Infestation

by Tim Radley

Tomb Raider Novella. A story of Voodoo. Lara Croft encounters an old flame on holiday in Haiti

Lara Croft : Infestation

by Tim Radley

trad50@yahoo.co.uk

Tomb Raider, Lara Croft, her image and likeness are trademark and copyright © of EIDOS Interactive and Core Design. No infringement or challenge to these copyrights is intended.

This is a long, novella sized piece. It contains violence and strong language.

I really would be extremely grateful to receive any comments or criticism you might have. Please e-mail me and let me know what you thought of it.

* * * * *

Prologue: Saturday, 1^st April 2000, New York

"What can I do for you lady?" The proprietor scratched his armpit absently, a glower on his heavy-jowled, unshaven face. "If you're looking for Macys you took a wrong turn somewhere back on lower-east side." He chuckled at his own joke, the sound quickly turning into a wet, hacking cough.

"You are Vincent Amato, aren't you?"

Her accent was cut glass English. It made him start slightly – not at all what he'd expected. Certainly a long way from the accents you usually heard in this particular run-down area of Manhattan. He looked at her more closely.

The amount of daylight that filtered down through the grime-encrusted windows of the basement level store was not good on the brightest of days. Now, with the trailing weather fronts coming up from Hurricane Regina as it pounded into the Carolina coast, it was positively stygian. Vincent didn't hold with wasting electricity on illumination during the day though.

She was a looker. He could tell that much right off. Tall – taller than him at any rate – and lithely slender. Stacked too. His gaze lingered. From what he could see they were as fine a pair as he'd encountered in a long while. If her accent had been American he'd have said they were fake right off, but as she was apparently English. . . He remembered reading somewhere that they didn't go in for that particular kind of enhancement nearly as much. So maybe not.

Circular red-tinted sunglasses concealed her eyes, though the weather definitely didn't merit them. Long hair was tied back in a single braid, sodden with rainwater. In the gloom he couldn't pin down the colour anymore precisely than 'not blonde'. A pity. He liked blondes.

She was wearing a battered fleece-lined flying jacket and a well-worn pair of jeans with one of the knees torn out. A white tee-shirt and a pair of old, rather grungy looking walking boots completed the ensemble. Everything was dripping wet, a pool collecting where she stood. Her face had a cool, composed look – exuded quiet self-assurance. Class was the word that came to mind.

Not many of his customers had what you could call class.

"Er, y-" He began as he remembered she'd asked him a question, then caught himself. "Who wants to know?"

"I'll take that as a yes then, shall I?"

That slightly wry edge to her voice, along with the English accent. Damned sexy. He could definitely get used to waking up to that in the morning. In my dreams. "Er. . ."

"I'll get straight to the point shall I?" She interrupted him. "I need to purchase some weaponry. A pair of micros-Uzis for preference, though mini's are acceptable too. Full size will do at a pinch. Or I'll take Ingram MAC-11's or anything else of similar design if you don't have them available."

Vincent's jaw shut with a click. Bloody hell. "I like a woman who knows her own mind," he said faintly.

"You can give me what I want Mr. Amato, can't you? Mr. Drexler told me, in that round about way he has, that you were the man to come and see."

Drexler? That little scuzz bucket? Vincent was instantly on the alert. Just who the hell was this woman? "I'll need to see some ID."

She handed him a thin leather wallet. As he opened it a couple of hundred dollars in fifties fell out onto the counter top.

"As you can see, I have all the proper permits."

It took him a moment to realise what she was getting at. Then he nodded, gathering up the money and making it disappear. Get a grip, Vince. He nodded quickly. "Everything certainly seems to be in order. . ." The driver's license claimed the woman's name was Lucy Crowe. The photo was of her at least. Fake, or I'm the head of the FBI. "Miss Crowe."

He handed the wallet back to her. "If you don't mind me saying so, you don't look like you're thirty-two." She didn't. Mid-twenties would have been his guess.

"Didn't you mother ever tell you it was impolite to mention a lady's age?" She accepted the wallet back off him. He noted that her fingernails were blunt, hands tanned and strong looking. Not just some pampered, stuck-up rich girl then, whatever her voice initially might suggest.

"Now, about those guns?"

"How about this?" Vincent produced a sleek, slightly odd-looking submachine-gun finished in black plastic and laid it down on the counter. "Calico M960, fifty-round helical magazine mounted above the stock. Comes in 100 round size too, though I wouldn't recommend it – it makes the thing a bit clumsy. Seven-hundred and fifty rounds a minute rate of fire. And made in the good old US of A too. Can't get better." He looked at her more in hope than expectation.

"I'd prefer the micro-Uzis if you have them."

Vincent sensed the very definite no; sighed softly to himself. "Yeah, never can get anyone to buy these things except for the occasional white-supremacist or red-neck survivalist type. They like the made in the USA bit." He put the Calico back beneath the counter and produced the pair of micro-Uzis – like a normal Uzi in every respect except for being considerably smaller and much easier to conceal. "Why two of them, as a matter of interest?"

All he could see was his own reflection in the lenses of her sunglasses. Her eyes were hidden, and therefore so was much of her expression. "One for each hand of course. You get a much broader field of fire that way."

He stared at her a moment. She sounded serious. Okay, so she looked quite strong. . . but still. "That ain't never goin' to work lady. I guarantee that the only thing you won't end up hitting is your intended target."

"I'll worry about that, shall I Mr. Amato?" There was definite amusement in her voice. "Now about price. . ."

Vincent quoted a figure

"I was under the impression I was purchasing two of them. Not twenty." The woman quoted a figure back, about a fifth of the first one.

They haggled for a couple of minutes, before they got around the ballpark of what they were actually worth. The woman paid for them in cash.

"I'd like six spare clips too."

More money changed hands and the clips disappeared into the sports bag she was carrying. A smile spread slowly across the woman's lips. Vincent wasn't entirely sure he liked it. It made him feel nervous.

"How much would it cost to get these converted to full automatic fire?"

He stared at her, eyes narrowing – found himself wondering if this could be some kind of police set-up or something. Caution abruptly took hold. "Hey lady, you know that's illegal."

"Is it?" A look of feigned shock and innocence. "Well, I'd certainly never dream of asking you to do anything illegal Mr. Amato." She slid some more cash across the countertop.

Vincent stared at it, feeling his mouth go dry. If there was one thing more attractive to him than pretty ladies it was cold, hard currency. He gave in to temptation and took it. "Just like I'd never dream of doing anything illegal Miss Crowe."

"Of course."

It took a matter of a couple minutes for him to perform the conversions, merely exchanging a couple of parts in the firing mechanism. It was laughably simple to do. The woman accepted the now fully automatic weapons wordlessly.

"Now, is there anything else I can interest you in?"

Her lips formed a slight moue. "That Remington 12 gauge. The one with the pistol grip. May I have a look?"

He grunted, turning round to pull the shotgun down off the rack. She certainly seemed to know her weapons, this 'Miss Crowe'. He passed it across to her and watched with interest as she tested its heft, sighting along it. Knew how to handle them too by the looks of it.

Eventually, with a quiet sigh, she handed it back. "I think I'll stick to just the Uzis Mr. Amato. They should prove to be sufficient."

"Sufficient?" It was out before he could stop it. "Sufficient for what?"

He cursed himself inwardly. You never asked a person their reasons. You just gave them what they wanted and kept your head down. In this business curiosity not only killed the cat, it also fitted it with concrete boots and tossed it in the harbour.

The woman simply regarded him impassively. After a moment she turned away from him and started walking towards the door. As she opened it the drumming sound of the rain intensified. She surprised him by looking back over her shoulder.

"Cockroaches Mr. Amato." That slightly scary smile again. "Don't you just hate the little buggers?"

Then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her. For some reason Vincent felt only relief.

28^th March 2000, Haiti

"Ti-Jean-Petro." Racine Gedeon held up the battered oval of carved wood she'd just spent the past hour painstakingly brushing caked made from and grinned broadly.

Lara Croft leaned over the woman's shoulder to get a better look. "Handsome fellow," she commented dryly.

The object was a Loa mask, used in Vodou ceremonies. A depiction of the Loa – or ancestral spirits – that were so central to Vodoun religion. This particular example displayed a distinctly bad-tempered, ugly looking face. "That's the dwarf with one-foot isn't it? Protector of bokors and a nasty piece of work if I remember rightly."

"That's the fellow," Racine agreed. Her voice had a musical lilting quality to it that was like an aural caress. Occasionally Lara found herself listening to the sound of it and missed the words entirely. "As you say, not the nicest of fellows. Noted for his violent and fiercely passionate temperament."

Racine was twenty-four years old, a native Haitian though she was currently studying for a Masters in anthropology at Florida State. Supposedly she was on spring term break, visiting with her family – not crawling about the undergrowth completely the other side of the country, digging things up. Then again Lara was supposed to be on holiday, relaxing, so she was hardly in a position to comment.

Lara found herself studying her younger companion surreptitiously.

She truly was one of the most luminously beautiful people Lara had ever laid eyes on – grace and elegance personified. And one of the nicest too, with an easy going smile and an open friendliness that put everyone who met her instantly at ease. Her grace and good-humour seemed to rub off on those who spent time around her, making them – temporarily at least – all the better for it.

If nothing else came of this holiday, at least she had found somebody who she could consider a friend. A rare and precious commodity.

"Fiercely passionate?" Lara slightly belatedly caught on to Racine's words. "I wasn't aware of that aspect of him. I thought he was pretty much just an evil little bastard."

"Oh he is that. Very definitely. But Loa are rarely entirely one thing or the other. Like people there is usually some positive mixed in with the negative. Or vice-versa." Racine laughed. "Why, my mother even claims that my father – a powerful bokor so I'm told – was mounted by Ti-Jean-Petro when they conceived me."

Mounted was the proper Vodou term for when one of the Loa possessed a person. A bokor was supposedly a sorcerer – literally, one who serves the Loa with both hands. The word held implications of black magic.

"She claims it was quite an experience."

"I'll bet."

Racine's family life was something that Lara had found quietly amazing. Nine children by at least four different fathers, and Racine's mother, Mambo – the word for a female Vodou priest – Pitié Gedeon at the heart of it all. She was a huge woman with a laugh like thunder and a personality big enough for three whole people. It was difficult to believe that Racine – this delicate looking, gentle, soft-spoken person – could possibly be any relation.

A stealthy sound, like a stick snapping beneath a booted foot, caught Lara's attention, bringing it well and truly back to their surroundings.

"What is. . ." Racine started to say.

Lara raised a finger to her lips, indicating that she should be quiet – listen.

They were in a clearing amid a tangle of overgrown woodland – once the site of one of the largest slave plantations on the entire island of Hispaniola, though very little outward sign of that now remained. At the centre of the clearing, where they were standing, there were signs that a building had once stood before being burnt down; perhaps a large hut to house slaves, or maybe a peristyle – a Vodou temple.

It was a pleasant day, warm but breezy, candyfloss puffs of white cloud decorating the azure sky. Rugged mountains rose up behind them to the south, grey and purple shadows against the heavens, whilst in the distance to the north a line of bright blue could be seen upon horizon – the sea. There were perhaps another two or three hours of daylight left. Soon it would be necessary for them to think about setting up camp.

It seemed, abruptly, to have gone very quiet. The constant background accompaniment of birdsong was gone, noticeable only now that it was absent. There was a sense almost of expectancy – of the forest watching and waiting.

Lara didn't hear anything to indicate the presence of another person. Nor did she see any sign of movement amid the tangled foliage. Nevertheless she knew that someone was out there – gently eased one of her 9mm pistols from the holster at her hip. Racine's eyes went huge.

"There's someone out there," she murmured, just loud enough for the young woman to pick up.

Racine's eyes flicked this way and that, her nervousness apparent. No doubt she was remembering the stories and the rumours – the ones that had persuaded her into asking Lara to accompany her in the first place. Of mysterious disappearances and strange sights and noises. "A hiker perhaps?"

Lara doubted that very much. She could tell Racine didn't believe it either. Whoever – whatever – was out there was trying consciously to be stealthy. A hiker would not feel that need.

She had the distinct impression they were being watched.

Eventually the birdsong started up again. Not, she suspected, because the watcher was gone. Merely because the birds had become accustomed to its presence and decided there was no immediate threat.

Finally Lara turned back towards Racine. "Must be my imagination." Her voice was perhaps a fraction louder than normal. "I've gotten a bit paranoid over the years. Please excuse me."

Try to act normal, she silently mouthed, passing her pistol across to Racine in the concealment between their bodies. Hide it.

Racine gulped – manufactured a bright, slightly brittle looking smile to cover it. Her hand shook slightly as she slid the gun into the waistband of her khaki trousers, then pulled the loose white shirt she wore down to conceal it.

Lara tried to remember what they'd been talking about when the sound had interrupted them. "May I take a closer look?" She gestured at the mask Racine still held.

Racine nodded – handed it over. She still looked extremely nervous. Not at all used to this kind of thing, Lara surmised. And me giving her that pistol can't have helped. Probably she was overreacting, but over the years she'd come to the conclusion that a dose of paranoia was only healthy.

Something nagged at her about the Loa mask. It was hard to concentrate fully on it with the distracting knowledge of the watcher. Finally, though, it came to her.

The thing wasn't old enough.

Or rather the age of it was right, but it hadn't been in the ground very long.

Sure, the lacquer on it would have protected it against the elements to some degree. But still. . . This was an area of high humidity and rainfall, and a forest too – a good portion of the ecosystem geared entirely towards breaking down old wood. There was no way the mask should have survived in this condition, three-quarters buried in the topsoil, for the two-hundred and fifty years since the plantation was destroyed. At a guess she'd say it had been buried for a good deal less than ten years.

She pushed the concern from her mind – handed it back to Racine. Time for that later. The watcher first.

"I need to make a call of nature." The words were again spoken a fraction louder than was probably necessary, not primarily for Racine's benefit. She tried to reassure the young woman with her eyes.

I'm going to look a right idiot if this turns out to be some kid from a nearby village spying on us. Except the nearest village was over six miles away.

As she disappeared from view of the clearing Lara drew her second pistol – a brand new Browning HP35. She started to pick her way through the undergrowth to where she had heard the initial sound, swiftly and silently as she could manage.

All the time she kept one eye towards Racine, just in case whoever it was decided that this was the perfect opportunity now they were split up. The Haitian woman had gone back to digging away at the topsoil, as if she had spotted something else of interest. Lara could clearly see the tenseness in her shoulders – could tell she was just pretending.

Away from any trails the undergrowth was punishing. To her own ears at least the noise she was making – despite all her efforts at stealth – was loud enough to wake the dead.

Subjectively it seemed to take several whole eternities to work her way around the clearing. In reality it was probably no more than a couple of minutes. Then the vegetation started thinning out somewhat and she came to an abrupt halt.

There was someone in front of her.

It was a man, completely motionless and almost invisible amid the deep shadows as he leant back against a tree trunk. She had to look twice before she saw him properly.

Her gaze began to pick out details from the gloom. He was large – fit looking from what she could see. Definitely Caucasian too. He was dressed in Khaki's, a broad brimmed hat shading his face from view. There was a holster on a leather belt around his waist. It held a revolver the size of a small cannon.

As yet he didn't appear to have seen her. His gaze was fixed firmly upon Racine at the centre of the clearing.

Lara advanced cautiously, gun trained. Still he didn't seem to notice her.

She was within three paces of him when he finally turned and saw her – got a good look at his face for the first time.

"Vance!" The flash recognition was like being struck by lightning. Her gun wavered in her grasp.

The easy charm of that smile was all too familiar, even after nine years. "Hello Lara. Nice to see you again."

1^st April 2000, New York

I am not lost.

Lara stood in the middle of a trash-filled alleyway, staring at a dead end as though she could make it disappear by force of will alone. It stayed resolutely where it was.

I'm merely temporarily unsure as to my current location.

This was ridiculous.

Rain continued to fall in torrents all around her, the wind cold and blustery. Overhead the narrow band of visible sky was an ominous slate grey – showed no sign that the weather would relent anytime soon. She was absolutely sodden – probably couldn't have got any wetter if she'd fallen in the Hudson River. When this was over she going to treat herself to a long soak in a hot bath. For now she pushed the discomfort firmly aside.

In fact it was worse than ridiculous. It was embarrassing.

She never got lost in London, and compared to New York London was an absolutely maze of tangled streets with no seeming rhyme or reason to it. New York by contrast was a simple, straightforward grid. It shouldn't have been possible for her to get lost.

But then, I am not lost.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard footsteps behind her. Three distinct pairs, trying to be quiet but not quite managing it even through the drumming beat of the rainfall. Instantly she was alert, her hands moving surreptitiously to the newly acquired weapons concealed beneath her jacket.

"Nasty day to be out all alone lady." The voice held a hint of laughter.

"I don't know. I've seen much worse." Lara turned around slowly to face the voice's source.

Three of them blocked the way back out the alleyway; Hispanic youths who still looked to be in their late teens.

The leader – the one who had spoken – was smiling at her. It was an unpleasant smile and his eyes were hard – filled with a world-weary cynicism. He looked tough and wiry, and held himself with an arrogant surety – extremely confident despite the fact that at the moment he resembled a partially drowned rat.

"Take a wrong turn did you? You really ought to be more careful. This city can be a dangerous place. Especially for a pretty woman on her lonesome." His smile broadened into a grin. Behind him one of his friends – a lanky individual with a patchy fuzz of a moustache staining his top lip and a gold ring piercing his eyebrow – chuckled.

"Indeed."

"Yeah." A flicker passed across the leader's eyes.

Apparently I'm not displaying the proper degree of consternation, Lara thought wryly.

A flick knife appeared in his right hand as if through some magician's conjuring trick. It sprouted five inches of shiny, extremely sharp looking blade. "I'm afraid this isn't turning out to be your lucky day, lady. Though if you treat us right and do exactly what we say it doesn't have to end up too badly."

"Is that right?" This was getting tiresome. She really didn't have the time to waste. "Say, just as a for instance, that I don't feel like playing?" She pulled the two Uzis, pointing them straight at his chest.

His jaw snapped shut. "You ain't going to shoot me lady."

"Oh? And why not? Because of the warm and winning personality you have yet to evince? Or, maybe because you have a wife and three small kids to feed?" Lara raised an eyebrow. The guns remained absolutely steady. "You won't be the first person I've killed, friend. You won't even be the tenth." Her expression turned suddenly bleak. "In fact I have my doubts whether you'd be the hundredth."

His face had gone suddenly pale, recognising the cool implacability and realising that she wasn't bluffing. His 'friends', showing a rather distressing lack of moral support, had started to back slowly away down the alley, leaving him isolated.

"You two. Stop right there!"

They froze. One of them spread his hands. "Hey, lady this is all a misunderstanding. Be cool, right? We'll just walk away and not trouble you anymore. Okay?"

"I think not." She knew she should probably just do like they said. It would be easier that way. But she was feeling irritated – wasn't inclined to be nice. "You're going to empty out your pockets onto the floor. All of you. Now."

Somewhere close by there was the wail of a police siren. It faded away into the distance.

"You can't do this to us, bitch." This was the leader again.

"Bitch now is it? I think I preferred lady." Then: "Think of it as rough justice. You win some, you lose some. It helps build character. Now, pockets please. I'm rapidly losing patience."

A pile of wallets and assorted other junk built up on the ground in front of her. "And the knife please," she encouraged.

"You're going to regret this bitch." The flick-knife clattered on top of the pile though.

"Possibly. Though I hazard that you'll regret it even more if you call me bitch one more time." She offered him a slanted smile. "Now I'm going to count to ten. Anyone still standing in front of me at the end of it gets themselves shot. One."

"I'm goin' to remember you."

"I should hope so. Two."

The sound of footsteps, travelling rapidly away from her. She sighed, lowering her guns, her gaze dropping to the pile of loot in front of her. Probably she should hand it all in to the police so that it had at least a chance of being returned to its rightful owners. . . At the moment it all seemed an unnecessary waste of her time.

From behind her came the sound of applause. "Well done belle fanm. Very well done indeed. You are quite the dominatrix." Laughter rang out.

Her heart skipped a beat. How the hell. . . She span round, guns coming up again instantly, backing away several steps towards the mouth of the alley.

"Ah, ah. No need to be so eager to shoot belle fanm. You don't have langyets on your trigger fingers do you?" Another peal of uproarious laughter. Lara felt a sudden wave of disorientation, her vision blurring. There was a hard clattering sound and suddenly both Uzis felt much lighter.

Her vision cleared. She saw that somehow the guns' clips had fallen out and were now lying, submerged in a puddle of water in front of her feet. Abruptly her heart was racing, adrenaline flowing with a surge of fear. What the hell is going on?

Standing a few metres in front of her, materialised out of nowhere, was a very tall Afro-American man. He was wearing a pair of black sunglasses with one of the lenses knocked out, plus a black tee-shirt and jeans – even less well attired for the current weather conditions than herself. The tee-shirt was glued to his skin, clearly displaying the well-defined pectoral muscles of his chest.

"No need to be frightened belle fanm. I mean you no harm." His voice was strange. He seemed almost to be talking out of his nose simultaneously with his mouth.

Belle fanm. Creole for beautiful lady.

Lara recalled the other Creole word he had used – langyet – and struggled to hold back a blush. It meant clitoris. She tried to cover up her discomfiture – realised she was still holding her now useless guns trained on him and lowered them to her sides.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

He grinned at her broadly. One of his front teeth was gold. "You may call me Mr. Baron." Suddenly he was tilting his face into the falling rain and spreading his arms out wide. "And is today not the most beautiful of Saturdays?"

Mr. Baron. Saturday. Not exactly the subtlest hints in the world. Baron Samedi. Keeper of cemeteries. Death. Before the last week she would probably have laughed at the idea. Just at the moment she was very definitely not laughing.

Her gaze flicked briefly down to the Uzi clips, lying in the rainwater, then back up to his face. It was difficult to maintain any semblance of her usually healthy scepticism.

Death. Most cultures would see a sinister, even evil figure. Someone to be avoided at all costs. Vodou took a profoundly different view. The Baron was one of he most popular, well liked Loa. Almost a clown figure – somebody who brought with him much humour. Slightly strangely, as well as cemeteries and death, eroticism fell with in the Baron's compass. It was something that brought him much amusement and constantly coloured his bawdy antics.

He was also known as a protector of children; the last recourse for the sick. The belief was that if the Baron refused to dig your grave you would not die. Not exactly the traditional idea of a grim reaper.

No, it wasn't the fact that this man claimed to be mounted by Baron Samedi that was the cause of her fear. It was more that she instantly and instinctively believed him. His presence was undeniable.

In the space of a few days her world-view had been turned on its head.

"I am here to provide you with assistance belle fanm. In more than one way if you so desire." He waggled his eyebrows at her in a suggestive manner.

Lara found herself blushing again. There was something about him – a raw sexuality – that was overpowering. "Assistance?" She managed not to stammer.

"You hunt the Djab – the nameless one – do you not belle fanm?"

She was looking for Vance – or whatever the hell Vance now was – yes. She simply nodded.

He grinned. "Very brave belle fanm. But also foolish. You are not equipped to deal with one such as that."

"Well maybe. But I've managed okay in the past. Do you suggest I just give up and go home?"

The grin didn't waver. "Not at all, belle fanm. Not at all. You absolutely must continue. I merely wish to ensure that you possess the proper equipment. Otherwise I see a grave in your near future. Which would be a shame. You have so much eroticism and delight still to give."

He made a flourishing gesture with one hand, like a street magician about to produce something concealed in a voluminous sleeve – aside from the small detail that he had no sleeves.

A necklace – large blue-tinted glass beads, like some gewgaw you'd pick up as a tawdry souvenir from a street market – appeared in his grasp. He proffered it to Lara with a low bow.

She accepted it slightly gingerly, expression a fraction dubious. It looked like something most people would refuse to pay a dollar for – gaudy and tasteless.

"Put it on. Put it on. It won't bite you."

Lara looked sceptical. "What is it supposed to do?"

He laughed. "It offers protection. Makes you much less attractive to the Djab."

And to anyone else with good eyesight as well. Sighing to herself, she did as instructed, slipping the thing on over her head. There was no sudden flash of power, or surge of warmth or tingle, or any other sensation come to that. It felt pretty much like it looked – a useless collection of glass beads. It clashes with my eyes too.

"Very nice." He rubbed his hands together, expression gleeful.

"If you don't mind me asking Mr. Baron, why are you trying help me?"

He looked at her silently, expression for the first time turning grave. "I take no delight in suffering, belle fanm. Even if it is only ignorant peche like those all around us."

"Am I not just another ignorant peche myself?" Peche meant, among other things, sinner, though it was intended more compassionately than the English equivalent suggested.

The grin returned. "But a most beauteous and intriguing ignorant peche, belle fanm."

"Can you not just deal with this Djab yourself Mr. Baron? Surely that is not beyond your powers?" Lara saw immediately from his change of expression that she had touched upon a sensitive point. For a time there was no response – just the incessant drumming of the rain.

"The Djab is Kalfu's mistake. Kalfu's responsibility," he replied at length. "But Kalfu has ferocious pride. He will not acknowledge that it is possible he has erred."

Kalfu, known also as Carrefour, was one of the two Loa who controlled the crossroads – the place where the material and spirit worlds met. Whereas his counterpart, Legba controlled the positive spirits of the day, Kalfu had dominion over the malevolent spirits of the night. Supposedly it was he who allowed all bad luck, misfortune and injustice to cross into the world.

And Kalfu will not allow you to interfere in what he regards as being his business; Lara reasoned but didn't say. She shuddered. Am I really accepting that all of the Vodou Loa are real now?

"Indeed." The Baron seemed to pick up on her thoughts. "I may not interfere directly, else the consequences would be dire."

His expression twisted. "Anyway, Kalfu's idiocy has placed the Djab beyond my reach, at least while it still mounts its scuttling, many legged cheval."

So, what you're basically saying is that you're powerless. Marvellous.

"Doesn't giving me this – " Lara indicated the necklace she wore slightly dubiously. " – constitute interference?"

Another laugh, whether at her ignorance in these matters or merely because he liked to laugh, Lara couldn't tell. "No belle fanm. My gift does not as you say 'constitute interference'. It merely helps restore the balance disturbed by those who saw the Djab released. Not even Kalfu can offer complaint." A grin. "It is still entirely down to your own wits and skills whether you succeed or fail. Live or die."

As it always seems to be.

Damn, all she had wanted was a quiet holiday – a week or two of peace and relaxation without any life threatening danger. Not a bloody chance.

". . . An interesting place this," he was saying, gaze lifting to the Manhattan skyline rising all around them. "A city of enormous phalluses. Tell me belle fanm, did the white men build it in this manner to compensate for the extremely small size of their penises?"

Lara blinked, wondering briefly at the 180° turn that the conversation had just taken as she stared into the mounted man's grinning face. "Quite possibly," she responded dryly.

Another burst of raucous laughter. "Perhaps when this is over you would consent to a horizontal tango belle fanm?" His words were emphasised by a sinuous, snake-like flexing of his body, followed by a rhythmic pumping of the hips – just in case there could possibly be any misconstruing of his words. "You truly are the most delectable of creatures."

Again Lara found herself blushing. She wondered what was wrong with her. I'm not normally this easily embarrassed. The raw sexuality of the man in front of her – the Loa inside him – was like the heat radiating from a furnace.

"I-I'm flattered," she managed to stammer. "But wouldn't Maman Brigitte be jealous?"

Maman Brigitte was Baron Samedi's wife. Supposedly she was derived from the Celtic threefold goddess, Brigid.

Quite a portion of Celtic lore had gotten itself entangled within Vodou culture; a whole number of pro-Stuart Scottish had been deported to Haiti at the time when the religion had been taking shape. Their influence had been among the many that had helped mould it into its present form.

"Do not let that concern you, belle fanm." He seemed genuinely amused. "Maman Brigitte is used to my ways and would take no offence."

With a low bow he moved to pick up her two fallen Uzi clips. As he held them they appeared, for the briefest of instants, to glow. Then the impression was gone. Maybe she had imagined it.

He gestured for her to hold out her weapons, then slotted the two clips firmly back into place. "Now I must leave you to your task belle fanm. I urge you to be quick – even now the Djab begins to work its mischief." With that he walked past her, towards the mouth of the alley.

Lara felt a surge of disorientation, the world spinning out of control before her eyes. By the time the sensation had passed there was no one in sight. The man – Baron Samedi or whoever – was gone as mysteriously as he had appeared.

All that remained was the constantly drumming rainfall and the sounds of the New York traffic.

"You'd never have been able to keep up with me in any case," she muttered beneath her breath.

Distant, uproarious laughter floated back to her, seemingly as much inside her head as external sound. Oh well, back to trying to find Vance's apartment building.

28^th March 2000, Haiti

"What rock did you crawl out from under?" Lara kept her gun trained a couple of inches beneath Vance's chin. Both her tone and expression were grim.

All he did was continue smiling at her.

Still a handsome bastard, she noted involuntarily. Perhaps even more so than before. The slight traces of wear added a suggestion of sincerity and wisdom that she didn't remember being there nine years ago.

Otherwise he looked very much like she remembered.

Those rugged, chiselled features of a B-list movie star – just a little too woodenly perfect to make the big time. Green-eyes flecked with gold; square, angular jaw showing just a trace of stubble. He'd let his wavy corn-blonde hair grow out, she noticed. Now it was long enough to be pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. A bit five-years ago, as a couple of sort-of-friends of hers might put it. The flawless bronzed surfer's tan was the same as it had always been.

He looked her up and down. She gritted her teeth. Somewhat irrationally the way his eyes moved across her body made her want to pull the trigger – blow his brains out all over the tree-trunk he still leant against.

"Damn, you're looking good Lara." He let out a long, low whistle. "Absolutely amazingly good in fact. You don't look a day older than when I last saw you."

She was wearing a pair of dark green shorts rolled up her tanned, lithely powerful thighs, battered brown leather walking boots and a tight fitting white cropped top which left a broad span of tautly muscled midriff uncovered. A gold ring glinted at her navel and her chestnut brown hair was pulled back into its usual single long braid, gleaming as though burnished.

"Yes, well I fell into the fountain of youth, didn't I." Lara's tone was acid; scathing. "What the hell are you doing here Vance? And more to the point why are you spying on us?"

The flicker of amusement that passed across his face provoked a surge of absolute fury within her. It was a struggle to bite down on it – keep it under control.

"I'd imagine I'm here for exactly the same reason you are Lara. And need you ask why I didn't come forward straightaway and introduce myself? I didn't think you'd exactly welcome me with open arms. Given the level of hostility I'm currently sensing it seems I was right."

"Hostility Vance? Hostility? I haven't even started with hostility yet." She could scarcely believe how angry just seeing him again made her feel.

He sighed. "Lara, do you think you could remove that gun from my face? It's making me feel a little nervous."

A little nervous? She could hear her teeth grating together. You're lucky I didn't just shoot you on sight. Nevertheless she thrust her pistol back into the holster at her hip.

He held up his hands. "Lara, you have every right to be mad at me. What I did to you back then was inexcusable, I know. I freely admit I used to be a selfish, shallow self-centred bastard; a spoilt child in a man's body if you like.

"But it's been over nine years. I've changed. Grown up. I'm not the same person as I was in Venezuela. I've seen a lot of things that really opened my eyes, y'know?" A regretfully sigh. "But I guess I can't expect you to believe that just on my say so."

Lara didn't bother trying to hide the sneer that crossed her face. "Very nicely delivered Vance. I could feel the sincerity oozing. You've really got it down pat. Did it take a lot of practise? Though I think you forgot the bit about how you found God."

"Your friend's looking at us," Vance nodded over Lara's shoulder. "She seems to be concerned."

Lara looked round. Racine had given up any pretence of digging and was standing, staring in their direction. She was chewing anxiously on her bottom lip, no doubt able to hear their voices but unable to see them through the undergrowth.

"Looks a nice girl," Vance commented. "We should probably go out there so we don't worry her."

Lara noted the gleam in his eyes as he looked at Racine. "You even think about it Vance and I won't hesitate to shoot you. In the groin." Nevertheless she agreed with his suggestion, if for very different reasons. "Come on."

As they emerged from the undergrowth Racine's eyes were wide and questioning. They flicked briefly over Lara's shoulder at the tall, muscular figure trailing after her.

"Racine, this is Vance Raimer. An old acquaintance of mine. Treasure hunter, thief and all-round arrogant womanising slime-ball. Vance, this is Racine Gedeon." She completed the introductions curtly, shooting a glare at Vance telling him to behave himself or else.

Vance extended his hand to Racine. "Pleased to meet you." He smiled at her broadly.

Racine's answering smile was tremulous – slightly uncertain. No doubt she was clearly perceiving Lara's anger and dislike.

Lara found herself studying him closely again. Gone for the Indiana Jones look, she noted cynically. All he was short of was the bullwhip. He made it look good though, she admitted grudgingly.

Where the hell has he sprung from? She'd almost managed to erase Vance Raimer from her memory entirely, and here he was, like the proverbial bad penny.

When she'd first met Vance she'd been a lot younger – twenty-three – and considerably less experienced, both in the ways of the world and men in particular. At the time he'd been extremely attractive to her. Not just very handsome, but also with this easy rough-and-ready charm and a raft of tall tales and anecdotes – most of them, it later turned out, stolen from other people. A crucial four years older than her, he'd seemed to be both worldly and experienced, and slightly mysterious. Perhaps most important of all he was absolutely the antithesis of all the different worthy but dull young men her parents had tried to match her with.

They'd ended up by becoming lovers. Boy was I in for a rude awakening.

She shook the memories away. "You said you were here for the same reason as us Vance. What would that be? Just so there's no confusion or anything."

He shrugged, expression mild. "The old plantation. What else is there around these parts? You've heard the stories and rumours about it I'm sure Lara. Otherwise you wouldn't be here now. It's not as though they're any kind of secret."

Lara's eyes narrowed. She recognised that expression of old. It meant he was hiding something. "Yes, but as far as I recollect none of the stories and rumours mention hidden hordes of buried treasure or anything else you could flog off for cash. So I repeat my question."

There was a brief spark of anger in his eyes. "Look Lara, I don't see why I owe you any kind of explanation. It's not as if you own this land, is it? I've got every bit as much right to be here as you do."

"Then why were you spying on us?"

Vance made an exasperated noise. "I saw you. It came as something of a surprise let me tell you. I was curious to see what you were up to." He fixed her with his gaze, hard and direct. Something she remembered he did when he was trying to convince somebody he was being sincere. "Listen Lara, like I already tried to tell you. I'm not the same man you used to know. I'm not the wealth obsessed treasure hunter anymore. I've no need to be. I do this because now I enjoy the sense of uncovering history. Of being the first person to see something for however many hundreds or thousands of years. Much the same as you I'd imagine."

Lara grunted, folding her arms across her chest. From her expression she was a long way from being convinced.

"If you must know I'm interested in François Macandal – the famous bokor and rebel leader. My research indicates this was where he conducted many of his great Petro-Vodou rituals and fomented the 1751 slave rebellion. Even that his protégé, Jean-Jacques Levotré, is buried around here."

Research? Well that was something new and unexpected were Vance was concerned at least. Probably stole some professor's notes.

"You know about François Macandal and Jean-Jacques Levotré?" Racine blurted, breaking her silence.

"Indeed," Vance smiled warmly at her. "I find the whole subject absolutely fascinating. The thought of actually being able to uncover some of that history. . . well frankly it was too much for me to be able to resist."

"S-so do I. Find it fascinating I mean." Racine beamed at him and Lara groaned inwardly. "That is why we're here too. I'm surprised you know about it all. Not many . . . people." She'd been going to say white people but caught herself. "Know about these things or are even the slightest bit interested."

"Their loss." Vance glanced quickly back at Lara. There was a trace of smugness. "See, I told you we were probably looking for the same thing."

The bastard is up to something. But with those few words he seemed to have managed to ingratiate himself with Racine. And this was really her game.

Lara had met Racine just under a week ago.

She'd been sitting on A beach, drinking Clairin – a type of strong white Haitian rum – and struggling in vain to begin work on the new book she was contracted with her publishers for. She was trying to write about her recent experiences in Egypt, but things kept slipping out that made her look a prime candidate for an insane asylum – just hadn't been able to get properly into the flow. It had gotten to the point where the laptop was within inches of getting slung into the sea.

She'd looked up and seen this young woman peering at her in a manner that suggested she sort of half-recognised Lara. Normally such an event would have left her with a feeling of resigned dread – she didn't, quite frankly, much enjoy being recognised: being treated as some kind of a celebrity. Thankfully it didn't happen that often – the most famous archaeologist and explorer in the world was not as much of a pull as the most minor of soap stars; even if she had once been on the cover of Time Magazine and had several books published.

For once though she welcomed the distraction – smiled at the woman encouragingly.

The woman – Racine – had indeed recognised her; asked Lara to sign a dog-eared paperback she'd been carrying in a string shoulder bag. It was the – much sanitised – account of her travels in China. They'd started talking, sharing the bottle of Clairin between them.

Lara had related some of her more believable recent adventures, and Racine – once the rum had loosened her tongue a little and quelled her nervousness at being in the presence of 'one of her idols' – had begun to reciprocate by telling Lara a little about herself.

As the sun was setting Racine had gotten on to telling Lara about this thesis she was writing – about François Macandal and the first Haitian slave rebellion.

Haiti was the only nation ever to have been born from rebellion by slaves. The French had acquired the western third of the island of Hispaniola in 1697 and imported a slave population of close to half a million, creating off the backs of their labour possibly the most prosperous colony anywhere in the world. Their rule was a brutal one and several hundred thousand slaves were, over the course of a century, worked to death. Acts of rebellion were frequent and ruthlessly suppressed. In 1791 though, an uprising began that couldn't be suppressed. General Toussaint Louverture led the combined slave armies against the French, and after thirteen years of often horrendously brutal fighting, in 1804 the French were finally driven out. Haiti became only the second independent country in the Americas – after the USA.

Lara knew the history of it quite well. However the earlier rebellion that had sown the seeds to the 1791 revolution was something new to her.

François Macandal was a leader of a band of runaway slaves – known as a maroon – who led a six-year guerrilla campaign against the French colonists between 1751 and 1757. Reportedly he was a bokor of considerable power, drawing upon the dark and fiery power of Petro-Vodou rituals to inspire his followers and terrify his enemies. He was a figure of considerable myth and legend, and a lot of fairly outlandish folklore had sprung up around him. In 1758 he was finally captured and burnt at the stake by the French in Cap Français. Further adding to his legend the stake he was tied to snapped during the execution, and one of his executioners suffered severe burns.

Macandal left behind a protégé to carry on his rebellion – a bokor too, supposedly of even greater power than himself, called Jean-Jacques Levotré. But Levotré died shortly after Macandal's execution in mysterious circumstances that no one had ever been able to adequately explain. For the next 33 years the fires of rebellion simmered before finally erupting into the great explosion that would eventually see French rule end.

Sounded very much like a Vodou version of Braveheart, Lara couldn't help but think slightly cynically.

Racine went on to tell her about how she had pieced together information so she now thought she knew the location where Macandal's rebellion started out from – perhaps even where Jean-Jacques Levotré's body was interred. An old plantation site somewhere on the Nord-Ouest peninsula. She couldn't prove it of course, but she was absolutely certain. . .

That had piqued Lara's interest. To be honest she was starting to get a little restive with all this peace and relaxation. There was only so much sitting about on the beach drinking Clairin she could take. Perhaps that was what was affecting her writing.

When Racine had further mentioned that she'd been thinking about taking a look at the site, only that area was supposedly dangerous for a woman travelling alone – maybe even haunted. Even that several people where supposed to have disappeared from around there. Well, Lara had been well and truly hooked.

Now here they were. And so – by some kind of twisted coincidence – was Vance.

". . .Seeing as how we're both looking for the same thing it makes sense if we work together, don't you think Racine?" She caught Vance saying.

It makes a damn sight more sense for you to get the hell out here right now before I succumb to temptation and inflict several types of grievous bodily harm on you; Lara opened her mouth to say. She never got that far though.

Racine was nodding – looking up into his face and smiling. "That sounds nice Mr. Raimer. . . er, Vance. I'm sure we'd welcome an extra pair of hands to help us." Then she seemed to realise what she was saying – looked round at Lara with those big, soulful brown eyes. "That is okay isn't it Lara? I mean er. . ."

Lara bit back her initial reaction that no, it most definitely was not okay. That it was in fact the furthest you could possibly get from okay.

She looked at Vance's face – handsome, rugged, sincere, and trustworthy. It did make a kind of sense, keeping the devious bastard in range of sight instead having him wandering round like some kind of loose cannon. That hadn't been anything to do with Racine's motivation though, she knew.

Finally she managed a short, grudging nod; manufactured an unconvincing smile to try and show she wasn't angry with Racine. She was.

"Excellent. That's settled then."

Lara shot Vance a look that said nothing at all was settled; not even close to it.

After a short discussion – well to be more accurate, Lara talking to Racine and Vance talking to Racine, but absolutely no words passing directly between Lara and Vance – they agreed to carry on a bit further. Hopefully they could find the remains of the main plantation house before setting up camp for the night.

For much of their passage through the undergrowth the only sound was the rustling of foliage and the occasional sound of a twig snapping to mark their progress. Birdsong filtered down to them along with the golden hued shafts of sunlight, but the singers remained resolutely out of sight. Occasionally a squirrel would make a brief appearance, peering curiously at these strange intruders invading its world before vanishing back into the vegetation amid a swirl of tail.

Although not true rainforest the woods around them had grown extremely wild and dense, acquiring that wild, jungled look. It was hard to believe that the ground they were treading on had ever been ordered plantation land, tamed by the hands of man. There was a very real sense that that no one had walked this ground for the two-hundred and forty odd years since it had been abandoned. The sensation – the feeling of isolation and detachment – was almost eerie.

The atmosphere between them was tense. Very little was said. Part of Lara was aware that her behaviour was childish. It had been nine years. A hell of a lot of water had passed under the bridge. The least she could do was attempt to be civil.

Then she remembered what he'd done to her again and surging anger blew any such notions away.

She'd pulled out quite a lead on the other two. Behind her she could hear Vance and Racine talking in low voices about François Macandal. It disturbed her. Racine had become friendly with Vance awfully quickly. He had that knack; made you feel at ease – interesting and important.

And he really was extremely good looking.

After about half an hour's fairly slow progress the forest started to thin out before opening abruptly onto another large clearing. It was like stepping into a different world.

The plantation house looked like something out of an old, dark fairytale – a place where the wicked witch might live. A two-storey hardwood mansion, it now appeared to be something that had grown rather than been built, the forest around it slowly encroaching on its grounds. In perhaps ten years time it would be swallowed up entirely.

Vines choked its walls so thickly that they nearly obscured the timber frame underneath, blurring the house's outline so that its bounds appeared to merge with the surrounding vegetation. Its windows and front door were hollow; empty sockets that showed only shadow and darkness beyond. The roof was gone entirely, and rising through the broken rafters were the slender branches of a sapling, reaching for the sunlight that allowed it to grow.

Standing at the edge of the clearing it felt like they were intruding on something that should have been left unseen. Something that was no longer part of the human world.

Beyond the house a symmetrical hillock of earth rose up, covered in thick grass. The forest, for the time being seemed to have left it unclaimed, growing up to either side of it but for some reason avoiding its slopes. Man made, Lara judged with a critical eye. It was simply too even and unlike the surrounding terrain to be a natural occurrence. There appeared to be several low stones arranged in a circle at its top.

What its purpose was she couldn't quite fathom. Not typical of sites where Vodou rituals were performed certainly. At least the ones she had seen or heard of. Perhaps a burial mound for Jean-Jacques Levotré?

It seemed atypical though – nearer to Celtic than anything else. Maybe Racine would have a better idea.

She noted that Vance was gazing at the thing with interest. Something else to make a note of.

The entire place had an atmosphere that was palpable. Lara could clearly see how the rumours of haunting had started. There was a presence about it – an air that she could only think of as spooky. If anywhere she'd ever visited had been haunted then this was surely it.

Even the way sound worked seemed subtly different.

As they set up camp, unconsciously positioning themselves as far as they could from both house and mound, Racine drifted over to her side. "I'm sorry Lara. You're not mad at me are you?"

"Mad at you?" Lara smiled. She realised that it was impossible to stay angry with Racine for long. In much the same way as it possible to stay angry at a cute little puppy dog or kitten. "You mean about Vance?"

The man in question had dumped his gear in a pile near to theirs and had wandered closer to the mound – was apparently studying it intently.

"I should have asked you before I said yes to his offer, I know. But well. . . It seemed the sensible thing to do. And you said you knew him."

She bit back her initial reaction; didn't want to hurt the feelings of a woman she'd come to regard as a friend.

"I can't deny I was slightly annoyed at the time, no. But I think, on reflection, you made the correct decision. It's better than us wandering round accidentally shooting each other." Accidentally or otherwise, at any rate.

Racine beamed at her, glad that everything was still okay between them. "You don't like him much, do you Lara?"

A slight understatement. "No I'm afraid I don't." She continued the business of rigging the tent.

"He seems nice enough," Racine commented after a time. Her tone was carefully neutral. Vance, meanwhile, had started walking slowly round the base of the mound to get a look at it from a different angle.

"That, I think, is a large part of the problem. He seems nice enough. If you're not careful within a few days of being around him you're ready to trust with your life savings. Your life even." Lara paused what she was doing to study him. He still had that languid, almost lazy way of moving. Just the way he stood – tilting his head back slightly, shading his eyes from the sun – brought back powerful memories.

Not all of them were bad.

She gritted her teeth – forced them away. "Believe me, I know. We used to be lovers."

"I thought so."

Lara looked round at the younger woman – raised one eyebrow enquiringly.

Racine gave a fractional shrug. "Something about the way he looks at you. Kind of a wistful longing. As if he's wondering about what might have been, y'know?"

Lara just stared at her, not quite knowing what to say.

"And it's difficult to be mad at someone the way you're mad at him unless you were close once."

Just how transparent am I? A small, rueful smile touched Lara's lips. She returned her concentration back to finishing the tent.

"What did he do to you Lara? If you don't mind me asking."

It was a moment before she gathered her thoughts well enough to respond. "I was a year younger than you are now Racine. I thought the whole world was at my feet. That I was tough and in control, and everything I did would work out if only I tried hard enough. In many crucial ways I was extremely naïve."

She paused; tried to make sure that she wasn't letting her emotions do the talking. "It was in Venezuela, working on one of my first ever actual paid commissions. Just a day or so short of me flying home, everything gone very well in fact. Then I ran into Vance in some seedy, run down bar."

It all came flooding back as if it had been yesterday. "I fell in love with him. I fell pretty damned hard – so much so that I stayed on in Venezuela several extra weeks just to be with him. You can see how handsome the bastard still is. On top of that he's charming, witty, and almost always knows the right thing to say to you. And there was this sense of something dangerous about him too; a touch of the rogue. Dark and mysterious. At the time – god knows why exactly – I found that very attractive."

Looking back on it she thought that most of that sense of mystery about Vance probably stemmed simply from the times he wasn't sure what to do or say. Or was trying to cover something up. "I guess what I'm saying is I wasn't thinking with my head when I got involved with him."

Lara sighed fractionally. It was hard to believe that had been the same person as she was now. So much had happened in the years since. "When I caught him in bed with a very pretty local girl – she was only about sixteen or seventeen I think – I didn't take it too well. I took it even less well when I found he wasn't just two timing me. There was actually a fiancée back in Connecticut who he was dumping on too." A wry smile twisted Lara's lips. "If you count his one true love then you could say he was actually a four-timing rat."

"His one true love?"

"The person he sees every time he looks into his shaving mirror."

Racine laughed. From across the clearing Vance looked around curiously – smiled at her. Lara just shook her head. Whatever his claims about having changed some things at least remained the same.

"If that was the depth of it I guess I would have gotten over it – wouldn't be angry at him still." She wasn't sure. Maybe she was being overgenerous with herself. A forgiving nature wasn't foremost among her qualities. "Men and women do that sort of thing to each other all the time. But there was more to it.

"After I confronted him he walked out on me – managed to somehow make it seem like it was all my fault this was happening. I was devastated – half-believed what he said; that it was all down to me. A while afterwards I discovered that he'd stolen an artefact from me. The one that I'd been commissioned to recover. Turns out that this was what he was after all along. He was just stringing me along the whole time."

Lara took a deep, shuddering breath. It surprised her how raw some of the wounds still felt. "Shortly after he'd gone – in such a hurry that he left half of his gear behind – the Venezuelan police showed up. In amongst his belongings were several grams of cocaine and a small bag of stolen emeralds. I couldn't even prove to them that Vance had ever existed." She regarded Racine levelly. "If it wasn't for the fact that I'm rich and have influential connections – if the Venezuelan police force were any less open to taking bribes. . . I could still be languishing in a South American prison somewhere today."

For time there was silence. Lara finished with the tent.

"Lara, if what you're trying to tell me is to be careful of him, believe me I have absolutely no intention of being anything else."

"Sorry Racine," Lara smiled at her. "I didn't mean to come over like your mother or anything."

Racine laughed – a ringing, musical peal. "Believe me Lara, if you want to sound like my mother you've got a long way to go yet."

That I have, certainly. Lara continued to watch Vance as he wandered about the clearing. Maybe he has changed. After all, in nine years she'd altered hugely from the person she'd been back then.

No, a leopard never changes its spots. Until she got some absolutely concrete evidence she wasn't going to trust him a single millimetre.

1^st April 2000, New York

The rain had slowed to a dull, incessant drizzle, although the sky looked as heavy and ominous as before. Lara's footsteps raised little splashes of water.

She studied her surroundings. Once it had been a prosperous, even fashionable neighboured. That looked to be ten or twenty years in the past now though.

Everything around her was on a slow and terminal slide into decay. Piles of trash littered the uneven pavement at intervals, black rubbish bags split open and trailing their contents across the ground like spilled intestines. A broken television set sat forlornly, its screen a ragged star of shattered glass. There was also a fridge, its once white sides scabrous with rusty pockmarks, and its door lolling half-open.

An old Buick stationwagon drove slowly past, weaving between the obstacle course of parked cars on either side of the street. Its wheels raised great plumes of spray up behind it.

The buildings themselves were dirty and crumbling, plasterwork stained and in several places falling away entirely to reveal the brick beneath. At regular intervals ground floor windows were boarded over – places where the disease infecting this place had killed its host entirely. Occasionally there was a patch of brightness – a house that was spotlessly clean with window boxes and lace curtains, the owner still taking pride. These though, were rare. Lara got the uncomfortable feeling that if she was to walk down this same street in a few years time they would have faded, just like everything else.

A group of teenagers sheltered in a porch. They looked just as disconsolate as their surroundings. As Lara walked past them one leaned over and whispered something in his friend's ear. He laughed – a hard, nasty sound.

"Hey Lady, how much for a blow job?" His voice trailed after her. She ignored it – kept on walking.

Finally she arrived at her destination. She very nearly walked straight on past without seeing it. The sense of hopelessness of her surroundings was starting to get to her.

The front door of the apartment building was hanging open. In most major cities this would be an invitation for trouble, and New York was definitely no exception on that score. She could feel her apprehension grow. Vance – the Djab – probably no longer had any appreciation for niceties such as closing doors.

She found herself hesitating on the threshold, mentally steeling herself. One hand came up to touch the necklace of glass beads around her neck. It still felt resolutely ordinary, but for some reason she drew comfort from it nevertheless.

Christ Vance, you really had fallen on hard times, hadn't you? Under her jacket she tightened her grip on her Uzi.

Vance, she'd found out after he dumped her in Venezuela, was the youngest son of a Connecticut millionaire. Like her he'd had problems with his family and had gotten himself cut off from the family inheritance – until he developed 'a sense of responsibility' and 'took his rightful place in the family business'. The parallels with her own life had disturbed her at the time. She hadn't wanted to think she shared anything in common with that toad.

It seemed – from his chosen place of dwelling, and what she knew of the debts he'd managed to accumulate – that unlike her, he'd run into problems supporting himself in the years since.

With a deep breath she started up the porch.

She'd gotten the location of this building – like that of the gun store – from a lowlife called Drexler. He was an informant of an NYPD Detective she was acquainted with, and it had only taken a few moderate threats of bodily harm to get him to tell her what she wanted.

The sour-acrid smell of stale urine hit her in the face. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. No one was in sight. There were stains of what looked like dried vomit on the bare floorboards. Vance's apartment was two floors up if her information was correct. Nose wrinkling slightly against the smell she proceeded cautiously forward.

A door opened to her left, making her start. She stopped herself pulling her Uzi just in time when she saw it was only a withered old man in a stained vest with sad, drooping eyes. She could feel his gaze following her as she walked past him, but he said nothing.

The stairs creaked softly beneath her feet. Weak daylight filtered down the landings from stained windows. Everything around her was grey and colourless, all life sapped from it. Aside from that old man there was no sign of anyone except herself.

The only noise came from outside – pattering rain, passing traffic, somebody shouting at somebody else, calling them a 'pussy'. Lara was very aware of the sounds of her own breathing – the soft settling of the floorboards with each step she took. There was a quiet skittering sound from inside one of the walls and she froze in her tracks, her throat tightening. Cockroaches.

It was a moment before she got the surge of fear under control enough to continue. I have protection now, she tried to tell herself. Nevertheless her heart kept on beating slightly too fast inside her chest.

Another flight of stairs and she was faintly able to pick to the sound of music coming from someone's radio – aside from the old man the first indication she'd had that this whole building wasn't completely deserted. Mariah Carey, or somebody else equally bland and soulless. She reached the door that was her target – found herself hesitating.

Someone was watching her. Someone or something.

Her gaze darted quickly to both ends of the landing. Nobody in sight – just a line of closed doors. Nowhere for anyone to hide. Nevertheless she was completely and utterly certain. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickling and her mouth was suddenly dry. Finely tuned instincts were screaming. She was gripping both of her Uzis tightly beneath her jacket now. They provided little comfort.

She forced her attention back to the door. Simply knocking, she feared, would probably not be a good idea.

Lara took another illegal object she had acquired from the pocket of her jeans – a set of burglar's skeleton keys. Another quick, nervous look around her and she went to work.

It wasn't as easy as just putting a key in a lock and turning. Except in rare cases when you got lucky you needed to use several different keys in proper sequence, or even in combination, to slowly and painstakingly work a lock open. It required a considerable amount of skill, and though Lara had broken into places before when the need arose she wasn't really an experienced burglar.

Seconds ticked by into minutes. All the time there was that nagging sensation of being watched – that any moment somebody would come along and disturb her. She felt a line of sweat trickle slowly down the length of her spine, her hands wanting to start to shake. Finally there was a soft click, the tumblers of the lock turning over.

Taking a deep breath, one Uzi held at the ready, she shouldered her way inside.

"Hello there. I think you've got the wrong flat darling." This was followed by a fit of girlish giggling.

Lara's gaze took the scene in the quickly. She let out the breath she had been holding and lowered the Uzi.

Rubbish was strewn everywhere. Empty cartons of Chinese takeout were piled over a low coffee table, overflowing onto the floor. Mixed in with this were empty glasses and coffee cups; even a couple of bottles of Tia Maria, one tipped over with a wet patch on the carpet beneath it. Clothes – female clothes – were scattered all over the place.

The initial impression was that the entire place had been ransacked.

It stank too. The sweet alcoholic stench of the spilled Tia Maria; the residue of spoiling Chinese food; sickly perfume overused to not-quite successfully mask the sour smell of stale sweat. There was no sign of Vance.

"Those beads really don't suit you darling. I doubt they'd suit anybody over the age of three. Take a word of advice and ditch them. Trailer trash kitsch is out, believe me."

Lara's eyes settled on the room's lone occupant who was sprawled full-length on the couch. She looked to be somewhere in her mid-twenties, beautiful in a frazzled, dishevelled kind of way. Long straw-blonde hair was mussed as though from sleep and looked greasy and unwashed. It framed what was probably an extremely pretty face, though it was hard to tell for certain under the smudged residue of old makeup. A short robe of vivid red silk covered a slender, fashion model-like figure – and from the look of it there was nothing else beneath it – long, slim, tanned legs stretched out, one of them rocking slowly back and forth. There was a distinct redness around the woman's nostrils and an unnatural, almost manic brightness about her sea-green eyes.

"Who are you?" The latest in Vance's never-ending stream of girlfriends, most likely. Lara pushed the door closed behind her back. She felt vulnerable with it open behind her.

"Who am I darling?" The woman raised an eyebrow, propping her chin up on the palm of one hand. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question? It's you who's just broken into my flat after all. Love the accent by the way, hon."

"Your flat?" Lara's tone was sceptical.

She took a couple of paces further inside, carefully avoiding the litter, checking to make absolutely certain this woman was alone. There were two other doors, one halfway open and clearly leading to the bathroom. Going on the state of this part of the flat she wasn't sure she really wanted to look in there. The other would be the bedroom. Amid all the sundry detritus she was able to pick out several interesting artefacts – a couple of West African idols made out of mottled grey stone, and what looked like a sun mirror of Aztec origin.

She was mildly surprised – especially given the conditions he seemed to be living in and his apparent sizeable debts – Vance hadn't just sold them off. They had to be worth a tidy penny.

"I live here, yes." The woman sounded a trifle defensive. "Now would you mind taking a hike, whoever you are. You're disturbing me."

Lara ignored her, picking her way slowly across the room towards the bedroom door. "I'm looking for Vance."

"Vance?" Feigned ignorance. Lara caught the flicker in the woman's eyes. She knew Vance all right. And extremely well judging from the reaction.

"The person who this flat belongs to." She swung the bedroom door open, sweeping her Uzi to cover anyone who might have been hiding. It was absolutely empty. The bed – white satin sheets – was a tangled disarray. "Have you seen him recently?"

Why did she feel there was somebody else in the apartment aside from the two of them?

"So you know Vance then." The woman's lips compressed in a sullen pout. "What are you? Another one of his bimbos?"

Hello Mrs. Kettle, my name's Mrs. Pot. "No, not another of his bimbos. Have you seen him? It's extremely important."

"That's what they all say sugar." Another fit of sputtering giggles, then her expression hardened. "You're dripping water all over the carpet."

Considering some of the things that have already been dripped on it a little water is the least of its worries. "Look, do you know where Vance is?"

"Yup." A wide, smug looking smile spread across her lips. "Know exactly where he is, dear. Haiti. Why don't you fuck off and go look for him there?"

Lara stifled a sigh. "He got back from Haiti yesterday." How exactly he'd gotten all the way from Mais Gate airport, Port-au-Prince to La Guardia, and straight through customs without attracting attention she didn't know. The last time she'd seen him he'd looked like one of the walking dead. "So he's not called you yet?"

From the flash of anger that crossed the woman's face clearly he hadn't. And she appeared none too happy about the fact. "Get out bitch! You've got no right to be here. This is breakin' 'n entering. If you don't get lost right now I'll call the police."

"I don't think that's a particularly good idea, do you? Considering the fact that you're coked out of your head. An arrest for possession wouldn't do the career of. . . what? An aspiring model too much good. Especially if this isn't your first offence and the police decide to press charges this time."

The woman's face twisted. Lara was already ducking as the glass flew above her head, shattering against the doorframe. "Get out! Get out!"

Lara calmly sidestepped a second glass. The woman collapsed back onto the couch and started to sob brokenly. "Why won't you just leave me alone?"

Staring at her, Lara got a sudden sinking feeling. Comforting hysterical individuals was not really her forte. She was more of the slap them till they snapped out of it school of sympathy.

Suddenly the woman looked a lot younger than before. Possibly no older than nineteen – scarcely more than a girl. Christ Vance, taken to robbing cradles now have we?

"Listen," Lara's voice was a lot softer – kinder – this time. She couldn't help but feel slightly sorry for her. Her tears were making her make-up even more of a mess than before. "I don't know your name I'm afraid."

"Chelsea," it came out as a muffled squeak. "It's Chelsea."

"Well Chelsea, is there anywhere you can go for a few days away from here? Somewhere that Vance doesn't know about."

She sniffed. "I've got some friends. . ." Suddenly Chelsea's expression hardened; became suspicious. "Why would I want to go anywhere? Why would I want to go somewhere Vance doesn't know about? I want to see Vance!" She squinted up at Lara, the flow of tears drying out. "You're one of his ex-girlfriends aren't you? You just want to get me out of the way because you think it'll give you the chance to rekindle old flames. Do you think I'm stupid or something? Well it won't work. Vance loves me. He's not going to leave me for some stuck up English cow. Now get out!"

Lara sighed. This wouldn't have been easy even if the woman hadn't chosen to 'powder her nose' some time earlier. Now, with the brittle, edgy paranoia of a cocaine induced high, it was going to be next to impossible.

"Look, Vance isn't himself just at the moment Chelsea." That was to say the least. "He's acting very strangely at the moment. Isn't safe to be around right now. Just for a few days you need to stay away from him. Otherwise you're going to end up badly hurt, or maybe even dead." If you're lucky.

Chelsea was staring at Lara hard. "You're going to kill him aren't you?" Her voice was loud, rising – sounding slightly hysterical. "Aren't you? That's why you've got that gun."

"No Chelsea, I'm not going to kill him."

If only because, on some fundamental level she was certain that the Vance Raimer she had known was already dead. His body might still be up and walking, but the parts that had made him who he was were gone. Whatever she thought about the bastard he didn't deserve that.

There was a slight rustling sound over to Lara's left. Her gaze snapped round, fixing upon a tipped over wastepaper basket with its contents spilling out across the floor. A screwed up piece of paper shifted – rolled over.

She was on it in a flash, booted foot stomping down hard.

There was nothing there. She started kicking the paper aside, just to make absolutely certain. No sign of anything. Her gaze darted back and forth across the carpet, looking for the slightest sign of movement. She could feel her heart pounding.

"What the hell are you doing? You're making a mess!"

Lara ignored her. She dropped down onto her knees, peering into the shadows beneath the coffee table and couch. Amid all the clutter though, it was impossible to see anything the size of what she was looking for as long as it kept still.

"Hey, I'm talking to you! You're nuts, you know that? Seriously weird."

If only that's all it was. Lara gave up, climbing back to her feet. Maybe she was just imagining things, too much on edge. And anyway, they couldn't all be servants of the Djab. She forced herself to relax – took in deep breaths until gradually her heartbeat slowed to a more normal rate.

What to do about Chelsea? A grimace passed briefly across Lara's face as she looked at the drug-addled woman sprawled on the couch. Maybe calling the police is the best thing to do. Get her locked up for a night or two until the danger with Vance had passed. Except she wasn't sure that possession of cocaine would be enough to get her locked up for even one night.

No, she decided, she didn't even know whether Vance – the Djab – would bother coming here; how much of his memories and needs he still retained.

"Hey, what are you staring at? You're making me nervous."

Lara stifled a sigh. "Chelsea, please believe me. If you see Vance absolutely don't go anywhere near him. Run away from him in fact. Your life depends on it."

Even as she finished speaking though she saw that she'd lost, her words bouncing off into the ether. Who can blame her really? Lara thought. A complete stranger breaking into her home and telling her to run away from her boyfriend – he's suddenly become dangerous, honest. If the positions were reversed she doubted she'd pay much attention either.

"Right I'll do that. Be a dear and shut the door on the way out would you?" She started to giggle, a girlish, ever so slightly hysterical sound. She didn't appear to be able to stop.

Well I tried. Short of knocking Chelsea unconscious and carrying her, or kidnapping her at gunpoint there didn't seem to be a whole lot more she could do.

She turned to leave. She needed to find Vance, not worry about baby-sitting some silly little cokehead. There were a couple more places she knew about she could try. Then. . . well she would worry about that when it came to it.

"And remember what I said about those beads. You really should ditch them." Renewed laughter floated after Lara. The door slamming shut behind her cut it off.

* * *

Chelsea's giggles subsided slowly. She stretched out atop the couch, lithe and languid as a cat. Strange woman. What the hell was that all about? With a mental shrug she dismissed it from her thoughts. She was gone now. It wasn't important.

Unnoticed a large beetle similar to a cockroach moved from the spot it had concealed itself – inside the crotch of a pair of discarded black and purple lace panties. It scurried rapidly across the carpet, legs working almost too fast to see.

Chelsea started to hum to herself, twining a strand of long pale blonde hair around one finger. Damn, there really are some weirdoes living in New York. She should probably get up and put the door on the chain; make sure there were no more unwanted visitors.

Later.

The cockroach shot straight up the side of the couch and then climbed up onto its back. It darted full pelt across the top, straight towards Chelsea's fanned out hair.

Something tickled her shoulder. One hand came up absently to brush at it.

The cockroach managed to evade it. Its legs touched bare skin. Chelsea's eyes went wide.

29^th March 2000, Haiti

Clank-scrrrrappppe.

Lara woke up, instantly alert. Her hand reached across to where her gunbelt lay, next to her sleeping bag. She took some degree of comfort as she drew her pistol, feeling the familiar weight and roughness of its grip in her hand.

She'd been dreaming. Strange dreams of darkness shot through with embers of fire. There had been noise all around her – a wild percussive rhythm that infected her blood; made it impossible to think straight. And there had been voices too. Laughing voices filled with amusement; booming voices resonant with anger; grave, solemn voices carrying warning and concern. All of them laid over the top of one another, speaking at the same time so that it was impossible to tell what was being said.

That noise had not come from within any dream though.

She listened, ears straining. She'd been sweating in her sleep – could feel the residue, clammy on her skin. She'd been tossing and turning too – the sleeping bag around her was twisted and tangled.

After a few seconds silence there was a soft, sighing, grief-laden moan. The sort of sound a gust of wind blowing through the boughs of the surrounding trees might just make. Except the sides of her tent hung absolutely still, and there was no sound of rustling leaves or branches.

An effort to catalogue any local wildlife capable of making such a noise rapidly came up blank.

Clank-scrrrrappppe.

The same noise that had woken her up. Lara felt the fine hairs on the nape of her neck prickling, her mouth suddenly dry. She thought it sounded slightly like somebody dragging a heavy chain.

Vance. Her immediate reaction. She recalled his earlier fascination with the mound. Stupid of her to credit even for a moment that he could be here purely because he was interested in the history. There was some treasure or artefact obviously. Something Racine hadn't mentioned, either because she didn't know about it, or because it was too ridiculous – too much like irrational superstition – to mention.

A stash of loot from Macandal's raids on wealthy plantations perhaps. It made a kind of sense. Certainly accounted for Vance's interest in this place. And now he was out there, moving it to a hiding place where he could pick it up later, with them none the wiser.

We'll see about that.

Quietly Lara set about disentangling herself from the sleeping bag, all the time listening intently. She was still fully clothed aside from her boots and socks – a precaution Vance's presence had made her believe to be necessary.

There had been no further sounds. Had he heard her stirring? Seen her silhouette moving against the side of the tent? Carefully she pulled the tent flap open, peering outside.

Thin slivers of silver moonlight provided just enough illumination to see by, her eyes already adjusted as well as they could to the gloom.

Everything looked strange and eerie, drained of colour and very different than during daylight. The trees loomed like a great wall or barricade all around them, blurred into one solid mass, individuals indiscernible from the whole. The shadows beneath their branches were black as pitch.

Amidst them the ruins of the plantation house squatted, a heavy ominous mass. Lara could feel as much as see it, the couple of windows she was just able to make out like the vacant eye-sockets of a gigantic skull.

The mound. . . She swallowed heavily, turning away. For some reason just looking at that grassy mound, illuminated only by the faint traceries of moonlight, gave her a severe case of the creeps.

Get a grip girl. Afraid the ghosts will get you?

She didn't look back though. Something about it stirred instincts inside her on an animal level; whispered at her to stay well away.

There was no sign of movement. No sign of anyone at all in fact.

Lara could still feel the hairs on the nape of her neck prickling, though now the silence was almost total. Her own breathing was the loudest thing she could hear.

She turned slowly through 360° , gun pointing up towards the sky, her eyes straining for the slightest abnormality – the slightest sign of movement. If there was anyone there they were either on the other side of the mound or had made it into the concealing shadows of the forest.

Still barefoot, careful not to make the slightest sound, Lara picked her way between the tents. Racine's was closest and she paused briefly to check it. The young woman was sound asleep, her breathing slow and rhythmical.

She moved on.

Next Vance's. She expected to find it empty. Was absolutely certain of it, in fact. But she could hear his breathing even before she stuck her head inside. His bulk filled out the sleeping bag, which she could see rising and falling steadily. She could see too, the fall of his blonde hair, now loose from its ponytail.

Strange.

Not just because it confounded her expectations of him either. She remembered Vance being an extremely light sleeper – more so even than herself. When they had slept together he was always the first to wake up, or react to any sound or disturbance. Legacy of a guilty conscience she'd half put it down to. Now though she got the impression that a marching band could have paraded past and he wouldn't have so much as stirred. Like he says, people do change.

Clank-scrrrrappppe.

It came from behind her, somewhere near the lurking bulk of the ruined plantation house. She dropped into a crouch as she turned, gun coming to the ready. Her throat was clenched tight in sudden tension, her eyes searching the darkness.

To start with she saw nothing.

Then her eyes caught it – a pale greenish glow coming from the trees to the left of the house.

Lara stared. The light wavered strangely, bobbing up and down as if beckoning to her. As she continued to look at it she was put in mind of legends of marsh lights and Will o' the Wisps – felt a finger of ice spider its way down her spine.

The sighing moan came again, louder than before. The sheer desolation of it was chilling. It didn't sound like it came from the throat of anything either human or animal.

"Away." The word floated to her on the still night air. "Away." It was filled with an aching sense of grief and loss.

The strange green light began to retreat further into the woods, slowly dwindling. Before Lara caught herself she had already taken several paces towards it. She stopped dead in her tracks.

Okay, girl. Let's not jump to any hasty conclusions. There are probably a whole load of entirely rational explanations for this. She recalled the Loa mask Racine had found earlier – how it had been left here relatively recently. Perhaps some hougan or bokor using this place for secret Petro or Bizango rituals – wanting to keep people away by giving the impression that it was haunted.

Right.

The light appeared to have stopped, hovering half concealed behind a tree trunk as if it was waiting for her to resume following. The air around her suddenly felt alive with static.

Then the light resumed its slow drift.

Again, before she could stop herself, Lara had taken another few paces towards it. She felt her heart thudding. Fear. There was a palpable sense of the unnatural – of something beyond normal experience. Further recollections of legends of marsh lights and Will o' the Wisps came to her. Most of them involved unwary travellers being lured to their deaths in bottomless sinkholes.

"Away."

"Okay, I get the picture. You want me to follow you. Away," Lara muttered beneath her breath. The sound of her own voice seemed to fracture some of the tension – bleed away the strange, almost unbearable atmosphere.

She thought about waking the other two. Maybe the whole situation would seem slightly saner if there was someone to share it.

A black wave of something, fierce and angry, flew at her face. Her hands instinctively came up to protect herself, but there was nothing there. For a moment she was clawing at thin air, as though assaulted by invisible demons. Then the feeling dissipated.

Lara forced herself to calm down – relax. She was trembling all over. "Okay, okay. I get the idea. Don't wake up the other two. Right?"

All she could hear was a soft, faintly metallic scraping sound, right on the edge of her perception. Heavy chains swaying slowly back and forth. She got the sense that the light, if not content – never, ever anything close to content – was at least somewhat placated.

Christ. Assigning feelings to a blob of light. Someone here needs help.

"Away!" More emphatic and fiercer than before, though still weighed down with an almost overwhelming sense of despair.

For a third time Lara became aware of moving towards the pale, wavering light before she'd made any conscious decision to do so. Again it began to drift slowly away from her, further into the undergrowth.

Should I stay or should I go now, to quote the Clash. She sighed. It seemed horribly apt.

As always with her curiosity won out over caution, what was sensible, and even what was sane.

Watch as our plucky but dim heroine goes to investigate the strange noises and lights in the woods all by herself while her companions sleep. She could just see the accompanying caption. Maybe I should just shoot myself now and save someone else the effort later.

She reached the edge of the woods, the light floating a constant distance ahead of her – felt her throat tighten. Despite the fact she already knew it was in perfect working order she gave her Browning a reflexive check. It was the custom made left-handed one – so she could shoot both handed without getting hit by expelled shell casings. Racine still had the standard right-hand pistol.

Taking a deep breath, she plunged forward into the undergrowth.

It was like stepping into a cave.

The floating ball of green light provided very little in the way of ambient luminescence and she was navigating on the merest suggestions of shapes and forms as they loomed out of nothing in front of her. Branches clawed at her arms and clothing, and the ground beneath her feet was uneven. Every step had to be carefully measured to avoid getting caught up on some tree root or rodent hole and being sent sprawling.

Why the hell did I leave my flashlight back in the tent? Along with her boots, all of her spare ammo clips, first aid kit, rope, glow-sticks. . .

Time crawled by and her perception of distance and direction became skewed. The light remained a constant distance ahead of her, just out of range.

Clank-scrrrrappppe. That strange, metallic, dragging sound rang out periodically, obviously coming from the vicinity of the light. She still had no clear idea what it was.

Lara almost jumped out of her skin as something chittered angrily at her from down by her ankles. She had a fleeting impression of the same creature dashing off, away through the undergrowth.

Calm down for Christsake. Her heart was thudding and her breath came to quickly. Moment by moment this seemed less and less like a good idea.

Another step and suddenly there was no ground in front of her.

A small, shocked gasp emerged from her lips as she lost her balance. Then she was falling, unable to stop herself.

There was only a short distance before she hit ground, landing on her backside – and in semi-soft mud at that. Falling in the dark, though, is a very different experience to when you can see what lies in front of you. It was several long moments before she got the terrified palpitations under control again.

"Damn, damn, damn." Internally the cursing was considerably stronger.

She'd stepped over the top of a bank or ditch, she realised. A quick check revealed nothing more serious than a slight scrape on one elbow and mud soaking slowly through the seat of her shorts. Plus a gaping blow to my pride.

It took several seconds before Lara realised that the light she'd been following was gone. Only the palest tracery of moonlight managed to permeate through the treetops, the blackness around her almost total.

"Shit."

Careful of her footing, and unconsciously holding her breath, Lara pulled herself up. All the time she was listening intently, trying to pick out the faintest trace of that metallic dragging sound; the quiet scraping. There was nothing. Silence.

Slowly she turned around through 360° , trying to pick out something – anything – amid the gloom. Gradually her eyes adjusted – at least as far as they could given the near total absence of light.

Something in front of her moved.

Lara made a small, startled sound, taking a quick step back and bring the Browning up to point straight at it.

Initially she'd taken it to be a tree trunk, her eyes having passed straight over it without registering any detail. Now though, she heard the quiet metallic scraping again.

It let out another of those dreadful, despairing moans.

Up close it was a harrowing experience. Lara felt a profound, black hopelessness well up inside her, sweeping everything else away. For a moment – a heart-stopping few seconds – she felt an almost unbearable urge to turn the gun around: to swallow the barrel and smoothly squeeze the trigger. That would solve all her problems; make everything all right again.

The urge passed – faded with the sound of the moan. She came back to herself – found that the pistol was twisted halfway round in her grasp and she was shaking violently. After a moment she became aware of wetness on her cheeks. One hand came up to touch them. Tears.

"W-Who are you? W-What do you want with me?" She hated the way her voice sounded in her ears. It was like she was a girl again, facing her father's anger and disappointment. Involuntarily she took another half-step back, away from the thing in front of her.

The light reappeared.

It didn't come back all in one great rush. Instead it was a gradual brightening, almost imperceptible but slowly allowing her to see more and more of the scene around her, sickly and tainted with green.

She started to make out more of the figure in front of her. It was human – approximately. And it was huge.

It looked to be hunched and twisted – strangely misshapen in any case. Even so it was several inches taller than she was. And its bulk. . . It was hard to tell absolutely for certain given the fact that every inch of it was shrouded in tattered and filthy black rags, not an inch of flesh visible. Still, the impression she got was that it was immense – four hundred pounds at a minimum. The aura of strength and power from it was vastly intimidating – like it could snap her in half with one hand.

Its smell hit her. On the surface there was a strange sickly sweet mix of spices and funerary flowers. Beneath, a dark wet dankness suggestive of decay. Not the ripe, overpowering miasma of rotting flesh – more a ghostly memory of something that had been buried and long forgotten.

"What do you want?" She repeated, her voice stronger and steadier this time. She had the definite impression that it did want something from her.

"Away." A soft mournful echo.

"Yes, away." Lara put her hands on her hips – stared at it. "I believe that's already been established. Well, we're away from the others now, out. . . here. So what the hell do you actually want?" She tried to look and sound more confident than she really was.

"Away." Louder this time.

Lara flinched back from it slightly. If 'away' constituted the entire range of this thing's vocabulary then any attempt at conversation was going to be a bit of a non-starter. "Away?"

"Away. . . Others must. . . Away. Darkness. . . Leave. Death abides. . ."

Lara swallowed nervously. Death abides.

Now the light was brighter she could see that the thing. . . person. . . whatever it actually was, was wrapped with chains. They were huge rusting iron links – looked almost big and heavy enough to anchor a ship – so tight that they appeared to be biting deeply into its flesh. How it even managed to stand up let alone move under their weight she had no idea.

It swayed slightly and the chains scraped together, creating that soft, whispering metallic sound.

"You want us to leave? To go away from here?" Well done dear. Brilliant deduction. I don't know how you do it.

"Away." Whether in agreement, or merely resuming its habit, she didn't know for certain.

"Why must we go away?" Lara pressed.

"Darkness. . . Death abides."

A creature with very definite and fixed ideas. "That hardly tells me much you know. All you're doing is making me more curious about this place."

That was a bad idea, she realised immediately. Something about its attitude shifted instantly – became restive. The sounds of the chains rasping and scraping became louder – more pronounced.

"Away." This time there was definite anger and frustration.

Lara took another couple of quick backward paces up the mud-slick bank behind her. Her pistol was pointed at the centre of its rag and chain wrapped chest. "Don't try anything stupid."

"Away." Another of those bereft wails. This time she was marginally better prepared, but still the feelings of desolation and despair sweeping over her were almost too much to bear.

Suddenly it was moving straight towards her – a huge, twisted, chain wrapped juggernaut.

Instinctive terror taking control, she shot it. Twice.

The muzzle flash was brilliant, destroying her night vision in streaks of flame, the retort of the gunshots thunderous. There was a brief impression of wood splintering somewhere behind it. . . Then it was on her, a huge dark, rushing mass.

She tried to leap back out of its path, but the mud of the bank slipped beneath her heels and she went sprawling on her backside again. Her hands came instinctively up to shield her face as the thing impacted with her.

And met with nothing.

It was no more substantial than the air around it. Darkness and cold enveloped her: a black, rushing wind. The world around her vanished into a universe of endless blackness and wailing noise.

The terror was as bad as anything she had ever experienced, profound and all consuming. Loneliness – horrifying, eternal loneliness without any hope of cease – filled her. There was hunger beyond reasoning – a feeling that would have seen her gladly gnawing at her own flesh if she thought it would have provided the merest scrap of sustenance. Distantly she could hear herself crying out, though the sound seemed to come from miles away.

Then the oblivion took her into its embrace and she knew no more.

. . .

. . .

"Wake up. Lara. Wake up!"

Faintly she became aware that someone was shaking her and emitted a groan. Her head hurt and her neck felt agonisingly stiff. She winced. As she opened her eyes glaring brightness hit her in the face. She shut them quickly again.

Wait a minute, where the hell's my tent?

It all came flooding back. Following that light into the woods. . . that rag and chain wrapped thing. . . the image of it charging towards her. What the hell was I thinking?

She tried opening her eyes more carefully this time, shading them with one hand. Racine was kneeling over her, concern written upon her face. Early morning sunlight was shining through the treetops at just the right angle to hit her directly in the eyeballs.

"Are you okay? We were so worried."

Lara sat up, swivelling her head back and forth in an effort to work some of the stiffness out of her neck. She could hear it making nasty clicking sounds.

Over Racine's shoulder she noticed Vance, standing a few metres back. His expression was one of concern. For some reason that infuriated her. He doesn't have any right to be concerned about me. "I'm fine. A bit stiff."

Carefully she stood up, the mud of the bank making a soft sucking noise as it released its grip on her.

How long had she been here? She didn't remember checking the time last night. However long, it didn't seem to have done her a whole lot of good. Hands on hips she started to slowly rotate her back from side to side – work some life and flexibility back into her spine.

"What happened?"

That indeed is a very good question.

Lara hesitated a moment before answering. "There was somebody poking around the camp. They woke me. I followed them out here." She looked around at her surroundings, seeing them properly for the first time. She realised that she had no more than the vaguest idea of which direction the camp lay. That made her frown again – normally her sense of direction was impeccable. "Somebody playing at being a ghost, or Loa or something." Right, pretending. . . "Trying to reinforce the haunted reputation of this place I'd guess. Scare us off for some reason. I fell down that bank in the dark and they got the drop on me." She noticed the bullet holes she'd made in a tree next to where Vance was standing – stared at them.

The expression on Racine's face was slightly strange – disconnected for a moment. Then it passed; returned to normal.

"And I would have gotten away with it if it wasn't for you meddling kids."

"Pardon?" Lara fixed her gaze on Vance, one eyebrow quirking upwards. There was a small grin on his lips.

"Scooby-Do? You had that in Britain when you were a kid didn't you? You must have done." He shook his head. "Sorry. Just struck me as funny." Then. "You mean you really haven't seen Scooby-Do before Lara? Jesus, you haven't lived."

"Yes, well. I've never been much of a television person." Her tone was a fraction defensive. "Did you find my pistol?" Suddenly she was looking around where she had fallen. "I dropped it somewhere in the mud. . ."

"It's okay Lara I've got it." Racine proffered it to her.

"I didn't think I'd better touch it," Vance put in. "I thought you'd go spare."

"You can have your other one back too. I don't really need it any more."

Lara thought about it a moment before shaking her head. "No, I think you'd better keep hold of it for now Racine. Just in case whoever was around last night decides to make a reappearance." Much good that it will do.

They started back towards camp.

1^st April 2000, New York

"Benni! Benni Valdez." Lara leant forward, trying to make herself heard above the pounding music. She was not in a good mood. Chasing around all day in the cold and rain achieving absolutely nothing tended to do that.

The handsome young barman spread his hands wide; pretended incomprehension.

Lara stifled a sigh. Around her the place was all but deserted – a few people occupying some of the more shadowed tables, but otherwise empty. There was something rather sad, she felt, about an empty nightclub with the music pounding out to nobody who cared. Still, it was early. Maybe the place picked up later on.

She forced herself to smile inanely, batted her eyelids at the man and tilted her head a fraction to one side. Brainless ditz was what she was aiming for. She had no idea how successful she was. Generally acting wasn't her forte.

"I have an appointment. A special appointment. Benni said I should come here and say that Otto sent me. He seemed very eager." She forced herself to pout.

The barmen grinned. She saw in his eyes that he'd just relegated her several levels from his initial evaluation; could feel his amused contempt. "Well lady you're out of luck. Or maybe he got a little impatient. He already has another special appointment with him upstairs at the moment." He absently gestured at a door behind him with his thumb. "From all the noise they were making I'd say it was a very special appointment."

Lara batted her eyelids at him again. "Through there and upstairs, you say? Umh, maybe he had a threesome in mind or something." She manufactured a vapid giggle. "I think I should go and make sure, don't you? Benni has such a temper when he doesn't get exactly what he wants."

With that she vaulted the bar, her movements exuding the fluid grace of a hunting cat despite the fact she'd spent almost the entire day on her feet and was feeling tired and footsore.

"Hey. . ." The barman started. It was cut off abruptly as the blow took him flush in the solar plexus.

Lara caught him as he collapsed and lowered him quietly to the floor. She looked around quickly. No one gave any sign of having noticed, even though they could hardly have missed it. Still, that was New York for you. Always be grateful when it's another man's problem. She pushed her way through the door.

There was a flight of steps going up. She took them.

You could probably have dealt with that without resorting to violence you know. A slight feeling of shame crept up on her. The barman hadn't done anything to her to deserve that kind of treatment.

Desperate times sometimes require desperate actions.

No. She sighed. That explanation doesn't cut it, girl. It never does. She needed to get her anger at Vance under control and stop taking it out under other people.

The first door she tried was locked. The next opened into a storeroom. All it contained was a few cardboard boxes and a musty sour smell. In the corners were what looked like rat-droppings.

Third door she got lucky. She heard voices behind it just before she opened it. A man and a woman talking, too softly for her to pick out words. At least from the sound of it she wasn't going to be interrupting anything that was well. . . too intimate.

"Hey, who the fuck are you?" The man's shout was indignant. His companion yanked the sheets firmly up under her chin to cover herself.

Lara turned and locked the door behind her. "You should be more carefully Benni. Anybody could just walk in off the street and catch you at an inconvenient moment."

"Do you have any idea who I am girl? Do you have any idea who you're messing with?" He started reaching for a drawer beside the bed.

Lara produced one of the Uzis. "Don't. Please."

Benni's hand stopped.

Slender, lean and hard, something about his physical appearance reminded her of a snake – a python or boa constrictor perhaps. His hair was black, short cropped; eyes flat and dark. His cheeks were badly pockmarked; a reminder of teenage acne.

"Do I know who you are Benni? Why you're Benni Valdez, born Puerto Rico, 1970. Immigrated to New York with your parents, 1976. Orphaned three years later in a gang related shooting. If only your mother could see you now Benni. I'm sure she'd be very proud. Now you're exactly the same kind of person who murdered your parents. Benni Valdez's ultra high-interest loans, protection rackets and so forth. You don't deal drugs yourself, but you charge dealers commission to work on your patch. I guess that makes you kind of a drugs pimp, eh? Profitable, and the police are less likely to come down on you too, I'm sure. At the moment you're the biggest fish in your particular little pond, but not quite significant enough yet so it's worthwhile for the big boys to step on you. In short you're a pathetic two-bit hood. Am I getting warm Benni?"

He swore at her; at considerable length using some extremely unflattering terms.

"Now, now Benni. I'm a well-bred English lady. I don't like to hear such profanity. It disturbs my delicate sensibilities."

"When my boys have finished with you, bitch, even your mother will be physically sick if she looks at what's left." His lips drew back in a borderline snarl.

Benni's companion seemed to be trying to make herself disappear through force of will alone, absolutely terrified. Lara felt a pang of sympathy for her but pushed it aside. Now wasn't the time.

"Haven't you learnt that it's unwise to make threats while you're in bed, naked with an Uzi pointed at your chest Benni? It tends to have a negative impact on your life expectancy."

He took a deep breath, forcibly calming himself. "Okay lady, what the fuck do you want?" He tried a smile but didn't quite manage it successfully.

"Vance Raimer. I want to talk you about Vance Raimer."

"Vance Raimer? Who the fuck is Vance Raimer?"

"Maybe you'd like to try a sentence without the word 'fuck' in it. You might find it liberating."

"Fuck you."

Perhaps not then. "I think, Benni, that you know exactly who I mean. The Vance Raimer who owes you quite a piece of money." From the look of it most of it to feed his latest girlfriend's coke habit. "The one whose loan you called in about three weeks ago. I believe you may have threatened to do unpleasant things to his legs. Rough his latest love up a bit. Surely you remember that Vance."

"Ah yes, that Vance. Now that you come to mention it I do remember." Suddenly Benni was grinning. "But that's all sorted out now, lady. Mr. Raimer is now of no interest to me whatsoever."

"He's been to see you recently then?" Lara seized on it instantly, though she tried to keep her voice calm. She could feel her heartbeat start to pick up. Getting closer.

"Not recently no. Not for more than two weeks now. He's all paid up is our boy Vance. Settled. I'm no longer even slightly irritated with him."

Lara was confused. "You mean he paid up?" That couldn't be right. Vance had told her about his debt only. . . Christ only a day and a half ago. She'd seen desperation in his eyes that hadn't been faked.

"Well not Vance himself, as such." Benni's eyes narrowed. "Hey, what's this to you lady? You another of his women? Thought he was an item with the delectable Chelsea."

Lara's eyes narrowed. "Never mind what it is to me. All you need to worry about is that I'm here, standing in front of you with a gun pointing at your chest and you need to answer my questions to keep me happy. Now, elaborate."

Benni gave a shrug as though to say, I ain't intimidated by you lady. "Had a visit from a Gordon Gecko wall-street type. Suit that costs more than most peoples' cars. Very much your sort of person in fact. Civilised." A sneer. "He bought out Vance's debt. Was extremely generous. I saw no reason to turn him down. Vance was a pain in the ass anyway. Money has no provenance – you know that saying lady?"

Damn. Another dead end this was looking increasingly like. More complications too. "This 'Gordon Gecko' type. Who was he?"

"Don't know. Don't care. There's another saying for you lady. It involves curiosity and cats."

"Perhaps you'd care to indulge in some speculation. I'm sure a clever man like you has plenty of ideas."

"I don't speculate."

"Pretty please. It would make me happy." Her slanted smile gave the definite suggestion that unhappy wouldn't be healthy – for one person here at least.

"Maybe a representative of his folks. I hear they're loaded even though Vance has been a naughty boy and got cut out of the will." His expression was one of affected nonchalance. Saying: hey, I'm answering you because it suits me. Not because you've got a gun pointed at me and I'm scared. "As I said. Don't know. Don't care."

Lara started to ask something else. It was cut off as somebody pounded hard on the door.

"Benni! You okay in there? Some mad bitch. . ."

She didn't wait to hear the rest of it. "Well, fun as it's been I think I have to go now Benni. Maybe we can do this again some time?"

Quickly, still keeping her gun trained on Benni, she crossed to the drawer he'd reached for earlier. His eyes followed her, blazing anger clearly reflected in them. The pounding on the door intensified. "Benni?"

"I'm okay. I've got the mad bitch in here with me. Hurry up and break the door down!"

Lara took the pistol she found – a Smith & Wesson 4543 – and stuck it through her belt. "That was a big mistake Benni. If I'm still here when the door comes down. . ." She indicated her Uzi to make it plain what would happen. The woman beside Benni cowered back even further.

A glance out of the window showed a fire escape located just below it. Convenient. Benni had probably chosen this room specifically because of the easy exit. In his career it no doubt came in handy now and then.

Something slammed into the door making the wood splinter. Lara pulled the lower half of the window up and swung one leg out. It was still raining she noted immediately. "Goodbye Benni."

"You're walking dead, bitch. You may think you're still breathing, but you're not. You're a corpse."

Lara just smiled at him. She swung her other leg out of the window and let herself drop the five or so feet onto the fire escape, landing quietly and easily as a cat. Behind her she heard the door come open with a loud crash.

The ladder at the bottom of the fire escape had been broken off leaving a drop of ten feet or so. Lara threw a quick glance behind her. A head she didn't recognise was sticking out of the window, staring down at her – one of Benni's henchmen no doubt. He had a handgun – brought it round towards her.

She squeezed a single shot off, deliberately only hitting the masonry a couple of feet to the left of his head. A look of comic startlement crossed his face and he ducked back inside. Lara dropped the ten feet to the trash-strewn floor of the alley.

As she sprang back to her feet her mind was racing.

Someone had brought out Vance's debt just before he went to Haiti. If Benni was telling the truth. He had been, she was sure. She didn't know why – Benni Valdez wasn't the sort of person she'd have trusted so much as a millimetre normally – but something convinced her he hadn't been lying.

Someone who told Vance where the Djab was entombed. Someone who told him to recover those goddamned swords.

It made a sick kind of sense – confirmed a number of suspicions. If you had a debt to pay – right now, or else – you wouldn't chase off to Haiti looking for buried treasure. Would you? Somebody had wanted to release the Djab. More, somebody had wanted the Djab to possess Vance: to be brought back to New York. This was all deliberate – all carefully planned out.

By some Wall Street type in an expensive suit. Lara felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She reached the mouth of the alley.

The sky was pitch black. At this time of year it should still have been light for another half an hour, and twilight for maybe another hour beyond that. The dense brooding cloud hanging low over the city brought about a premature end to daylight though.

Suddenly her vision blurred and distorted.

It was like a scene from a movie set in Victorian London – a swirl of fog then, seemingly out of nothing, a figure materialised straight in front of her. Jack the Ripper, the Phantom of the Opera; whatever. Lara felt her throat clench tight. Her Uzi came up reflexively, pointing at the figure's chest.

Vance. The Djab. Recognition came in a flash.

29^th March 2000, Haiti

Blood. Old and faded to the colour of dark rust, but definitely blood.

Lara gazed down at it. She'd taken the time to wash in a nearby stream, her hair still a fraction damp and for the moment handing loose most of the way down her back. She'd also changed out of her mud-stained clothes, now wearing khaki shorts and a black crop-top that was otherwise identical to the one she'd been wearing previously.

Although the blood was old it was certainly not two-hundred and fifty years old. From the look of it someone had been performing sacrifices to the Loa relatively recently. Further evidence to back up the mask that they'd found.

The three of them were standing at the top of the grassy mound.

The sky was bright blue overhead, the sun blazing down. On the northern horizon over the sea was an ominous looking line of grey cloud. From the look of it, it was getting closer and would be directly overhead by late afternoon or evening.

Lara dropped to he knees in front of the rough, weathered stone tracing the patterns of blood with a fingertip. Most likely it belonged to a chicken.

Vodou had developed a totally unjustified reputation among people who didn't practise it of being about human sacrifice, the worship of evil spirits; even Satanism.

Christian Missionaries in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries had written works about how Vodou rituals involved the sacrifice of small children, wild orgies of sexual depravation and possession by demons. In the twentieth century Hollywood and various horror writers had further reinforced this stereotype.

The fact was that human sacrifice was no more likely to take place in Vodou than it was in your average Sunday church service.

"Vance, what's inside here that's got you so interested?" Lara's voice was casual.

"Er, wha. . ?"

She stood up; turned around to face him. Her brown eyes were suddenly hard and penetrating. "Come on Vance, you've had eyes for nothing except this mound since we got here. You obviously know something about it that we don't. So spill."

His expression twisted through a variety of contortions. Several times it appeared he was starting to say something, only to immediately cut off again. "Don't you feel it?"

"Feel it?" She folded her arms.

"It. I don't know a better description. Surely you can feel the same thing I do. Emanations. Presence. Something profound. Something powerful. It's difficult to explain. . ." He trailed off. Strangely his expression was almost pleading. Not part of an elaborate act for once.

Something dark. Something dangerous. Lara silently added to Vance's list.

She returned to the strange encounter of the previous night; the warning to stay away. Despite the warmth she felt a tiny shiver pass through her body. "You know what it is though, don't you Vance."

Unexpectedly it was Racine who answered for him. "Jean-Jacques Levotré's final resting place. Jean-Jacques Levotré's body."

Lara saw the flicker of relief as Vance seized upon that explanation – cursed inwardly.

"Yes. Yes. That's it exactly. Jean-Jacques Levotré. Beneath our feet right now as we stand here. Before I saw this place. . . well to be honest, I couldn't help but pass off a lot of what I'd found out about him and François Macandal as superstition. Maybe with a basis in reality, but still. . . Superstition nevertheless. Now though. . . To actually be in the presence of the man – the bokor. Even after he's been dead and buried for nearly two-hundred and fifty years. . . It's amazing, isn't it? Really makes you re-evaluate what you believe."

Suddenly he was grinning broadly at Racine and she was smiling back at him, slightly shyly like an embarrassed schoolgirl.

Lara stifled a grimace. Not in keeping with the mood.

If the feelings the mound was inspiring in her were anything to go by, Jean-Jacques Levotré's had to have been the most evil and twisted man in all of recorded history.

No. Jean-Jacques Levotré might well be buried beneath the mound, however many metres below there feet. That alone however, did not explain the feelings it inspired in her.

Lara had seen more interred human remains in one state of decay or another than was altogether healthy for any single person. By and large she'd found bodies were just bodies; no different whether the person had in life been a paragon of virtue or a psychotic monster – faded remnants with whatever had made them human long fled. Usually they had less life than the structures that had been so painstakingly built around them.

Vance didn't believe it either, she was sure. Or at least he knew something else as well. Now though, he had a lie to cling to.

And that meant there was no chance of getting what he really knew out of him.

One thing she'd come to realise about Vance was that he never, ever admitted to telling a lie, no matter how obvious it was, or how badly he was caught in it. It was almost as though he managed to convince himself of the lie's veracity so much that it became reality to him. He'd probably waltz through any lie detector test with flying colours.

Looking at him now, still grinning at Racine, she suspected that this was one thing that hadn't changed.

She turned away from them. Standing on top of the mound surrounded by this low circle of bloodstained stones was making her feel distinctly uneasy for reasons she couldn't fathom. "I'm going to take a look at the house." Maybe there was something that would shed more light on things there. "Anybody else want to come along?"

Without waiting for a reply Lara started down the gently sloping side of the mound.

"Wait up, I'll come with you." Racine skipped after her.

"You Vance?" She looked back at him, raising one eyebrow.

He made a vague waving gesture. "You two go ahead. I'll catch up with you later on."

Lara stared at him, hands on hips. "Okay Vance."

He was hardly going to be able to excavate the entire mound in her absence. Still, she wasn't totally happy about leaving him on his own. Eventually, with a slight shake of her head, she relented. I'm not his bloody mother.

"You think he's up to something," Racine said as they reached the plantation house. It was a statement rather than a question.

Lara paused in the middle of sweeping aside a screen of tangled vines that had grown down like a bride's veil across the front door. "Yeah, he's up to something. As I remember it Vance is always up to something." She peered intently into the gloom ahead of her. "It's just a question of whether what he's up to is important to anyone but himself."

She stepped inside. Immediately she could feel the floorboards – those that still survived anyway – creaking and shifting beneath her feet. The wood was soft from damp and the ravages of fungus, woodworm and deathwatch beetle. With each step she half expected her foot to plunge straight through them. "Careful where you step. Take it nice and slow."

The inside of the plantation house was even more decrepit than the exterior had suggested. The roof and upstairs floor had entirely collapsed, leaving only a skeleton of beams against a square of blue sky overhead. Most of those beams were wrapped in creepers, appearing more like gnarled branches than any part of the original structure. Walls were stained with damp, alive with bracket fungus and a shaggy clothing of ivy, vines and a multitude of other climbing plants. In several places they had collapsed entirely, brought down with the roof and now nothing more than a scattering of rubble.

There was no sign of any furniture, or any other interior fittings. Looted when the house was initially abandoned, Lara suspected. The only surprise was that the whole place hadn't been burnt down in the slave uprisings like so many similar buildings.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of something small and dark scuttle rapidly across the floor away from her.

She advanced slowly and carefully, able to hear the soft sounds Racine's breathing close behind her shoulder. For some reason they both felt the need to remain quiet, as if this was a library or a church.

Another veil of trailing ivy blocked one of the interior doorways. Carefully Lara eased it to one side. A shower of something was dislodged from above her, falling like rain about her head and shoulders.

Beetles. Large black beetles, like huge cockroaches the size of her palm. She saw several of them lying belly up on the floor, legs kicking frantically as they tried to right themselves. Something was crawling through her hair. Several somethings. More legs were tickling the bare flesh of her arms and she could feel tiny feet pricking through fabric of her top.

There was a sudden involuntary flashback – vivid memories of Egypt: of other beetles she had encountered not so long ago. Beetles that swarmed and devoured as ravenously as piranhas. She could smell the dry, dusty stink of them and feel the painful stinging of their bites. A surge of panic hit her, almost overpowering in its strength.

Abruptly she was brushing frantically at her skin, her breath coming in short ragged gasps. Beetles scattered from her, bouncing off the floor then scuttling rapidly away into the nearest available shadows. She plucked them carelessly from her hair, pulling several long, gleaming strands of it free in the process. Something was clinging to the middle of her back. She knocked it away.

Finally they were all gone. Her eyes slid closed and she sucked in heaving breaths. Damn.

Racine's hand touched her lightly on the shoulder, making her start violently.

"Are you okay?" The young woman's voice was laced with concern.

Lara nodded. She could feel her cheeks burning and knew she was blushing bright red. "Fine. I'm fine. Major Overreaction. I'm sorry. It's just. . ." Her eyes caught the fact that Racine had one of those big black beetles perched upon her hand – was turning the hand over and over as the beetle walked constantly forwards, getting nowhere. She forced herself to concentrate. ". . .Never mind, it's nothing really."

"This guy's a Palmetto bug. Ugly looking, but completely harmless." Racine smiled. "I'd better let him go I guess." She leant down and allowed the beetle to finally walk off her hand onto the rotting floorboards. "You know they're even more disgusted by us than we are by them? As soon as he's somewhere safe he'll wash compulsively, several times over until he gets rid of the residue of me."

Lara found herself touched by the young woman's gentle grace – felt abruptly even more stupid than previously. They carried on exploring the house.

"Racine?" Lara asked after a while.

"Yes?"

She picked her words carefully. "Do you know of any Loa depicted as somebody dressed in tattered black rags and bound in huge, rusting chains? Somebody very lonely and very, very hungry?"

Racine's jaw dropped open, then shut again quickly. There was a strange, haunted look in her eyes.

"Is something the matter?"

Racine shook her head a bit too quickly. "This is about what you saw last night. Isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

Her attempted smile was shaky and tremulous. "I'm being stupid I know. It's not that I really believe, but still. . . I've grown up around this most of my life. And Mama believes it all as implicitly as the fact that the sun will rise in the morning. . . More than believes. She knows. I guess some of it can't help but have rubbed off on me, despite the fact I like to think I'm healthily sceptical." She took a steadying breath.

"So you do recognise the description?"

She nodded. "If, like you say, it was somebody trying to scare people off. . . Well it makes a sort of sense. What you described sounds exactly like a Loa called Bakula. No genuine Vodouisant would want to risk going somewhere that was haunted by Bakula."

"Not nice then, this Bakula?"

Another emphatic nod. "Very bad. A spirit so terrible that not even bokors – especially not bokors – would dare to invoke him. He is supposed to haunt woodlands, away from places where people dwell. There are a few – a very few – who would leave offerings of food behind for him. Most who still believe in him would simply want to avoid him."

Memories of that hopeless despair; that dreadful loneliness and starving hunger came back. Lara shoved them away, not entirely able to conceal a shudder. "So, definitely a good job that it was only someone pretending."

Racine's face had taken on an ever so slightly waxen look. Better drop it.

There were more beetles in the next room. Lara counted at least twenty of them, climbing all over the walls and darting across the floor. This time the feelings of panic and revulsion they inspired were a lot more muted, tightly under control.

A door in the far wall led to deeper darkness beyond. The floorboards creaked as Lara crossed carefully towards it.

In front of her the floor dropped away into darkness. Obviously this was the entrance to some kind of cellar. She could make out very little of what was down there except for a few broken fragments of wood still clinging in place where the stairs had long ago fallen away. The floor was too far beneath to makes out in the pervasive blackness.

As she continued to stare a soft whispering sound floated up to her ears. A frown touched her lips. She couldn't quite place what it was. "Racine, are there any rumours about. . . oh, I don't know, some kind of artefact or treasure associated with Jean-Jacques Levotré?"

"I don't think so. No. Nothing that I can recall at any rate." Her expression showed curiosity. "Why do you ask?"

Lara exhaled. "Vance again I'm afraid. He's looking for something, I can tell. I'm trying to work out what."

"You've got to remember that Macandal and Levotré were rebels – outlaws under penalty of death. Most of their time would have been spent just trying to survive. It's unlikely they would have accrued any great wealth."

"Umh." The almost imperceptible whispering continued unabated, its meaning remaining elusive. "They were both bokors. Extremely powerful bokors if you believe in such things. I have to admit I don't know what that entails. . . Would a bokor possess, oh I don't know, spell components, ceremonial equipment, anything like that? Something someone else would find to be of value?"

"Mama would be able to answer that better than me. But I don't think so, no." Racine frowned. "From what I recall a bokor's possessions are only really of value to themselves. Herbs and roots and the like, plus a few other generic things for calling down spirits and curses. The most powerful bokor would have broadly the same 'tools of the trade' as the most inept, and one bokor would never trust the tools of another. Besides, nothing of the like is likely to have survived intact over the centuries."

Lara nodded, frustrated. She agreed with Racine's assessment, but was absolutely convinced she was missing something.

"Of course, uncovering Jean-Jacques Levotré's body itself would be worth more than any amount of gold that he might have accumulated."

"Yes. Priceless." To the right person. "But not easy to sell for cash." Certainly no legitimate museum or collection would pay for such a thing. The possibility of surviving ancestors suing, and the bad publicity that carting of the remains of a folk hero from its resting place would engender would be impossible for most collections to ignore. Maybe if it was a couple of thousand years older. . . "And not the sort of thing that Vance, despite all his protestations would be able to see. It's not that he's stupid. . . in his way he's quite intelligent. I guess. It's just that he has – or at least had – a rather one-eyed view of the world around him."

Above all that explanation just didn't feel right. There was something more to all this, but she just couldn't see it at the moment. She wanted to take a look down inside the cellar, she decided. One hand reached for her backpack, intent on finding a glow-stick.

Her backpack was still in her tent. She hadn't put it on again after bathing and changing her clothes. She gave a short sigh of exasperation.

"Back in a moment Racine. I'm not very organised this morning." She caught herself from asking if the woman would be all right if she left her alone for a few minutes. "I just need to get some equipment."

The brightness of the sunlight took her by surprise after the gloom of the house and she found herself blinking rapidly, one hand coming up to shield her face.

Vance was still standing atop the mound. In fact he still looked to be standing in exactly the same position as when they'd left him.

She stared. He was completely motionless – from this distance not a muscle seeming to move. He might almost have been a statue. Seconds ticked by. Still there was no sign of movement. Despite the warmth of the air she suddenly felt extremely cold. It appeared almost. . . well, like he was communing with the mound itself.

Or something in it.

Swallowing, Lara tore her gaze away – remembered that she was heading for her tent. The image of him remained fixed her mind's eye.

She picked up the pack and slung it over her shoulders, then as an afterthought grabbed a coil of rope from the rest of her supplies. Her hair was about dry now, so she pulled it back into a loose ponytail. She'd braid it later.

The length it was, that tended to take a considerable amount of time and effort. Sometimes she wondered why she didn't just cut the whole lot off at the nape of the neck. It would be so much more convenient, especially given her lifestyle. As of yet she'd never been able to bring herself to do it. Vanity, she suspected.

"Bloody hell!" She just about managed to stop herself from running smack into Vance's chest.

Her angry demand to know what the hell he was doing, sneaking up on her like that died on her lips as she caught the look in his eyes. He was scared. Badly scared.

Quickly it disappeared, smoothed over as if it had never been. "Sorry Lara. Didn't mean to startle you like that."

She grunted acknowledgement. "Finished what you were doing then?"

It took a moment for him to nod in response. "Yeah. . . Er, all done. All finished." There was that flicker of that fear again, mixed in with confusion, as if he couldn't quite remember what he was meant to have been doing in the first place.

He fell into step beside her. "So, find anything interesting in the house?"

"Beetles," was her considered response. "Also a way down into the cellars. As yet though, mainly beetles."

"Ah." He fell silent for a moment. "Lara, when we were looking for you this morning, me and Racine got talking. . ."

"Yes?" He looked uncomfortable, as if he was having difficulty with what he was trying to say. She felt no particular compunction to make it any easier for him.

"She mentioned what you told her. . . about Venezuela."

"Did she?" A glance across at Vance showed a certain tenseness about his jaw. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face.

"I just want to say I'm sorry Lara. . ."

Ah, that explains the difficulty he's having. Trying not to choke on his own words.

"I had no idea that you got arrested after I left you. I never intended it to happen that way, please believe me. I. . . I. . . Er, just wanted you to know that," he finished lamely. "If I'd known what had happened. . ."

"You'd have done absolutely the same as you did anyway – namely left me spinning. Wouldn't you Vance?"

"I. . .No. . . I. . ." He trailed off without saying anything else, the look on his face agonised.

She didn't press him further. Surprisingly enough she believed him. Really, she never had thought that he'd got her arrested deliberately – just that he was a self-centred bastard who never thought about the consequences of his actions for anybody other than himself. "Look Vance it's in the past. Nothing can change what happened now." She took a deep breath. "I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. Just don't expect us to become 'best buddies' or anything."

He gave a short nod.

Racine was waiting for them by the opening down into the cellar. A look of surprise flickered across her face as she saw Vance with Lara, then she flashed him a quick smile.

Lara dropped into a crouch in front of the opening. If anything that strange, quiet whispering sound she'd heard earlier had intensified. She really should recognise it. . . Pulling the flashlight from her pack she directed its beam down into the darkness.

A soft gasp escaped her lips.

About ten feet below her the cellar floor was alive – an ever shifting carpet. Thousands upon thousands of shiny black carapaces gleamed in the flashlight beam. The whispering noise was made as the beetles brushed constantly against one another, climbing over the top of each other, never stopping for an instant. Bloody great.

"What is it?" Racine moved to crouch at Lara's side, peering down. She let out a low whistle. "Wow, I've never heard of them congregating in such numbers."

"No." Lara felt ever so slightly sick. The feelings the sight inspired in her – revulsion; a quiet gnawing fear – were unfamiliar and she didn't like them one bit.

Think of this as a kind of aversion therapy, she told herself. It would hardly do for someone in her line of work to let a phobia of beetles develop.

Pushing the inner doubts aside she slung the coil of rope to Vance. He almost fumbled it. "Be a dear and find somewhere to secure the end of that."

"You're not going down there?" Racine's voice was slightly wondering.

"Why not? As you said, they're completely harmless. You can't let something put you off merely because it's unpleasant." She shot a pointed look across the room to where Vance was securing the rope in place.

Racine laughed. "Now that's mean."

Quite probably. Mostly what was on her mind was how those beetles would feel, crawling over her booted feet, up her bare legs. . . Vance tossed the other end of the rope back to her, distracting her from the images parading inside her head.

She hesitated at the edge of the opening. Come on girl. You've done worse than this. Just at the moment though none of them would come to mind.

Several more seconds. Her legs firmly refused to take her over the edge.

Lara reached into her pack again, producing a glow-stick. She snapped and shook it, mixing the chemicals within to produce a ghostly green luminance. Then she dropped it into the centre of the writhing mass of beetles.

The result wasn't quite what she'd hoped for. Instead of clearing a circle of ground where she could land the beetles actually seemed to be attracted to the brilliant green light. They crawled all over the glow-stick until it was obscured beneath their mass, green tinged shadows dancing wildly.

Lara became aware that both Vance and Racine were looking at her expectantly. Taking a deep breath she swung herself over the edge of the drop into the cellar.

Is what most people mistake for courage merely chronic fear of looking like an idiot? It was worth thinking about.

Then she landed.

She hid a wince at the hideous crunching squelch of beetles being crushed beneath her boots – carefully avoided looking too closely as they swarmed around her feet. For the moment they seemed content to ignore her. Nothing, at least, chose to immediately scuttle up one of her legs. This close that soft, incessant whispering was a cacophony.

The glow-stick flickered out.

Lara shone the flashlight beam into the far extents of the cellar. It was large – at least half the floor area of the house above. She could pick out racks of broken shelves, covered with mildew and slowly rotting. There were several staved in barrels, beetles swarming in and out of them. In places tree-roots resembling gnarled cables had burst through the walls. Beneath her feet was a thick accumulation of wet mud and decaying detritus. The air was damp and heavy, its rank fecundity almost overpowering.

"So, are you two just going to stand around up there, or is anyone going to come down and help me look?" She didn't care to admit how little she liked being down here, alone except for the endlessly swarming beetles.

1^st April 2000, New York

"Larrra." Vance – the Djab – rolled the word extravagantly on his tongue as though tasting it. "My cheval recognises you. His thoughts are. . . Most entertaining."

Lara backed away a couple of paces, throwing a worried look over her shoulder. As yet no one was making their way down the fire escape after her. She didn't expect that to remain the case for long. This did not look good. The words 'rock' and 'hard place' sprang to mind.

Her gaze flicked back to Vance.

Never trust a man who thinks it's okay to wear leather trousers. Who'd said that to her? Auntie probably. It sounded like her. One of Auntie's milder and more repeatable sayings.

He'd changed clothes since she last seen him – was now wearing black leather trousers and a turquoise silk shirt, plastered to the contours of his chest by the rainwater. That answered one question. The Djab was aware enough of this modern world to know that running around in torn, bloodstained clothing would attract attention. Even if it doesn't have anything in the way of fashion sense.

Lara didn't like to think what the implications of that were. She tried to stay calm.

After all, she had been looking for him all day. Now she'd found him.

"Your cheval, Djab?" A cheval literally meant horse. One who was mounted by a Loa. "Your cheval is a beetle, Djab. A thing that crawls through the dirt and eats dung. This body is stolen, against all laws."

A low reverberating chuckle welled from somewhere deep in the back of his throat. "The laws, little one? I have been placed outside of the laws by Kalfu's abuses."

"You have been stripped of your name, Djab. Stripped of all that made you what you were. You are nothing." She had one Uzi raised and pointed at his chest. Now she took out the second one. He didn't seem at all perturbed.

"Nothing little one? I have learned that nothing is the most powerful force in the universe. Nothing always wins in the end. If I am nothing little one, I will soon make everyone like me." He took a measured step towards her. "Starting with you I think, even though it will upset my cheval."

"Take another step and I fill your cheval with lead."

Closer to she could see that Vance's body had suffered from the occupation of its current tenant. The corded muscles of his neck were livid with subcutaneous bruises that extended beneath his clothing. A burst blood vessel had turned one of his cheeks red.

She recalled the power of the thing when it had effortlessly shrugged her aside in Haiti. It was obviously running its new body at breaking point, ignoring pain and damage, flooding it with a constant rush of adrenaline to enhance both speed and power. By the look of things soon it was going to wear it out.

Oh Christ Vance, I'm sorry.

"I think not Larrra." It smiled. Or at least it manipulated its facial muscles to turn its lips up at the corners. The expression seemed disconnected from the rest of its face. "You will not be shooting me, little one. You will be shooting the one called Vance. The Vance that used to be your lover."

As she watched she saw a grotesque looking bulge appear beneath the flesh on the side of Vance's neck, moving upwards before disappearing again. The worst thing was his eyes, unblinking and empty of expression.

Lara hid a shudder – tried to maintain her outward cool. "Look a little deeper Djab. You'll see that your cheval betrayed me. To shoot him will only require the flimsiest excuse."

"What do I care if you shoot me? You may kill the body, but I will not die. It will be no more than a mild inconvenience. And in any case if you were going to shoot me you would have done so already."

Lara continued to back away. Still no one came down the fire escape after her. Why?

"I think it would be more than an inconvenience, Djab. Not having a human body would leave you vulnerable again. So don't come any closer."

Another chuckle. "It will take a lot of bullets to render this body useless, little one. I think I will be able to take you soon enough. And your body looks an extremely good alternative."

Lara caught movement from behind the Djab – two figures turning into the alleyway.

Any sense of relief vanished instantly. The way they moved, not quite at home in their bodies told her right away that something was wrong.

Two women, she noted – one in a raincoat and business suit, the other wearing just a gold slip dress that had been turned semitransparent by the rain. Another look left her cold. Both had the same blank eyed expression as Vance. Both had long hair and were – or had been – very attractive: lithe and athletic looking. Both were the sort of women to fit with Vance's tastes.

The one on the left showed the same kind of livid bruising beneath her skin as Vance.

"My friend's. Vance liked them anyway." The Djab again aped a smile. "Kalfu's punishment has its advantages, little one. A side affect means that now I can inhabit more than one body at a time. I can ride upon a veritable swarm."

"Stay back!" The words hissed through Lara's teeth. Her knuckles had turned white on the triggers of the Uzis, but still she held back from shooting. Despite the anger she couldn't bring herself to kill the man. Somewhere, buried deep, she still had feelings – or at least the memories of feelings – for him.

Her teeth were bared in a defiant snarl, but inside she was scared. Very scared indeed. "What do you want here Djab? Come looking for Benni?"

The Djab continued to drift closer, the other two figures moving to stand at its shoulders. "Yes, Benni Valdez. My cheval knows all about Benni. Dare I say he hates Benni with a passion. The least I could do, given the services he has unknowingly performed for me, is indulge that hatred." Again that facsimile of a smile.

From somewhere behind her, back inside Benni Valdez's nightclub came the faint echo of a scream. Suddenly Lara knew all too clearly why there had been no pursuit forthcoming. Other screams joined the first. There was a muffled burst of gunfire.

"As you can hear, even now I am inside, wrecking havoc – expanding myself."

Lara watched, scarcely hearing the words as another bulge travelled up beneath the skin of his neck. Almost unnoticed the Djab had drifted so close that he could now reach out and touch her if he so chose.

Suddenly his face twisted. "What is that smell, little one? It does not become you."

"Smell, what smell?" Her voice was edged with confusion.

One of the Djab's hands reached out, pulling Lara's jacket open at the neck and exposing the chain of blue-glass beads. It flinched back, hissing like a scolded alley cat. In its half open mouth Lara could see something sitting upon its tongue, black and gleaming. Antennae waved at her. She felt her bile rise.

"Ah yes, that." She struggled to maintain a semblance of composure. "A gift from the Baron Samedi, Djab. The Baron wants you. Wants you quite badly it seems."

It swallowed, the beetle disappearing from its mouth and its throat distending hideously. "This is none of the Baron's concern!"

"Is that worry I hear, Djab? I think it is." She offered it a wide smile. "It appears that the Baron has chosen to make this his concern, doesn't it?"

"You lie! The Lord of Cemeteries would not dare interfere. This is between Kalfu and myself."

"Why would I lie?" Lara raised one eyebrow enquiringly. "The eyes you have stolen can see the evidence. When you chose to involve us peche you crossed a line Djab. You made this the Baron's business."

For a moment it just stared, contemplating her with empty, disconnected eyes. Then it laughed, the sound echoing off the surrounding walls. "And you, little one are Baron Samedi's chosen warrior to defeat me? He really must have fallen upon desperate times."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

Abruptly, without any warning she could perceive, the Djab was leaping straight at her, Vance's body bearing down on her fast and hard. Flinching back, she reflexively pulled the trigger.

The Uzi's muzzle flashed incandescently in the darkness. Bullets stitched the air. Several missed their target, raising splinters of shrapnel from the brickwork. At least one, though, struck home clipping Vance's body in the shoulder and spinning him around, breaking the momentum of his charge.

A sound like a kettle boiling – half hiss and half scream – emerged from his throat. The Djab staggered to a halt. One hand came up to cover the bullet hole, its face twisting in surprise and pain. She didn't know if it was an optical illusion, but for an instant it appeared that the wound was blazing brightly from within, on fire.

"You bitch!"

Lara recollected the way the Uzi clips had seemed to glow when the man claiming to be mounted by Baron Samedi had handed them back to her – shuddered fractionally. Before she could pull the triggers again the two blank-eyed women had stepped in front of him, cutting off the shot. For a moment she could see blood welling copiously between Vance's fingers, then the view cut off.

Her gaze flicked from one woman to the other. Both were grinning at her, showing their teeth, eyes vacant. She backed a couple of further steps away.

"L-Larrra-a." The voice came from two throats simultaneously, horribly discordant. It was the voice of the Djab.

She held back from shooting. These were innocent people, she reminded herself. Victims of the Djab. If she killed them she might be depriving the Djab of two more pairs of hands to inflict harm with. She would definitely be depriving two blameless people of their lives.

And from the point of view of the police – to whom Vodou magic was not an acceptable form of reality – she would be committing murder, plain and simple.

"Can't fight your own battles eh, Djab?" This was directed past the two steadily advancing women towards Vance.

Already he had straightened, the blood flowing from his shoulder now slowed to a trickle. It was as if the body was repairing itself at the behest of the Djab's will.

"A-Ah, but I am fighting my own battles-s." This came from the mouths of the two women simultaneously. "Y-You really should stop thinking in that pathetic, one-dimensional way little one-e."

As she watched Vance gave her one last lingering look then walked from the alleyway, leaving her with the two women, blocking her way forward.

"I-I will so enjoy playing with you-u."

Lara was back level with the rusting fire escape now. The screams from within the nightclub had stopped. So had the gunfire. She glanced quickly behind her. The alley came to a dead-end less than twenty feet away. There was a boarded over door in the wall to her right.

No, Vance was the key.

For all his protestations, he had gotten out of there remarkably quickly when it looked like he might be in danger. For some reason the Djab didn't want to put that particular body at risk. Maybe because it was the first – held the core.

Her gaze flicked from woman to woman as they continued to advance remorselessly; felt her heart sink. She was going to have to fight them. She didn't even know if the Djab's particularly unpleasant and invasive form of possession was reversible.

Lara stopped her retreat, sidestepping to the left.

As soon as the nearest woman – the one in the suit – was within range, she struck. The butt of her Uzi slammed hard into the side of her head. It should have knocked the woman unconscious but it merely staggered her a fraction, leaving a line of blood trickling down the side of her face.

Without pausing Lara dropped, sweeping her legs round hard and fast and knocking the woman over onto her backside.

The second woman aimed a powerful kick at her head. Lara caught the movement in the corner of her vision at the last possible instant, reflexively ducking and rolling forward. Even so the blow clipped her shoulder, the force of it numbing; sending her spinning into the alley wall.

Gritting her teeth against the pain, she sprang to her feet. She could see the woman in the suit rising gracelessly as if pulled up by invisible strings. Her 'friend' was already rapidly closing in again. The crucial difference this time though, was that she was now between them and the mouth of the alley. Nothing blocked her way forward anymore.

As the woman neared her Lara aimed a brutally hard kick to the side of her knee.

For all that the Djab seemed to be able to access nearly superhuman strength in its hosts, its control over them wasn't perfect. These two women appeared to be being yanked along by some kind of outside force rather than acting naturally, movements graceless and reflexes fractionally impaired. And, she noted, since Vance had departed neither of them had spoken a single word.

The woman's leg crumpled as Lara's kick struck its target, and she went down onto one knee. Lara caught herself from instinctively delivering the finishing kick – in that case she may as well just have shot her. In the few instants she had bought herself, she turned and ran.

Vance was what mattered, she inwardly repeated

She paused at the mouth of the alley, looking each way in turn. Behind her she was dimly aware of closing footsteps.

Traffic streamed past, a myriad confusion of lights, raising curtains of spray. It was very heavy but not the complete logjam of rush hour – or rush three-hours as it could more accurately be described. At first there was no sign of him.

It began to look like she'd lost him.

Then, about a hundred yards away, across the other side of the street, she caught a glimpse of a large, powerful looking figure. He barged his way between a couple walking arm in arm, then knocked over an elderly lady as he shoved past her. Lara knew instantly that she'd found him.

Abruptly he was turning round, looking straight at her. Even over the distance separating them she felt the frission as their eyes met.

Lara was so distracted that she didn't notice the figure that had walked out of the entrance of the nightclub behind her. Not until he was right on top of her at least, already in the middle of swinging. She caught a glimmer of movement – was half turning.

Something hit it in the side of the head.

It felt like an explosion inside her skull. The world turned red and black, roaring with disconnected sound. Without noticing she stumbled forward, dazed and unseeing, over the curb and into the middle of the street.

Brakes screeched, a horn blaring in her ears. Her vision cleared just in time to see a pair of blazing headlights bearing down her, behind them the canary yellow hood of a New York City taxi.

Her jaw dropped. There was no chance of getting out of the way in time. Vainly her hands stretched out in front of her, as if they could somehow catch the cab and stop it in its tracks.

Then it hit her.

It wasn't going very fast. Lara managed to role with the impact, across the bonnet and over the cab's side, landing on her hands and knees on the rain-drenched tarmac. The breath whooshed out of her body and she felt herself bite her tongue, her mouth filling with hot, coppery blood. Her entire side where the cab had struck was transformed into an incandescent sheet of pain.

Something swept past her face – a white Dodge van – missing her by no more than inches. Wind buffeted her, followed by a fountain of icy spray, drenching her to the skin. The world swam in a sea of bright, disorienting lights before her eyes.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing lady?" The cabby, screaming at her – furious and scared.

She ignored him, pulling herself to her feet, savage pain spiking through her hip. Vance was no longer in sight.

A look over her shoulder showed her the man who'd punched her – by the look of it a Puerto Rican; one of Benni Valdez's men – moving round the front of the cab. His face was blank, and although his eyes were hidden by wrap-around shades the way he moved showed her clearly that he belonged to the Djab. Close behind came the two women she'd left in the alley, sodden hair streaming out behind them.

A Lincoln swept past, less than a foot in front of her thighs. Its horn blared and she caught a glimpse of the driver, gesturing furiously at her.

Spitting out a mouthful of bloody saliva, Lara staggered forward, limping as fast as she could into a gap in the traffic. Behind her she was aware of her three pursuers, charging heedlessly forwards in hot pursuit.

A cacophony of horn blasts rose up on all sides and she could hear the tortured squeal of overstretched brakes. There was a crash of rending steel and shattering glass as something barrelled into the back of the still motionless taxi. She didn't pause to look exactly what.

A limping half-sprint, half-stagger took her just beyond the front of an oncoming bus, the draught of its passage tugging at her.

Behind her there was a sickening crunch, followed by a dull, wet thud, then very quickly a second one. Belatedly the bus's brakes shrieked as it tried to stop.

Lara forced herself to ignore it, limping the few remaining yards to the pavement. Gradually the pain in her hip was subsiding to an aching throb – nothing broken. Around her shouts and cries of horror were rising up. A young man was doubled over, vomiting in the gutter. She allowed herself a glance back over her shoulder; immediately wished she hadn't.

It wasn't like the neat, tidy, sanitised accidents that you saw on television. The man in the wrap-around sunglasses had been completely pulverised, sucked under the bus's huge wheels and dragged along for about thirty yards. There was a broad slick of blood spreading into the rain drenched tarmac, and just behind the bus. . .

Lara swallowed, looking away quickly. Smashed, split open, ground into the road surface, no longer looking much like a human being, with its pelvis and part of its ribcage squashed flat. She never noticed the small black shape crawl from the bloody mass of carnage's gaping mouth, darting swiftly into the cover of the gutter.

The two women were still coming forward, closing on her fast – apparently heedless of their comrade's horrible demise.

She broke into a limping run in the direction she'd last seen Vance. Very quickly she found herself moving against the flow of people, drawn to the accident scene like a flood of maggots to the scent of a fresh carcass. Shouts of protest and indignation rose up behind her as she forced her way through them.

Eventually she broke clear of the growing crowd, increasing her pace and stretching out a lead on her pursuers.

After about half a block she passed in front of another nightclub, this one very different from Benni's benighted place. For one thing people were actually queuing up to get inside here.

Immediately she saw evidence that Vance had passed this way.

A doorman lay flat out on the pavement amid a scattering of broken glass. He wasn't moving, but whether he was dead or merely unconscious she couldn't tell from the single quick look she afforded him. A second doorman was sitting on the steps, clutching his head and looking distinctly groggy. A third had a handkerchief clasped to his face and was attempting to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.

A line of roped together bollards had been toppled over by the passage of someone charging forcibly through them, and the two glass-fronted doors had been completely shattered. By the look of it one by someone going in, the other by the flat-out doorman exiting rather more abruptly than he'd wanted.

The head of the queue was milling around, kept back by two further beleaguered looking doormen who appeared relatively unscathed. Voices, whining and filled with indignation, were raised, demanding to know 'what the fucking hold up was' – why they weren't being allowed inside.

As if they couldn't see the evidence of somebody having done a fair impression of the Incredible Hulk just a few feet in front of them.

Behind her Lara could hear rapidly approaching footsteps. She came to a snap decision. Of course it could all just be an elaborate decoy by the Djab; to lure her into searching a crowded nightclub while it made good its escape. But as of yet she hadn't seen much evidence of human subtlety from it.

Ignoring the protesting shout and easily sidestepping the dazed doorman's half-hearted grab, she plunged inside.

29^th March 2000, Haiti

It took over two hours of searching before they found the book.

Gradually Lara's awareness of the hordes of swarming beetles faded into background and her gnawing sense of revulsion quieted. When one of them – huge, shiny and black; half as big as her hand – scurried rapidly up her calf then along the inside of her thigh she didn't give it so much as a glance, offhandedly flicking it away. Mostly they seemed as content to ignore her as she was to ignore them.

Up to that point their most interesting discoveries were a couple of badly warped drums, their stretched goat-hide coverings split and slowly rotting away. Racine identified them as tanbou fey – drums used in Petro-Vodou ceremonies – as opposed to the tanbou kon used in the much more prevalent Rada rituals.

Petro-Vodou was the form of Vodou that had grown out of the eighteenth century Haitian slave revolts. Unlike the Rada rituals, which originated in Africa and were primarily concerned with healing, Petro-Vodou was born of anger and outrage – fiery and violent where Rada was peaceful and gentle. Outsiders often mistook it for black magic and trafficking with demons. Nowadays Petro-Vodou made up less than five percent of all practised Vodou, the necessity and the rage that had forged it long gone. However, it continued to make up about ninety-nine percent of what the outside world's perception of Vodou was.

Lara could see from his body language that Vance's boredom threshold was rapidly being reached. The cursory way he was now sorting through the assorted debris meant he was likely to miss anything of interest entirely if he didn't manage to damage it irrevocably in the process. She started to open her mouth; to admonish him to be more careful.

Racine interrupted before she could speak.

"Lara, I think I've found something." The excitement in her voice was barely contained.

She was leaning over a small, almost invisible recess in the wall. It had been hidden behind some broken shelves, and in addition someone had bricked it over at some point in the past. Now most of the mortar had rotted away and more than half the bricks had fallen in.

Initially all Lara could see was a tangled mess of spiderwebs and other gunk. Then the angle of the flashlight beam shifted slightly and she caught the dull glint of metal.

"What is it?" This was Vance, so close behind her that she could feel the warmth of his breath against of her ear.

"That's what we're about to find out."

As she reached into the gap she felt something tickle against her probing fingertips: froze.

The spider that had made the webs. She stared at it, seeing its multitude of tiny gleaming eyes looking back at her. From what she could see of its species she didn't think it was poisonous. I hope.

With a deep breath she reached further inside. No bite came.

The object was a box, about a foot square and four or five inches deep. It was heavy, its sides scabrous with rust. At first when she tried to pull it, it wouldn't budge, apparently corroded in place. Then, abruptly, it jerked forward a couple of inches with a tortured metallic rasp. It came the rest of the way easily enough.

The three of them bent over it, staring in fascination. Lara felt at least two of the Palmetto beetles scuttle onto her, rapidly moving legs tickling her skin. She ignored them completely, too caught up to care.

"So," Vance interrupted the silence that had fallen after several seconds. "Again I'll ask. What is it?"

"Some kind of box." Lara's reply was absent. Very carefully she brushed away some of the cobwebs and grime that encrusted it. It appeared to be made of steel, decorated with faded scrollwork. Her initial reaction was that it was European in origin – not Haitian.

"I can see that thank you. I meant what's inside it." His voice had a faintly acid edge.

"You'll find out when we open it." Lara continued to pour over its surface, tracing its contours with her fingertips and trying to pick out any kind of distinguishing mark. There was a small coat of arms emblazoned in one corner. It was too worn and faded to work out exactly what it depicted. "Racine, do you have any idea why this might be down here – what it could be?"

She shook her head. "No idea I'm afraid. It looks like it belonged to the original owners of the plantation rather than Macandal or Levotré's people though, doesn't it?"

An echo of Lara's own thoughts.

"So, are you going to open it or what?" Vance's question carried a distinct note of impatience.

"When we get above ground maybe. . ."

His sigh cut her off. She glared at him. "Look Vance, we've got no idea what it contains. Who knows what damage opening it down here amid all this damp, dirt, fungus and assorted insects will do to it. We don't even know if it will open." She tested the lid slightly. It gave easily, coming open a millimetre or two, held down only by its own weight.

"When did you turn into a crusty old archaeology professor Lara?"

She gritted her teeth and swallowed down the scathing response that rose inside her. It wouldn't help matters. To be honest she was damned curious to find out what was inside the box herself.

"Would it really hurt?" This was Racine, sounding tentative.

Oh what the hell. Several of the people who'd taught her would have rolled over in their graves – had they been dead yet. But then I am an irresponsible glory hunter so it's only to be expected of me. . .

Extremely carefully, she eased the lid back.

The book was the sort that people had once kept diaries or journals in, bound in plain brown leather that was now looking distinctly on the shabby side. To Lara's eyes the whole thing looked swollen with damp. Aware of the other two looking over her shoulders, she gingerly eased it from its container, being extremely careful to minimise the damage she was doing.

Unconsciously holding her breath Lara tried, very gently, to pry the cover open. It wouldn't budge. The pages had become fused together into a single solid mass by a combination of time and the damp conditions it had been sitting in.

She let out the breath she'd been holding. "If I try to open it now I'll destroy it. It needs to go to a lab or museum where they'll have proper equipment to dry it out." As she finished speaking a couple of sheets of yellowing paper fell from where they'd become stuck to the bottom of the book. They fluttered gently to the floor at Racine's feet.

Racine bent to pick them up before they were buried by scurrying beetles, holding them extremely carefully by the edges and studying what was on them.

As Lara eased the book back into the box she heard Vance sigh again. When she turned around he walked off, back to where he'd been searching. So much for: 'I do this because now I enjoy the sense of uncovering history'. Obviously books and papers were not what he was looking for. Shaking her head she turned her attention back to Racine.

"It's in English." The young woman said as she noticed Lara's scrutiny. "Extremely badly spelt English, but English nevertheless."

Odd. Slaves, as a rule would not have been allowed to learn to read and write. On top of that the plantation owners and anyone else who had lived here would almost certainly have spoken and written predominantly in French.

"The writers name is. . ." Racine frowned slightly. "McAndrew. Jaime McAndrew."

"One of the transported Scots."

"It sounds like it, yes." Lara could see Racine's eyes continue to flick across the papers. "What we seem to have is a Vodou folktale. One I remember Mama telling me as a kid. This version is rather garbled but it's definitely the same base story." A smile touched her lips and she proffered the papers to Lara. "Here, take a look for yourself."

"It's basically the tale of a particularly wicked and mischievous Djab," Racine began as Lara started reading. She was right; the spelling was atrocious. If a word got spelled the same way twice running it was more by fluke than design. The quality of the handwriting was variable too. There were intermittent inkblots across the page and in a couple of places the author had tried to write over the top of a word, simply making it illegible.

"Djab?" Lara wasn't familiar with the word.

"It's Creole, supposedly derived from the French diable – devil. More accurately it means a kind of 'wild spirit'. A Loa that doesn't fit into one of the normal groupings; maybe associated with a particular person or place; or just too chaotic and capricious to be controlled or worshipped. They can be good or evil, or anywhere in between so 'devil' is a bit of a misleading term. The one in the story is definitely of the capricious variety – cruel and not very pleasant at all."

The writer referred to it as a 'baneful ghostie', which amused Lara.

"Anyway the Djab – it doesn't have a name; I'll come to that bit in a moment – is trespassing in Kalfu's realm one day. One of the things it's noted for is being a thief – it'll steal anything that isn't nailed down, and if it is nailed down it'll just steel the nail first. It has no respect and no fear of anyone; this djab – does exactly what it wants and heeds no-one."

"Like some people I could mention." Lara looked up from what she was reading, lips quirking into a fractional grin. From behind them there was a clatter as the shelf Vance was trying to shift collapsed.

"Well to cut the story short," Racine hastened. "The Djab stole something that Kalfu prized greatly. It varies from storyteller to storyteller what that thing actually was. In the version that I first heard – well, it was his penis."

"His penis?" There was a slightly incredulous note in Lara's voice. The story on the page referred to a 'magic staff'. "Loa still have things like penises then do they?"

A glimmer of amusement showed in Racine's eyes. "Oh, indubitably. Baron Samedi even has an enormous purple phallus as one of his primary symbols. In some respects he is mainly penis in fact. Loa are definitely not shy about sexuality."

"So I'd imagine Kalfu is seriously pissed off, right?" Lara grinned. "In fact if he's like most of the men I've met he's just lost the one thing he prizes above all else in existence. So I guess 'pissed-off' doesn't even begin to describe it."

"You are correct." She was grinning. "By all accounts Kalfu flew into a rage beyond imaging. The whole world was shaken by it, reshaped by his violence. Eventually though Kalfu manages to track down the Djab and recover his er. . . manhood, and the world becomes calm again.

"But Kalfu is not satisfied merely with recovering what he has lost. He has been humiliated, and exacts a terrible revenge. First he strips the Djab of its name so that no hougan, mambo, or bokor may invoke it, or even leave it offerings of food or sacrifice. This alone is a terrible punishment to inflict upon any Loa, but the Dark Lord of the Crossroads goes further. He also decrees that from this day forth the Djab may only mount low, scuttling beetles and never again humans – a horrible form of humiliation."

"Beetles?" Lara looked pointedly at the seething mass swarming all around them in the cellar.

Racine laughed. "Oh, I don't think we have too much to worry about. If these were mounted by the Djab from the story I'm sure they'd have found a way of letting us know by now."

"Some comfort," Lara murmured, the words almost inaudible.

"Finally Kalfu tells the Djab that if ever it is not mounted on a beetle from this day forth all the dark spirits of the night will descend upon it and tear it into pieces. The Djab of course is horrified by the fate that has just been pronounced for it; begs that Kalfu be merciful – that it meant no harm. Kalfu, being in high dudgeon, is unmoved and states that the punishment will be applied. In desperation the Djab appeals to Kalfu's Rada counterpart, Legba, to intervene. Unfortunately Legba is powerless to interfere directly in Kalfu's business. Legba does make a plea to Kalfu to reconsider though, telling his dark brother that such cruelty will usually find a way to rebound upon its originator. Kalfu simply laughs the old man's warning off and enforces the punishment upon the Djab.

"At the last the Djab, as is traditional in these matters, swears that it will have a terrible revenge upon all involved its downfall."

Lara continued reading to the end of the Scotsman's version. It was a lot more garbled than Racine's account and it was very difficult to extract any kind of sense from it. The last couple of paragraphs were interesting though. Very interesting. "Did you read this last bit Racine?"

The young woman shook her head; leant closer to get a better look.

It detailed how 'John-Jack' was intending to try to 'free' the 'baneful ghostie' and tap into its vengeful 'humours' in order to aid the 'cause'. From the tone of the writing Jaime McAndrew didn't like this idea one bit.

There was nothing saying whether the attempt had actually been made, and if so, what the results of it might have been.

Their attention was distracted by Vance.

For a moment it looked like he had gone insane. He was stomping the floor beneath him repeatedly with one foot, and Lara's initial thought was that he was trying to kill as many of the beetles as he could in a fit of rage.

Eventually he became aware of their scrutiny; stopped. "I think I've found a trapdoor."

1^st April 2000, New York

Inside, the nightclub was heaving.

Dance music pounded through Lara's head making it difficult to think straight let alone hear anything else. Bodies pressed all around, jostling into her as she tried to force her way through the throng. Amid the chaotic mix of gyrating figures it was next to impossible to pick out any one particular person – a needle in a haystack sort of task.

At least it seemed like she had managed to lose her pursuers.

Someone grabbed her arm – a young looking man, smiling, gesturing her forwards and mouthing something at her that was lost in the hubbub of noise. She shook her head emphatically and pulled clear, moving further into the mass of bodies, eyes searching all the time.

She'd hoped that Vance would have been conspicuous; had half expected a trail of angry and injured people scattered across the dance floor as testament to his heedless progress. The reality was that he couldn't have chosen a better place to camouflage himself if he'd tried for a week.

Stopping in her tracks she looked all around herself, desperately searching for any sign. The constantly changing pulsating, multicoloured lights made everything look completely different from one second to the next though. She came up empty.

There was a curving flight of steps across from her, leading up to a balcony level. She started out for that. Maybe she'd have better look from a higher vantagepoint.

Somebody's elbow hit her in the mouth. A young woman yelled at her to watch where she was going; to get a life. Lara ignored her and pressed ahead.

A gap opened up osmotically in front of her, bodies parting like the tide.

She saw him. It almost didn't register. Only when her gaze passed across him for the second time did it stop, transfixed.

He was dancing with someone – another extremely attractive, athletic looking woman with long hair. Unlike the other bodies that the Djab inhabited Vance's seemed to move almost naturally – not like it was operated by a puppeteer's strings.

At some point he'd stolen a coat, covering up the blood and bullet hole in his shirt. There was a broad, slanted grin on his lips and he didn't appear to have noticed her approach. As Lara watched he leaned over and whispered something in the woman's ear. She laughed, apparently greatly amused by whatever the Djab said to her.

Then he was leaning even closer and suddenly their mouths were coming together in an open-mouthed kiss. Lara experienced an electro-shock jolt of horror.

"No! Vance! Stop!" Without thinking she had pulled one of her Uzi's from beneath her jacket.

The woman stiffened in Vance's arms, eyes snapping wide, but she didn't appear to be able to move – to free herself from the Djab's grasp. Suddenly the sides of her mouth were bulging as if something was forcing its way inside.

A moment later the woman's throat was distending, tiny convulsions making her body shake. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Still she was trapped by the Djab's embrace, unable to free herself. Behind Lara someone screamed.

An island of space had opened up around them – their own little stage. Finally the Djab seemed to become aware of her.

He released the woman, who collapsed to her knees on the floor. Her breath came in great gulping gasps and a strange, half-heard whining noise was emanating from her throat. Her hair had fallen across her face in a concealing veil.

"Larrra." His grin was disarming and he spread his hands wide. "I've told you. We really have to stop meeting like this. I don't love you anymore." Somehow his voice carried clearly over the pumping of the music; playing to the crowd.

Jaw clenching, she levelled the Uzi at his head. "I'm sorry Vance. If I could think of another way. . ." Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Before she could fire something landed on her back. The sudden, unexpected weight bore her down onto her knees, strong slender arms wrapping round her like iron bars and squeezing the breath from her lungs. The chance was gone.

Struggling violently against her assailant – one of the women from the alleyway – she was half-aware of Vance melting away into the mass of people. Then all her attention was focused on her attacker.

Lara snapped her head back, into the woman's face as hard as she could. She felt something crunch – the woman's nose most likely. The throttling grip on her didn't loosen in the slightest.

Her vision was slowly turning red and she could feel her lungs burning for oxygen. The strength of her assailant was simply incredible. It felt like her ribcage was going to splinter at any moment in the woman's vice-like grip. Her arms were pinned tightly to her sides and she couldn't even manage to bring the Uzi to bear. Nothing she tried brought even an ounce of respite.

Desperate, teeth gritted in a tight grimace, the strength draining from her body rapidly, Lara made one last attempt. She dropped forward, thrusting her back up hard, attempting to throw the woman over her head with her generated momentum.

If the Djab had been martial arts trained it wouldn't have worked. It could have countered easily. Luckily it wasn't. Its grip broke as it went over her head.

Lara gasped for breath, staggering to her feet. Her attacker, flat out on her back in front of her, began to rise.

She caught a glimmer of movement in the corner of her vision and span round, foot coming up hard to take the second woman from the alleyway in the gut. Other figures were barging their way through the crowds towards her too, shouts of uproar rising to challenge the music for volume. Benni Valdez's men – now enslaved by the Djab. Fists flew and isolated fights broke out. Lara could see a full scale riot in the making.

She kicked the rising woman down again, starting forward in the direction Vance had been heading. She had to get out of here before the sparks triggered an explosion. And fast. Seeing the gun in her hand people melted out of the way in front of her, a clear path opening up.

Someone grabbed hold of her leg.

It was the woman who Vance had 'kissed'. Lara saw just enough to register the dead look in her eyes and the mechanical stiffness of her movements; fought down the rising surge of horror. Then she rammed the butt of her Uzi into the woman's arm. There was a crack of breaking bone and she yanked herself free, running on.

She caught a glimpse of Vance as he went up the stairs to the balcony level – quickened her pace after him. The music pounded on remorselessly.

Halfway up the stairs a gunshot rang out, followed quickly by a number of screams. Fear rather than pain by the sounds of it. Lara sprinted the rest of the way to the balcony, then ducked behind a pillar for cover.

A look back showed the gunman, standing in an island of space as people tried frantically to back away from him. Hispanic looking and wearing dark glasses; one of Benni Valdez's former men. He was looking straight at her, holding a matt black pistol in his hand. That was directed at her too.

She flinched back as he squeezed off another shot. The bullet pinged off the ceiling, well wide. From the look of it the Djab didn't know how to shoot a gun properly either. Small mercies.

There was no chance to return fire without the risk of slaughtering a horde of innocent bystanders.

A third shot raised a dazzling spark from the railings a few feet to Lara's left. A forth was similarly off target. Whilst she continued to crouch in the scant cover of the pillar the three Djab possessed women – along with two more men moving in that characteristic, not quite natural way – started up the stairs towards her.

Taking a deep breath she made a break for it in the direction where Vance had disappeared. Bastard can't hit a barn door in any case.

She felt the heat and wind of the next bullet's passage less than inch away from her ear. Shit!

A pair of fire-doors had just finished swinging closed in front of her. Lara plunged through them at full pelt, hoping against hope that it had been Vance ahead of her and not just somebody trying to escape from the chaos behind her.

Bang! Another bullet punched a hole in some nearby plaster as she rounded a corner onto the fire-escape stairs. The Djab's marksmanship was definitely improving. At this rate one of the next few shots might actually hit her. Adrenaline flowing, she started down the steps, taking them three at a time.

Somebody was waiting for her in the stairwell.

The thing about having control of multiple bodies, presumably being able to see out of multiple pairs of eyes simultaneously, was that it became very easy to outflank somebody.

He had a gun too – some type of pistol – pointed straight at her chest. She skidded to halt in front of him. Their eyes met. She saw that all too familiar vacancy that indicated the Djab was pulling the strings. Behind her she could hear multiple sets of footsteps approaching rapidly to the accompaniment of heavy bass throbbing.

The man in front of her started up the intervening steps towards her, grinning. She could see his flesh bulging grotesquely, beetles burrowing beneath the skin.

Fighting down the surge of anguish she raised her Uzi and shot him.

The burst of 9mm bullets riddled his chest, knocking him back down into the stairwell, blood spurting. Each of the wounds seemed momentarily to blaze from within. His only movements were a few spasmodic jerks.

Something hard and black gleamed within his lolling mouth.

Two more men, also each openly carrying pistols rounded the corner in front of her, taking the place of the one she had just killed. Lara felt her heart sink.

In a split second decision she turned and shot out the window beside her, glass exploding outwards in a glittering cascade of razors. Without pausing to look what was below, bullets blazing behind her, she made a leap of faith into the night. . .

30^th March 2000, Haiti

Clank-scrrrrappppe. Lara's eyes snapped open instantly.

Not that she'd been asleep, instead lying in her tent with her eyes closed, listening and waiting – expecting. Up till now all she'd been able to hear was the drumming of rain against the canvas of the tent; the bank of clouds they'd seen earlier, finally arrived with the darkness.

Quickly she grabbed her gun-belt and backpack, pulling the tent flap open and peering outside. This time she was determined she would be a lot more prepared for Bakula – or whatever it really was.

Once they'd uncovered the 'trapdoor' Vance had discovered – a square slab of grey stone about three-feet across – it had taken them most of the rest of the day to actually get it open. Clearing all the assorted debris, mud and other gunk from it had been time consuming enough. Then, when they'd initially tried to move it, they'd found that it wouldn't budge.

It had taken the three of them working together with every last ounce of strength to finally get it shifted. During that time Lara had come to the conclusion that 'trapdoor' was not the correct description. The word door suggested something that was intended to open – clearly not the case with this stone. It was more like a cap – something intended to seal something else up.

Beneath the stone was a hole. Stale air, laden with the miasma of decay and dank earth had wafted up in their faces. Their flashlights had shown a drop of about seven feet, bare earth gleaming wetly beneath them. Further examination revealed it was actually some kind of passageway, shored up with props of decaying wood. By Lara's judgement it headed arrow straight, directly for the centre of the mound.

By then it had been dusk. After some debate they'd agreed – with an obvious reluctance on Vance's part – to hold off on any exploration until morning. Lara in particular had been mindful of what had happened the previous night. And if truth be told the prospect of entering the mound even in daylight filled her with an apprehension quite at odds with her usual attitude.

Around them the swarming mass of Palmetto beetles had seemed, suddenly, to become agitated. That had hastened their departure.

Now Lara stood in the rain, listening for the slightest sound, gaze searching the campsite for any sign of movement or intrusion. "I know you're out there. . . Bakula."

No response. The rain had soaked her through to the skin and was surprisingly cold. The atmosphere felt heavy; ominous, though maybe she was just projecting her own feelings. "If you want to talk to me you can come out here and do it. I'm not going to be following you on any idiotic jaunt through the woods again."

Nothing. She might as well have been talking to herself and started to feel slightly stupid. Had she really heard that sound, or had her mind invented what she'd been expecting?

Silently Lara began to walk the perimeter of the camp. Still she could see or hear nothing out of the ordinary, the heavy rainfall muffling everything. She paused to check Racine's tent.

It was empty.

For a moment Lara stared at the vacant bedroll, feeling her heart thud in her chest, tension and urgency mounting. The young woman's clothing, including socks, walking boots and underwear were all laid out in a neat pile. Beside them was the corroded steel box they'd found, book and papers sealed away inside it. Racine's backpack was there too, and from the look of it, it was still full. She even saw her own second pistol. After a moment's hesitation she took it, sliding into the holster at her right hip.

She hurried quickly across to Vance's tent. That too was unoccupied. Unlike Racine though, he appeared to still have his boots and clothes with him. There was no sign of his gun-belt either, or that monster of a Colt Anaconda revolver he'd been lugging around.

Now she was really starting to feel concerned. She'd heard no movement from either of them. The noise of the rain would have shielded any sounds slightly, but even so. . . If that bastard's done anything to her. . .

For the first time her gaze strayed across to the rising bulk of the mound. It wasn't that she'd deliberately avoided looking at it up to now, she told herself – consciously at least. As always, something about it made her grit her teeth; swallow back an irrational surge of fear and loathing. There was someone up there – a small, unmistakable glimpse of movement.

Her pistols came immediately to hand. She started forward determinedly.

There was a noise in the woods to her right. A soft whispering, scraping sound that she recognised instantly. Lara froze; span round.

Clank-scrrrrappppe. There was absolutely no mistaking it this time. No chance that it was merely in her head.

She had her guns trained directly towards the point where the sound had come from, though she could see nothing in the darkness beneath the tree tops. A nagging inner voice reminded her how much good trying to shoot the thing had done her the last time. Silently she told it to shut up.

"Okay Bakula. Whoever the hell you really are. You're starting to try my patience. If you want to tell me something then go ahead. Otherwise clear off and do your chain dragging routine somewhere else." Rain streamed down her face in glistening rivulets.

After a couple of seconds there was a soft, answering moan, only barely audible over the rainfall. Lara steeled herself against the feelings of loneliness and despair. "Well, if that's the way you feel about it. . ." She turned on heel and started to walk away, fighting down the shakes that rose up inside her.

Concentrate on finding Racine and Vance. Lara caught another hint of movement from atop the mound and quickened her pace towards it. She was still extremely aware of that despair-filled, lonely and monstrously hungry presence somewhere in the woods behind her.

There was definitely someone up there.

She caught herself from calling out to them. Just now she wasn't sure that she wanted them to know about her presence. If they didn't know already.

Three-quarters of the way up the mound Lara stopped dead in her tracks, staring through the silvery veils of rain. There wasn't just one figure in front of her. There were two. They were both too engrossed in what they were doing to notice her watching them. After a few seconds she turned away, filled with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

No mystery about Vance and Racine's whereabouts anymore. Damn, she really did feel stupid.

Lara could feel her cheeks burning; knew that beneath the concealing darkness her face was bright red. Racine hadn't been wearing any clothing, rainwater streaming over her naked flesh. And Vance – he'd been about halfway to a similar state of undress.

By the look of it what they'd been doing had been entirely consensual. She could have probably walked to within two paces of them and they still wouldn't have noticed her.

For some reason she felt absolutely furious with them both.

Jealous? She thought about it. No. That wasn't it.

Are you sure? Then: Why the hell would I be jealous of either of them?

It was just that she'd been. . . worried. Worried that something might have happen to them. Or to be more accurate, that Vance had – for some unknown reason – done something to Racine.

He'd been doing something to Racine all right. . . From the look of it though, she was a more than willing participant. Indeed, unless Lara had completely misread what she'd seen it had been Racine doing all the initiating; in charge.

Vance must have thought Christmas had come early.

She rubbed a hand across her face. Nothing to do with me. None of my concern. Her expression twisted into a grimace. I tried to warn you about him Racine. . . if you're not very careful you're going to end up getting burned. She shoved the thought away. It wasn't as though she was Racine's mother or anything; the young Haitian woman had every bit as much right to make the same mistake's Lara had at her age.

Abruptly she stopped, all thoughts of Vance and Racine fleeing.

There, standing right out in the open between her and their tents was an all too familiar figure. Bakula.

It looked even bigger than it had before, dwarfing her. Powerful and monstrous. Wrapped in filthy rags and rusty chains all she could make out was the thing's hulking outline – no sense of feature or detail. Its smell – fading attar of decay – filled her nostrils, and every detail of last night's encounter flooded back, as vividly as if time had been rolled back. She could feel her heart fluttering like a trapped bird inside her chest, panic and fear ready to burst forth if she let them.

"I know who you are now, Bakula. . ." Standing there in front of it there was no longer any thought of impostors, or someone playing games with her. "I feel your loneliness. Your hunger. But I'm sorry; I don't know how to ease them. What is it that you want of me?" Lara had the sense that it understood what she was saying. That it just couldn't manage to communicate back.

Seconds ticked by. The only sound was the rain and the quiet metallic scraping of Bakula's chains.

"Them."

The single word almost made her jump out of her skin.

"What do you mean, them?" Lara took a step back, glancing involuntarily over her shoulder up at the mound. Something came to her – a flash of connection. "They're disturbing something, aren't they. What they're doing now. The Djab in the story. The one in the Scotsman's papers that mentions Jean-Jacques Levotré? You don't want the Djab to be disturbed?"

It moaned.

Her eyes closed and she felt her whole body shake. For a time – she had no idea how long – her entire world became blackness and despair. Then, gradually, she came back to herself. She could feel tears on her cheeks; a hollow, aching memory of desperate loneliness and hunger inside. Bakula was still in front of her.

"Darkness. Bokor. Awaken. Away. Death abides."

By Bakula's standards that probably amounted to a lengthy and intricate speech. Unfortunately Lara could make no sense of it whatsoever.

"You want them to stop what they're doing? Is that it?" She felt a mounting sense of frustration at their inability to communicate; could feel that frustration reflected in kind from the dark, hulking figure in front of her.

Abruptly it was moving straight towards her. Lara caught on just in time – dove out of the way of its onrushing bulk. She had absolutely no desire to experience its touch for a second time in the space of twenty-four hours.

The awful black wind of its passage buffeted her as it swept past, less than a foot away. Then it was gone, charging on up the side of the mound, a blur of moving darkness, its chains clanking.

"Some people are just so bloody impatient these days." It was a humour Lara didn't much feel though. She rolled over, springing agilely back to her feet. Her throat felt tight with rising dread and she started to sprint after it.

Bakula reached the top of the mound. It crossed through the perimeter of the circle of low, blood covered stones.

Suddenly the night lit up in an explosion of brilliant spectral green radiance – filled with a horrid, unnatural shrieking sound. Lara threw an arm in front of her face to shield it from the brightness; kept on running. For a short time the night was turned as bright as day.

Gradually the radiance began to dwindle. Sparks of green light orbited the top of the mound in ever-decreasing circles, screeching like an impromptu fireworks display. Lara could feel her skin prickling furiously, the few stray strands of hair not contained by her braid floating out from the side of her head like medusa coils.

The top of the mound was deserted.

Flickers of green luminance still danced in the air above her head like St. Elmo's fire as she looked around with mounting horror. "Racine! Vance!" There was no response.

The grass beneath her feet was charred and crispy, crunching as she stepped on it. In places it had been burnt away entirely, bald earth showing through. A couple of the stones where Bakula had crossed the circle were completely torn from the earth, resembling blackened and broken teeth. No one living was in sight.

Something moved in the corner of her eye, down towards the direction of the plantation house. As the last of the witchlight faded she registered a flash of blonde hair; tanned skin. "Vance!"

If he heard her he ignored her.

She lost sight of him as the darkness closed in, her night vision destroyed. Everything around her turned inky black.

Lara swore viciously; started down where she'd last seen him. After a couple of paces though, she stopped. Fuck him. Stupid, irresponsible bastard.

"Racine! If you can hear me Racine, call out. Don't move from where you are!"

No response.

"Racine!"

Again, no answer.

Long minutes searching the top of the mound and its surrounds turned up nothing. No trace of a body, unconscious, dead or otherwise. None of her periodic calls drew any reaction either. Of Bakula there was absolutely no sign, though the air had a heavy, ominous feel that set her teeth on edge – like the precursor to a thunderstorm only tenfold worse.

All the time the thought of Vance – what he might be doing right now – nagged at her like an itch she couldn't scratch.

Eventually she gave up; started down towards the plantation house again. Maybe Racine had been with Vance, in front of him. She'd just missed seeing her, or something. . . One thing was certain, she wasn't here.

The entire situation felt like it had degenerated into surreal nightmare farce.

1^st April 2000, New York

. . . and landed, smack, on top of a garbage truck parked in the alleyway, less than a metre below the window.

The breath was knocked from her body. She'd been expecting a much longer drop and was taken completely by surprise. Just barely Lara managed to arrest her momentum before she rolled over the side of the truck. Temporarily stunned, she lay gasping for breath.

As her gaze refocused she saw someone standing in the broken window – a black silhouette against the interior lighting. Desperately she twisted to one side.

The bullet clanged against metal, missing her by a matter of inches. She could feel it ricocheting past her face, the sparks it raised momentarily blinding her. A second bullet cleaved the air just above her.

She returned fire, still not seeing properly, with a short burst from her Uzi. She didn't think she'd managed to hit anyone, merely trying to buy herself a few extra seconds.

Suddenly, beneath her, the garbage truck's engine growled into life, the vibration from it thrumming through her body. What the hell. . ? It made a jolting lurch forward, almost throwing her over the side, then stopped just as abruptly, gears grinding. She was forced to drop her Uzi in order to catch herself in time.

Finally the driver located the gear he was searching for. The garbage truck resumed its lurching forward progress. The Uzi slid tantalisingly out of her reach across the truck's roof.

This is just too bloody much.

She managed – barely – to pull her legs in as the truck swerved against the alley wall amid a harsh ringing of tortured metal and spraying sparks. After about fifty feet it managed to straighten out and the Uzi slid back towards her, but she was too busy holding on for dear life to be able to grab it.

From behind she was dimly aware of the sound of another gunshot. It didn't come anywhere close to hitting her. A stray glance catching the wing mirror showed her a fleeting glimpse of the driver. . . Vance. She bit back on the groan. It just gets better and better.

At least she was more or less in the right place.

They hit the junction onto the main street. Vance didn't bother to slow. Or worry about trifling details such as oncoming traffic.

Lara grabbed on tight, an involuntary gasp jerked from her lips. She felt the truck tilt up on two wheels, her legs flying out over thin air and the entire weight of her body yanking hard through her arms. Her grip began to slip. . .

A car swerved into the lane of oncoming traffic in an attempt to avoid hitting the garbage truck. Lara didn't see the result but heard the horrendous crash a moment later. A cacophony of squealing brakes and frantically pressed horns filled the night with their uproar. She was vaguely aware of the Uzi sliding past her face, then bouncing along the tarmac behind them until a Ford Bronco drove straight over it.

She was clinging on by no more than her fingertips now. The muscles in her arms felt like they were tearing apart. Time slowed to a crawl. . .

Finally the truck landed back on all four wheels, jouncing.

Lara slammed down with an ooph, the impact bruising, her teeth jarring together hard. Her feet scrabbled against the metal of the truck's side, attempting to secure her grip. Behind, she was aware of police sirens; whether responding to the disturbance at the nightclub or the bus accident she couldn't tell. Better late than never.

To her amazement she found herself grinning; that had been fun.

The fleeting euphoria of the adrenaline high faded as rain and spray from the road drenched her, icy cold. She pulled herself fully onto the truck's roof again and began inching her way forwards, towards the cab. Wind and spray hit her in the face, buffeting her violently. Engine and tire vibrations transmitted themselves through her flesh and each imperfection in the road surface jolted into her. Every erratic sway – towards the curb then back again, until it seemed they were going to drive straight into the stream of oncoming traffic – had her gut clenching tight.

Had he seen her? Did he know she was there?

Stupid question girl. She had to stop thinking of the Djab in terms of one, single-bodied creature like herself. The man who had shot at her from the window had been the Djab too, and so had those three woman, and all the others. Just as much so as Vance. Of course he's bloody seen me.

She looked up, a startled cry surprised from her lips.

Directly ahead was a major junction. She saw the traffic lights turn red, a stream of cars starting to roll across in front of them. They were going too fast. There was no way they could stop in time. The Djab hadn't even bothered to apply the brakes. . .

Lara screwed her eyes shut; held on tight.

They almost made it. Almost, but not quite.

The front of the garbage truck clouted an oncoming Chevrolet Camaro a glancing blow, spinning it around as easily as if it were a toy. There was a shriek of rending metal and a massive, jolting shock. Then they were through, veering all over the road but seeming to lose very little forward momentum.

The impact tossed Lara out, over the side of the truck again, a cry of pain ripped from her lips as her arm joints were yanked to dislocation point. She felt the tug of wind as something coming the other way came within inches of tearing her in half. Then she slammed back against the truck's steel side with bone-jarring force.

One hand lost its grip. In desperation she grabbed onto a steel strut – stopped herself from falling. The truck went over a manhole cover, the jolt making her other hand come free. Now she was left clinging to the strut with both hands

She felt herself starting to slide downwards, unable to find purchase on the smooth, wet metal she was clinging onto. Her feet searched futilely for footholds.

Then her legs were swinging against nothing, the airflow beneath the truck threatening to suck her down, under its wheels. A glance down showed the road flashing by, seemingly only inches below her. She could hear the huge tyres rumbling beside her.

The sole of one boot clipped the road surface.

For an instant the pain was such that it felt like her foot had been torn away. Then she managed to swing her legs up, finding a foothold just above the wheel arch. For the moment her position was stabilised, though now it was her backside hanging in close proximity to the road. The leg of her jeans was no more than inch away from the ever-turning wheel.

Her breath came in harsh, ragged gasps. That had been altogether too much 'fun' for her own good, thank you very much.

Gritting her teeth, inch by painful inch, she began to haul herself up into a less precarious position. Every bump or erratic sway of the truck had her bruised hip jarring painfully against its side. Twice she was certain she was about to be reduced to a grisly smear. Both times the oncoming vehicle missed her by a matter of millimetres.

They took a hard right, the wheel next to her leaving the road again before slamming back down. Lara hit the side of the truck hard enough to knock most of the breath from her body. Blurred by rain and spray, the speeding swaying journey between Manhattan's skyscrapers took on a strange hue, like racing through an immense canyon of brilliant lights.

Lara pulled herself within arms reach of the driver's side door. She could see Vance's reflection in the wing mirror. It was distorted by streaks of rain, grinning with savage vacancy.

She felt the jolt and heard the shriek of tortured metal as the garbage truck veered too close to a Cadillac Seville parked in front of a five-star hotel. It scoured one side of the car completely free of paint amid a fountain of sparks.

In the mirror Lara saw the Djab wink broadly at her. Fuck. Suddenly they were veering towards the path of an oncoming bus.

Feet slipping and sliding against smooth, wet metal she made a desperate forward surge for the cab's roof. A quick glance showed the square, slab-like front of the bus speeding towards her, close enough to see the whites of the driver's eyes. . . She thrust herself upwards with all the strength remaining to her, forward-flipping with gymnastic grace and power. . .

Whoosh. The bus swept past, inches away from collision.

Thud. Lara landed on the roof of the cab in a low crouch, looking – for just an instant as her jacket flared out behind her – strangely like a large and extremely dishevelled 'Spirit of Ecstasy' perched on the bonnet of a Roll's Royce. Then she flattened herself, gripping on tight and the illusion shattered.

The truck shimmied from side to side as it sped through a pool of standing water. She looked up. Ahead of her she could see 3^rd Avenue Bridge, heading over into the Bronx. There was a queue of traffic moving slowly in front of them, leading onto it. They were bearing down on them horribly fast. Again the Djab showed no indication that it understood the concept of brakes.

Lara gritted her teeth – braced for impact.

At the last moment the Djab swerved, driving down the centre of the street, half in the lane of oncoming traffic. Cars swerved to avoid them. Horns blared. There were at least two crunching accidents as cars lost control trying to take evasive action. Then, miraculously, they were through, unscathed, driving in the correct lane again, over the bridge.

Up to now the valley of skyscrapers had shielded Lara from the wind. Out in the open it tore into her, like giant invisible hands trying to pluck her from the truck's roof. She could feel her grip straining – beginning to weaken.

Over to her left she could see the lights of traffic moving in parallel to them across nearby Madison Avenue Bridge. The note of the tyre noise had changed into an ominous rumbling growl. They were closing inexorably on a small Toyota in front of them. Lara saw a child staring at her out of the back window, open-mouthed.

Damn. The garbage truck had closed to within twenty feet of the car and the driver seemed oblivious to the danger. Wind continuing to tear at her relentlessly, Lara came to a decision.

She pulled the Smith & Wesson pistol she'd taken from Benni Valdez from her belt, slamming the butt hard into the driver's side window. A cloud of broken glass showered across the Djab. An instant later she was swinging down, inside the cab, leading with both feet.

The soles of her boots connected with the side of Vance's head, knocking him halfway out of the driver's seat. She landed almost on top of his lap. The steering wheel jerked from his grasp and his foot slipped from the accelerator pedal. Immediately the truck began to slow, veering to the right. Ahead of them the Toyota began to ease away.

Crash-shrieeeek.

The truck hit the railing, bouncing Lara so hard that she clouted her head against the roof. Then the truck was up on two wheels, leaning dangerously, sparks flying up in great sheets as it continued to scrape along the side of the bridge.

After about a hundred precarious yards it righted itself, crashing back down onto four wheels. For a short distance it managed to drive approximately straight, then inexorably, it began to drift to the left, towards the flow of oncoming traffic.

Lara and the Djab were too preoccupied to notice. As soon as she'd managed to reorient herself she slammed the butt of the pistol into the side of his head. Once. Twice. Three times, blood starting to flow.

On the forth swing he caught her wrist.

His grip was like iron – inhumanly strong. She gasped in pain as the bones in her wrist ground together. He began to twist her arm back, the gun twisting free of her grasp and dropping into the passenger side footwell. Then he swung his free hand in a vicious punch at her face.

She managed to half duck out of the way so that he only clipped her. Even so her vision span, the black embrace of unconsciousness beckoning. Only the screaming pain from her tendons as he continued to twist her arm kept her anchored in reality.

This had not been a good idea, a clinical, detached part of her noted. Possessed by the Djab, Vance was physically stronger than anyone she had ever encountered. He might be a bit slower and clumsier than normal, but the tight confines of the cab completely negated any advantage of speed she might have had so it scarcely mattered. Her arm felt like it was on the verge of snapping like a dry twig.

Lara drove her forehead as hard as she could into his face. She felt his nose crunch, but his grip on her arm didn't loosen. His other hand came round, clawing at her throat.

There was a sound like meat being dropped onto a red-hot griddle. Suddenly the Djab was scrabbling back from her, across the other side of the cab.

What the. . ? She was gasping for breath, injured arm cradled in her lap, wondering what the hell had just happened. Then she remembered the necklace she was wearing. Her gaze strayed back to the road in front of her. . .

"Shit!" Blurred by the water sluicing down the windscreen another truck was bearing down on them horribly fast. She yanked the wheel hard right, stomach clenching, feeling the tyres on the point of losing grip and sliding out of control.

The other truck shot past, the draft of its passage making the cab shudder. Then, before Lara could compensate, they crashed into the railing again.

The steering wheel was ripped free of her grip, spinning round, and she was thrown forward hard against it before being slammed back into the seat. Its speed down to about thirty, still gradually dropping, the truck began to drift back towards the centre of the road. Ahead of them the bridge was coming to an end.

Before Lara could recover enough from her daze to straighten the truck out, the Djab grabbed hold of her braid tightly in one fist and yanked.

A gasp of pain hissed through gritted teeth as she felt the skin of her scalp tearing. She was drawn sideways, thrashing and lashing out violently, into his grasp – like a large fish being reeled in by an eager angler.

Her hand reached back and gouged into his testicles, squeezing and twisting so hard that she felt one of them rupture. Any normal man would have been reduced to a mewling wreck by the injury, doubled over and scarcely able to move, let alone fight. The Djab, however, seemed to be able to ignore any pain and injury to it's stolen body. It merely pounded a fist into the side of her head.

The world blurred into a rushing mass of disconnected sound and swirling colour, the energy of her movements dying as if her limbs had been infused with lead. Vaguely she was aware of Vance's arms wrapping around her ribcage, carefully away from her throat, and her ability to breathe suddenly cut off. The truck was veering out of control. . .

Move you stupid lazy bitch! Bloody well move!

She screamed at her body to react, but it wasn't having any of it. Painfully slowly her hand inched its way up towards her throat and the necklace there.

The left side of the truck struck something a glancing blow, the glass on that side exploding in a shower so that wind and rain could now blow straight through, unimpeded.

A jolt of pain as the back of her head jarred against Vance's jaw was enough to bring Lara slightly back to focus, like a slap across the face. Her hand closed around the necklace and she pressed it back, against his chest.

Despite the fact that it only touched him through his shirt she heard the Djab hiss shrilly in her ear and his grip on her loosened. She managed to pull clear.

The truck hit the curb and was thrown up in the air. A moment later it slammed into something unyielding and came to an abrupt and terminal stop. Lara was thrown against the dashboard and the world faded out again. . .

. . .

. . .

It was only about thirty seconds later when she came back to consciousness. Every part of her hurt and she could taste blood in her mouth – groaned aloud as she pulled herself up. For a moment she thought the ringing was coming from inside her head, then she realised that it was in fact the truck's horn, jammed on. It had slammed into a lamppost, the windscreen shattered and clouds of steam rising from the broken radiator. Luckily they'd only being going about 20mph when they hit.

There was no sign of the Djab. She was the only person still in the cab.

He was on the pavement about twenty feet away, rising to his hands and knees in the middle of a circle of broken glass. Thrown through the windscreen with the force of the crash.

As she watched a passer by leant over him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Jesus man, are you okay?"

The Djab lashed out at him, knocking him flying, then lurched jerkily to its feet. It threw a glance back at Lara and gave her a bloodstained grin. Its scalp was torn, turning half Vance's face into a red mask, and the way one shoulder hung, lopsided, suggested that it had been dislocated.

Lara started to reach for her remaining Uzi, but he broke into an uneven run, away from her and into a group of passers-by. With a sigh she forced herself to move after him.

The truck's door wouldn't budge, jammed against the frame. Without hesitation she went through the window.

She ignored the crowds of people starting to form, staring at her gape-mouthed. By sheer luck the garbage truck had missed hitting anybody when it crashed. Forcing herself between them in a hobbling run, pain flaring from her injured hip, she set off after Vance's dwindling figure.

She saw him make a left into a subway station, taking the steps two at a time. Groaning, Lara followed.

30^th March 2000, Haiti

She heard the agitation of the beetles even before she got to the drop into the cellar – a thrumming, buzzing sound that reminded her disquietingly of a voice, trying to tell her something if only she could understand. The rope had been lowered down, she saw immediately.

If she'd been ninety percent certain that Vance had been heading for the tunnel, now she had no doubt whatsoever.

Taking a deep breath, not bothering to look what awaited her below, she stuck her flashlight through her belt and grabbed hold of the rope in both hands. Then she dropped over the edge, into darkness.

The wet crunching sound and the feeling of beetles being crushed beneath her feet made Lara wince. Immediately she could feel them swarming over her feet and up her legs. Several had taken to the air too, whirring around her head and torso like miniature helicopters.

As their scratchy, fast moving legs tickled her skin she reminded herself over and over that they were harmless – concentrated on keeping her breathing calm and steady. She walked steadily towards the tunnel they'd uncovered earlier, pointedly refusing to succumb to a fit of frantically trying to brush them off. In that direction lay hysteria and panic.

She shone the flashlight down the hole. There were bootprints in the wet mud at its bottom. Vance's bootprints. There were more beetles too – either dropped down from the horde in the cellar, or another nest of them crawling up from somewhere further inside. Something tangled in her hair, wings buzzing loudly in her ear. She plucked it free.

Then she jumped down into the tunnel.

After a moment she flicked the flashlight off. Yes, there was definitely a square of brightness up ahead. It dimmed momentarily as if someone had walked in front of its source, then brightened again. She started walking soundlessly towards it. What are you up to Vance?

The mass of beetles thinned out as she got deeper inside and she started to – calmly, yes calmly – brush the ones that were still crawling over her off onto the floor. A particularly persistent individual was intent on disappearing up the inside leg of her shorts.

"I'm sorry Lara, please don't come any closer. I really don't want to have to hurt you. And lose the guns. I'd hate there to be any kind of tragic accident."

Despite the fact she was sure she hadn't made any noise he was waiting for her, that imposing looking Colt Anaconda .44 magnum pointed straight at her. Perhaps he'd seen the light of her flashlight when she'd dropped into the tunnel. Perhaps he'd simply been expecting her.

"Believe you Vance?" Lara raised an eyebrow as she lowered her gun-belt to the floor. Her gaze flicked past him, taking in details of the chamber they were standing in.

It was circular, matching the shape of the mound above them, about twenty feet across. Walls of hard-packed earth sloped inwards to a conical point, disappearing in thick shadow above their heads.

Mounted on the walls were a whole array of masks representing the Loa. To her left were the Petro Loa, centred around a particularly large and darkly handsome mask that represented Kalfu. To her right the Rada Loa, with the old man, Legba at their heart, directly opposite his dark counterpart. Piled on the floor were what she took to be offerings: barrels and boxes made from wood in various states of decay; tanbou fey drums, split and useless now; even a couple of stained and cloudy bottles of two-hundred year old Clairin.

Her gaze flicked over it all quickly, cataloguing everything in the back of her mind, but not lingering. It was what lay at the centre of the chamber that drew and held her attention.

There was a raised dais made from treated wood that looked almost black. Laid out on top of it was a body.

A frown furrowed Lara's brow as she studied it. By all rights it should have been a skeleton by now, given the damp and abundance of insects. And as far as she was aware the Haitian people of the time hadn't possessed any particular expertise in embalming and preservation techniques. Nevertheless, it looked as though it had been mummified.

Its skin had faded to a waxy looking dark grey and was stretched taut over its bones, the flesh beneath mostly collapsed. Some of the soft tissue of his face – it was clearly a man – had gone; lips nose, part of the ear; but the rest was surprisingly intact. She knew immediately that she was looking at the earthly remains of Jean-Jacques Levotré, bokor extrordinairé. In life he had, by the look of him been an extremely impressive individual, well over six feet tall.

Someone had driven seven swords through his torso, from groin to throat, pinning him to the dais as though they were afraid of him trying to get up and walk away. Lara noticed that each sword corresponded to a key point on the 'River of Life' that Vodun religion said flowed inside every living person. The swords' hilts were fashioned from gold, glinting untarnished in the light, each of them styled to represent a serpent.

The. . . Lara hesitated. . . emanations – she couldn't think of a better word to describe it – coming from the body where absolutely horrific. The urge to turn and run as far as she could from this chamber flowered inside her. She tried to strangle it down and focus her attention back on Vance.

"Where the hell's Racine? What have you done to her?" As she looked at him she noticed that Vance was sweating profusely, and not from any heat. It was hardly warm down here. There was a nervous, jittery look in his eyes.

He was scared. She knew very well that he got unreliable when he was scared.

"Racine?"

"I saw the two of you together, up on the mound. What's happened to her?"

He swallowed; managed a sickly looking smile. "You saw that then? Taken to voyeurism in your spinsterhood have you Lara?"

She gritted her teeth. "If you've done anything to her. . ."

"You'll what?" A hand came up to mop his brow. "In case you haven't noticed I've got a gun on you. A gun that's capable of blowing a hole the size of a dinner plate right through your guts."

A slight exaggeration. Although getting shot by it would be seriously unpleasant. There were more powerful handguns in the world. Just not many of them.

"So much for not wanting to hurt me, eh? So much for 'I've changed, I'm a different person'."

He took a couple of steps back from her, closer to the dais with Levotré's body pinned to it. "I've done nothing to Racine, Lara." A fractional shudder passed through his body. "Believe that if nothing else."

"Why? Because I have your word. . ."

"You know nothing at all about her do you Lara?" He cut her off, voice hard. "You still think she's that sweet and innocent little thing she pretends to be, don't you? Maybe even as the little sister you never had. . ."

"What the hell are you talking about Vance?"

He didn't answer right away, edging around the dais until Levotré's body was between them. Lara kept her gaze firmly on his face, instinctively not wanting to look at the corpse unless there was no choice. "It's an act Lara. Haven't you figured that out? A very convincing act, but an act still. She may seem like the nicest person in all of creation, but she's not." A dry, uneasy sounding chuckle. "Quite the opposite in fact. I've met some truly nasty pieces of work in my time, but jeesh. . . Beneath the surface that one is plain scary."

"You've flipped Vance. Completely flipped." Her voice had developed a tight edge.

He laughed. It sound borderline hysterical. "Flipped Lara? Believe me I wish I fucking had. At least then I might have a room with nice soft walls I could go back to."

Keep him talking. If he's talking he isn't shooting, or doing whatever the hell it is he came here to do. "Okay Vance. Tell me about Racine. Convince me. Tell me what she really is, if she's not what she seems."

"She told you some of it herself. A joke I guess, waving it in front of your face and knowing you couldn't see. About her mother being a mambo, and her father a bokor. A bokor mounted by Ti-Jean-Petro no less. Depending on how you read it that might make her a daughter of one of the Loa themselves. A dark and nasty Loa too. . . Do you know she's one of twins, Lara? Her sister died at age nine though."

Racine hadn't told her that, no. But then she hadn't told Racine a lot about herself either. "So she had a sister who died when she was a kid. I'm sorry for her. It's a tragedy. But I don't see how that has any bearing on what you're trying to say."

"Oh for god's sake Lara, don't be obtuse. You know the significance of twins in Vodou, surely?"

"Why don't you enlighten me Vance?"

He sighed in exasperation. For the moment though he seemed distracted from Levotré's body, which was the main thing. "The two sides of the crosswords. Kalfu and Legba. Darkness and light. Polar opposites forming two halves of the same whole. Yin and Yang to use a different cultural reference. Let me tell you Lara, Racine sure isn't the Yin half of the equation."

"Well I'm convinced. By that logic I now clearly see that Racine must be an evil servant of the bitter spirits of the night. I don't know how I missed it before." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

A flash of anger crossed his face, though he sublimated it quickly. "Okay Lara, scoff all you want. I can't say I blame you. But how does this grab you? I first met Racine two weeks ago. Hear that? Two weeks. Before she met you. She told me how to find this place. Told me to meet her here. I was bloody surprised when I saw you with her, let me tell you."

Lara felt like she'd been slapped. "You're lying."

"Lying?" He snorted. "Why would I lie? Oh I admit I have lied before on occasion. A nasty habit, like drinking to excess or smoking really. Call it a character flaw. I'm not a saint. But I'm not lying now. Believe it or not. I don't suppose it really matters." His gaze dropped to Levotré's body , travelling down its length. "Man I'm glad I'm not going to be around to see myself when I get in this condition. Fucking disgusting. Do you know what we were doing up on the mound when you saw us? Well apart from the bloody obvious. . ."

Lara made no response so he continued. "It was her idea you know. That surprise you? I know you think I'd screw anything female if I was given half a chance, but I've honestly changed in that regard. I've found someone. Someone I care about. . ."

"Yes. Right. I saw that clearly."

There was another flash of anger in his eyes. She noted that his gun was no longer pointing directly at her, wandered off slightly to the left. "Listen. She isn't the sort of person you can say no to. You've noticed, surely. She persuaded you to come here didn't she? Anyway, I'll admit it was no hardship. It wasn't about sex though."

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. Inside she was churning, going back over every single event of the past couple days in minute detail. "What was it about then?"

"You saw what happened didn't you? She wanted to provoke that. . . that thing – whatever the hell it was – into breaking the circle. Supposedly it would destroy some kind of. . . ward? Mumbo jumbo bullshit whatever."

Mumbo jumbo bullshit that had caused a massive explosion of green fire. She kept silent though; let him continue.

"Anyway, I don't think either of us will be seeing her again Lara. She said that she'd had enough of the games. That I was able to finish it from here." She saw something cross his face – something like fear, or desperation. It was quickly gone. "Then she walked off, into the woods. Stark bloody naked would you believe?"

They stared at each other in silence across the mummified and impaled body. "You're talking crap Vance. I'll admit you had me going for a minute or so – it's more convincing than your usual bullshit; maybe because it all sounds too outlandish for anyone to make up. But there's an enormous great hole right through everything you've said. If Racine really is all that you make out, why the hell would she go to the trouble of involving me in this? She'd have to know that I would try to hinder you. Can you explain that for me?" She shook her head disgustedly. "You know, you really make me sick sometimes Vance. You're pathetic."

There was a strange, bleak look in his eyes. "Yeah, I've been wondering about that as well. It would have been a whole lot easier if she'd left you lazing around on the beach where she found you. I don't know, maybe she saw the 'famed adventurer' and thought she'd have some fun. She does have a very warped sense of humour. Maybe there was some other purpose you've already unwittingly served. Maybe the bitch just wanted to make me work for my money. She didn't confide in me."

"I still don't believe you." The words were forced through gritted teeth.

"As I said, what do I care? But I think you do. You have that hurt, betrayed look on your face."

Lara forced herself to stay calm – not to do anything rash. Something Vance had said suddenly registered. "Finish what Vance? What is it you're going to finish? What the hell is this all about , really? Levotré here? Or perhaps something to do with that story Racine told me? The one about the Djab."

He shrugged. "Levotré? As far as I know he's just a mouldy old sack of bones, useless to anybody. And that story? Pathetic voodoo bullshit. A fairytale. Nothing more. Surely you don't believe any of that rubbish." His hand came out to touch the serpentine hilt of one of the swords pinning the corpse to the dais – stroked it idly. Lara felt herself flinching back, half expecting some awful doom to be unleashed. "No, it's all about these babies. Somebody wants them – wants them very badly indeed. They're worth a considerable sum."

"So it's all about money Vance. Like always with you. I should have bloody guessed."

"Haven't you realised yet Lara? Most of what's important in life is about money. It's the human disease – something we've invented to torment ourselves with." His voice sounded bitter. "It's not quite how you think though."

"Care to explain how it is then, Vance?"

He didn't reply, instead gripping the hilt of the first of the swords – the one penetrating Levotré's groin – firmly, and tugging. Lara started forward to stop him, knowing instinctively that removing those swords was a very bad idea.

"Ah, ah." Suddenly the gun was pointing straight at her chest. "No closer please." Vance gave the sword another one-handed tug but it didn't budge, firmly embedded in the dais. He grimaced in frustration. "You know Lara it's always been so fucking easy for you. Born with a silver spoon up your arse, or whatever the expression is. You've never had to struggle. I wouldn't expect you to be able to understand."

And you have Vance? Yes, for you life's been a real bitch. She didn't say anything though, letting him continue.

"You don't understand, living in your own cosy little world. No responsibilities. No one who depends on you. You can do whatever the fuck you like without having to think about anybody else. So who the hell are you to judge me Lara? You don't know what it's like to have money problems. To be in debt with some very nasty people breathing down your neck, threatening you and the person you love." He clamped up tight, obviously having let slip more than he intended. She could see the muscles of his neck twitching, a look of barely contained desperation on his face. "This is the one chance I've got to pay back what I owe. And I'm not going to let you interfere with it. I can't."

"If it's money that you want I can lend it to you Vance. You don't have to do this."

A snorting burst of laughter. "Yeah, right. You'd just give me the money out the goodness of your heart? I'm afraid it's a little too late for that. The price has been settled. Anyway, what are you so worried about a few old swords for? You think old carcass features here is going to come to life the moment I pull them out?"

She didn't know what she thought was going to happen exactly. As she watched, Vance made another one handed attempt to pull the first of the swords free, bicep muscle straining. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. The wood of the dais creaked and groaned, but the sword didn't budge so much as an inch. After a few further moments straining Vance let go of it. "Why the fuck does everything have to be complicated?" His face twisted into a snarl.

"You know Lara, this puts me in a bit of a dilemma." He lifted the gun back towards her again. "It looks like I need to use both hands to get these blasted swords free. And I'm afraid I don't trust you just to stand around quietly while I'm pulling them out."

"So you're going to shoot me? Is that it?" She planted her hands on her hips and tossed her head back. "I've become an inconvenience so you're going to murder me in cold blood. Well you might as well get it over with then. No sense in hanging about."

"Christ, you've really become a bitch in your old age, haven't you Lara? Believe me I'm sorely tempted." Still keeping the gun carefully trained on her he reached into his pocket and produced a strange looking object.

It appeared to be a length of intricately carved bone. There was a gleaming metal needle protruding from the top, and secured to it with bright red twine, a few sprigs of herbs plus a lock of hair. Lara's hair.

"I think I'll give this a try first though, hey Lara? Racine made it – cut a strand of your hair off when we found you unconscious in the mud. Still believe she's your friend do you Lara? She claimed I could use it to 'keep you occupied'. Normally I wouldn't believe that kind of thing myself, but what the heck. I've seen some weird shit tonight already, so why not?"

"Vance. . ."

Before she got any further he jabbed his thumb down onto the needle, drawing a bead of dark, glittering blood. "Really Lara, I hope this doesn't do you any permanent harm. If only for the sake of what we once had together."

"What we once had together. . ?" Lara trailed off as she became aware of a sudden cold – a draft that sprang up from directly between herself and Vance.

A dark stain appeared, hanging on the air in front of her. It seemed to sap the light, and through it everything – Vance, Levotré's body, the swords – became blurred and indistinct. As she stared at it – whatever the hell it was – a sense of primordial dread mounted within her. Involuntarily, she took first one, then a second step away from it. The darkness began to coalesce, becoming deeper and colder – starting to take on a definite shape.

"Vance!" There was an edge of desperation to Lara's voice. "Has it even occurred to you to wonder what whoever's paying you wants the swords for?"

She saw him – little more than a silhouette now – shrug. "W-What is it to me?" There was unmistakable fear as he spoke. He obviously hadn't expected to see any effects quite so dramatic or immediate. "I have to do this. I have no choice. It doesn't matter a damn what they want them for."

"No?" The darkness was almost solid now, and it was clearly taking the shape of a human – two arms, two legs, a head level with her own. "So the fact that whoever sent you here already knew exactly where this place, and the swords, were doesn't worry you? It doesn't make you at all suspicious as to why they need you to retrieve them?"

The shadow figure in front of her was female Lara realised with a jolt. The form it was taking was distinctly feminine in shape.

"Shut up Lara. I will not let your lies and insinuations sway me." She could see that he had holstered his gun and was in the process of working the first sword free with both hands now, muscles straining.

A forward roll took her to her gun-belt, just to the side of the forming darkness. She grabbed it. The darkness moved.

It touched her.

Numbing chill swept over her. It felt like she had suddenly been plunged, naked, into an icy river. Lara didn't realise she'd been thrown back until she found herself lying flat out, gasping for breath, beside the chamber entrance. She struggled to her knees, the gun-belt still in her hands.

Palmetto beetles were filing into the chamber past her. A great black tide of them. Her gaze flicked across to Vance. He'd just managed to prise the first of the seven swords free; was laying it down beside Levotré's body. Immediately he went to work on the second one.

"Vance!"

He didn't so much as glance across at her. Then the dark-wrought figure was moving towards her and she had to pull her attention away from him. As she stared at it, closing rapidly, she realised she was looking at a shadow-formed reflection of herself.

1^st April 2000, New York

Lara vaulted over the ticket gate and sprinted down the escalator, dodging between the scattering of nighttime commuters. She ignored the pain spiking through her bruised hip with each step, pressing herself to even greater pace. Ahead of her she caught a glimpse of the Djab's trailing coat as it disappeared round a corner in front of her.

Behind, a belated cry of protest went up from the security guard she'd just passed. She didn't look back, not overly concerned. He'd looked to be well into his fifties with a gut large enough that'd he'd have trouble with anything faster than a quick waddle.

A train was just pulling up as she rounded onto the semi-deserted platform. The Djab was about thirty yards in front of her and she was just in time to see his broad-shouldered form as he barged through the opening doors three carriages along from her.

She started to run for the same carriage, but the doors started so close so she dove through the nearest available pair, just making it inside before they hissed shut.

As she looked around Lara was aware of every eye in the half-empty carriage fixed on her, staring. She was quite a sight, drenched to skin and filthy with dirt and oil from the garbage truck. Her face was battered and bruised, and her hair had worked halfway free of its braid in a harridan tangle. They looked away quickly, sinking down into their seats as if it would help them escape her notice, avoiding her gaze. Obviously a mad woman.

Swaying and jolting, the train pulled away.

Lara started to move in the direction she'd seen Vance get on, pushing through the doors that separated the carriages.

"Hey, watch the hell where you're goin' lady."

Lara murmured an apology to the man she'd just barged past but didn't slow or look back. Someone's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, momentarily staying her progress.

"Wha's the hurry babe? Why don' you join us a while. No sense in rushin' darlin'" The speaker was a suited city type in his thirties, obviously more than slightly the worse for drink. Two equally drunken companions joined in with his laughter.

Lara showed him the Uzi and a hard smile, tugging free as he slumped back into his seat, wide-eyed and cowed. "Would you look at the ass on that," she heard one of the less observant or drunker of the three comment. "I wouldn't mind doing her. Heck I'd even pay for it." The voice faded as she pushed through another set of doors, into the next carriage.

There was a large African-American man, collapsed in the middle of the aisle in front of her, blood streaming from his face. The Djab. She caught a glimpse of Vance's broad back and bedraggled blonde locks, disappearing through into the carriage ahead – hurdled the down man and quickened into an all out run.

It turned, offering her a bloodstained grin, the gore that encrusted half Vance's face giving him a wild, psychotic look. She pulled the Uzi. Beside her someone screamed.

The Djab moved astonishingly quickly. The tinniest fraction of a second's delay – a hesitation about shooting someone she had once been in love with – and it was too late. A weary looking woman with greying brown hair had been yanked from her seat, held around the throat with one hand as a human shield.

"Larrra. So very persistent. If you show this much energy in bed I begin to see why that walking cock, the Baron chose you." A chuckle, pink bubbles of saliva appearing in the corners of its grinning mouth. "I can twist this fanm's head straight off. You know I can."

The woman's eyes were staring up at the carriage's ceiling, as if she was trying to convince herself all this was only a dream; that it wasn't really happening.

"Djab, is this how you plan to have your revenge upon Kalfu? Running in panic halfway across New York away from some ignorant peche woman, then taking defenceless people hostage to protect yourself. I'm sure he's watching this right now, laughing himself silly at just how weak and pathetic you really are."

The Djab hissed, the sound unlike anything that should have emanated from a living human. She saw the flesh of its throat convulse, distending hideously. Someone else obviously saw it too. There was another scream and an 'Oh my god'. The train was slowing perceptibly now, coming up to another station.

It spat, hitting her full in the face.

She gasped, jumping back in reflexive shock. The beetle scuttled down her face, dripping bloody saliva, its legs like miniature razors, leaving bloody little scratches across her skin. Just before it plunged inside she managed to clamp her mouth tight shut. It tried to burrow against her lips and clenched teeth, then gave up, turning around and heading back up her cheek towards her eye socket.

Her hand came up to bat it away, then her boot descended, crushing it against the floor.

The train was coming to a halt, doors sliding open. The Djab shoved the woman into Lara's arms, making her stumble backwards, then darted out onto the platform in a lurching, uneven simulation of a sprint.

Lara untangled herself from the woman, shoving her unceremoniously aside. The doors closed on her as she tried to exit, and though it was easy enough to lever herself through as the train started to pull away from the platform the Djab managed to stretch out its lead to fifty or so yards.

She sighted on the back of its head as it wove back and forth through the scattering of people. With a sigh she lowered the gun and started after him again. Still too much chance of hitting an innocent bystander.

The Djab went straight past the exit leading up to the street without a sideways glance. At the end of the platform it didn't hesitate, leaping down onto the tracks and running full pelt into the darkness of the tunnel.

Lara let out a burst from the Uzi as soon as she was clear of any people, bullets raising sparks off the tracks. If she hit the Djab it gave no sign, not slowing any.

She leapt down onto the tracks after it, listening out for the sounds or vibrations that would signal an approaching train. For the moment there was nothing. Just to her left as she ran, she was extremely conscious of the single rail carrying several tens of thousands of volts of electricity.

The gap between them closed steadily as the brightness from the station behind them faded. She squeezed off a single shot on the fly, but the Djab – as though possessing some kind of intuitive danger sense – chose that exact same moment to stumble. The bullet whizzed past its ear.

As she was pausing to steady her aim, Lara became aware of a thrumming vibration, transmitting itself through the soles of her boots and up her legs. There was a waft of displaced air from behind her, followed by an ominous sounding grumble. Immediately she was scrambling up onto a narrow maintenance walkway scarcely a foot across. The Djab went for the other side of the tunnel.

Then the train was sweeping past, no more than an inch or two of space between the sides of its carriages and her face. Warm, stale wind whipped at her clothing, trying to pluck her from her precarious position. Vibrations jolted her entire body as its roar filled her head. The train seemed to go on and on forever.

Finally it was past. She realised that she'd completely lost sight of the Djab.

Damn.

Her gaze darted all around, trying to pick up a trace of it – a maintenance door it could have gone through or something. There was no sign. Advancing slowly and silently, she could feel the tension mounting within her by the moment. Where the hell had it gone?

Lara sensed rather than saw the movement behind her, spinning round instantly.

It had doubled back on her, jumping all the way across the track behind the train so it was now on the same side as she was. She caught a glimpse of its arm swinging – its wide, inhuman grin. Then she was flying sideways, landing with a bone-jarring thud across the rails. Her wrist hit something unyielding and the Uzi skittered free of her grasp.

She just managed to twist aside as it jumped down on top of her, avoiding its stamping feet by a matter of inches. As it aimed a vicious kick that would have cracked her skull she lashed out, taking its standing leg out from under it and sending it crashing onto its backside. It avoided landing on the live rail by a matter of inches.

Her hand closed around the grip of the Uzi and she tried to regain her feet.

It tackled her hard from behind, its full weight smashing down on top of her, knocking the breath from her lungs. As she struggled to free herself its balled fist slammed into the base of her spine, transforming her back into a sheet of incandescent pain.

She kicked out and twisted violently, but its grip on her just got inexorably tighter until it felt like she was going to be snapped in half by its horrendous strength.

Gritting her teeth against the pain, able to feel her spine creaking, Lara twisted the Uzi round in her grasp and aimed it over her shoulder. Turning her face to one side, she pulled the trigger.

That close the noise was horrendous, making her ears ring. She felt the heat of the muzzle flash against her cheek and dimly heard the Djab screaming as bullets ripped into it. The crushing grip loosened and she twisted around onto her back, kicking out hard with both feet, catching it flush in the chest as it staggered to its feet and sending it stumbling backwards.

It just managed to catch itself before it fell against the live rail. Lara swore.

The bullet holes – in its shoulders and upper back, plus a long raw furrow down the side of its face – blazed momentarily, burning from within. A strange shrieking wail came continuously from its throat. Then the light faded from the wounds and the shrieking stopped. The flow of blood began to slow. Empty green-eyes stared down at her. "Anyone would think you were trying to kill your old lover." Its voice rasped as though it had damaged Vance's vocal cords. The chuckle it gave sounded like grinding metal.

Breathing hard Lara pulled herself to her feet, forcing aside the multitude of pains that filled her. She aimed the gun at its chest. "I'm sorry Vance. If there's any of you still left in there able to hear this, I hope you understand what I've got to do."

The Djab was looking over her shoulder, down the tunnel. "Ah, about time too. Reinforcements."

"If you think I'm falling for that trick then you're sadly mistaken, Djab. That one was old even in your time." Fighting down the doubts and swirling emotions – blinking back a couple of tears – Lara's finger tightened on the trigger.

Something hit her hard in the back. The spray of bullets went wide.

She rolled out from under her new assailant, trying to get a fix with the Uzi. It swatted it aside, knocking the gun spinning from her grasp. Then it tried to bury her under its bulk.

Dimly she was aware of Vance's body climbing up from the tracks – several other figures standing on the maintenance walkways. This was where it had been since it had arrived in New York she realised suddenly, taking the first steps towards building its empire unobtrusively beneath the streets.

Her attacker's shoulder hit her in the midriff, knocking her backwards onto the tracks. She could smell the sourness of stale sweat and spilled alcohol, its clothes a stained and jumbled mismatch. Its face, blank eyed and bearded, hovered over hers, stinking breath assailing her from close range. Some poor homeless person who no one would notice if anything happened to them.

Beneath her the rails began to thrum. She became aware of a distant roaring, quiet at the moment but intensifying rapidly.

The weight on top of her was crushing. The vibrations beneath her grew stronger.

The Djab was going to keep her pinned to the track until the train arrived. What matter that it sacrificed one of its own bodies in the process? It had plenty, and the only one it seemed to show any concern for was Vance's. . .

She didn't struggle. She could feel its strength and realised that it would do no good in the time she had left. Instead she locked her hands around the back of its skull and pulled its face down, towards her.

The approaching roar was like thunder. Just seconds left now. The Djab's forehead pressed against the necklace of glass beads around her neck.

The shriek was inhuman, rising even over the uproar of the approaching train. Suddenly the Djab's grip on her was gone and it was staggering down the centre of the track, seemingly trying to tear its own eyes out.

Lara could see the lights of the train now, approaching at a horrendous rate. Desperately she rolled to one side.

Then the train was on her. A moment later there was a sickening thud. She cringed back, trying to make herself as small as she possibly could. Steel wheels whipped past, severing the last couple of inches of her braid where it had fallen onto the track, showering sparks into her face. Her heart was hammering with adrenaline-fuelled terror, her breath coming in gulping sobs.

As the train's wheels were still streaming past she started to crawl forward as fast as she could manage on elbows and knees. If she stayed where she was now, unarmed, she'd be a sitting duck for the Djab as soon as she was out of the train's cover.

By the time the last of the carriages were past Lara had managed to make it nearly twenty yards beyond the Djab's position. She sprang to her feet, leaping up onto the walkway and heading forward in a run.

No cry alarm went up behind her. That would have been like the Djab talking to itself. Instead, one set of eyes looking in her direction saw her the moment as she got off the track. Every other pair turned, periscope-like, towards her. She heard their footsteps pounding behind her; forced herself to inject more pace.

Was it running from me all this time? Or was it simply luring me into a trap? Just at the moment the second choice seemed much more likely.

The walkway was extremely narrow and precarious. Even thinking about it was likely to be enough of a distraction to induce a slip or stumble. She just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the others as quickly and smoothly as she could manage. Ahead of her the tunnel was curving round, meaning she could see nothing beyond a few metres in front of her.

All things considered this was not turning out well.

It got worse.

Suddenly she could hear footsteps approaching from up ahead, more figures rounding into view, blocking her way.

Definitely the second choice.

Lara skidded to a halt – started to back away. A glance over her shoulder showed that her pursuers, Vance at their head, had just blocked off any possibility of retreat.

"Larrra." Another rasping, metallic chuckle. Bloody spittle dripped from Vance's mouth and she could see more of the beetles that infested his body, crawling beneath his skin and making his flesh bulge. The bullet holes appeared to have stopped bleeding – were certainly not impairing him any. "Dearest Vance is so going to enjoy this next bit."

30^th March 2000, Haiti

Lara pulled herself back to her feet again. This time she took noticeably longer than before, her breath coming raggedly and her legs trembling like those of a newborn foal. Shivers wracked her body constantly and her extremities felt numb. She viewed the world through a descending veil of blackness.

I can't take much more of this.

Suddenly even fear felt like too much effort. Her shadow-self started to close the gap between them again. If it touched her again she wasn't sure she'd be able to get up.

Back in the centre of the chamber Vance had just pulled the fourth sword free of Levotré's body – immediately commenced work on the fifth. He didn't appear to notice the horde of beetles congregating around the dais and his ankles, crawling over one another in restless tides.

Crack! Crack! The twin muzzle flashes made shadow-Lara flinch back, both bullets tearing into its translucent, momentarily illuminated form.

Lara's hands shook, scarcely able to support the weight of the guns anymore, let alone aim properly. In the few fractions of a second she'd bought she skipped back, gaining herself several further precious feet of space. Then she pulled the triggers twice more. Click. Click.

A sense of numb despair. Twenty-four bullets had now unerringly found their target. Twenty-four bullets absorbed into the thing's shadowy substance without trace of either entry or exit. Or any other tangible effect.

As it began to close again Lara started to fumble for something in her pack. Her brain had taken on the consistency of treacle from the thing's repeated numbing touches. Finally her hand closed on the box of glow-sticks. . . moved past. A tiny part of her screamed at the rest in frustration. The glow-sticks are what you want you idiot!

The fifth sword slid free. Unnoticed, beetles began to crawl up Vance's legs.

Lara tried another flip, to take herself out of her shadow-self's reach as she had done so many times over the past several, eternal minutes. The energy and co-ordination had gone though, fizzled away to nothing. All she succeeded in doing was to land in a graceless heap on the floor.

Desperately she made another attempt to reach the glow-sticks.

The world in front of her became dark and cold. Her fingers fumbled with the box's lid. She could feel the shadow rushing towards her, terror surging with its approach. Her fingers closed. She snapped the seal – desperately swung her fist.

Waves of icy blackness washed over her. Distantly she could here screaming. It sounded very much like herself. Strange – there wasn't any pain.

Then the cold and darkness subsided somewhat, retreating from on top of her. The part of Lara that still cared – that held the determination and warrior-spirit, which had always kept her going in the past – forced her eyes to focus.

Her shadow-self was bathed in sickly, flickering green light; denuded of its veil of shadows – an insubstantial, empty looking shade. It was spinning round and round like a dervish, hands clawed and tearing at its stomach, bouncing from one wall of the passage to the other. The glow-stick was embedded in its midsection like a knife, pouring lambent brilliance straight into its substance.

The noise it was making was horrendous – the damned being tormented in a special, private hell. Worse because the screaming was in her own voice. As she watched Lara saw holes appear in its form, shafts of green radiance shining out.

Her eyes focused beyond it.

Straining with effort, sweat running down his torso in streams, Vance pulled the sixth sword free. For a moment he held it up before his face, staring at the tarnished blade.

Lara saw Levotré's desiccated body twitch. There was a moment when she thought that it was doing like Vance had earlier suggested so disparagingly – coming back to life. Then she realised there was something inside, moving, making the mummified flesh bulge. She could feel the raw hatred and anger of it, twisted to insanity after being left to fester for so many years.

Seemingly oblivious, Vance placed the sixth sword down with the previous five. With both hands he gripped the hilt of the seventh and last.

"Don't!" Lara pulled herself to her feet using the wall as a support. She lurched past her still wailing shadow-self, back into the chamber.

Vance looked up at her, eyes wild. His expression was barely human.

"For Christsake stop! Can't you see what's happening? Can't you feel it?"

Levotré's torso had stopped moving, the thing inside it falling still. Lara could feel it; malevolent, waiting.

"Feel it?" Vance sounded disconnected from reality. "I feel nothing. You're imagining things Lara. Hysterical. Just like a woman."

"The beetles. Don't you see the goddamned beetles?"

He looked down at himself, vague surprise registering. Now his trousers were black with them below the knees, and several of them had gone further, crawling over his thighs. One of them even ran up his bare stomach and chest as she watched. Up until this moment he hadn't even noticed them.

"So there are beetles Lara. So what? Have you got something against beetles?" He resumed pulling at the remaining sword.

Lara wanted to scream. Summoning all of her slowly returning strength she tried to rush him. She wasn't quick enough.

He released his grip on the sword, pulled his gun, and fired before she was even halfway to him. As she dove to the floor in an attempt to avoid it, she felt the .44 magnum slug fly past her face.

"Come any closer and I will shoot you Lara. I don't want to, but if you force me I won't hesitate. I can't allow you to stop me. I have too much staked on this."

Behind her the glow stick embedded in her shadow-self's stomach flickered out. The wailing stopped.

Pulling herself back to her feet Lara didn't notice. Her attention was too intently focused on Vance, his gun, and Levotré's corpse. And her peripheral awareness wasn't what it ordinarily was.

Tattered and diminished, but still just about in one piece, it flew at her.

Too late she saw its reflection in Vance's eyes – an onrushing darkness. It hit her in the back, sending her sprawling. The numbing cold was less than before, but it still left her gasping, her vision blurring and her body wracked by a renewed bout of shakes.

She rolled over onto her back as shadow-Lara descended on her like an avenging angel. Darkness and cold enveloped her.

Her fingers clawed for another glow-stick as her shadow-self raked her with its icy touch, leaving angry red welts behind. She could feel the life and strength draining inexorably from her body.

Vance put his gun aside and went back to working the last sword free.

Lara's lungs had stopped functioning, unable to draw in breath. Above her all she could see was endless shadow; roaring darkness. Trembling fingers tried to ignite the glow-stick but suddenly lacked any co-ordination. She screamed in frustration but it came out as little more than a strangled gasp. A second attempt. No better result. Suddenly the world seemed to be dropping away beneath her into a vast, dark abyss.

One final try, every single ounce of will focusing on getting that one hand to co-ordinate properly. Fading. Fading. Fading. . .

The seal snapped. Chemical's mixed. Green radiance flooded out. Crying out to focus, Lara slammed it as hard as she could manage into the side of her shadow-self's head.

It fell back, screaming to wake the dead. Suddenly Lara could breath again.

She took another glow-stick, lighting it and lunging forward, impaling shadow-Lara's thigh. A third glow-stick was rammed into its side, just above its hip. A forth. . . slipped from her fingers and bounced across the floor. She collapsed onto her hands and knees, sucking in ragged lungfuls of air and sobbing, the numb exhaustion simply too much for her.

It didn't matter. Her shadow-self was disintegrating, the green luminance tearing it apart from within; ripping it asunder. Suddenly its agonised shrieking stopped, as abruptly as if a switch had been flipped.

It fell apart in a cascade of clear, watery liquid. The three glow-sticks clattered to the floor.

"Vance!" She tried to stand but her legs wobbled wildly and gave way. "If you remove that sword you will die. Hear me? This is a set up. Whoever sent you here only wants you to remove the swords to release what's inside the body. They can't do it themselves because it's liable to be a bit pissed off when it gets free and kill anyone in the vicinity on sight. Are you understanding any of this?"

A second attempt to stand also resulted in ignominious failure.

"That's fascinating Lara." A grimace twisted Vance's face as he strained to pull the sword free, little pieces of Levotré's body crumbling away as he did so. "Did you think that up just now, all by yourself?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake Vance. Try to get your head out of your arse for a moment and think!" She reached into her pack, searching for spare clips for her pistols. If she had to shoot him to stop him then so be it. . .

She was cut off by his exclamation of triumph. The last sword was in his hand, a few dried remnants of Levotré still clinging to the blade. He was grinning down at her. "See Lara? No great doom has descended on me. This didn't need to have been so difficult for either of us. If only you hadn't overreacted so. . ."

Lara was scarcely hearing his words. Instead she was watching the tide of beetles flowing up his legs in mounting horror. Suddenly Jean-Jacques Levotré's desiccated body erupted.

The corpse's chest cavity exploded in a great cascade of dry grey flesh and bone fragments. As Vance's gaze dropped towards it something small shot out of the football-sized hole that had been created, its movements a blur; too fast to properly see.

His jaw dropped in amazement. The small, fast moving thing leapt powerfully upwards. It landed on his face.

Vance was instantaneously paralysed, his body stiffening convulsively. Lara could see his face fixed tight in a startled grimace, mouth still gaping open, eyes wide with panic. Just for a moment the thing that had shot out of Levotré's body was still, and she was able to see it in stark detail.

It was a beetle, slightly larger than her clenched fist, its gleaming carapace covered in vivid patterns of red and black. It was like no beetle she had seen before, looking as hard and sharp as if it was made from steel and gemstones. Even the flesh devouring swarms of scarabs she had encountered in Egypt paled before the sheer malevolence that she sensed pouring off this specimen.

The Djab from the story Racine had told her. The 'malevolent ghostie' from the Scotsman's journal. The one that had been condemned by Kalfu to only mount beetles. The thing that Jean-Jacques Levotré had supposedly once tried to raise. . .

She knew it with sudden, horrible clarity.

Then it moved again, thrusting its way inside Vance's gaping mouth.

Lara saw his cheeks bulge as the huge beetle's hindquarters disappeared from view. Vance's eyes were filled with a sudden, stark terror. The flesh of his throat and neck stretched and distended more than she had imagined was possible.

A moment later the flood of Palmetto beetles swept up his torso, a black, gleaming many-legged tide. They poured into his still open mouth, and down inside the belt of his trousers. His throat bulged and contracted continuously, and she was able to imagine them streaming down inside his body.

It was a sight out of nightmare.

Her hands shook violently as she tried to change the clip, fumbling it.

Eventually the swarm of beetles disappeared. There were still a few hundred, wandering idly around the chamber floor, apparently harmless – perhaps resistant to the control of the Djab. The bulk of them, though, had vanished inside Vance's body.

As she continued to stare she could see his skin rippling and moving like liquid, beetles burrowing through his flesh. The terror on his face had faded, and now all that was left behind was cold dead-eyed emptiness. Aside from the shifting of the beetles within his body he was as motionless as a statue.

She managed to finish changing one of the clips, though her arm shook violently as she tried to aim. The numbing malaise from the fight with her shadow-self still held her firmly in its grip.

"I see a vast forest of steel trees."

The shock of hearing Vance's voice stayed Lara from pulling the trigger. It was subtly different than before, inflection skewed and the east-coast American accent blurred with something else.

"A forest infested with people like a swarm of ants. It shall belong to me."

Suddenly Vance's body was striding around the dais towards her. The first few paces were uneven and stumbling, but they smoothed out rapidly.

"Don't move!" She found herself unwilling – unable – to pull the trigger on him. It was Vance. Whatever she thought of him now, she could still remember once loving him.

It was hard to kill such memories.

The Djab ignored Lara completely, not even bothering to glance at her. It merely swatted her out of its path with a casual flick of one arm.

She landed over six feet away, the breath blasted from her body and the Browning pistol flying from her grasp. By the time she'd pulled herself, panting for breath, back onto her hands and knees Vance's broad back was already retreating down the passageway towards the cellar.

When she eventually managed to force herself to her feet, her entire body shaking from the exertion, he had vanished from view entirely.

At least, she told herself, she knew where it was going.

New York: A vast forest of steel trees infested with humans like ants.

1^st April 2000, New York

"Doesn't this all strike you as being a little bit futile?" Lara's gaze shifted from one group of the Djab possessed to the other, looking for an out. "I mean, as armies go this is a bit pathetic isn't it? You're hardly going to rule the world, or put much fear into Kalfu or anything."

"So you suggest that I simply go back to hiding in the woods, scurrying around, frightened of anyone and everything, do you little one?"

"Point," Lara had to concede. It was hardly a persuasive argument "But this is only going to last until Kalfu notices you. And crushes you. . . like a bug."

A toneless laugh. "You don't understand, do you Larrra? Kalfu may not touch me. I am beyond His grasp."

"But you can hardly touch Kalfu either. So much for your great revenge." Lara could feel herself sweating, her body straining to run. If only there was somewhere to run to. "In fact right now you're probably doing his work for him."

"That is where you are wrong little one. The minds of these cheval have power. Small and insignificant individually perhaps. . . But together. . . When I number in the tens of thousands I will be unstoppable. There will be a reckoning between us."

"Uh-huh."

"If you take that ugly, stinking piece of tat from around your neck I would give you a demonstration of what I can do, even now."

"Another time maybe."

Hands reached out for her. In desperation she leapt forward, straight across the track.

Time stood still as she hung in the air, and for a moment there was an awful, vertiginous certainty that she wasn't go to make it. That she was going to fall short and land on the live rail; be cooked.

Her feet hit the walkway on the other side, her body slamming hard against the concrete tunnel wall. She scrabbled frantically to retain her balance. Then she was off and running again.

Behind her Lara heard one of the Djab's bodies try to emulate the leap. Less agile than her, it came up short. She heard the sizzling crack; smelt the burnt ozone stench of frying hair and cooking flesh.

The others surged across the track by more conventional means, hot upon her heels. This time, breath coming hard and starting to burn in her lungs, she didn't seem to be able to pull out any kind of lead, the sound of multiple pairs of feet pounding relentlessly behind her.

Up ahead two sets of parallel track merged into the one tunnel. Lara could feel the vibrations of another train; see the glare of its lights, rapidly approaching. Without hesitation she made another leap, right across the track in front of it.

It was easier this time with a running start.

As she flattened herself against the wall there was a sickening thud behind her – another of the Djab's bodies caught by the front of the train, trying to make it across the track with too little to spare. Then the sound was lost in the roaring and the wind as the train whipped past her. Belatedly its brakes shrieked, raising showers of sparks as it tried to stop.

There was a maintenance door up ahead, hanging half open with its padlock shattered. Lara plunged inside.

The metal floor clanged beneath her feet. Around her dirty electric guide-lights flickered and hummed. The walls were tight either side of her shoulders and she could hear liquid gurgling through pipes.

There was a branch ahead. At random she took the left.

The wrong decision.

In front of her was another door. It was locked. She rattled it in its frame, flinging her shoulder hard against it. All that achieved was painful bruising. Bloody hell. Behind her she could hear footsteps clanging on metal as the Djab entered the maintenance tunnel, closing fast.

Breath coming in ragged gasps, she sprinted back towards the branch point.

Vance loomed out of the passageway ahead – a huge and frightening apparition. As she dodged around him his hand closed on the back of her leather jacket; started to reel her in with dreadful strength.

She managed to free her arms from the garment's sleeves.

The Djab staggered back against the wall as the jacket came off in its hands. Freed, Lara made a break for it again, sprinting down the opposite passage. She heard its frustrated bellow echoing after her.

Thankfully this door opened as she turned the handle. She emerged into another subway tunnel. Left or right?

She made a third choice. Her body, battered and bruised in more places than she could count, was approaching exhaustion. The Djab she suspected, wasn't even tired – and would not tire in the near future. If all she did was try to run blindly it would eventually get her. She had to find a way to beat it while she was still physically capable.

Quickly Lara removed the string of beads from around her neck and wrapped them tightly around her fist to form a crude knuckle-duster. If she could just manage to destroy Vance – that giant red and black beetle inside him. . . Kill the head and the body dies.

He came charging through the door, straight at her. She swung at him.

Her bead-wrapped fist connected with his jaw and for once it had an effect on him, knocking him off the walkway and down onto the tracks on his back. For a moment he just lay there, garbled, disconnected noises emerging from his throat.

Lara could hear other footsteps approaching rapidly. She slammed the maintenance door shut behind her, looking round for something to bar it with. There was nothing. Bugger.

One of Vance's hands clamped tight around her ankle, yanking her leg out from under her.

She went over, unable to stop herself, landing several feet in front of the Djab on the track. Her wrist jarred agonisingly against a rail. The string of beads flew from her grasp.

Hissing through its teeth in triumph, the Djab sprang at her as she struggled back to her feet. It hit her with its full weight, blasting her over backwards, stunning her. Then it's hands grasped the front of her tee-shirt, shaking her furiously like a rag doll in the jaws of a Rottweiler until all resistance was gone and she was clinging to consciousness by her fingernails.

When awareness started to come back Lara found herself held, suspended just inches over the live rail. She could feel as well as hear the thrumming electrical whine as tens of thousands of volts of electricity passed right beside her face.

"If I drop you little one, you will fry, your flesh cooking in its own juices. One of my bodies has already experienced it. Believe me, it is a cruel and agonising death." Vance's face was right in front of her own, teeth bared in a bloody snarl. His breath was sour. Obviously neglecting the dental hygiene recently. You should watch that. You wouldn't want to get tooth decay. . . she had to stifle a giggle. Her blood was roaring in her ears, her brain feeling disconnected from the situation.

"But no. I have a better use for you, my cheval." Suddenly it was lifting her up, away from the rail. "I will enjoy riding you I'm sure. Your mind is strong. I regret I didn't take you when I first laid eyes on you. In my defence. . . Well I was distracted by the wondrous visions of this place. It truly is magnificent."

Then two more of the Djab's bodies were leaping down onto the tracks. One grabbed each of her arms, yanking her upright between them with brutal strength. She caught a glimpse of something glinting on the track – the necklace Baron Samedi had given her. The roaring inside her head slowly subsiding, she was just about connected enough to remember its importance. The toe of her boot managed to snag it.

Vance's hand grasped her jaw, forcing her head back, fingers gouging white lines in her flesh. As he squeezed her jaw came involuntarily open. Lara struggled desperately against the two men holding her, but their grip was like iron; didn't give an inch.

"Be still. I could try to pull your arms from your sockets." Suddenly both figures were stretching hard, the pain that shot through her shoulder joints excruciating. "I'm not sure whether these chevals are quite strong enough to manage it or not. Would you like to find out?"

"No." The word came through gritted teeth. No wisecrack or witty comeback came to mind through the pain and desperation of the situation. She stopped struggling.

"Then accept the inevitability of out union."

Grinning, Vance's neck began to bulge and stretch. Horror and revulsion rose within her, nearly overwhelming. His mouth opened wide. Inside, she could see antennae wiggling at her; the head of that huge red and black beetle that housed the spirit of the Djab, multifaceted eyes gleaming like jewels.

He leaned forward as if to kiss her. Lara tried to twist away; to close her mouth; anything. His grip was too tight – too strong. She closed her eyes, fighting down an inward scream as the beetle's antennae tickled her cheeks, battling against surging hysteria. One chance.

She flicked the necklace up with her foot.

It flew in a graceful arc, over her left shoulder, striking the Djab possessed body holding her directly in the face. In the circumstances a better shot than she could have hoped for.

There was a high-pitched scream.

Vance's lips pressed hard against hers, but the beetle didn't surge forward right away, temporarily distracted. Lara yanked one arm free as the grip on it loosened. Before the necklace could fall again she caught it.

The beetle seemed to overcome its distraction. She felt its head thrust forward into her mouth – in panic drove fist and necklace hard into the side of Vance's head.

His lips separated from hers, the beetle drawn back like a retracting jack-in-a-box. Lara clamped her mouth shut hard, teeth clashing. Then she hooked the necklace over Vance's head.

The effect was instantaneous.

Either side of her the two Djab possessed individuals collapsed onto the track, seemingly in the throes of some kind of fit. Vance staggered away from her, clutching at his throat, a strange keening sound coming from him. It didn't appear he could touch the necklace though, his hands clenching and spasming every time they came close. He lurched from side to side erratically like an out of control spinning top.

Lara felt a distant hint of vibration, transmitted through the soles of her boots from the tracks. Legs shaking she pulled herself up onto the walkway beside another of the Djab's bodies. This too had collapsed in a heap and was thrashing spasmodically.

"Vance!" She screamed at him, trying to get through to whatever – if anything – was left of the man inside. "Fight it. Get off the sodding track!"

The vibration became perceptibly stronger. It was joined by a quiet roaring sound, getting rapidly louder. For a moment there was just a hint that something in there understood – a flicker of life in Vance's eyes. He started to lurch towards the side of the track.

"No!" Vance's voice – the Djab crying out in protest. Lara watched in horror as, quite deliberately it seemed, he stepped onto the live rail.

Immediately electricity arced through his body, cracking and spitting, locking him in place as every muscle in his body spasmed and convulsed.

As Vance danced and twitched the two others on the tracks seemed to come to their senses, wide-eyed with terror. One of them reached up for her with one hand, expression pleading. The roaring was loud in her ears now, a warm wind blowing in her face. If she looked round she would have seen the subway train's lights as they bore down at terrifying speed. Not hesitating she took the proffered hand and pulled.

Straining together, he managed to get his body onto the walkway, his legs still trailing. He pulled them in . . . made it, just. Lara glimpsed the other man rolling desperately towards the side of the track. . . Then the train was on them, tearing past. Vance – still locked to the rail, electricity arcing through him continuously and his skin turning slowly black – was struck head on. She closed her eyes at the sound of the impact; lowered her face.

It was over.

* * *

Amid the crushed and cooked wreckage that had once been a living, breathing human being, something stirred.

A gaping wound stretched open like a lipless, bloody mouth and an insectoid head emerged. One antenna was broken , the other twitching back and forth as if it was trying to taste the air. The wound bulged and slowly the beetle managed to extract itself from the imprisoning flesh, its formerly glittering carapace dulled beneath a layer of encrusted gore. Two of its back legs were broken, hanging limp and it looked slightly misshapen and asymmetrical, as if it was suffering internal damage.

For a moment it just sat there atop the wrecked corpse, its one good antenna continuing to twitch. Then, suddenly, it darted forward, movements erratic.

One body. One sleeping vagrant that it could take unawares. . . That was all that would be needed. . . It would be more cautious and stealthy this time. By the time anyone even noticed it again, it would be too late. First though, it had to find safety – somewhere to recuperate. There was a split in the concrete ahead of it, dark and gaping. It darted towards it, the four legs that still worked a blur. Kalfu, the Baron, Lara Croft. All would come to regret. . .

Six inches from the opening and safety a booted foot stamped down hard, crushing it flat.

As the Djab's legs gave one final spasmodic twitch Lara Croft turned and walked away.

Epilogue, Sunday 2^nd April 2000, New York

"Not stopping to say goodbye belle fanm? I am hurt." This was followed by gleeful laughter.

Lara turned around slowly, a growing feeling of resignation forming inside her. "What the hell do you want? Haven't I done what you asked of me?"

Standing before her on the concourse of La Guardia Airport was the same extremely tall man she had encountered yesterday in the alleyway. As before he was wearing sunglasses with one of the lenses knocked out. He was grinning broadly.

"Oh, most indubitably, belle fanm. Indeed, you performed most admirably. As I was sure you would." His grin broadened until it seemed to take in his entire face. "Might I say you are looking even more lovely than when last I saw you."

Lara folded her arms. "You may say whatever you like I'm sure."

Her hair was hanging loose, six inches shorter than it had been yesterday due to the intervention of the train and subsequent tidying up of the jagged ends. Beneath the dark-grey suit she wore her body was a mass of bruises and it felt as if she'd been thoroughly worked over by a gang of professional toughs. "If you're looking for your necklace back I'm afraid I lost it."

"Oh, don't worry about that." He waved it off as if it was the least important thing in the world. "Two for a dollar at a market half a block from where I met you. Worthless, and completely without power. I just wanted to see if I could persuade you to wear something so hideously tasteless. A good joke, no?"

"W-What?" Lara felt her jaw hanging open; shut it again with a click.

"You are not trying to tell me that it had some kind of effect?" His tone was teasing.

"It-it. . . The Djab was terrified by it. Its touch seemed to cause it agony."

"My, my. Miracles just never cease." Another gleeful burst of laughter, which drew stares from passers by.

"It would have been able to smell my touch on it of course," he mused. "And it would have sensed any belief on your part. Anything else must have come purely from its own expectations."

She stared at him. He smiled back at her blandly. "You knew exactly what it would do," she said at length.

He shrugged. "Who can know anything, belle fanm? For all that I am, I am not a god. The future remains unclear to me, and nothing is ever pre-determined."

"You used me," she accused.

"Yes, I used you. But I will not apologise for it. If I hadn't you would now be dead I think."

Lara looked away. "I have a flight to catch. I don't want to miss it."

"You are unhappy belle fanm. I sense that clearly."

She exhaled. "I killed someone I was once in love with Mr. Baron. In many respects he may have been a shallow, self-centred and very foolish man, and you could argue that he brought it on himself. But don't expect me to feel any great joy or triumph just now." She rubbed a hand swiftly across her eyes and blinked a couple of times. When she looked back her face was composed. "The real villains – the ones who tricked him into releasing the Djab – are still out there somewhere, getting on with their lives as if nothing happened. I haven't got a clue as to where to even begin looking, and to tell the truth I have no real desire to track them down. It doesn't sit well though. Not at all."

For a moment they stared at one another, saying nothing as crowds of people flowed around them.

"You must make your own peace I'm afraid belle fanm. I cannot help with that. Just consider that Vance made his own choices and decisions. You do not bear the responsibility for what another man chooses."

Lara grunted – started to walk away from him down the concourse.

"Have you thought about the offer I made last time when we parted? I assure you, you would not be disappointed." His voice floated after her.

As she kept on walking she felt her cheeks colouring; knew exactly what he meant. "Sorry, that plane I mentioned I have to catch. . . Perhaps next time I see you." Which will hopefully be never.

She heard his gleeful laughter, but when she looked around he had vanished. With a shake of her head and a ghost of a smile she carried on, towards the check-in desk.

Not for the first time in her life it felt like she needed another holiday just to get over the effects of this one.

* * *

Two others watched Lara depart, unseen by her, only turning away as she passed through the gate to board the Virgin Airlines transatlantic flight to Heathrow, London.

There was a tall, thin bespectacled man wearing an extremely expensive suit and carrying a slim black leather briefcase. At his side was a beautiful Afro-Caribbean woman, also dressed in a suit and giving the outward appearance of being his secretary or PA. No words passed between them as they walked, though it was obvious to anyone observing that neither of them was pleased.

As they approached their car – a chauffeur driven Cadillac with mirrored glass – the man peremptorily shoved a disoriented looking black man with broken sunglasses out of his path, down onto the pavement. He didn't bother to give him so much as a backward glance. The woman's gaze passed across the fallen man quickly, but she simply stepped over him and got into the back of the car, no hint of recognition showing on her face.

The Cadillac sped off and the Baron pulled himself back to his feet, grinning as he brushed himself down. "Drive your carriage carefully my friends," he called after them, rain pouring in heavy sheets from a leaden grey sky. "It would be such a shame to have an accident."

With a burst of uproarious laughter he turned and strolled away.

The End