"Who do you think it is?" Ianira asked, having to shout over the roar.

Skeeter snorted. "It's probably some schmuck nobody's ever heard of before. A sick puppy who just snapped one day and decided to kill a bunch of penniless prostitutes. Jack the Ripper wasn't the only madman who ripped up women with a knife, after all. The way those Ripperologists have been talking, there were hundreds of so-called ‘rippers' during the 1880s and 1890s. Jack was just better with his PR, sending those horrible letters to the press."

Ianira shuddered, echoing Skeeter's own feelings on the subject.

If Skeeter had still been a betting man, he might have laid a few wagers, himself. But Skeeter Jackson had learned a very harsh lesson about making wagers. He'd very nearly lost his home, his life, and his only friends, thanks to that last ill-considered, ruinous wager he'd made with Goldie Morran. He'd finally realized, very nearly too late, that his life of petty crime hurt a lot more people than just the rich, obnoxious tourists he'd made a living ripping off. For Skeeter, at any rate, ripping time was over. For good.

Unfortunately, for the rest of La-La Land, it was just getting started.

As though on cue, the station's PA system crackled to life as Primary cycled open. The station announcer blared out instructions for the newly arriving tourists—and at Skeeter's side, Ianira Cassondra faltered. Her eyes glazed in sudden pain and a violent tremble struck her, so hard she stumbled against him and nearly fell.

"Ianira!" He caught and held her up, horrified by the tremors ripping through her. All color had drained from her face. Ianira squeezed shut her eyes for a long, terrifying moment. Then whatever was wrong passed. She sagged against him.

"Forgive me..." Her voice came out whispery, weak.

He held her up as carefully as he would've held a priceless Ming vase. "What's wrong, Ianira, what happened?"

"A vision," she choked out. "A warning. Such power... I have never Seen with such power, never have I felt such fear... something terrible is to happen... is happening now, I think..."

Skeeter's blood ran cold. He didn't pretend to understand everything this seemingly fragile woman he braced so carefully was capable of. Trained in the ancient arts of the Temple of Ephesus as a child, some twenty-five hundred years before Skeeter's birth, Ianira occasionally said and did things that raised the hair on the back of Skeeter's neck. Ianira's acolytes, who followed her everywhere, pressed closer, exclaiming in worry. Those farther back, unable to see clearly, demanded to know what was wrong.

"Dammit, get back!" Skeeter turned on the whole lot of them. "Can't you see she needs air?"

Shocked faces gawped at him like so many fish, but they backed away a few paces. Ianira sagged against him, trembling violently. He guided her toward a bench, but she shook her head. "No, Skeeter. I am fine, now." To prove it, she straightened and took a step under her own power, wobbly, but determined.

Worried acolytes formed a corridor for her. Skeeter glared silently at them, guiding her by the elbow, determined not to allow her to fall. Speaking as quietly as possible, in the probably vain hope their vid-cams and tape recorders wouldn't pick up the question, he murmured, "What kind of vision was it, Ianira?"

She shivered again. "A warning," she whispered. "A warning of dark anger. The darkest I have ever touched. Violence, terrible fear..."

"Sounds like everyday life, up time." He tried to make light of it, hoping to make her smile.

Ianira, the gifted Cassondra of Ephesus, did not smile. She shuddered. Then choked out, "It is from up time the danger comes."

He stared down at her. Then a prickle ran up his back. It occurred to him that Primary had just cycled. Skeeter narrowed his eyes, gazing off toward the end of Commons where Primary precinct would be filled with tourists shoving their way into the station. Screw the bathroom floors. I'm not letting her out of my sight.

They reached the junction between five of the terminal's major zones, a no-man's land where the corners of Urbs Romae and Victoria Station ran into El Dorado, Little Agora, and Valhalla, not too far from the new construction site where the Arabian Nights sector was going up. It was there in that no-man's land, with Ianira's acolytes making it impossible to see for any distance, that Skeeter heard the first rumbles. An angry swell of voices heralded the approach of trouble. Skeeter glanced swiftly around, trying to pin down the source. It sounded like it was coming from two directions at once—and was apparently triangulating straight toward them.

"Ianira..."

Four things occurred simultaneously.

Tourists screamed and broke into a dead run. A full-blown riot engulfed them, led by enraged construction workers shouting in Arabic. A wild-eyed young kid burst through the crowd and yelled something that sounded like, "No! Aahh!"—then pointed an enormous black-powder pistol right at Skeeter and Ianira. Gunfire erupted just as someone else lunged out of the crowd and swept Ianira sideways in a flying tackle. The blow slammed her against Skeeter, knocked them both sideways. They crashed to the floor. The maintenance cart toppled, spilling ammonia bottles, mop handles, and toilet paper rolls underfoot. Screams and alarm klaxons deafened him. Skeeter rolled awkwardly under running feet and came to his hands and knees, searching wildly for Ianira. He couldn't see her anywhere. Couldn't see anything but fleeing tourists and spilled cleaning supplies and embattled construction workers. They were locked in hand-to-hand combat with Ianira's howling acolytes.

"Ianira!"

He gained his feet, was rocked sideways by a body blow as a cursing construction worker smashed into him. They both went down. Skeeter's skull connected with El Dorado's gold-tinted paving stones. He saw stars, cursed furiously. Before he could roll to his hands and knees again, security killed the station lights. The entire Commons plunged into utter blackness. Shrieking riot faded to an uncertain roar. Somebody stumbled over Skeeter in the darkness, tripped and went down, even as Skeeter clawed his way back to his feet.

"Ianira!"

He strained for any sound of her voice, heard nothing but the sobs and cries of frantic tourists, maddened acolytes, and screaming, erstwhile combatants. Somebody ran past him, with such purpose and certainty it could only be security. They must be using that night-vision equipment Mike Benson had ordered before the start of Ripper Season. The riot helmets had their own infrared light-sources built in, for just this kind of station emergency. Then the lights came up and Skeeter discovered himself hemmed in by a solid wall of security officers, armed with night sticks and handcuffs. They waded in, cuffing more rioters, breaking up combatants with scant regard for who was attempting to throttle whom. "Break it up! Move it—"

Skeeter peered wildly through the crowd, recognized the nearest officer. "Wally! Have you seen Ianira Cassondra?"

Wally Klontz stared at him, visibly startled. "What?"

"Ianira! Some crazy kid shot at us! Then somebody else knocked us both down and now she's missing!"

"Oh, Jeezus H., that's all we need! Somebody taking pot-shots at the most important religious figure of the twenty-first century!" A brief query over Wally's squawky produced a flat negative. Nobody from security had seen her, anywhere.

Skeeter let loose a torrent of fluent Mongolian curses that would've impressed even Yesukai the Valiant. Wally Klontz frowned and spoke into the squawky again. "Station alert, Signal Eight-Delta, repeat, Signal Eight-Delta, missing person, Ianira Cassondra. Expedite, condition red."

The squawky crackled. "Oh, shit! Ten-four, that's a Signal Eight-Delta, Ianira Cassondra. Condition red. Expediting."