Prologue

      Les Carrières de Paris

      Paris, France

      1793

      In the darkness of the tunnel, the strong smell of old death struck MicThel Toussaint like a sharp blow to the face. He barely managed to keep from turning and leaving as the hair on the back of his neck rose.

       Even the Revolution sweeping through Paris these past four years hadn’t affected him this much. Possible sudden death in the streets at the hands of madmen was not the same as death of an arcane nature.

       Gulping back bile, he wrapped his arm over his mouth and nose and breathed through his rough coat sleeve. He peered at the darkness outside the reach of the lantern light. Most of the others in their group—three abreast in this dank passage—complained loudly.

       “Where are we?”

       “What is this place?”

       The sound of their voices echoed and echoed again as it got lost in the long tunnel.

       Their young guide raised the lantern above his head. The orange light cascaded over the nearby cave walls, chasing the shadows. The white limestone seemed to warm from the glow, but the chill air rattled Michel. He couldn’t forget that he was now dozens of feet below Paris.

       God willing, he would go home again tonight.

       A fat man in expensive business attire tried to seize the lantern from the guide. Michel recognized him as one of the wealthy merchants who had convinced Michel’s editor to assign him the task of covering Anton Dutilleaux’s show. As a distraction to the conflict raging throughout the city.

       The boy refused to part with the lantern. Michel didn’t know if that was out of ownership or fear of the dark, which steadfastly lay in wait.

       “Give me that light, you rancid bit of flotsam,” the fat man snarled. He swung his walking stick with considerable force at the boy’s head.

       Outmatched, the dirty-faced street urchin let go the lantern and retreated with one hand raised protectively, scarcely avoiding the stick. Metal gleamed in the boy’s hand, and Michel knew the urchin had drawn a knife. For a moment the reporter thought blood was about to be spilled.

       “I hope the ghosts get you, you oozing pox,” the boy called belligerently, backing away. He pocketed his knife and no one except Michel seemed the wiser.

       The fat man snarled an oath at the retreating boy, then shined the lantern’s beam farther ahead into the waiting catacombs.

       Michel hoped the man’s cruel act didn’t curse them all. Michel believed in ghosts and curses. He never walked across a grave and always went in the opposite direction if a black cat crossed his path.

       I am, he thought miserably, without doubt the last person that should have been assigned to this story. Before he’d left the offices of the newspaper, he had made certain the editor had known that. Shaking just a little, he pulled his cloak more tightly around him.

       “Dutilleaux!” the fat man roared. “I demand that you show yourself! I didn’t come all this way to be made to wait!” He paused as the thunder of his voice rolled down the throat of the tunnel. “Dutilleaux!”

       “Quiet.” From out of the shadows, a man calmly asked, “What are you trying to do, Gervaise? Wake the dead? We all know that is my job.”

       Anton Dutilleaux stepped from the shadows, but they didn’t easily part company with him. Rather, they lingered in his dark hair, his dark gaze and his black evening suit. Black gloves covered his long-fingered hands.

       The three women in the crowd drew back with small, frightened cries.

       “Pardon me, ladies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dutilleaux smiled disarmingly and bowed deeply.

       Liar, Michel thought unkindly. You meant to scare them. He was even angrier because Dutilleaux’s appearance had scared him, as well.

       “Is that your fancy, then, charlatan?” the fat man named Gervaise demanded. “Spending your nights with the dead so you can scare women and children?”

       Dutilleaux smiled a second time, and it was a good smile. Michel had heard that the magician excelled with women. A number of scandalous stories had followed him through Europe.

       “I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” Dutilleaux replied innocently. “I merely stayed overlong at my studies. I’ve not lost my keen fascination for the things I’m about to show you. In fact, I’d wager after I reveal them to you that you won’t soon find them far from your mind, either.”

       The mocking certainty in Dutilleaux’s voice served to further unnerve Michel. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring a handful of candles. They would have been better than nothing should he need to…leave these others behind.

       “Well, I hope to see these fascinations of yours before I grow much older,” Gervaise groused. “Otherwise, you won’t see a single franc from me.”

       Michel gazed at the other men and women gathered around the fat man. Nearly all of them appeared to be his toadies and hangers-on. Gervaise didn’t attract friends as much as he did dependents. Michel was certain the merchant was paying for everyone.

       “Please come this way.” Dutilleaux gestured.

       “How much farther?”

       “Only a little.” Without another word, Dutilleaux walked into the darkness as if he could see in it.

       They all hesitated. Then Gervaise took a fresh grip on his lantern and walking stick and started forward. The crowd seemed to shrink in on itself as everyone began to move.

       Swallowing his fear once more, Michel cast a last glance back the way they’d come. The urchin had disappeared. Doubtless he knew his way to the surface, but Michel wasn’t so sure he could find his way back even with the marks on the walls. He turned and followed the light down into the tunnel.

      * * *

      “AS YOU MAY HAVE HEARD,” Dutilleaux said as they walked, “I’ve recently returned from an extensive stay in the Orient. Shanghai, actually.”

       Michel knew that because he’d written the piece on Anton Dutilleaux divulging that information. The reporter had interviewed one of Dutilleaux’s servants the previous week.

       “While there, I learned much about the spirit world,” Dutilleaux said. The lantern light revealed him ducking beneath a low arch. “Do watch your heads here, please.” He continued down the steep incline. “The Chinese spirits and ghosts are quite active, you know. Have you heard of the huli jing?”

       “No,” one of the women answered. Others echoed her answer.

       Michel followed cautiously. His fingers trailed over the rough stone as he passed beneath the arch.

       “The huli jing is a fox spirit,” Dutilleaux continued. “It takes the form of a beautiful maiden and seduces men, turning them weak or cruel. There are a number of stories about them.”

       “Have you ever met a huli jing?” the woman asked with keen interest.

       “No, sadly.”

       “Why do you say sadly?”

       “Because the amorous nature of the fox spirit is legendary.” Dutilleaux turned and smiled at his small audience. “I’m told it would have been quite the experience. I embrace challenges