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O NE MILE TO THE northeast, NYPD lieutenant commander Vincent D'Agosta was balanced precariously on a stone lintel below the first-floor window of a mansion on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-Eighth Street. He began climbing the rough fa?ade in hopes of secretly gaining entrance, but he was now having second thoughts about this plan. The uneven blocks of stone, oblong shapes in the dark, felt cold as ice. And it was dark—darker than he'd ever imagined Fifth Avenue could be. This was both good and bad: good because no pedestrian or passing carriage could see his lame-ass attempt at climbing; bad because he could barely see what he was doing himself.

He glanced up at the second-floor window, which was open, curtains billowing. Leng's Igor-like assistant, the sadistic bastard named Munck, had just made this same climb, opened that window, and entered the house—the precise thing Pendergast had told D'Agosta to prevent.

He started up to the next story, and reached a section where only the projecting stones and sloppy mortar offered purchase. Trying to ignore his pounding heart, he pulled himself up again, then paused to catch his breath, careful not to look down, muscles dancing and jerking from the unusual exertion.

Under no circumstances are you to reveal yourself to Constance , Pendergast had said. If Munck appears, stop him. You may have to kill him. Well, he hadn't stopped him: Munck, like a cat burglar, had slipped up the wall and into the house before D'Agosta—from his blind across the street—could react. Yet D'Agosta couldn't alert Constance Greene inside. That would spoil everything.

So what was he doing now? Trying to get his neck broken.

Only five feet separated him from the second-floor window—but the stone blocks here offered little opportunity for a grab-and-hoist. Still, he had to keep going—or he'd run out of muscle power and fall.

He moved to the edge of his precarious perch above the first-floor window. Nearby was a ring driven into the stone by the builders. Without giving himself time to think, he mustered strength for a hop across space, stretched out, and managed to grasp it. Hauling himself up, he got his foot on the ring groped blindly at the sloping sill of the window ledge, and managed to get a handhold on the wooden casement. Suddenly, the mortar crumbled beneath his feet, and—with a surge of panic—he chinned up by brute force, dragging himself over the threshold and falling headfirst into the darkened room beyond. He lay on the floor, gasping for breath, heart pounding, palms and fingers and knees scraped and stinging.

A fight with Laura, his wife, had started all this. She'd walked out—and on an angry impulse, he'd gone to see Pendergast and agreed against his own better judgment to help him. And ultimately, that little fight had sent him tumbling from his comfortable twenty-first-century life into the nineteenth century, where he was now gasping on the floor in pursuit of a murdering bastard who should, by rights, have been dead for over a hundred years.

Shit on a stick, he'd better get moving. He lumbered to his feet in the dark, empty room, pulled the Colt .45 from his pocket, then tiptoed to the door and opened it silently.

Beyond lay an elegant corridor—with a man crumpled upon the floor, motionless, his blood soaking into the carpet. Munck had already murdered someone.

Closer to D'Agosta, a door opened and a cloaked figure emerged—Munck—holding a little girl by the neck. She was gagged, eyes like saucers. Munck turned, saw D'Agosta, and quickly raised a knife to her throat.

"Drop the gun now," he ordered D'Agosta in a whisper.

D'Agosta froze.

" Now ," said Munck, pricking the girl's flesh with the tip of his knife.

D'Agosta held out his arm and let the gun swing by the trigger guard.

"On the carpet," the man said.

D'Agosta knelt to comply.

"I'm going to leave," Munck told him. "If you raise any alarm before we're out the front door, I cut her throat."

The man lowered the knife as he began backing toward the staircase. In that moment, D'Agosta realized that—despite the orders he'd been given—he had no option but to act.

He sprang up and body-slammed the son of a bitch, who in turn lashed out with the knife, slicing D'Agosta's forearm as he warded off the blow. Still gripping the girl, Munck staggered, regained his footing, then swung his knife around with the intention of sinking it in D'Agosta's back. But he was encumbered by the girl, and this allowed D'Agosta to punch upward, striking the descending forearm and slamming it against the wall, the knife flying.

Again, Munck backed toward the stairway, dragging the girl with him. Just then, the decorative drapery on one wall was flung aside, and out of a door hidden behind it appeared a woman. She rushed at Munck with a poker.

" Meurs, batard! " she cried.

Clasping the girl to him, Munck raised his left hand in an odd, martial salute, twisting his wrist as he did so. There was a clang of ringing steel—and suddenly three long, thin blades shot out from their hiding place within his sleeve, forming a spring-loaded claw beneath his fingers. The woman swung the poker, but Munck ducked and swept his arm in a wide angle, slashing her brutally across the midsection. As she fell back, Munck lunged with animal swiftness toward D'Agosta, who pivoted away, but though the bloodied claw just missed him, its metal framework impacted violently with his temple. His vision exploded in a swirl of stars as he staggered, bracing himself against the wall to avoid falling. The man raced down the stairs, hauling the girl with him. D'Agosta, head clearing, snatched his gun from the floor and lurched after them.

He could hear the house coming urgently to life. Reaching the bottom landing, he saw Munck make a beeline across the entryway and through the first of two doors leading to the street. D'Agosta raised his gun, but hesitated, unable to get a bead on the man without risking hitting the girl.

Suddenly, flying out of a darkened parlor, came a figure—Constance—stiletto raised, terrible in the swift silence of her attack. Munck reached the outer door and grasped the handle, yanking it open, but Constance slammed it closed again with her body; D'Agosta saw a flash of steel and Munck lurched back with a cry, cut across the face. But then, collecting himself, he sprang at Constance, his nightmare device raking her knife arm and dislodging the stiletto. He yanked the door open again and leapt out with the girl into the cold December night. Constance, blood welling from her torn sleeve, grabbed her knife from the floor and took up pursuit.

D'Agosta tried to follow. But as he reached the threshold, a wave of dizziness forced him to stop… even as he saw the man—Munck—clambering into the compartment of a sleek trap that had just pulled up in front of the mansion. A gloved hand heaved Munck inside, the girl clutched close… and then the horses took off, galloping at high speed down Fifth Avenue and vanishing into the winter darkness.

He saw the pursuing Constance race down the steps and sprint to the corner… where she sank to her knees in the dirty snow, letting forth an incoherent cry of rage and pain, stretching out her bloody hands into the night, stiletto glittering in the gaslight.

The scene began to whirl around him, and D'Agosta felt himself collapse onto the entryway. Then darkness closed in and he lost the struggle to maintain consciousness.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but it could not have been long. He found himself lying on the floor of the parlor, looking up at Constance, who stood over him, violet eyes raging.

A coachman arrived with a thud of heavy boots and quickly took in the scene. "Your Grace, you're injured!" he cried in a coarse Irish accent.

"Murphy, attend to Féline," Constance said. "And find Joe and protect him. There may be others in the house."

More staff began arriving, frightened by the commotion. Constance was still staring at D'Agosta, her terrible look making him forget his pounding head, the dire situation… everything. He wanted to say something, explain, but he couldn't think clearly enough to speak. Instead, he struggled to a sitting position, head swimming.

A maid was attending to Constance's injured arm, wrapping it in linen cloth, but she had retained her stiletto and was now pointing it at D'Agosta with her other hand. "Before I kill you," she said in a low, trembling voice, "I want an explanation."

D'Agosta still couldn't find the words. As Constance moved closer, and he wondered with strange detachment if she was really about to cut his throat, he heard as if from very far away the clatter of a galloping horse—and then, much louder, an abrupt pounding on the door.

"Open up!" came a cry from beyond.

Constance started at the voice, then walked across the reception hall and threw open the front door. Pendergast stood there, heaving with fatigue.

" You! " was all she said.

Pendergast brushed past her, saw D'Agosta, then quickly came over and knelt beside him. "Did they get Binky?" he asked.

D'Agosta nodded.

As Pendergast examined D'Agosta's wound, he spoke to Constance in a cold voice. "You and I were never supposed to meet in this world," he said. "But since we have, it's best you hear all—and quickly. Leng knows about the machine. He knows who you are. He knows you've come from the future to kill him. He knows everything."

Constance stared. "Impossible."

" Absolutely possible. We must prepare ourselves. There's no time to lose."

"He kidnapped Binky—"

"He's been one step ahead of you—and me—at every turn. And this is just the beginning. You don't have the luxury of anger right now. Your sister is at grave risk. We must—"

He was interrupted by another knock at the door, polite and tentative.

Everyone turned toward the sound.

"It appears to be a delivery, Your Grace," said the butler, who—having recovered his composure—was now peering through the eyehole.

"Send them away!" Constance shouted.

"No," said Pendergast, drawing his weapon and standing to one side of the door. He nodded to the butler. "Open it."

A liveried messenger stood in the doorway with a handsomely wrapped gift box, tied up and garnished with white lilies. "Delivery for Her Grace, the Duchess of Ironclaw," he said.

Constance stared at the man. "What the devil is this?"

"There's a note, madam," the messenger said, eyes widening as he took in the scene.

She snatched the package from him. Holding it under one arm, she plucked away the envelope, tore it open, and extracted a card engraved with a black border. As she stared at it, her face drained of color. Then she dropped the note and tore the gold wrapping from the package, strewing the flowers about the floor and exposing a small mahogany box. She seized the lid and pulled it off. Inside, D'Agosta saw a flash of silver. Reaching in, Constance extracted a silver urn. Taking it in both hands, she held it before her face, staring at the engraved label on its belly. For a moment, all was still… and then the urn slipped through her fingers and struck the floor with a crash, its top flying off and the urn rolling across the floor, spilling a stream of gray ashes. It came to rest against D'Agosta's leg, label upward. He squinted to read it, his vision still cloudy—but the words etched into the silver were deep and clear:

M ARY G REENE

D IED D ECEMBER 26TH, 1880

A GED 19 Y EARS

A SHES TO A SHES

D UST TO D UST