The full moon shone over the Sahara Desert, limning the figures scurrying across the sand in a thin, pearlescent glow. Narrow strips of cloud ribboned the sky, but swirled away from the moon as if afraid to interrupt the moonlight and mar the sand dunes with shadows.

Neferhe took a moment to savor the soft illumination of the moon. A thousand lovers are gazing up at that moon. But none of them know that it’s the last full moon they’ll ever see.

From her perch on a rock outcropping, Neferhe regarded her minions below. Oblivious to the moon’s glow, they moved obelisks into place across the desert floor, chanting as they did so. Whip-wielding overseers — priests chosen personally by Neferhe — ensured that each obelisk fit perfectly into its ancient pattern on the desert floor.

It’s different from last time, Neferhe thought. I never would have imagined using electronic contrivances — GPS units — to position the obelisks. My father had nothing but paces for measurement and the stars for direction.

But that was thousands of years ago, Neferhe reminded herself. She remembered herself as a young girl, precocious in the priestly arts, when her father the pharaoh stood on this very outcropping and directed slaves to place the obelisks in the profane, looping spiral. She remembered the shakiness in his hands and the quaver in his voice as the ritual began. Signs of weakness I’d never seen before. But once I saw them, I knew I had to act.

Neferhe remembered her slim, wavy dagger sliding across his throat as he knelt. She recalled how it had slipped between tendons, then poked redly from the side of his neck. The priests had started screaming, and a sandstorm began seconds later. Khufu Ashpanutet, loyal Khufu, he whisked me away. Then he buried me deep, and I slept until the stars would be right again.

With shouts from the cultists, the last obelisk was moved into place, then tilted upright. The capstones on each obelisk began to glow a deep red, scattering firefly motes of light across the desert sands. With a wave, Neferhe bid the priestesses forward to the base of the outcropping, then intoned: “Let the scaly darkness be given presence in this place. Let black coils choke all that is weak and poison with pain all that is pure. Let the Ancient One, Set, come forth and feast on a world stricken with rot and ruin!”

It’s started now. And you’d be proud of me, father. My hands aren’t shaking.

White-robed priestesses shuffled forward in pairs as chants rose up from the cluster of cultists encircling each obelisk. In unison each lifted a razor-sharp dagger in her right hand, then cut open the left eyelid of her partner. Blood streamed down each left cheek, but the right side of each priestly face remained moon-white.

Neferhe smiled, then gripped her own wavy bladed dagger. It’ll be my turn soon. But tonight we listen to the chant and revel in Set’s presence in the world.

She gave an involuntary shiver as she briefly sensed a flicker across her skin. Then, firmer, she felt a scaly caress around her thigh. Some of her minions were sprawling across the desert sands, wrestling with unseen foes. It’s strongest here, but tonight Set’s presence will be made known across the world.

Over the course of the next several hours, Neferhe extended her sorcerous perception across the globe, flitting across the electronic ether, looking for signs of Set’s presence.

Bomb blasts rocked Damascus and Baghdad, destroying mosques and killing hundreds . . .

Freak tornadoes ripped through southern Illinois, tearing the roof off an elementary school and baffling meteorologists . . .

With the thunder of artillery, Pakistani troops crossed the border into disputed Kashmir this morning in a surprise attack . . .

The Aeolian Towers skyscraper in downtown Detroit collapsed without warning this afternoon . . .

Typhoon Gil abruptly changed course today, threatening . . .

. . . Sudden virulent plague . . .

. . . Earthquakes destroyed the capital . . .

. . . Suicide bombers . . .

. . . Mob violence . . .

Neferhe joined the chant, holding her hands in front of her face. Still no shaking. With Set’s presence, I can’t be stopped now.

Then a dark cloud clipped a corner of the moon, casting a pall over the writhing, chanting cultists and the red-tipped obelisks.

Neferhe looked upward. Why are the clouds not obeying me? With a sorcerous thought, she directed her dragon-demon abomination to emerge from its sandy tomb and scour the desert for intruders.

Telling the others to rest for a minute, Viktor waved his hands and muttered a few syllables in Corrupt Etruscan. He winced against a brief wave of dizziness as the ancient magic expanded his perceptions. The dizziness passed, and Viktor could see himself far below, a tiny figure in the vast jungle. The trail wound among a series of low hills and long, straight ridges. It’s all invisible from the trail, thought Viktor, but from up here you can see the spine and the wing-bones. And it looks like we have only another mile or two to go.

“Take some water, my children, then we’ll hike some more,” Viktor told the others on the trail. The teenagers traveling with Viktor unslung their backpacks and got out snacks and water, chatting amiably among themselves. Viktor stood apart, studying his fellow travelers from his aerial perspective. They seem fit and in good spirits. Ah, the resilience of youth.

Viktor and his charges had traveled far over the last month. Two hundred volunteers from high schools and colleges headed into the New Mexico mountains to unearth the Ixecudor of Ymog. Then Viktor took them to the desert ruins of Petra to conjure a screaming star-spawn. Now a dozen survivors had come with him to Brazil.

Viktor ordered the youths to don their backpacks and resume the march. After another hour on the trail, Viktor halted the hikers again. “Machetes, my children. And you won’t need your backpacks anymore,” he said. Grinning, the youths rifled through their packs for their sharp blades, drew them, then started hacking a path in the direction Viktor pointed. Such enthusiasm. Oh, to be a true believer again.

Twenty minutes of hard work carved a path to the serpentine ridge hidden behind the jungle vegetation. “This is it, my children. Get out your candles, then climb the ridge,” Viktor said. As the teenagers sprinted up the ridge, Viktor broke into a run to keep pace. Just as they’d practiced countless times, they arranged themselves in a circle, then began to sing as they lit their candles, one by one. Their song was a wordless cry, deliberately discordant and confusing. Viktor permitted himself a smile of satisfaction. The song’s discordance would draw out his quarry within minutes.

When the song finished, Viktor spoke to the singers. “Well done, my children! Raise your candles high, and prepare your minds to meet eternity!”

A voice rose from beyond the far side of the ridge. “Meet eternity? That’s a pretty obvious euphemism, don’t you think?”

Viktor whipped his head around to see a blond-haired man stride over the ridgeline to stand near the circle of teenagers. One beefy arm hung casually from the shotgun slung over his shoulder. A few of the youths turned to look at the newcomer, anger in their eyes, but most continued to stare at the candles they held aloft.

“Good afternoon, Viktor.”

Viktor narrowed his eyes and nodded curtly. “Agnar.”

“I’m surprised you’d travel so . . . unprotected. No abomination today?”

He’s right, but I’m not answering that one. “The reason you’re here, Agnar?”

“You don’t get to end the world, Viktor. No one does.”

And with that gun, Agnar could make sure of it, Viktor thought. There’s no way I can nail him with sorcery before he gets a shot off.

“And you’re going to stop me? Like you stopped Gilman?” Lead him a little . . .

“Exactly.”

“Like you stopped Neferhe?” I’ll bet he knows who Neferhe is by now.

“Neferhe, well . . .”

“Or like you stopped Minerva and Xihouto?”

“That was you, not me.”

Now I flip it around. “That’s my point, Agnar. I’m doing your job for you. I stopped Minerva and Xihouto. I know what Neferhe’s up to, and that’s why I’m trying to create a new abomination. I’m going to stop her next.

“If you kill me, I can’t tell you about the endbringer who worries me more than Neferhe.” It’s a bit of a gamble, but I bet he doesn’t know about Omega yet.

Agnar paused, staring hard at Viktor. “Nice try, Viktor. But Gilman used the same ‘keep me alive’ line, and it didn’t work. First, let’s ruin this ritual.”

Agnar yanked the shotgun from his shoulder, held it to the head of one of the teenagers, and pulled the trigger. The teen’s head exploded in a pink mist, and the shotgun roar echoed through the jungle.

Viktor suppressed a grim smile as the other youths flinched but kept staring at their candles. Keep him talking.

“You’ve brainwashed yourself some committed fanatics, Viktor,” Agnar said. With a boom, he shot another teen.

“They aren’t brainwashed, Agnar. They know they have a small but important role in making the world end, and they’re pretty rational about it. You of all people should be able to relate.”

Agnar aimed at a third teen, but then lowered the shotgun a few inches. “Me of all people?”

Wait . . . that means he doesn’t know. “Ever wonder about the horn you always carry, Agnar? No matter what happens, it somehow always finds it way back to you, doesn’t it? Ever wonder why you don’t get old but everyone else does? Ever wonder why you run around the world chasing down endbringers?”

Agnar raised the shotgun again, this time pointing at Viktor. “You know about the Gjallerhorn?”

“I know more about it than you do, Agnar.”

Viktor paused. Let him come to me.

Agnar sighed, then lowered the gun. “For five hundred years, I’ve had this horn. I’ve buried it, I’ve dropped it in the ocean, I’ve locked it in vaults, but it always shows up a few days later. You know why the Gjallerhorn and I seem to be immortal?”

“I have exactly one reason to keep what I know secret: The fact that you’re shooting my cultists,” Viktor replied.

Agnar threw his head back with a short, sharp laugh. “Okay, Viktor. You tell me what the Gjallerhorn does and give me another endbringer to chase. I leave you alone to make your monster and chase down Neferhe. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“But that’s as far as the deal goes. If our paths cross again, if you persist in trying to end the world . . .”

“I’d expect nothing less, Agnar.”

“So what does the Gjallerhorn do?”

“It’s pretty simple, Agnar. If you blow it, the world ends.”

I awaken to the sound of screams. Someone is attacking Master Viktor’s castle, and they’re slaughtering all the guards and worshipers in the servants’ quarters below. Lucky for Master Viktor that I’m here to take care of this intrusion. Tamnnis the Dreamer craves battle, and I haven’t had a good battle since we got back from Peru.

I slither out of my nest and press my claws against the ancient stone of the keep. I can sense it below me: a vital, jumpy spot amid the background tumult of sensation. It’s another abomination, and a powerful one at that.

A grin spreads across my wide mouth, and I snap my jaw in anticipation. When Master Viktor returns from his trip, I can present him with the intruder’s head and say, “Look what Tamnnis has done, master, all for your greater glory!”

(Of course I’ll consume the rest of it, other than the head. I’m not beyond keeping a little pleasure for myself.)

I start creeping downstairs, trying to dampen my own sorcerous energies. I want the element of surprise. It probably thinks it faces only mortal opposition. But I’ve already consumed five abominations for the greater glory of Master Viktor — and my personal pleasure.

There was the byakhee in New Orleans — my first and toughest battle to date. Then the slimoid nahual down in Mexico, which was a tough foe but easy to outwit. And the vitiosus/eviscerator abomination in the Paris sewer tunnels. I think it would have begged for mercy at the end if its mouths were still working.

The carnival trip netted me the twinned husk that Minerva created. And in Peru, I defeated a mecatl with some help from Master Viktor. And because the mecatl had just killed another one of Minerva’s abominations, a merging of Feculus and Glotra, I got to consume that one, too.

That’s actually six abominations; I’m getting to be quite the gourmet. And I can sense a seventh meal beyond me in the courtyard. The guards are using guns now from the upper windows. It doesn’t sound like it’s working — if a gun works, you can stop shooting it. But mortals tend to keep firing their guns if they don’t work. I’m not sure why.

I peer out a lower window, and I stop breathing when I see the monstrous beauty of the abomination before me. It almost hurts my eyes to look at it. It’s too terribly wonderful to look at all at once.

But I can focus on parts of it. Its head is obscenely large, with black fur stretched too tightly across the bones of its skull. Curving tusks on either side of its toothy mouth drip gore.

The torso is all thick slabs of muscle under wrinkled gray skin, but the amazing thing is the red scars scattered across its entire body. As I watch, horrid cockroaches crawl out of the wounds, scurry across the abomination’s body, then disappear into other wounds. The part of me that used to be Ebriel the Hunter recognizes a fellow demon, one known as “The Butcher.” It’s good to be part demon — it’s like you’re always seeing family members running around out there.

And the abomination’s overall shape is simian and twice as tall as me. Its arms look like they could crush me with ease, assuming I can avoid its sharp tusks. And who knows what those roaches do? I silently thank Master Viktor for expunging fear from me, and I grin in anticipation. This will be tougher than the byakhee, to be certain.

Down the corridor, I see four guards massing near a door, ready to burst into the courtyard. Whether they’re going to attack or try to escape, I’m not sure. But they give me an opportunity, so I shift my form into something innocuous and human, grab a fire axe from the wall, and join them. It’s good to be a shapeshifter.

We’re out into the bright sun of the courtyard, and the butcher-abomination spears one human with each tusk. I see the ivory spikes emerge from their backs in a spray of blood, then the abomination rises onto its hind legs and shakes its head, flinging the humans into the courtyard walls. I’m impressed enough to watch as the bodies hit the walls with a wet slap, then leave a red splash on the wall and a bloody trail down to the ground.

Two more humans, then me. The butcher’s arms come out, snatch up the humans like playthings, then hold them aloft. It pauses long enough to let them scream, then claps its hands, smashing them together. A gory tangle of limbs falls to the ground, then it charges me.

I move enough to the side that its tusks won’t kill me, then shift back to my crocodilian form and leap on its back as it rushes past. It crashes into the castle wall, and my jaws are around its neck. I can taste the stinging heat of demon blood, plus a dozen scents and tastes I don’t immediately recognize. My teeth are burrowing deeper into the cords of muscle around its spine, and the blood is spilling out of my mouth and down my chest. This battle might not be as hard as I thought.

And that’s when the butcher’s skin erupts as hundreds of cockroaches leap out of every sorelike orifice on the abomination’s massive frame. They’re biting me, and I feel a cool numbness everywhere their tiny mouths feed. They’re stealing my strength; a wave of dizziness almost knocks me off the butcher’s back.

There’s a low rumble from the butcher — a laugh, perhaps — and then it whips its back around so fast that I lose my grip and go tumbling into the courtyard. The cockroaches chase after me, a wriggling carpet of brown. So I start climbing the walls of the castle by using my claws to dig holds in the crumbling granite of the castle walls. I’m a faster climber than a cockroach, so I reach the main building’s roof in seconds despite the numbness that I’m now feeling in my joints and deep in my bones.

The roof creaks below me as I scurry onto it and look below me. The cockroaches retreat back into the butcher, who moves to a corner of the courtyard and starts climbing. It doesn’t climb as well as I do, but it makes steady progress. I summon the last of my sorcerous strength as it reaches the roof opposite me, but it’s a pittance. I can’t beat this terrible, wonderful creature; I’m just not strong enough. But I think I’m smarter than it is, so I might still please Master Viktor one last time.

I leap up to the base of the north tower, which is a narrow minaret stretching above me, and start climbing. It clambers across the roof to chase me, then starts to ascend.

I reach the conical roof of the north tower, but it’s too steep to stand on. I crawl around to the far side and wait, my claws flat against the shingles.

I notice the vibration, faint and tremulous, when the butcher is about halfway up the other side of the tower. The tower is swaying as the abomination climbs, and I can feel the creaking of the timbers and the grind of stone on stone. There’s a rhythm to the sway that matches the pace of the butcher’s climb.

His arms reach the edge of the roof, and I make my move. I leap over the roof and onto his back. I’ve subtracted my weight from one side of the tower, then added my weight — with interest thanks to gravity — to the other side. The butcher is much heavier than I am, and my impact is enough of a surprise that it loses a grip with one arm, swinging out from the tower while I desperately cling to its back. Then some stones give way and we’re falling.

I see the red shingles of the roof rushing toward us below. In a fraction of a moment, we’ll hit them and punch right through the roof. We’ll probably crash through the next floor, too, landing in one of Master Viktor’s laboratories.

We’re abominations, so the fall won’t kill us. And even if we land on something caustic, poisonous, or aflame in the laboratory, that won’t kill us either.

But my last conscious act is to twist my neck and look up at the sky. Above me I see tons of stone — the collapsing mass of the north tower, its stones following us earthward.

That should do the trick. I hope Master Viktor will be pleased.

This whole operation depends on me getting down into the basement labs before Dr. Gilman finishes growing a new abomination. And because his hands are up in the air and my gun is pointing right at him, I think it’s safe to say it worked.

“Away from the tank, Gilman.” I can see something floating behind him in a massive tank full of sludge, and I’d rather not be around when it decides to leave that tank. Gilman complies, shuffling toward a desk covered with computers.

Then there’s a voice in my head: “Master, the blond man is about to . . .” It doesn’t get any further than that because I toss a grenade into the tank, then another. There’s still a mass in the center of the tank, but now there’s a lot of chum whirling in the greenish fluid. That ought to shut it up.

My ears are ringing, but I can hear Gilman’s nasal, pleading voice. “Agnar, I can make you wealthy . . . or powerful. Whichever of my rivals sent you, I assure you I’m more reasonable than they are. And you have me at a disadvantage — enrich yourself! Once you pull that trigger, I have no value to you.” Gilman’s eyes are wide, darting back and forth between the tank and the door behind me. He’s looking for an exit and hoping that his abomination will wake up and slaughter me.

Which it would. Humans, even in numbers, even with explosives, just don’t beat abominations. It doesn’t happen.

Except I did beat Gilman’s abomination a few weeks ago — in a situation where even I would have bet against me. That’s why I had to pull a risky commando raid on Gilman’s labs — I wanted to get here before he had time to grow a new monster.

“None of your rivals sent me, Gilman.”

“How can you be so sure? They’re subtle creatures, Agnar. Some of them are thousands of years old, and others have made pacts with evil forces that can cloud your mind.”

I laugh. “I’m older than I look, Gilman. And I know what you’re up to. You don’t get to end the world. Nobody does until I say so.”

But then my laughter cuts short. I feel the vibration of a pager at my waist. I dropped sensors all along my path, and they’re starting to detect someone else in the building above us. I left only dead bodies up there. And it’s not the police — I’d have heard the radio chatter on my headset.

Ten bucks says it’s another endbringer — or at least an abomination.

Gilman again — he’s loudly protesting that he wants to end the world. How dumb does he think I am?

I cover the space between us in three strides and throw a forearm across his neck as he sprawls onto a desk. The pistol barrel is against his nose as I say, “Not ending the world, Gilman?”

Using the business end of the pistol, I hunt-and-peck a password on the desk computer next to Gilman’s head. With a blink, up come the schematics for a summoning ritual. For the big guy himself: Cthulhu.

“Cthulhu doesn’t do the little stuff, Gilman. You know that, and I know that.”

I want to continue this, because Gilman could probably tell me a lot about the other endbringers. But my pager is vibrating so hard that it’s emitting an audible buzz. And I’m not exactly blind to the motion in the tank behind me. Time to cut this short.

“One of your endbringer rivals is picking through the wreckage upstairs, Gilman. Part of me wants to just step back, let you two duke it out with your abominations, and maybe pick off the weakened winner.

“But that part just got outvoted by the sensible part of me.”

Two shots to Gilman’s head, and he’s done. Another bullet to the computer, just because I get a vicarious thrill out of shooting Cthulhu. Two more grenades go into the tank, and then I’m up the elevator — I don’t want to get trapped down here. Once the elevator reaches ground level, a satchel charge wrecks it well enough that the rival endbringer up here won’t get access to Gilman’s research — or whatever was growing in that tank down there.

Tonight, I’ll get to cross Gilman’s name off my list. But part of me wonders which endbringer is rooting around up here.

I should make my escape, but the sensible part of me gets outvoted. I want to see who else was gunning for Dr. Gilman. So I creep down the hallway and up a stairwell. Now I’m in the hospital’s public basement.

Janitorial? Nothing. Physical Plant? Sporadic trails of some kind of ichor, but otherwise nothing. That tells me I’m probably stalking an abomination, and the sensible part of me is screaming to get out.

I round the corner and see the morgue. Of course. Where else would my quarry be?

With as much stealth as I can muster, I creep down the corridor toward the swinging doors that mark the morgue entrance. Gun in hand (like that’ll help), I peek a sliver of my head against the window.

There’s an abomination there, all right. This one’s about 10 feet tall, gorilla shaped, with elephantine tusks. And it has sores all over its body that emit scurrying cockroaches and the pus that I found on the floor.

But that abomination isn’t alone. It stands watch over a dark-skinned woman dressed like an Egyptian pharoah. She’s pulling back a drawer in the morgue, pinching open the mouth of the body inside, and feeding it a black snake.

Then the corpse sits up as its skin flushes with color. “Neferhe, my queen,” the zombie croaks.

I’ve heard enough. I’m running down the corridor, trusting that the grenades I scatter in my wake will keep the gorilla-abomination from catching me.

I’ve got a new name, “Neferhe,” for my list of endbringers. And it’s time to brush up on countermeasures for ancient Egyptian necromancy.

“After a brief break, we will have lot number four hundred one. Recently unearthed and painstakingly reassembled after a . . . violent situation in Mozambique, an antiquity that resonates with power: the Antikythera Mechanism.

“Bidding starts in five minutes at one million American dollars. Equivalent sanguinal currencies gladly accepted.”

From the back of the dimly lit auction house, Viktor grinned. It seems I’ve arrived just in time.

He scanned the neat rows of chairs, looking for a vacant seat. To his left he noticed two shaven-headed priests of the Tibetan demon-prince, Pekhar. Potentially dangerous someday, Viktor thought, but they don’t have the resources to even be here. They must be sellers of a lot that comes up later.

Directly in front of him was a serpentine aztecal, slowly fanning itself with the feathers on its head-crest. Clearly here as a proxy for someone else. I wonder whom? Next to the aztecal was an immensely fat wendigo taking up two chairs (clearly prospering under the curse, Viktor thought) and a Norse fire-demon (useless in a situation like this).

To the left was an assortment of humans from all walks of life, peppered with the occasional vampire, leech-man, or devilish half-breed. And near the front, an empty seat. Or two actually — one on either side of . . . is that Neferhe?

The dark-skinned woman sat with regal posture in the front row, her purple robes spilling onto the chairs on either side of her. Spiraling ropes of gold snaked through her raven hair. As Viktor walked across the row to her, he noticed a round clay medallion on her chest, stamped with the image of a single unblinking eye.

“Neferhe.”

“Viktor.” The woman gathered her robes about her to make room.

“The Eye of Horus? I always figured it would be made of gold,” Viktor said as he sat down.

Neferhe paused, then gently fingered the amulet at her breast. “My father learned that wet clay has certain absorptive qualities that gold does not. I heard that you took out Minerva, Viktor.”

Word travels fast. “Sort of. She was working with a shaman named Xihouto, and between them they’d made surprising progress. But they had a rather violent falling out, and I arrived just in time to sweep up the pieces.”

“Any . . . valuable pieces?”

“I’ve got nothing up for auction today, if that’s what you mean.”

The red curtains parted behind the auctioneer’s lectern, and a cadaverous creature in a tuxedo stepped out. In his bony hands were a silver tray, upon which was a bronze box covered with dials spinning with lurches and clicks. Tiny doors on all surfaces of the box opened and closed with a rhythm of their own, revealing whirring gears.

Pinpoints of red winked into life in the cadaver-creature’s eye sockets as it intoned: “Lot number four hundred one. The Antikythera Mechanism. Bidding starts at one million.”

I could be coy, but I might as well see who’s here to play. “One million, Mikaelius.”

The cadaver repeated the bid. “One million. Hear I two million?”

Neferhe raised a slim hand. “Two million.” Then she turned toward Viktor, smiling. “I didn’t realize you were interested in antiquities, Viktor.”

Don’t you arch that eyebrow at me, lady. “Three million.”

“Four,” said Neferhe before Mikaelius had a chance to acknowledge Viktor’s bid.

She’s eager — or she’s making a big show of being eager. Either case: Why? Viktor paused, nodding to Neferhe with a tight smile on his face as Mikaelius intoned, “Four million. Hear I five?”

Then a voice came from the back of the room, utterly flat and devoid of inflection, as if it intentionally carried no meaning beyond its words.

“Eight million.”

Mikaelius’s face had long since lost the ability to show surprise, but his voice quavered slightly as he said, “Eight million, then.”

Neferhe turned to Viktor. “Omega?”

“Probably. Perhaps Gilman, but probably Omega.” I wonder if she knows about Gilman. If not, it’ll give her something else to think about.

Viktor cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Mikaelius, nine million.”

“Ten million!” said Neferhe, her voice almost rising to a shout.

She’s either forgotten herself completely, or she’s really overacting. But I’m in an awkward position. The fact that she wants it makes it more valuable to me, if only to keep it out of her hands.

Viktor and Neferhe both paused for a beat, waiting to hear from the voice in the back of the auction hall. When no voice emerged, Viktor ran his hand through his hair and said, “Eleven million, if you please.”

Neferhe paused. “You’re getting to be an expensive acquaintance, Viktor. Twelve million, Mikaelius.”

This is starting to cost real money. “Thirteen million.” Viktor wasn’t even looking at the auctioneer anymore. Turned halfway in his seat, he stared Neferhe directly in the eyes, his jaw set and teeth clenched.

Neferhe bowed her head, her eyes closed. “Going once . . . going twice . . . sold at thirteen million. Please make arrangements at the business office before the auction ends.”

Viktor rose from his seat. “The Antikythera Mechanism is the only thing here I wanted, Neferhe,” he said.

“Of course. You’re blind to many things Viktor, but you recognize power for what it is. Perhaps when we meet again, we’ll bid for it using . . . other currencies.”

“One never knows, Neferhe. Until the end of the world, then?”

“Until the end of the world, Viktor.”

Viktor slid down the row to the aisle, making his way up the stairs to the exit. As he did, Neferhe leaned forward from her front-row seat. Mikaelius the auctioneer was lifting the tray and turning to disappear behind the curtain.

Neferhe gripped the amulet at her breast as hard as she could. “Mikaelius, old friend, won’t you tell me where Viktor tells you to deliver the Antikythera Mechanism?”