He felt the words rising from deep within his chest, as though they had been born not of his mind but of his heart. When he spoke them his voice was higher and lilting, the way he had sung the melodies his mother had taught him as a boy in Edinburgh.
'Atti mannu kashshaptu sha tuyub ta enni.'
Mr. Doyle turned from her, raised the spider, and hurled it with all his might at the wall. Eve shouted and lunged to stop him but for all her uncanny speed she was too late. Her eyes were wide and her gaze ticked toward the wall. It was clear she expected the spider to shatter.
Instead, it stuck to the wall.
For several long moments nothing happened. The only sounds in the room was the hum of electricity in the walls and the shush of the air filtration system, and Doyle's own breathing. The illumination cast by the display lighting in the otherwise darkened room only lent to the gathering and shifting of shadows in every corner and they seemed to darken, to cluster more closely, as Doyle and Eve stared at the crystal spider.
'All right,' Eve said, 'what the hell is — '
She never finished the sentence.
With a grating, clicking sound, the spider began to move. Its legs scratched at the wall as it crept upward and Mr. Doyle narrowed his gaze, peering more closely until he could make out the thin strand of crystalline webbing it was leaving behind.
Eve slid her hands into her pockets and gave her hair an insouciant toss. 'You know, with all I've seen — which is pretty much everything — you'd think I couldn't be surprised any more. What is it doing?'
'Watch,' he chided her.
And so they stood in silence in the midst of the Egyptian exhibit and watched as the spider spun its crystal web, clicking up the wall and then to the left, moving back down to diagonally cross its original line. Soon enough a pattern began to take form.
'It's a map,' Eve said. She stepped closer and looked up, head tilted back as she studied the circumference of the web pattern and the shape it had taken, the grid that was forming along the length of it and the large open rectangle in the center.
Brows knitted, Eve turned to stare at Doyle. 'It's a map of Manhattan.'
The spider paused for several long seconds at a spot upon its web that corresponded to where Greenwich Village would have been on the map. When it at last moved on, it had left something behind. Amidst that crystalline web, at one particular junction of gleaming thread, a tiny crystal stood out from the pattern of the map.
A chill passed through Mr. Doyle like ice sliding down his back and he stared at the map. Slowly he nodded. He had wondered for so long what had happened to the Mage, what had become of Lorenzo Sanguedolce, that it seemed unreal to him, looking at that crystal and knowing that it symbolized an end to his search.
He nodded gruffly and glanced at Eve. 'All right, then. To New York.'
Shortly before dawn, with heavy storm clouds aiding the night in its quest to keep morning at bay, the limousine swept through midtown Manhattan. Its tires shushed through pools of rainwater and the windshield wipers hissed as they beat their hypnotic rhythm upon the glass. New York had its reputation as the city that never slept, but on that Sunday morning it seemed, at least, to be dozing. The limousine was not the only vehicle about — they passed several taxis and police cars and a handful of automobiles whose drivers were likely about on business of questionable intent — but the streets were lonely nevertheless. With the storm hanging so low over the city and the rain driving down upon the limousine, the city seemed very inhospitable indeed.
In the back of the limo, Eve rested her head against the tinted window and gazed up at the cityscape that unfolded with each block. Twenty-four hour neon storefronts, digital billboards, and the glass and steel faces of thousands of corporations. In her life she had seen the rise and fall of cities more glorious than this one, and yet there was something about New York — with its old-fashioned personality and its vast ambition for the future — that she admired.
Her long legs were stretched out and she had slid down in the seat. From time to time her mind drifted so that she was in a sort of trance state in which ghosts of the past haunted her memory, but she did not sleep. Eve never slept during the night.
In the driver's seat, Squire yawned, revealing teeth as jagged and numerous as a shark's. The gnarled, ugly little man glanced into the rearview mirror and saw her watching him. His grin was hideous.
'Hey, babe. Good morning. You were zoning out back there so I didn't want to interrupt.'
Eve stretched languidly against the leather upholstery, aware of the goblin's hungry eyes but unconcerned. She twisted her neck, muscles popping. Across from her, behind the driver's seat, Doyle slept in a sitting position with his hands clasped, corpselike, over his chest. He snored lightly, head bobbing from time to time.
She glanced at the driver again. 'Usually you can't keep your mouth shut, Squire. I appreciate it.'
'My pleasure,' he said.
The goblin returned his attention to the road. They had passed through Times Square and were now rolling south on Seventh Avenue. Squire was a cautious driver. Doyle had paid to have the limo customized so that Squire could see through the windshield and still reach the accelerator and brake, mainly because the goblin liked to drive. Of all the services the creature performed for his employer, chauffeuring was the one at which he had the least amount of skill. Eve would not deny that Squire had his uses, but there were times when they were outweighed by his more annoying attributes.
'So, what's this about, babe?' the goblin asked, casting a quick glance over his shoulder, his gnarled features silhouetted by the greenish light from the limo's dashboard. 'I mean, I need my beauty sleep and the boss rousted me without telling me much. What's the hurry?'
Eve closed her eyes and sighed. 'If I explain it to you, will you stop calling me 'babe?''
'I can try.'
She nodded, opening her eyes and sitting up straighter in her seat. Her black hair fell in a tumble across her face and she swept it back again. 'That's good. Doyle would be unhappy if I ripped your throat out.'
The rain pelted the limousine's roof and sluiced down the windows. The engine purred and Squire kept both hands on the wheel as they slid through another intersection. Once again he caught her eye in the rearview mirror.
'Don't be that way, darlin'. I don't mean anything by it. And I'd have to be blind not to notice what a looker you are.'
Eve's upper lip curled back in a hiss that revealed her fangs. 'That could be arranged.'
'Okay, okay,' Squire protested, shrugging. 'Just making conversation. You don't wanna talk, we won't talk.'
Eve turned her gaze out the window again as they passed closed shops and newsstands with their metal rolling doors locked down tight. A tall, thin man in a hooded rain slicker hunched over as he walked his dog, the little beast leading him along by its leash, creating confusion as to which of them was the pet. Given the hour, Eve was tempted to believe the dog was in charge.
'I know very little,' she began, still peering out into the rain.
'That's more than I know,' Squire noted. He fished around the front seat and then held up a pack of cigarettes in triumph. The limo slowed as he tapped one out and used his lips to draw it from the pack.
'I've forgotten more than you'll ever know,' Eve said, and her voice sounded hollow even to her, tinged with a melancholy she rarely allowed in herself. It was the rain. The damned rain. For some reason it always put her in mind of a simpler time, long ago.
Squire either missed her tone or ignored it entirely. 'All right, you know so much, then spill it.' The goblin pushed in the dashboard lighter, the unlit cigarette rolling like a toothpick between his lips.
'You're not going to smoke in here,' she said.
His wiry eyebrows went up and he glanced at her in the mirror. 'I'm not? No, I guess I'm not.'
Eve glanced over at Doyle. He grumbled in his sleep now, brow knitted in consternation. She was not surprised. He was not the sort of man she would ever expect to have sweet dreams.
'It's pretty simple, actually. You know the story of Lorenzo Sanguedolce?'
'Sure. Sweetblood. That's what all the arcane books call him. Sweetblood the Mage.'
Eve nodded once. She had expected Squire to know the story. Anyone even tangentially involved with the magical community would have. Tales of Sanguedolce could be traced back as early as the eleventh century and
