The guards walked up the steps onto the loading dock and surveyed the alley. The one with the radio held it up and spoke something—it might have been, All’s clear—then the pair descended back to the pavement and continued on their round. They were only a few feet from the crates when they turned and started back toward the loading dock.

It happened so quickly it was almost over before Deirdre realized what was happening. Beltan shot out from behind the crates, swift and silent as a panther. A single blow to the back of the head, and the man with the radio crumpled to the pavement without a sound.

The other guard started to let out a shout as he turned around, but the sound was muffled as Beltan’s fist smashed against his jaw. The guard tried to bring up his gun, but Beltan slammed his arm back down, and Deirdre heard the distinct crunchof bones breaking. The gun fell to the ground and skittered across the pavement.

Beltan’s other hand came up, so that he gripped the man’s head on either side. He made a twisting motion. Again came a loud crunch. The guard slumped into a heap next to the first.

The green light in Beltan’s eyes dimmed. He was breathing hard, and he was grinning. Deirdre willed herself to look away. She knew the two men on the pavement weren’t simply unconscious. They were dead.

And you would be, too, Deirdre, if they had seen you.

She took a deep breath, then moved forward and picked up the gun. Beltan was already heading for the loading dock.

Deirdre hurried after him, and they moved up the steps to the steel doors. She glanced over her shoulder. There was no sign yet of additional guards. But how often was the one with the radio supposed to check in? She couldn’t believe the Philosophers kept just a single pair of guards.

Beltan gripped the handle on one of the doors. It wasn’t locked. He opened it just far enough for them to slip through. Beltan went first, and Deirdre followed, trying to keep a firm grip on the gun. It felt hot and slick in her hand; she wished she hadn’t picked it up.

Bands of fluorescent light alternated with shadow. They were in some kind of storeroom. Bare ventilation tubes ran in all directions. Scattered on the floor were packing materials, crowbars, and long wooden crates. Deirdre didn’t need to count to know there were seven of them. Beltan pointed. Ahead was an open door, and beyond a dim corridor. He started toward it, and Deirdre followed, gripping the gun.

This time it was the guard who saw them first. He had been standing a short way inside the open door. When he saw them, he swore and started to raise the radio.

“Don’t move,” Deirdre hissed as loudly as she dared, pointing the gun at him.

The guard hesitated, then his eyes narrowed, and he punched the button on the radio, opening his mouth to speak.

Deirdre willed herself to shoot, but she couldn’t do it. However, the guard’s hesitation had been enough to allow Beltan to get close. He swiped at the radio, knocking it out of the guard’s hand, then swung his other fist, punching the man in the throat.

The guard fell to the floor, making a gurgling sound. Beltan stepped over him, then gestured for Deirdre to follow. By the time she stepped over the guard, he was no longer moving. She tightened her grip on the gun and followed Beltan.

They halted when they heard voices.

The voices were low, chanting something Deirdre couldn’t quite understand. She knew how to speak Latin; that wasn’t it. She exchanged a look with Beltan. He jerked his head, and they crept as quietly as they could along the corridor. It ended in another door, open like the last. They slipped through and found themselves on a mezzanine that ringed a circular room. Both the mezzanine and the room below were constructed of polished marble. Above was a gilded dome.

The mezzanine was littered with boxes, some open, some closed. Ancient urns, still wrapped in clear packing material, stood on pedestals, next to weathered stone statues half draped in tarps. Inside the nearest open box, Deirdre saw various artifacts—clay tablets, bronze bowls, and stone jars—nestled on a bed of packing foam.

She supposed these artifacts had all come from the secret chamber beneath Knossos. The Philosophers must have ordered their servants to remove everything before the archaeologists who came to investigate the arch stumbled upon the chamber. Fascinating as they were, her gaze lingered on the objects only for a moment.

A pair of staircases descended from the mezzanine, down to the level below. Unlike the clutter on the higher level, the main floor was precisely arranged. Spaced around the perimeter of the chamber were seven long, low shapes, each one draped with a black cloth. Another object stood on a dais directly beneath the center of the dome.

It was an arch of stone.

The chanting grew louder. Now that Deirdre could hear it more clearly, the chanting sounded more like ancient Greek, only it was a form Deirdre wasn’t familiar with. A soft, golden glow filtered from the dome above, and in the light she could make out the slender steel frame that held the arch upright, as well as the angular carvings that marked the stones. Unlike the other stones of the arch, the keystone in the center was worn and pitted, its surface stained a dark brown.

Standing in a circle around the arch were hooded figures in black robes. Their chanting continued, uninterrupted. Beltan and Deirdre edged forward to get a better view of what was happening below.

One of the statues moved, stepping in front of them.

“And who do we have here?” purred a woman’s voice. Gold eyes glinted behind the dark web of a veil.

Shock coursed through Deirdre, short-circuiting her nervous system so that she could not move. What she had taken for a statue draped in black cloth had in truth been a woman in a robe.

You’re an idiot, Deirdre. Can’t you count?Gathered around the arch below were not six robed figures, but five.

Unlike Deirdre, shock had not immobilized Beltan. He sprang forward and reached out to grab the woman.

Her gold eyes flashed, and Beltan toppled to the floor, arms still outstretched. Now it was he who was a statue. Deirdre stared at him. He had sensed the presence of the guards. Why hadn’t he sensed her in the shadows?

She has her own magic, Deirdre. . . .

“Phoebe,” she murmured.

She caught the glint of a smile behind the veil. “So you’ve read Marius’s little book, I see.”

Deirdre could hardly feel shock anymore. “You knew about it?”

“We know everything, child. We’re the Philosophers.” She lifted her hand in an elegant, indulgent gesture. “Must I explain it all to you? I thought you were supposed to be so very clever.”

The chanting had ceased. “What’s going on up there?” a man’s voice called out.

“It’s our little investigator and her companion,” Phoebe called back without taking her gold eyes off Deirdre. “They’ve arrived just as we expected them to.”

It was perilous to speak, all Deirdre’s instincts told her that, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Maybe you need better guards.”

“Nonsense. They performed their duty perfectly. Each possessed a pulse monitor that emitted a constant signal as long as their hearts continued to beat. I was alerted the moment they died.”

Deirdre winced, wishing Beltan had been able to use more restraint.

Phoebe moved a step closer. “We learned long ago not to place our reliance on weak and fallible mortals. We use them, yes, but we do not depend upon them. I knew it would be best if I dealt with Marius’s little tools myself.”

“But if you’d read his journal, if you knew what Marius intended to do, then why—?”

“Didn’t we stop him?” Phoebe’s voice was a croon of pleasure. “It’s simple, child. It was better to let Marius believe his little plan had a chance of succeeding. He always believed he was better than us; that was his hubris. And that made it all too easy to defeat him. As you saw yourself in Scotland. We knew eventually he would show himself to you. And once he was out in the open, our servant easily removed him.”