

When the red comet rules the skies, the Prime shall fall. A new Prime shall ascend to the head of the Order. Three sons. Three relics. Three sacrifices. Only then can the Prime be torn down.

—Prophecy as spoken by the Order's previous Cassandra

            THE PROBLEM WITH being able to see the future was what happened when you no longer owned those abilities.

            Cleo Sinclair, no, Montcalm—she had to keep reminding herself she was married—stepped inside the Black Horse Pub and gently tugged her gloves off. The scent of the place almost made her eyes water; stale beer, hints of vomit, and the pall of malignant sorcery that coated her tongue like something metallic.

            “I really don't think we should be here, ma'am,” said her nervous footman, a sorcerer named Jeremy Prior, who was serving his apprenticeship with the Order of the Dawn Star. “This is Balthazar's Labyrinth.” His eyes showed their whites as he looked around. “Our sort don't come here. This is where black magic lurks, and those as have been cast out of the Order scurry about. You can find anything occult here—but the price you pay isn't in coin. Or so they say.”

            “Precisely.” You can find anything. She was tired of sitting on her thumbs and waiting for word from her reluctant husband. She had a demon to find, and without her visions…. Well, a girl had to do something. She'd been dreaming of a mirror of late, and it had hounded her nights long enough. She needed to find it, and her dreams had brought her here. She didn't know if they meant anything… but then she'd never seen that mirror before in her life. All she knew was she needed it. It had to be a sign of her divination gifts trying to send her a message. “Come along then, and step lively. The sooner I find what I'm looking for, the sooner we can leave.”

            “But the Prime—”

            “Is busy,” Cleo interrupted. “We don't need to disturb Lady Rathbourne, and if successful here, then hopefully I shall be able to aid her current cause.”

            She couldn't simply sit at home anymore, trying to avoid the nightmares that woke her. Cleo needed to do something to stay them.

            She was the only one who had caught a glimpse of the demon's plans.

            A half-dozen residents peered at her from the dim confines of the tavern, then blinked in shock. The bartender almost dropped the glass he'd been polishing, and Cleo swept toward him with a smile, knowing her appearance had set the cat among the pigeons. It wasn't every day a young woman dressed like one of the haut monde entered this place.

            The bartender was a short man, standing on a stool behind the counter. Part imp, perhaps, judging by the set of his nose and forehead. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a heavy manacle around his left wrist, and runes burned a bright copper against the brass. A shackle by the look of it, which meant he'd run afoul of the Order at least once.

            And considering her status as an Order sorcerer, she doubted he'd be much inclined to help her.

            “Good day,” Cleo greeted. “I'm interested in passage beyond those doors”—she tipped her head toward the enormous steel bank vault doors at the end of the room—”and I'm willing to pay for it.”

            “You,” said the imp, “don't belong here.”

            “I've been trying to tell her that the entire carriage ride,” Jeremy blurted, “but she won't listen to me.”

            “Mr—”

            “Cochrane,” said the imp, and then spat on the floor beside his stool. He leaned on the counter. “You should listen to your friend here. It ain't my place to warn away pretty little morsels like yourself”—this with a sneer—”but there aren't many rules in the Labyrinth. And if you walk in there, chances are, you won't walk out.”

            “I'm aware of the risks,” she said, forcing herself to smile through her teeth. “My father was Lord Tremayne—you might have heard of him.”

            Cochrane's face paled, but he recovered quickly. “Heard his lordship's dead.”

            “Yes.” It didn't hurt as much as it once had. Her visions had seen the cause of her father's death, but he'd chosen his own road in the end. He hadn't had to stray down the dark path she'd seen. “My point being… if you think this is the worst I've encountered, then you are very much underestimating me. If you think your Labyrinth dangerous, then I assure you it's a walk in the park. My father dabbled with demons. He tried to undermine the Order, and paid for it with his life. Dion Letchworth dandled me on her lap when I was a child, before she sold her soul to a demon. Madame Firth was my first tutor in the Dark Arts, and let me assure you, she was not a very kind mentor.” Cleo frowned. “Sir Alaric Erskine was my godfather, though he died when I was two. Or got sucked into one of the Shadow Dimensions he was dabbling with—Father never really did say. But… you do see my point?”

            “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

            Capitulation. Excellent. “How much will passage cost?”

            “Twenty quid.” Cochrane snapped.

            More than she'd expected. “Well, I'm not carrying a great deal of coin on me. I only have ten pounds. Would you accept a favor?”

            “No coin, no passage.”

            “Perhaps a reading?” Cleo persisted. She reached for Mr. Cochrane's hand. “Brace yourself.”         

            “What the devil are you—”

            Then she was touching his manacle, and images exploded into being around his head. Cleo's gaze went distant. She couldn't access her Foresight anymore, but predictions were still within her capability, and several other gifts of the divination arts, such as psychometry—the ability to read an object's history. A woman sprang to being, luring Cochrane into shadows. “There was a woman,” Cleo said hollowly. “She trapped you here. Or urged you to do something that put you on the wrong side of the Order. A theft…. I can't see what it is, but you stole something for her. That's why you're bound. There's… a curse hanging over you. She's coming back for you, to break the curse. There's a tattoo on your skin, some sort of rune, and it will flare gold the day she sets foot on these shores again—”

            “That's enough!” Cochrane jerked his hand from beneath hers, and nearly fell off the stool. He looked horrified. “No! She can't come back. She was bound. Locked away. No.”

            Cleo drew her vision back to the here and now, seeing the sweat on Cochrane's temples. “Payment enough?”

            He was practically gray now. Staggering off his stool, he turned for the bank doors, waddling across the room. “Go! I want no more of your ilk in here!” Turning the little round wheel, he unlocked the door to the Labyrinth, and swung it open.

            Behind the enormous door, another world opened up, raucous sound assaulting them. People bustled past, sparing the doors a curious glimpse, but no more. It looked like some darkened version of the Portobello Road markets outside the Black Horse Pub.

            “Go, you cursed bitch!” Mr. Cochrane snarled, gesturing her through.

            An enormous stone golem guarded the passageway beyond, and Cleo glanced at it as she stepped into a world she'd barely imagined even existed. “How do we get out?”

            “Find your own way out!” Cochrane snarled, and slammed the heavy bank vault door in her face.

            “I think you riled him,” Jeremy said. “I don't think you should have mentioned that bit about his curse.”

            “Probably not.” People never did like to catch a glimpse of their future. “That wasn't so hard though, was it? We're inside.”

            Now to find the mirror she needed.

            Jeremy peered with sickly fascination at the warren of alleyways hidden from the world by a glass-paned roof above them. Fat tallow candles sat in every crevice, casting plenty of light to see by, and there were dirty puddles in the narrow cobbled streets, though the liquid within looked like ink and not water. “I think that might have been the easy part.”

            Cleo laughed, and set off along Main Street. “Oh, Mr. Prior. Where's your sense of adventure?”

            He staggered past a woman in a hooded cloak, pushing a barrow full of little dolls that gave one an eerie sense. “It is wondering why I ever left the Prime's manor this morning. I mean, my sense of adventure could be studying some of my dusty old grimoires right now. It could be sipping a hot cup of tea in the safety of the Prime's library. It might even extend to some of Cook's ginger biscuits, because I'm fairly certain I feel a little nauseous.”

            “I didn't ask you to come,” she pointed out.

            Jeremy stiffened in protest, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. “I could hardly leave you to venture here alone!”

            “You're a gentleman, Mr. Prior. No doubt about that.” She looked along the narrow branches of alleys that spiraled out from Main Street. All she'd seen in her dreams had been the inside of a bookstore, and dozens of musty books, a dark mirror calling to her, almost throbbing inside her dream, as if it demanded she pick it up.

            Closing her eyes, she splayed her hands wide, feeling the bite of the three rings she wore beneath her gloves. The chips of marble and diamond in them revealed her to be an acolyte of the Light Arts, which had to be hidden here. Each ring represented a different Order level she'd passed, and three was only two more than what an apprentice wore. Her father had never seen much use in educating her outside her divination. No, he wanted what her Visions could bring him: gold, power, allies. But it was moments like these that made her wish she'd had someone to teach her more than divination, healing, and wards.

            This way, itched her sense of premonition. At least it was finely tuned. Cleo opened her eyes, staring down the alley she faced. Not a creature stirred anywhere along the narrow passage, and the second stories leaned toward each other, creating an almost tunnel effect. Shadows loomed.

            “Of course.” Jeremy swallowed. “It had to be this one.”

            She walked slowly into the shadows. The shop windows were grimy here. Ripples of movement within one particular window betrayed a presence watching them.

            There was no wind in Balthazar's Labyrinth, but the sign above the next shop made a creaking sound. Gentian's Baubles and Books. Premonition shivered through her.

            Something was about to happen. She could never quite tell what, as her sense of premonition was vague, at best, but this might be the place she'd been searching for. It could also mean three ruffians were about to leap out and assault her and poor Jeremy, but she didn't think so. The itch wasn't screaming beneath her skin. Nothing dangerous lurked.

            Or nothing too dangerous.

            Cleo pushed open the door. It swung open with a merry tinkle that seemed vastly out of place.

            “Welcome, miss….” The shopkeeper's eyes slid over her, his fleshy mouth widening in a smile when he saw her pretty rose-colored skirts, and the elegant sweep of her hat. A pigeon ripe for plucking, said his expression. “What may I do for you? A book, perhaps? Or maybe some occult item?” He picked up a brass idol of a monkey, gesturing to it with a showman's flair. “This statue came all the way from the Balinese islands. They say it can speak a dozen languages, and predict the future if keyed right.”

            Cleo brushed the monkey's leering face with her gloved finger. Not a single quiver chilled her skin. “Nonsense. There's not even a hint of sorcerous energy coming off it. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to fleece me.” She graced him with her sweetest smile. “But a man like you wouldn't be so foolish, would you?”

            Turning on her heel, she swept through the shop, searching for what she wanted—and finding little more than dust and fake relics.

            “Ah, of course I'm not trying to fleece you.” The shopkeeper scurried after her. “Perhaps I could interest you in an amulet worn by Helen of Troy herself—”

            “Very pretty.” She stepped around him. “But not what I'm looking for.”

            “A jade carving of—”

            Cleo held her hand up. “No, I'm interested in an Ouroboros Mirror. A colleague of mine told me you might have one on hand.” Remington Cross hadn't precisely been speaking to her when he'd mentioned it, but that little fact didn't matter so much.

            The shopkeeper's face paled. “I'm afraid I don't have one.”

            Lie. She couldn't always sense when someone was speaking the truth, but the lie jarred along her nerves like a badly sawed violin. Cleo turned her unsettling gaze upon him. “Do you take me for a fool?”

            Tugging her lace gloves off, one fingertip at a time, she sauntered through the shop. “While it could be said I'm here unofficially”—she made sure he saw the rings on her fingers that heralded she was from the Order—”I do have a special dispensation.”

            To find out whatever she could about the demon who'd taken Drake de Wynter's body as a Vessel, and how to defeat it.

            “Three rings,” said the shopkeeper, folding his arms over his chest, “mark you as a lower-level member of the Order.”

            Cleo smiled. “One with the ear of Lady Rathbourne. I'm currently residing at her home.”

            Wariness entered his eyes. “The new Prime.”

            “There. See.” Her smile grew. “I knew you would understand the importance of my presence here.”

            It was a good thing he couldn't tell whether she was lying or not, though poor Jeremy's bug eyes, and the way he appeared to be holding his breath in disbelief, nearly gave her away. Lady Rathbourne had said nothing about coming here. Indeed, she'd probably have sent someone else if she'd had any idea what Cleo intended.

            “Grave matters are afoot in London. I need an Ouroboros Mirror to confirm the truth of my Visions. And I know you have one, and it is potentially available for… three hundred and seventy-five quid, I believe.”

            The shopkeeper's eyes bulged. “How did—” He sharpened abruptly. “That was a special discount I offered for a regular customer who offers me plenty of repeat business.”

            “Remington Cross,” she mused, “is a friend of mine. He's decided not to purchase it.”

            “I can't go any lower than four hundred and fifty,” he replied mutinously, and she knew she had him.

            “I'm afraid I don't have that sort of coin upon me,” she replied, reaching inside her reticule, “but what I propose is a trade.”

            “I don't—” He stopped talking when he saw the amulet she produced. Indeed, he stopped breathing.

            “An amulet worn by Nefertiti herself, or so I am told. I always doubted the truth of that, to be honest.” She laid the amulet on the counter. “However, Nefertiti or not, the ankh is imbued with wards of a certain degree. You may test it, if you care to.”

            “Where did you get such a thing?”

            She felt a touch of sorrow, her smile slipping for a moment. “It was deeded to me along with the rest of my father's estate. The amulet belonged to Lord Tremayne.”

            After that, there was little to be haggled over. The shopkeeper knew he'd gotten a good deal, and frankly, Cleo no longer cared about the odd pieces she'd inherited. Her father had sealed his own fate the day he formed a pact with a demon. She'd warned him of her Visions. It was his own damned fault he hadn't listened to her.

            Or so she told herself.

            “The mirror?” Cleo reminded the fellow, as he gently buffed the amulet as if to question whether it was real or not.

            “I'll fetch it for you.”

***

            “Seems an incongruous trade,” Jeremy finally said, the mirror wrapped and settled under his arm, as they headed for the exit of the Labyrinth. “An amulet worn by Nefertiti herself, imbued with Lord Tremayne's best magic…. What does this mirror do?”

            “It's the most powerful scrying device ever created. There were three of them, crafted by Angelica Cosson over a century ago. One was lost, one was destroyed, and this”—she gestured to the package under his arm—”is the only one left at large in the world. It can see through any ward, any illusion, any plane or dimension, in fact.”

            “If it does all that, then why was it only four hundred and fifty quid?”           

            “Because there is a vast cost to looking into the mirror. One has to be a powerful seer with years of learning in the divination arts behind them to even be able to control it. That limits a significant portion of the Order. Secondly….”

            “Secondly?”

            “Some say if you don't have the training to control it, or the strength of will, then it can steal your soul. The mirror's connected to the Shadow Dimensions and powered by the Black Arts. A good many sorcerers will have nothing to do with it purely on those terms.”

            “What do you intend to do with it?” he asked, with a frown.

            “I thought I might start by sacrificing a few chickens….”

            He looked at her sharply.

            “Really, Mr. Prior.” Cleo rolled her eyes. “What do you think I'm going to do with it? I planned to look in it.” Cleo sidestepped an old woman hunched over a barrow filled with dark charms. They were almost back to Main Street, and traffic was growing thicker. “There's a Vision I once had, one concerning a threat to London. I need to be able to see more of the Vision.”

            And considering her access to Foresight had been destroyed when her father tore her blindfold from her eyes, she needed another way to access the ability.

            Desperate times called for desperate measures. Lady Rathbourne didn't think it was necessary. Yet. But she hadn't seen the future. Cleo had, and it haunted her dreams every night.

            She simply couldn't wait another day.

            Jeremy clearly pondered this as they found Main Street. There was only one official way out of the Labyrinth, which meant crossing Mr. Cochrane again. No doubt there were others, squirrelled away in back rooms and hidden tunnels, but the less they dealt with the denizens of the Labyrinth, the better.

            “Has Lady Rathbourne approved of this?” Jeremy finally asked. “It's just… you gave the impression she wanted us to carry out this task, and I thought I was finally helping the Order, but I can't see the new Prime suggesting we turn to the Black Arts. If anyone were to find out….”

            “Nobody's going to find out.”

            “That wasn't an answer.”

            But Cleo stopped listening. Premonition itched under her skin. And this time it had sharp knives.

            Danger, her senses whispered to her. Taking Jeremy by the sleeve, she slowed their pace. The Labyrinth was dangerous by itself—this wasn't the Order, where rules and laws were in place, and the Prime's Sicarii assassins would hunt down any who disobeyed those laws. The sorcerers and creatures that lived in this hidden world deep in the heart of London were already outcasts. Their only rule was: the strong survive.

            Nobody looked at them suspiciously. Indeed, more attention seemed to be given to a man and a woman hurling abuse at each other several yards away, something about a cursed amulet not working….

            A flash of red caught her eye between the amused onlookers. A woman strode toward them in a velvet walking dress, wearing a broad-brimmed hat with marvelous feathers.

            Cleo slammed her back against the brickwork, her breath catching in her chest. Morgana. That was Morgana, her husband's mother, and the woman who'd threatened to kill her. Which could only mean the tall man walking beside Morgana was the demon. She hadn't caught too much of a glimpse of him.

            “What is it?” Jeremy rasped. Every hint of color had drained from his face.

            “Don't move.” She looked away as Morgana gathered her skirts and strode around a puddle. The other woman hadn't seen them yet, but she was moving with surprising alacrity. They had to get out of here. “This way.”

            Shoving him in front of her, she pushed him into an alley. Premonition, don't fail me now. Cleo opened her divination instincts up to opportunity. Find me a way out.

            Behind them, someone cried out. Cleo started running, grabbing a fistful of her skirts.

            This way. Something tugged at her.

            She turned down the next alley, and her skin started itching furiously.
“Not this way!” Grabbing Jeremy's arm, she hauled him back the way they'd come.

            Taking blind turn after blind turn, she relied solely upon her sense of premonition. It had never failed her before, and when they fetched up in front of a small walled garden in a very old section of the Labyrinth, she thought this might be the first.

            There was a door ahead of them. Somewhere to hide perhaps, and her instincts were clearly leading her here. Cleo pushed it open, panting under her breath, and found herself in a garden. Snaking vines of ivy crawled up the building beside them, and she was almost certain a few of the strands turned their arrow-shaped leaves toward them as they stepped through into the courtyard. It felt like a hundred eyes watched her.

            The garden looked disused. But it wasn't empty.

            A man surveyed the statue, his hands clasped behind his back. Cleo froze, and Jeremy crashed into her. What on earth was the fellow wearing? It looked like something out of the Renaissance.

            Slowly the man turned. Black curls tumbled over his face. A handsome man, though his neatly trimmed mustache made him appear slightly evil. “Ah, my queen. We meet at last,” he said, in a deep baritone.

            Cleo glanced behind her. He was definitely referring to her. “I'm afraid you've confused me with someone—”

            “Have I?” He stepped down from the ledge around the fountain, looking around. “It's been a long time since I've walked these alleys. Nothing truly changes.”

            Cleo grabbed Jeremy by the sleeve, and tilted her chin toward the door. The man was mad. Time they got out of here. “We'll just leave you to your own thoughts then—”

            “White Queen, your eyes so bright,” the stranger almost breathed, “Glowing now you've lost your Sight.”

            White queen. A shiver of fright edged through her as she took a step in retreat. Was this one of the demon's men? There was no other way he could know that particular name. “What do you want?”

            “I have a gift for you.” He smiled at her knowingly, then turned and reached for a book that had been resting on the fountain ledge. “It might help with your studies.”

            Studies?

            “Here, now,” Jeremy stammered, stepping between them. “You keep that thing in your hands, and keep your hands where we can see them!” His aura began to glow as he drew power from the world around him—even from her—as if he prepared himself for some sorcerous working.

            Oh, Jeremy. The boy wore one ring. Bravado was all well and good, but this wasn't the sort of place to confront a fellow.

            Cleo drew the pistol she was carrying in her reticule. Bullets did little against a warded sorcerer, but these particular bullets were carved with runes that could slice right through any ward. “Stand aside, Jeremy.”

            He started at the crack of her voice.

            “Stand aside,” she repeated firmly, and when Jeremy shifted, she lifted the pistol and stared through the sights at the stranger. “You will tell me who you are, and what you mean by all this rubbish, and you will tell me now.”

            “My name is Quentin Farshaw.”

            “Impossible,” she retorted. “Quentin Farshaw was one of the first seers in England.”

            “The first.”

            She eyed his ridiculous brown attire. “Are you trying to tell me you're over three centuries old? If so, you're wearing the wrong era. You should be in something Elizabethan.”

            “I left it in the Renaissance.”

            Cleo cocked her head, and then drew the hammer on the pistol back. He smiled at her as if he hadn't a care in the world. “Farshaw died in 1562. He'd just written Sidestep Through Time, and he claimed the information within it could destroy the world. He died and the book vanished. Only fragments of it remain.”

            “Did he?” An eyebrow cocked. “Someone must have forgotten to pass that along to me.”

            She breathed out a laugh. Her truth senses weren't tingling. Her divination believed him, even if she didn't. This was ridiculous. Perhaps they too were no longer working correctly, along with her Visions. “Even if you were Quentin Farshaw, what on earth would possess you to wait for me here? To pass a book along? I assume it's a piece of the book?”

            “No, it's the entire thing.” Farshaw looked down. “And you need it so you can stop what is to come. Or the skies over London will blacken, and this fair city will be destroyed.” He looked up, staring directly through her. “You know what I speak of. I know you do. You've seen it. We've all seen it.”

            Cleo's blood chilled. London's doom was her Vision. The one that had been haunting her for years. “What do you mean we've all seen it?”

            “I am part of a collective who watches over England's safety. Every seer, from my bloodline down, sees the same thing. You have to stop it.”

            Sebastian. Her husband was always at the center of her prophetic doom. The darkness originated with him, weighing down upon his shoulders as the skies above them split open. It was only when she was near there was any sign of hope in her Vision. A stream of light erupted between them, driving away the darkness… but it was never enough. The darkness always overcame the light, and with Sebastian avoiding her these days, it wasn't as if she could try to stop it before it even began. Cleo's breath caught. She'd been hoping she'd have more time.

            “How do I stop it?” she whispered.

            “With the Blade.”

            “The Blade of Altarrh was destroyed,” she said, though she knew that wasn't true. Morgana had cast an illusion so an innocent kitchen knife took the brunt of the magic that “destroyed” it.

            Only an ally of Morgana—or someone who'd been there—would know that.

            “And you need to find the black queen.”

            Cleo's breath exploded out of her. “How?”

            “To find the black queen you need to go back to your past. Take the book. Perhaps it will show you how.” He pressed it into her hands. “My time with it is done.”

            She caught a swift glimpse of the cover. There'd been a book in the dream the demon had pulled her into. Was this it? “What do I do with it?”

            Farshaw stepped back. “I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise. But you should hurry up and read it. You don't have much time. You need to reach the full potential of your gifts, and quickly. The mirror will help to guide you, but you'll need the book for what is to come.”

            What's to come—? The mirror? “Sir,” she called, taking a step toward him as he retreated. “None of this makes any sense.”

            He checked his pocket watch, frowning faintly. “Good luck, my queen.”

            Then he vanished into thin air.