Bethnal Green : London 1.30 am

      Shrill screams, raging with grief, echoed throughout The Wyrd Museum. From the rambling attics, where frightened pigeons shuffled uneasily upon their perches, the hideous shrieking blistered. Down, into the shadow-filled rooms it poured, an incessant flood of anguish, streaming from chamber to chamber – until finally it seeped beneath the foundations and babbled through the subterranean caverns.

      Miss Veronica Webster – she who was Verdandi, youngest of the immortal Fates – was dead. She who had once measured out the lives of men, who had sat at the ensnaring Loom upon which every strand of existence was woven; she who wielded the ultimate tyranny of Doom and Destiny was no more.

      A darkness more profound than the pressing night smothered the museum and the incessant lament endured.

      Outside, one of the bronze figures which flanked the main entrance lay shattered upon the ground and the shadows within The Wyrd Museum deepened, swelling the rooms with a solid suffocation of light.

      To one neglected niche of the ancient building, the chilling dirge eventually penetrated, ripping through the previously inviolate night. Wretched and racked with pain the dismal chorus tolled, filling every invisible corner with the agony of loss.

      Then it happened.

      In that choking gloom appeared a soft pulse of light and a new sound was born. Softly at first, a gentle creaking began, like floorboards easing and groaning after a long day underfoot. Gradually, the noise grew louder. Creaks became snaps and the troubled dark rang with the frenzy of splintering wood.

      Suddenly, another noise joined the increasing clamour. A panting, rattling breath which rasped and heaved when the rupturing of timber escalated to its height. Then a yelping, pig-like squeal spiked through the black gloom.

      With one last, straining effort, the unseen creature was free. A hiss of exultation steamed from its wide mouth and it dropped to the floor.

      Clawed feet clattered upon the ground as the small imp landed. For a moment it paused, a pair of large eyes blinking in the eternal dark, its tail switching from side to side. Then, with a gargling gasp upon its lips, the creature leapt forward – gnashing out a constant cacophony of barks and grunts. Through the ebon shadows it scurried, and in that jumble of guttural chattering, repeated a single word over and over again.

      ‘Gogus … Gogus … Gogus …’

       CHAPTER 1 THE HOMECOMING

      The chill night airs which

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