Jack wondered why not.

    "Must've forgot. I finally got the nerve to stop by. I'm such a slut of a friend. I mean, here she's been like my big sister for years, but I couldn't bring myself to stop by after the accident. I just couldn't stand seeing her hurt."

    "She's pretty much back to normal now."

    Junie shook her head. "Not really."

    Jack felt a sinking sensation. "What do you mean?"

    "Her art, my brotha. Her paintings. They're…"

    "She showed you?"

    "Well, ya-ah. We're both artists, you know. Why wouldn't she?"

    It stung knowing Gia would share them with someone else but not him. Maybe the artist connection explained it, but still…

    "I haven't seen them."

    "Oh, shit. You two aren't on the outs, are you? Because if you've hurt her—"

    "Never in a million years. She just doesn't want me to see them."

    "Yeah, well, maybe I can see why."

    "Want to give me a hint?"

    "They're not her."

    "What's that supposed to mean?"

    "They're not like anything she's ever painted. They're… dark. You know how Gia's stuff has always been sunny, with all that Hopperesque bright light and shadow. Now it's mostly shadow. I think that accident changed her, Jack. I mean, you talk to her, she seems the same, but those paintings…" She looked uncomfortable. "They aren't from the Gia I knew."

    They chatted awhile longer, with Junie monologuing and Jack monosyllabling, barely hearing what she said.

    Those paintings… he had to get a look at Gia's paintings.

    "Glenn! Glenn!"

    Glaeken stood at the living room window, watching the stretched shadow of his building inch across Central Park's Sheep Meadow.

    Glenn… he was glad Magda had forgotten his real name. Wouldn't do to have her calling "Glaeken!" a thousand times a day. Glenn, Glaeken, Veilleur, and all the other names he'd adopted down through the ages. Sometimes he lost track of who he was supposed to be.

    Used to be he could always return to "Glaeken," but no longer. In his mind these days he'd become simply Veilleur.

    "Coming, my dear."

    The voice had come from the kitchen, as were sounds of rattling cookware now. He headed that way and found Magda standing by the granite-topped island, staring at the open cabinets in confusion.

    Her white hair was neatly combed, thanks to the visiting homemaker who had just left. Her weight loss over the past few years or so accentuated the stoop of her shoulders. She wore a sweater as usual, because she was always cold.

    "My kitchen!" she cried, her Hungarian accent thicker than before the decline had begun. "Glenn, what's happened to my kitchen?"

    "Nothing, Magda. It's just as it always is."

    A vision of a younger Magda took shape before him. Soft, smooth skin; long, chestnut hair; dark, gleaming eyes so full of wit and intelligence. That Magda was gone, but his love for her remained. He heard echoes of her voice as she sang, of her mandolin as she played, the sight of her bent over her typewriter as she wrote.

    Another vision… Magda facing down the greatest evil… defying everything Rasalom could throw at her… terrified, horrified, repulsed, yet holding out, blocking his way until Glaeken could gather strength enough to take her place.

    The memory of her courage and her unyielding trust that he would not let her down constricted his throat—now as much as then.

    But two years ago her memory began to fail. She noticed it first. Then he noticed her making notes about the simplest things. He knew what it meant. And it crushed him.

    The one woman across his eons with whom he could grow old was failing, becoming less and less the woman he'd fallen in love with. He refused to allow the splendid life they'd lived, the glowing love they'd shared to be tainted by her decline. He would never leave her, never give up on her. He would be with her until the end.

    And perhaps that end was not too far off.

    For both of them.

    For everyone.

    "But how can I cook dinner?"

    He stepped to her side. "We've already had dinner."

    She looked at him. "No! We couldn't. I'm still hungry."

    "We had lamb chops, roasted red potatoes, and string beans. You cleaned your plate."

    "No, I—"

    "I cut your meat for you, remember?"

    She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. They were moist when she opened them.

    "I do remember." She squeezed his forearm. "Oh, Glenn, I'm making it so hard on you."

    He patted her hand. "Not at all, my love."

    "But why am I still hungry?"

    "Perhaps you didn't eat enough."

    Her eating habits had become bizarre. She would be famished after a big meal, and then go most of the following day without eating anything—needing to be talked into sitting down for dinner.

    "How about some ice cream? We have chocolate, your favorite."

    She shook her head. "I need something more… more…" She frowned, searching for the word.

    "Substantial?"

    "Yes!" She brightened. "I'll have Miranda fix me some scrambled eggs."

    Miranda had been their housekeeper six years ago.

    "Miranda's not here, but I'll fix them."

    She clapped her hands like a delighted child. "Wonderful! And you'll fix them the way I like them?"

    He nodded. "With grated asiago. Of course."

    He pulled out a frying pan and began melting a pat of butter. He'd cooked countless meals down the seemingly endless years and had become skilled at it.

    He knew if Magda followed her usual pattern, her appetite would be gone by the time the eggs were ready. And then he'd eat them. He'd have to. He'd been hungry too many times, sagging against death's door more than once from starvation, ever to throw away food.

    But that was all right. He made excellent scrambled eggs.

    What the—?

    It had happened again.

    Jack sat at his round oak table and stared at the page he'd bookmarked in the Compendium of Srem. Nobody knew the book's age. He'd heard it was from the First Age, but no one could prove that, and the people with the credentials to do some sort of backgrounding on it believed it was a myth. After all, only one copy existed, and Jack had it. He'd been told it was indestructible, that Grand Inquisitor Torquemada had tried everything—fire, sword, ax, and anything else he could think of—but had been unable to destroy it. Finally he'd given up and buried it beneath a monastery. But it hadn't stayed buried.

    All very odd, but the oddest thing about the Compendium was that everyone who opened it found it written in his or her native tongue.

    Jack had bookmarked the section on the Seven Infernals the other day and decided tonight would be a good time to check out a weird-looking contraption he'd seen there that looked oddly familiar… displayed in a sideshow, long ago. But now, when he opened to the page, he found himself in another section.

    Impossible that someone could have moved the bookmark, because he was the only one in the apartment, the only one for weeks.

    He started paging through, looking for the Infernals again, but could find no trace of them. Instead he found pages he'd never seen before. He'd read a lot of the book—understanding little—and had flipped through it a number of times, but now he was finding whole sections he'd never even glimpsed before.

    This wasn't the first time. What was this thing? Could it be sentient?

    He slapped the book closed and pushed it to the center of the table. Damn thing was heavy.