Tall and slender, with wheat-blonde hair and pale skin, the roadster's occupant looked like a fashion designer's concept of modern aristocracy. He wore an expensive-looking cream-colored suit with a blue embroidered silk vest and matching tie.

His features held a cold elegance, with high cheekbones, a patrician nose, and expressive, cupid's bow lips. His eyes were a surprisingly dark blue, fringed by long, pale lashes. His face seemed ageless as a marble statue, but I guessed he might be thirty-five to forty.

Stepping off the street, he stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the house as though studying it. In his hand he carried a slender briefcase. Suddenly it clicked—the expensive car, the suit, the case—he must be the insurance inspector.

"Hi," I called as I approached. "I'm Ari, the homeowner's nephew. Are you here to see the damage?"

He turned towards me and I had the impression of being swiftly and ruthlessly appraised. Self-consciously, I forced myself not to give in to the impulse to hunch my shoulders, instead shoving my hands in my pockets and keeping my spine straight.

"You could say that," he answered. His voice was smooth, with a faint trace of an accent I couldn't quite place.

"Oh, er, okay. I'll show you around." I led the way up the short path to the house, extremely conscious of his presence at my back. On the porch I pointed out the broken window, a few shards of glass still littering the frame. "This is how the guy broke in," I said. "The other main damage is over here on the door."

I opened it to show him the cracked frame and he studied it without interest. Movement to the left caught my eye, and I turned to see Valerie Owens on her own porch, peering over the railing at me with a look of disturbing intensity. I waved.

"Hi, Mrs. Owens. I'm just having the insurance inspector look over the damage." I hoped that would waylay any inquiries regarding repairs.

Rather than reply, she continued to stare with an odd, blank look. My tall companion regarded her with an unfriendly expression, his brows drawing together sharply and the corners of his mouth dipping in a slight frown.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"Just my neighbor," I muttered. "She has an unhealthy interest in the historical authenticity of my house."

"I see," he commented, continuing to return her stare. Finally, Valerie jerked back as if to avoid something aimed at her head, and with a final glare in my direction, turned and walked slowly to her door and went inside.

"Huh. That was odd," I said. "Well, odder than usual. Shall we go in?" I held open the door and the blonde man stepped through.

He paused in the foyer, gaze sweeping restlessly over the shelves and the display cases, towards the doors leading to the parlor, and then to the stairs.

"Fortunately most of the damage was structural," I said. "A lot of stuff got thrown around, but besides a few trinkets we didn't lose much."

He moved slowly around the room, pausing to run a hand along the velvet rope I usually hung across the bottom of the stairs to keep out visitors during tours.

"Um, what exactly do you need to see?" I asked. "I have an inventory list taken prior to the break-in. Would that help?"

He continued his leisurely exploration. After a moment he said, "Tell me about this break-in."

I wondered if perhaps part of his job was to determine if I was attempting some kind of fraud. I leaned against a display case and told him the most accurate version I could without mentioning Pete or weird artifacts. When I finished, he finally looked up and met my eyes, his midnight blue gaze seeming to look right through me.

"This intruder, he took nothing?" he asked.

"It doesn't seem so."

"But he was after something."

"Yes, obviously," I said, a little defensively. Did he think I'd made the whole thing up?

"Something specific." It was a statement, not a question.

"I think so, yes. There were plenty of valuable things he might have taken otherwise."

"And the thing he wanted, you still have it?"

It was then I realized I'd made a mistake. He'd moved closer to me as he spoke, and was now less than an arm's length away. His face was like a marble mask, and only his eyes betrayed the intensity of his interest.

"You're not from the insurance company," I stated, starting to back away.

He shook his head. "I am not."

"Oh." My voice sounded small in my own ears. "Who are you then?"

He didn't answer right away, but he didn't move closer either. He stared at me fixedly, as though waiting for some sign. After a moment, he seemed to come to some decision and his masked expression relaxed a fraction.

"I am Soren Volkirsson," he said. "I am...an associate of your uncle, and I have come for the artifact which he most foolishly sent to you by post, along with, I am told, a rather insufficient explanation of its perils and a warning against sharing the knowledge of its existence."

I let out a shuddering breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Oh," I said again, and sagged with relief. "In that case, you'd better come upstairs."

He raised a brow but followed me without comment as I led the way up to the living area. "Please, have a seat." I indicated the couch and chairs, but he remained standing.

"I've only come for the artifact," he said. "Give it to me and I will be on my way. It has lingered in this place too long already."

"About that," I said, keeping my voice carefully bland. "I'm afraid it may not be so easy. For one thing, my uncle's letter also asked me to keep it safe, and I don't know if that includes handing it off to a stranger. How do I know I can trust you?"

"I can give you no assurances," he said. "However, I can tell you the object is not safe for you to keep. Someone else knows it is here and has tried to steal it once already."

"Twice," I corrected, and quickly related the first incident.

"Even worse. They will take no chances on a third try. Moreover, the artifact is already affecting those within the radius of its influence, judging by the way your neighbor behaved just now. Unless I am very much mistaken, she is possessed."

"Possessed! By what?"

He shrugged. "Who knows. Something that was drawn to the artifact's power, undoubtedly. More will follow, creatures physical and incarnate alike, answering its call. Have you not noticed this already? Not felt a sense of being followed or watched by unseen eyes? How much longer do you think it will be before something makes a move? Not long, if my suspicion about your neighbor is justified. You must let me take it. I can bring it somewhere it will be safe, and where it can do no harm."

I sat heavily on the couch, leaning forward to rest my head in my hands. "What is it, anyway—this artifact?"

"That is unimportant. In fact, it is safer not to say."

"Please," I said, raising my eyes to look at him. "I need to know."

He held my gaze for a long moment, as though weighing things in his mind. Finally, he gave a slow nod and crossed the room to sit opposite me in the other chair, with the length of the coffee table between us.

"Very well. I will tell you some of what I know," he said. He crossed one long leg over the other and leaned back, setting his elbows on the armrests and steepling his fingers before him.

"The artifact is a relic of ancient magic, something from the deep past, from a time that predates even the oldest legends. The knowledge that was used to create it is lost, as was the artifact itself until a few months back, when your uncle's long search led him to it at last." He raised a sardonic brow, as though to suggest that this was not an achievement worthy of celebration.

"What does it do?" I asked, leaning forward.

"Many things. It has no specific purpose other than to provide the one who controls it with great power. It is, as far as anyone knows, the only thing of its kind. Something at once wonderful and terrible, wicked and divine. A living spell."

I shivered and held my arms tightly around myself, imagining I could feel the words of the strange script crawling on my skin beneath my clothes.

He went on. "When bound to a vessel, it creates an open doorway through which power may pass between planes. Life into death, death into life. The Breath of Osiris, it was once called. In the wrong hands, it would become a terrifying weapon against which none could stand."

"What about in the right hands?" I asked, a bit tremulously.

He gave me a sharp look. "There is no such thing. While not inherently evil, the spell attracts evil to itself, merely by merit of what it offers. The balance of the world is tilted towards chaos. Entropy, as you call it now. Eventually, even the best-intentioned sorcerer would be corrupted by the spell's influence, and by its promise of power."

"But then why did my uncle want it?"

A pained looked crossed his face. "Dr. Lorenfield believes that it is possible to study the artifact without using its power, to learn its secrets without risk, if only it could be handled with the proper care. We did not...see eye to eye...on this point," he finished.

"He sent it to me," I said, looking down at my hands. "Even knowing..."

"He was desperate. Your uncle is an archeologist, not a sorcerer, and he'd unwittingly made powerful enemies who were close on his trail. He did the only thing that he could, although I do wish he'd trusted me sooner. By the time he told me what he'd done..."

I looked up. "Is my uncle safe?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

"Please, Mr..." I'd already forgotten his name.

"Volkirsson," he supplied. "But you may call me Soren."

"Soren. Please tell me. Is he all right?"

He looked away. "Honestly, I do not know. He disappeared shortly after I tracked him down and he told me what he had done with the artifact. He is currently missing."

"What?" I leapt to my feet.

He stood also and raised a placating hand. "Please, Aristotle—"

"No one calls me that," I snapped.

"Ari, then. Give me the artifact. I can protect it, and once it's safe, your uncle will be too. I don't believe anything's happened to him. Rather, I think he went into hiding. Believe me, I'd know if he had fallen into the wrong hands."

I clutched at my hair with clenched fists. "I...I can't. You don't understand. I—"

The loud chime of the doorbell cut me off, making me jump. I looked at Soren and he met my eyes with an unreadable gaze. The bell chimed again.

"Are you going to answer that?" he asked.

Trying to keep my breathing under control, I made my way down the stairs and crossed the parlor to the front door and opened it.

Ben stood on the porch. His eyes looked black in his starkly pale face, and he stood oddly rigid, his arms at his sides.

"Ben? What are you—" I stopped.

The fingers of his right hand were loosely curled around the handle of a knife.