“IS HE STILL out there?” Cady McDaniel asked as Nicki peered at the street from behind the velvet curtain in the parlor. “If we open the window, I can get him with the rifle.”

“Pish posh,” Nicki said. “If he were a little closer, I could probably get him with my derringer.”

“No one is ‘getting’ anyone out my parlor window,” Catherine Desmet said archly, although the hint of a smile softened her remonstrance.

“How about out of one of the bedroom windows, Aunt Catherine? The angle would be better from up there.”

“Nicki—”

“You never let me have any fun!” Nicki said, stamping her foot.

“What if we sent one of the servants out with cookies—made with castor oil,” Cady suggested.

“Heavens, no!” Catherine objected. “I won’t have our cook’s baking maligned.”

“It was just an idea,” Cady replied.

“Who do you think he is?” Nicki asked.

“A spy?” Cady suggested. “Sent here from a secretive foreign power—”

“I’d believe that, if he were dressed better,” Nicki said, still hiding behind the curtain. “The overcoat doesn’t fit well, and the hat is too big.”

“What’s the point of a disguise if you still look natty?” Cady asked, looking up from her stack of shipping rosters.

“I always look natty when I’m disguised,” Nicki sniffed.

“Girls! A bit more attention to the matter at hand, please!” Catherine reproved, although her eyes were livelier than they had been since Thomas’s death. Nicki smiled to herself, glad to have lightened Catherine’s grief, if only for a moment or two.

Catherine sat with a stack of Thomas Desmet’s journals and a well-used linen handkerchief. As she worked her way through her husband’s day books, she alternated between sad smiles and dabbing tears from her eyes.

Cady applied her organizational skills to the records of Brand and Desmet’s recent orders—both the ones on the official books, and the ones on the ‘private’ roster. Rick and George had already narrowed down the shipping receipts, manifests, and other paperwork, then turned the shortlist of missing or unusual shipments over to Cady for a second look, and to cross-check against the list Jake had found in Thomas’s airship cabin. Her code-breaking talents came in handy as well, deciphering some of the cryptic notations. Meanwhile, Nicki put her knowledge of languages to good use working through correspondence, since Thomas Desmet’s clientele came from all around the world.

Hours had passed, and they had found nothing to reveal a clue to Thomas’s murder.

Just then, there was a sharp rap on the front door. The three women exchanged glances. Cady’s hand strayed toward the Winchester rifle beneath the desk.

“I’ll get the door,” Nicki volunteered. “Keep an eye on our gentleman out front,” she instructed Cady.

The housekeeper went to the door with a silver tray to receive calling cards. “Desmet residence, whom may I say is calling?” she asked archly. Nicki lurked in the shadows at the entrance to the hallway.

“I’m here to give my condolences to Mrs. Desmet,” a man said. “I was an associate of her late husband’s.”

“I’ll handle this,” Nicki said, with a half-smile and a nod to the housekeeper. Nicki bustled up the hallway, drawing herself up to her full height, and affected the fragile, grief-stricken demeanor she had practiced in the mirror that morning.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Desmet isn’t receiving callers at the moment,” Nicki said. “I’m her niece, Veronique LeClercq. May I help you?”

The man who stood on the doorstep had the haircut of a soldier and the cocksure grin of one of the wastrel noble boys Nicki had left behind on the Continent. He had dark hair and a five o’clock shadow despite being clean shaven, with brown eyes and a solid, toned build that was attractive even beneath his off-the-rack suit.

“May I come in?” the stranger asked with a smile that was used to getting its way.

Nicki went for her best impression of an ill-tempered poodle and gave a withering stare. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name?”

The look in the stranger’s eyes said he knew a test of wills when he saw one. “Captain Mitch Storm. Agent Storm. Perhaps we should have this discussion somewhere more private?”

Nicki grabbed his arm and yanked him inside so quickly that Mitch stumbled on the carpet as she slammed the door behind him. “Let me see your badge, Agent Storm,” she said.

Cady had come to the parlor doorway, Winchester rifle raised and ready. “Prove you’re who you say you are,” she demanded.

Mitch’s eyes widened at the sight of the rifle. No one who saw Cady wield it would question whether or not she knew how to shoot. He stiffened when he heard Nicki pull back the hammer on her derringer behind him.

“Ladies. Please.” He swallowed. “I swear, I mean you no harm.”

“Is he the man you shot?” Cady asked. Nicki kept her derringer trained on Storm, and moved to the side enough to look at his feet.

“Don’t think so. The other man was taller, heavier. And he’d never get those shoes on over the bandages.”

“Hold out your badge,” Cady demanded. “Or whatever papers you have.” She looked at Nicki. “I’ll cover you while you take them.” She fixed her gaze on Mitch. “Don’t try to grab her gun. Nicki’s high-strung. It could go off. The last fellow who tried joined the women’s choir.”

Mitch swallowed hard, reached carefully into his jacket pocket with one hand while keeping the other well away from his body, and withdrew a leather flip-wallet. Nicki moved around to the side, remaining out of reach, her derringer pointed not at his face but at his groin.

“Throw the wallet over there,” she said, indicating a spot on the carpet.

“Do you ladies do this a lot?” Mitch asked, his devil-may-care attitude severely crimped.

“More than you’d think,” Nicki muttered. Cady covered her as she retrieved the wallet, and stepped back, still holding the derringer. With a flip of her wrist, she opened and studied the document.

“Agent Mitch Storm, Department of Supernatural Investigations.” Nicki gave Storm the once-over. “If you’re a government agent, why didn’t you do something about the man outside? He’s been watching the house for hours.”

Storm met her gaze. “That’s my partner. Agent Drangosavich.”

Cady and Nicki exchanged glances. “I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t shoot him,” Cady said, as if the topic came up every day.

“If you would please stop pointing your guns at me, I won’t mention that it’s a federal crime to shoot a government agent,” Mitch said politely.

Nicki sniffed. “Only if they find the body.”

“Do you ladies always greet visitors with loaded guns? Or have you been feeling threatened a lot lately?”

“If his credentials check out, please lower your guns and show him in.” Catherine Desmet stood in the hallway, wearing a mourning cap and a heavy black veil that obscured her face.

Reluctantly, Cady and Nicki stepped back and allowed Mitch to pass, no longer keeping their guns leveled on him, but not putting them away, either. Mitch tried to look blasé as he walked ahead of them into the parlor.

“Mrs. Desmet. Please accept my apologies for bothering you at such a time,” Mitch said.

Catherine eyed him stonily. “That depends, Mr. Storm, on why you’ve come.” She gestured toward a chair. “Please. Sit.” It was more imperative than request.

“Now,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “What can possibly be so important that you’ve come to pay a business call, and placed a government agent outside my house, while we are in mourning?”

Mitch fidgeted in his chair. “Mrs. Desmet. I don’t want to cause you further distress, but we are concerned that—”

“I’m not a shrinking violet, Agent Storm. If you’re here to say something, say it plainly or leave.”

Mitch took a deep breath and nodded. “Very well. We have reason to believe that your husband’s death was not from natural causes.”

“Ha,” Nicki said with an unladylike snort of derision. “We’d already figured that out. Is that the best you can do?”

“How much did you know about your husband’s business dealings, Mrs. Desmet?”

“I often helped him with his accounts. I would say that I was well-informed.”

“We know that Brand and Desmet handled acquisitions for private clients. We think it might be possible that his death was related to one of these private deals.”

Catherine drew herself up, sitting ram-rod straight. “Are you suggesting that there was anything improper about my husband’s business dealings?”

Mitch held up his hands. “Of course not. But perhaps he was engaged to acquire an artifact of such interest to others that someone might be willing to kill in order to take possession of it—or stop someone else from possessing it.”

“Once again, Mr. Storm, I must ask you to speak your mind or leave,” Catherine said irritably. “I find myself quite tired these days. Do you mean to place me under arrest?

“Certainly not!” Mitch said, eyes widening. “We want to keep you safe.”

“You’re not doing such a good job,” Cady drawled, and fixed Mitch with a look that made him shift in his seat.

“Mrs. Desmet,” Mitch said. “Did your husband believe in the supernatural?”

“He was a life-long Presbyterian,” Catherine replied.

Mitch cleared his throat. “That… wasn’t exactly what I was referring to. I meant, did your husband believe in the occult?”

“Just what are you implying?” Catherine demanded. Right on cue, Wilfred the butler stepped into the parlor doorway.

“Is there a problem, madam?” he asked, with a pointed look in Mitch’s direction.

“That’s yet to be determined, Wilfred,” Catherine replied.

“Ah, well then. I’ll have the sharpshooters stand down then, ma’am.” Wilfred gave a shallow bow and retreated.

“Are you always quite so… armed?” Mitch asked, alarmed.

“Only in response to a crisis or when people threaten my family,” Catherine answered. “Now you were saying?”

Mitch looked as if he desperately wished he had sent his partner in to do the questioning and remained outside himself. Nicki concealed her glee.

“It’s not my intention to imply anything at all, Mrs. Desmet,” Mitch said in a placating tone. “But we think that items may have been brought to this country by Brand and Desmet that some believe have significant supernatural power.”

“Relics?”

Mitch looked uncomfortable. “Ah, no. Something on the other side of the spectrum, actually.”

“Magique,” Nicki said, looking down her nose at Mitch. Her French accent was almost impenetrable now. She forced a derisive chuckle, and silently congratulated herself on her acting skills. “He thinks Uncle Thomas got a bad magical item.”

Mitch reddened, both in embarrassment, Nicki bet, and in frustration. “There are forces at work beyond what most people care to notice,” he said. “And people who take those forces seriously can be dangerous if they believe they have been crossed.”

“I’m not aware of any ‘magical’ items among the last acquisitions my husband sought,” Catherine replied. “But should I become aware of any, if you leave your calling card, I will let you know immediately.”

Nicki was willing to bet Mitch knew he was being played. She saw a glint of stubbornness in his dark eyes. “Here’s something you need to know, before you throw me out,” he said. “The Department is looking into two other deaths similar to that of Thomas Desmet. Both men had recently done business with Brand and Desmet, with shipments from Eastern Europe. Pawel Kozlowski and Eljasz Bajek.” Both names were on the list Rick had given Nicki.

“Both men died suddenly, when they hadn’t been known to be sick,” Mitch continued. “In both cases, witnesses remembered a new object showing up right before the death, and vanishing afterwards. And both times, the men’s place of business—and homes—were ransacked.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “I want to know why.”

Wilfred returned to the doorway as if summoned telepathically and Mitch realized that he was being dismissed.

“Sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Desmet, ladies,” Mitch said with a nod. “I’ve left you my card. The reverse side has a special telegraph exchange. If you do hear—”

“This way, sir,” Wilfred said with polite firmness. He escorted Mitch to the door. Nicki moved to her spot by the window.

“He’s having a word with the dowdy one outside,” Nicki reported a moment later. “It’s a shame Agent Storm’s with the government. He is rather dashing, don’t you think?”

Cady sniffed. “Not really my type.”

“Why do you think a government agent is involved?” Nicki mused, giving up watching the surveillance man and leaning back against the wall. “And do you think he really believes in magic?”

Catherine put the journal she had been reading back in her lap. “We should assume that he does believe. Thomas had encounters with the Department in the past. I don’t know whether or not it was with the same agents… but if they’re involved, this situation is bigger than we thought.”

“It doesn’t look like either Storm or his partner are leaving,” Nicki reported, watching the street.

“Let them stay,” Cady said. “Kovach has his men watching the agents while the agents watch you. The more the merrier.”

Nicki returned to the writing desk and her stack of letters. Wilfred brought a tray with tea and fresh cookies, and the women worked through the afternoon. Finally, Catherine looked up. “I think I’ve found something,” she said.

Cady and Nicki gathered around her. “This was Thomas’s last journal,” Catherine said. “His private notes, things he kept separate from official business.” She paused. “The entry is dated a little more than a month ago.”

Catherine’s finger pointed to a passage in neat script. “‘KJ came to see me. Wants a special job, a crate of books and a relic moved from Poland to New Pittsburgh, no questions asked. I pressed him about it, and after he explained further, I assured him we could assist him discreetly. My gut tells me this is important.’”

“KJ. Karl Jasinski,” Nicki mused. “And now he’s disappeared, either hiding out, kidnapped or dead. And we still don’t know why.” She looked at Catherine. “Does the journal say anything more about the books or the relic?”

Catherine frowned as she read down through the entry. “He says that shipping anything out of Poland and Russia is a headache, but ‘KJ’ had everything ready.”

Cady leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, fingers tented in front of her. “He wasn’t wealthy… where would he have come up with the money to pay for it? And if someone killed Jasinski, or if he already feared for his life and had gone into hiding, then there would be no one to pick up the shipment when it came in. And if that same someone thought your Uncle Thomas knew what was in the shipment—”

“He might have killed him in order to get his hands on it,” Nicki finished. “Or Jasinski didn’t have the money and he double-crossed Uncle Thomas to take it…”

“Both of which could explain the break-in and bombing at the office,” Catherine chimed in. “Either someone was trying to destroy the shipment, or frighten everyone out so they could get in.”

“We’ve got a missing Polish witch and government agents,” Cady said. “And a Night Hag—the timing can’t be an accident.”

Cady shrugged. “At the moment, the connection to Jasinski is just a hunch. But the Night Hag—Nocnitsa—had to come from somewhere.”

“Which would mean someone called it, or opened a way for it to come,” Nicki supplied.

Cady nodded. “It’s not the Thalbergs—they’re trying to figure this out like we are. And the names they recognized on Mr. Desmet’s list were witches—two of whom the agents just confirmed are dead.”

“If this Karl Jasinski was a witch, might he have somehow called the monster and then not known how to banish or control it?” Catherine mused. “Maybe he needed some other magical items, even relics, to get the monster back under control, or send it back where it came from? That would explain the items he wanted Thomas to smuggle out of Eastern Europe. The sightings and killings began long before he contacted Thomas.”

“Maybe,” Cady said. “Or perhaps someone else called it, and Jasinski was trying to figure out how to stop it, but didn’t have what he needed to do the job.” She sighed. “There are too many questions, and not enough answers.”

A thought occurred to Nicki, and she leveled a questioning look at Cady. “Exactly how did you get the information about Jasinski?”

Cady brightened. “I gave a generous tip to the Polish woman who cleans the classrooms at the Women’s College. She’s often around when I’m finishing up at night, and she’s a motherly type. I asked her if she knew a man named Karl Jasinski, and offered her a few more dollars if she could tell me something useful about him.”

She grinned. “Money speaks every language. Mrs. Zukowski said she didn’t know him herself, but she’d heard others speak of him. They call him ‘the Witch of Pulawski Way’; people went to him to have fortunes told, bad luck reversed, curses put on people. But she said that he had gone away suddenly, and no one knew where he was or when he’d be back.”

“Polish Hill isn’t very far from Brand and Desmet’s offices on Smallman Street,” Catherine said. “And it’s just across the river from where you said all the trouble is happening in Allegheny.”

“Actually,” Cady said, “there’s been trouble in more places than just Allegheny. There’s talk of bad things happening up the Mon and around the Point, like someone—or something—is following the rivers to hunt.”

Catherine nodded. “Drostan Fletcher said the same thing. I asked him to use his contacts to see if he could pinpoint where the bodies have been found on a map.”

Nicki sank down dramatically onto the divan. “My head hurts,” she said, closing her eyes. “We’ve got a missing witch and a nasty monster—both Polish—and federal agents outside.” She sighed. “We still don’t know who the men were in the carriage with the red falcon; the ones who followed me and tried to kidnap me when I went to see Cady the first time.”

Catherine blanched. “Did you say, ‘red falcon’?”

Nicki nodded.

“I’ve seen that before,” Catherine said. “It’s Richard Thwaites’s personal emblem. His name keeps coming up, doesn’t it? That can’t be a good thing.”

“And we’re no closer to solving Thomas’s murder,” Cady said. “Or knowing whether those boxes from Poland had anything to do with his death.”

“What if the Night Hag, whatever it is, wasn’t supposed to happen? What if it’s an accident, and now someone’s got to clean up the mess?” Nicki asked.

Cady nodded. “That’s possible. Something that came over with a new batch of immigrants and no one knows how to make it go away? Or maybe a spell that Jasinski did for someone went wrong? Someone like Thwaites.”

“I don’t know which sounds worse, going up against an ancient monster, or taking on the Oligarchy,” Catherine said. “Because Richard Thwaites is very well connected—and protected. He’s got his own men, and rumor has it he’s bought and paid for half of the New Pittsburgh police force.”

There were male voices outside, loud enough to stop their conversation. “Hold on,” Nicki went to the window.

“It’s Jake. He’s having a row with Agent Storm and the dowdy one.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “I’m really not obsessed with our reputation, but I would like the neighbors to keep speaking to us.” She sighed.

“I don’t think you have much to worry about.” Nicki said. “There’s no one else out there that I can see except some White Wings.”

Three years earlier, New York City had initiated a campaign to smarten up its streets, employing legions of white-coated street cleaners, or ‘White Wings’. Not to be left out, New Pittsburgh immediately did the same, deploying its own white-clad clean-up crews to rid the streets of horse dung and trash. They made their rounds armed with long-handled brooms and water wagons to hose off particularly stubborn grime. This crew had two wagons: the water wagon, hauled by a lugubrious horse that looked ready for the knacker’s yard, and a second wagon to collect the trash.

Nicki frowned, and turned toward Catherine. “Aunt Catherine, what day do the White Wings come by?”

“Mondays, usually, and again on Thursdays,” Catherine replied absently, having gone back to reading through one of the journals.

“But it’s neither of those days. And this lot are wearing white, but their uniforms don’t all match.”

She gasped and yanked down the window sash. “Jake! Get down! Those aren’t the real White Wings!”

Even as she spoke, one of the sweepers kicked the broom-head from its handle and leveled the shaft at Jake and the agents.

The gunshot reverberated, sending the china clinking in the cabinet and the pendants in the crystal chandelier swaying. Cady had the Winchester at her shoulder, and the attacking White Wing swayed on his feet, a neat hole in his forehead.

“Oh, my God,” Catherine whispered. “Did you just shoot the street sweeper?”

A hail of gunfire sounded on Fifth Avenue. Mitch had pushed Jake to the ground and dragged him behind the low wall separating the Desmet house from the street, while he and Jacob returned fire. The false White Wings had dropped all pretense, rifle-brooms at the ready. There were at least twenty of them. Shots pinged off the wall; somewhere nearby, glass shattered.

Kovach’s men came running, as the snipers on the roof picked off two targets. Cady swung out from the safety of the wall to fire another shot, catching an attacker in the shoulder. An assailant veered close to the house, coming into Nicki’s range. Like Cady, Nicki was a crack shot, taking one of the enemy through the leg.

Wilfred ran into the room, alarm clear on his face. “Madam. I must insist that you and the young ladies retreat to safety.”

Cady squeezed off another shot. “We’ve got a better angle than Jake does, and—with the trees blocking some of the upstairs windows and roofline—maybe even than the snipers do on the roof. Even with the two government agents, our sharpshooters are outnumbered. They need us.”

The cleaners returned fire. Cady squealed and dropped to the floor as a bullet zinged through the top of the window, then rose to her feet and fired.

“Get out of here, Aunt Catherine. You’re in mourning. You can’t be shooting people,” Nicki said, reloading. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“We’ve got problems,” Cady shouted.

“Did you just figure that out?” Nicki retorted.

“No, bigger problems.” Cady pointed. “I don’t think that water wagon is filled with water.”

“Doux Jésus!” Nicki muttered. “Petrol.”

“Charles!” Catherine shouted.

“He’s already gone ’round to help Mr. Desmet,” Wilfred said. “Please, let me get you to safety.”

“My great-grandmother didn’t leave the homestead when the Davey Lewis gang came through town,” Catherine said. “My mother didn’t run off when the Molly Maguires set to. And I’m not going anywhere, not as long as my son’s out there and our home is at risk.” A determined glint had come into Catherine’s eyes. “Wilfred. Fetch me Thomas’s Colt revolver.” She headed for the stairs. “I’ll be in my room.”

Mitch, Jacob, and Jake were giving as good as they got from the deadly cleaning crew. Kovach’s men waded in with guns and fists, but the numbers still favored the attackers. If Cady’s fears about the water wagon were correct, firepower alone wasn’t going to be enough.

“Go, Charles!” Nicki cheered as the werkman ran toward the water wagon with inhuman speed. Shots clanged off his metal body, but Charles never slowed.

Three of the false White Wings threw themselves at Charles, but the werkman tossed them aside with ease.

“They’re going to set off the wagon!” Nicki shouted, loosing another shot amid a barrage of vulgar French.

“Let’s see if I can get the driver,” Cady said with a hard glint in her eye. She fired, but the bullet went astray, nicking the driver’s bench. “Damn.”

The wagon and its attackers were out of Nicki’s range. Charles was doing his best to move the wagon backward—water tank, horses and all—but several of the false street sweepers were trying to drag him away.

Bam-bam-bam. Kovach’s sharpshooters hit their targets. From the open parlor window, Nicki could hear cursing in Hungarian. The men restraining Charles dropped in their tracks. A fourth attacker who had wriggled along the ground toward Jake’s hiding place jerked and went still as a bullet found its mark. From the angle of the shot, Nicki was pretty certain Catherine had pulled the trigger.

Charles brought a metal fist down, smashing the wagon tongue and freeing the horses, then he pushed the wagon toward an empty lot across the street. Kovach laid down covering fire so that none of the surviving attackers could get close. Nicki held her breath, watching as Charles put his mechanized muscle against the weight of the wagon. The wheels creaked over the curb, and the cart began to roll into the open field.

With a roar and a blinding flash, the tank exploded. Fire danced into the sky nearly as high as the two-story homes on either side of the empty lot. A plume of black smoke and the smell of burning gasoline filled the air. Charles was nowhere to be seen.

Sirens wailed, getting closer. Half a dozen of the surviving faux cleaners returned fire to cover their comrades, who dragged away the dead and wounded, then threw the bodies onto the remaining wagon and pulled a tarp over them before climbing aboard and heading away from the sirens.

“They’re getting away!” Cady shouted, raising her rifle once more.

Nicki put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Let them go. They’re taking the dead and wounded. We won’t have to explain the bodies to the police. And we’ve got to get Jake and the others to safety before awkward questions get asked.”

Cady raised an eyebrow. “We’ve just had a Wild West shoot-out on Fifth Avenue—you don’t think awkward questions are already being asked?”

“I think we have a much better chance of explaining it away if there isn’t a wagonful of corpses in front of the house,” Nicki said archly.

“And the burned-out wagon?” Cady asked.

Nicki smiled. “Spontaneous combustion. Darndest thing.”

Their attackers headed off at full gallop. Miska Kovach was already down at street level, hustling Jake, Mitch, and Jacob from their hiding place and around to the back of the house. Cady slid the window closed.

Just as Jake and the others rounded the corner of the house, the police wagons came clattering up. Cady watched from the cover of the heavy parlor drapes. “Uh-oh. They’re heading this way,” she gave a murmured warning.

Brusque knocking sounded at the front door. Wilfred appeared in the hallway, forever unflappable, standing straight and tall with an unreadable expression. “I’ll handle this,” he said, making his way down the hallway without a hint of hurry.

Nicki had a view of the hallway from behind the parlor door. A florid-faced policeman stood in the entranceway.

“We had a report that shots were fired,” the officer began abruptly, with a thick Irish brogue.

“We made no such report,” Wilfred replied. His glance strayed to the conspicuous crepe wreath on the door. “And since the household is in mourning, I’ll thank you to keep your voice low.”

The officer looked abashed, and removed his hat. “Sorry for your loss,” he mumbled. “But there are spent shell casings in the street from a variety of guns. They came from somewhere.” He pointed toward the still-burning wagon. “And there was an explosion. Surely you heard that!”

Wilfred turned his head toward the flames then back to the officer with a total lack of emotion. “Living in the city, one is accustomed to taking a variety of noises in one’s stride. We do not rush to the windows like voyeurs.”

“I don’t know about voyagers,” the cop replied. “And I’m sorry to bother you at a bad time, but what about the blood? There’s blood on the street. What do you make of that?”

Wilfred affected an expression of boredom. “I don’t ‘make’ anything of it. That is what we depend upon your illustrious department to discover. Now if you will excuse me, I must attend to my duties.”

He shut the door in the officer’s confused face. Nicki had to stifle a laugh. Once his back was turned, Wilfred allowed himself a hint of a smirk.

“With luck, he’ll go bother the neighbors,” Wilfred said, a gleam of wicked humor in his eyes.

“Won’t they report what they’ve seen—shots traded, sharpshooters on the roof, all that?” Nicki asked.

Wilfred chuckled. “Even if they saw it, they wouldn’t dare breathe a word. Might lower property values, or cause a scandal.” He sighed. “Although Madame may find invitations to afternoon tea less forthcoming for a while.”

“Pish posh,” Nicki said with a dismissive wave. “Any neighbor who wouldn’t have you over for tea for taking a few well-aimed shots at intruders isn’t worth the bother.”

“Indeed,” Wilfred said.

Catherine descended the stairs, minus her mourning cap and veil. “Is it over? Where’s Jake?”

Wilfred nodded toward the kitchen. “They were just coming in when that insufferable policeman came to the door.”

Catherine gathered her black skirts and ran the length of the hallway, with Nicki and Cady close behind.

“Jake!” Catherine cried out, in a mixture of relief and alarm. Jake sat at the kitchen table with his shirt partly off. Blood streaked down his chest from a gash on his upper left arm. Mrs. James, the family’s cook, was boiling water and fetching linen bandages, while the dowdy agent who had been keeping watch outside the house staunched the bleeding with a compress.

Agent Storm sat next to Jake, his shirt stained with blood from a bullet that had clipped him in the shoulder. Miska Kovach stood by the kitchen door, his face and shirt smudged with dirt and gunpowder, glaring at Mitch.

“There’s hot water and iodine,” Mrs. James said. “That should help you clean up properly.”

“Much obliged,” the dowdy agent replied. He was taller than Storm, with blond hair and blue eyes, and his voice carried a strong hint of a Croatian accent. As if he suddenly realized that he had not been introduced, the man looked up and gave a nod of acknowledgement.

“Agent Jacob Drangosavich,” he said. “Sorry about the unpleasantness. We were afraid something like this might happen.”

“And before you ask, I’ll be fine, Mother.” Jake managed a rueful smile. “It’s just a cut, not even a bullet. I’ve had worse.”

Agent Storm raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know the import business was so dangerous.”

“You have no idea.”

“Agent Storm,” Catherine said. “Who were those men, and why were they here?”

Mitch shifted in his seat, and Nicki guessed that the wound pained him more than he wanted to let on. “Someone within the Oligarchy, would be my guess. Those weren’t common hirelings—not the way they stood their ground, or the way they gathered their dead and wounded. They were well-trained.”

“I caught a bit of what they were saying to each other,” Kovach said. “Pretty sure it was Romanian they were speaking.”

Romanian, Nicki thought. Like Drogo Veles. She saw a flicker of recognition in Jake’s eyes, and made a mental note to ask him if he had someone in mind once their ‘visitors’ had gone.

“Good thing your werkman got that wagon out of the way,” Mitch said as Jacob began to wash his wound. He gritted his teeth as his partner pried a bullet loose, but the iodine wrenched a choked cry from his lips. Jacob muttered something in Croatian, and kept right on binding Mitch’s injury.

“Whoever sent that meant to do quite a bit of damage,” Catherine observed. Nicki looked over to the corner of the kitchen where Charles sat on a wooden chair. His bronze skin was dented and scorched in places, and his clothing burned and torn, but the light in his eyes was bright and he looked to be fully functional.

Mitch gingerly pulled his shirt on over his bandages. “I don’t know what game you folks think you’re playing,” he said. “But it’s dangerous. We can help.”

Jake and his mother exchanged glances. “We appreciate the concern, Agent Storm, but we will be fine,” Catherine replied. “If you want to be of use, find out who killed my husband and why.”

Mitch and Jacob collected their things and headed for the back door. “We will,” Jacob replied. “But think about this: whoever sent those assassins today isn’t content to have killed Thomas Desmet. Someone wants you all dead.”