Duvalle pushed himself away from the table and sighed contentedly. There was nothing like a good meal to break the ice. While there was still an uncertain edge to everyone, they had seemed to come together, briefly during the meal, sharing the experience with relish.

Only Elizabeth and Marco seemed to still be completely reserved. Though he didn't completely understand Marco's frame of mind, his emotions indicated he have been processing a similar shock as Liz.

Duvalle made a mental note to make an appointment with Marco to see about helping him through his troubles. There seemed to be something related to the young man's grandmother's death and funeral that still bothered him. Duvalle hoped he could help.

Harold led the group deeper into Manor. They retraced their path, back to the foyer, where Harold led them through an archway behind the grand stair case towards the center of the manor. The aromas of cooking food stirred the air, adding to the ambiance. The collection of fine art wasn't limited to the foyer; paintings and sculptures were tastefully placed throughout the manor.

Tom Morrison checked his watch for a third time as he wove through London traffic. He had a tight schedule, four different pick-ups, through out the city, all within fifteen minutes of each other. He had plotted and driven his course several times over the last few days, to make sure nothing would interrupt the flow of the trip. He had a bonus riding on it. His boss had bet him that the schedule would be impossible to keep, but he'd been able to get it worked out with precise tolerance, even managing to give himself a few minutes, no more than three, at each location to allow for delayed embarkation.

When Liz exited her apartment, a well-dressed gentleman was standing at the curb in front of her apartment building's steps. Parked at the curb behind him is 1930's model Rolls Royce touring car. The passenger compartment’s door was standing open.

Liz briefly wondered whom the car belonged to. She didn't know anyone in the neighborhood who was affluent enough to own such a car. Either someone had a visitor or the driver was lost.

As Liz turned to lock the entrance, a small cough drug her attention back to the strange man and car. "Miss Downing?” She heard behind her, the man's tone gentle and inquisitive.

Liz turned back with a start. "Yes?" Mr. Duvalle had told her he was sending a car for her but this isn't what she had expected.

Barely six months had passed since the doctors had given Liz a clean bill of health after she had nearly died at the hands of a psychotic serial killer and she still found it difficult to make the short walk from the bus stop to her small flat. Every dark alley and blind corner reminded her of the dreadful night she had been attacked. How she had felt herself grabbed from behind before even realizing anyone was there. How a wet cloth had been pressed over her nose and mouth as she struggled to free herself to no avail. How as her consciousness faded she thought she heard a man's voice whisper she would be the one to unlock the last of the bowl's secrets.

Miles looked up from the desk in the back corner of the book shop as the small bell above the door announced an arrival.

"I'll be right with you," he said. He carefully finished applying a small strip of archival tape to a small tear in the dust jacket of the book he was working on. Satisfied that it wouldn't continue to tear any further, he closed the book and stood up to greet his visitor.

His customer was a middle-aged man in a grey business suit, somewhat worn but of reasonable quality. He held a book carefully in both hands.

Every time Marco Conti looked around there was another demon, usually holding a bottle of Bass Beer or laughing it up with a young American-styled cheerleader. Amongst the demons there were other fiendish things, but his eyes kept being drawn back to the pointed ears and prominent fangs, the red tongues and the horns.

Father Malachi Baptiste slumped into the chair in his office. Henrietta had already deposited his mail into the "In" box and he Loosened his tie before grabbing the stack. The Sunday sermons were over and with some trepidation he knew that a few of the congregation would be seeking him out after the late Sunday schools with issues and problems that he had no answer to and made him wonder if God's will was his will.

Endless pain and eternal despair. Blue eyes wide, screaming. Full mouth sobbing in agony. Brown eyes shut to fend off the vile torture and utter grief. Seething torment and absolute terror. Sharp knife slicing a delicate neck. Vengeful gaze of amber eyes entering, penetrating, thrusting, hurting, breaking. Faces, screaming, sobbing, dying. Black hair and amber eyes. Black feathers against a pale neck. Black...

Jack jerked awake from the nightmare, the thin sheets of his small bed in disarray around him.