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his gun. The gift of prescience could be a terrible thing, and Peter knew at that moment that he was never going to see his parents alive again.
    “No!!” he shouted.
    He jumped to his feet, and ran toward the car. As he came out of the alley, the car pulled away with his parents and their abductors inside. One of the abductors was visible through the side window, and Peter saw a man with crooked teeth and a twisted nose. On the man’s neck was a shimmering tattoo whose silver color made it look alive.
    “Give me my parents back!” Peter shouted at him.
    *   *   *
     
    His world changed again. He was back inside the Spirit Cabinet, banging the tambourine. The chorus from The Phantom of the Opera had been replaced by the sound of a man’s tortured breathing. After a moment, he realized he was listening to himself, panting for breath.
    He was not alone.
    The shimmering tattoo he’d seen on the abductor’s neck hovered directly in front of him. Staring into its center, he saw his parents’ distraught faces as they were whisked away to their doom, and felt himself shudder again.
    He had wanted a sign from the other side, and he’d gotten his wish. The Order of Astrum had murdered his parents, and now they’d sent an assassin to kill him.

 
     
    6
     
    Wolfe traveled light. Toothbrush, shaving kit, fake ID, a few thousand in American money, a Zippo lighter from his army days, a disposable cell phone, a laptop, a single change of clothes, and the pocketknife. From time to time, one of the items would break or need replacing, and he’d go through a short period of adjustment. They were his only possessions, and he was attached to them.
    Wolfe was sick about losing the pocketknife. It had been given to him as a small boy by an uncle. He had eaten with it, killed with it, and used the corkscrew to open bottles of wine. It pained him that it was now lying in a police evidence bag. It was not the fate he would have hoped for his knife. Better if it had ended up sticking out of the young magician’s chest, like he’d planned.
    The cab braked. “Seventy-eight Christopher Street. That will be ten bucks,” the driver said.
    Wolfe settled the fare. Soon he was standing on one of the West Village’s narrow streets. He checked the street for any signs of police. Seeing none, he approached a parlor with a hand-painted sign in the window that was home to a Gypsy fortune-teller named Madame Marie. As he opened the front door, a buzzer went off in his ear. He went in.
    The parlor was small and scented with sandalwood, the walls covered in dark burgundy fabric. A round antique table sat in the room’s center flanked by two wingback chairs. On the table was a dog-eared deck of Tarot cards, and nothing else.
    “Anybody home?” he called out.
    “We’re closed.”
    The voice was female, and had come from behind a beaded curtain.
    “The sign in the window said you’re open until midnight.”
    “Don’t believe everything you read. Come back tomorrow. We open at ten sharp.”
    “Are you Madame Marie?”
    “Yes.”
    “I need to see you now. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
    “Leaving?”
    “Flying home to England. I was told you were the best fortune-teller in New York.”
    “You can’t come back some other time?”
    Wolfe heard a slight hesitation in Madame Marie’s voice. When it came to sound, he could hear things that other people could not. It had happened while he was in the army, after nearly being blown up by a roadside bomb. Ever since, his hearing had been phenomenal.
    “It’s really important. Please. I’m desperate.”
    She let out a sigh. “Have a seat. I’ll be right out.”
    Wolfe took the chair closest to the door and looked around the room. He could tell from his surroundings that Madame Marie was the real deal. Fake fortune-tellers used a variety of props and cheesy gimmicks to get their clients to tell them what was on their minds. Some had their clients sit at glass tables so they could read their