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soul ripe for harvest. . . . By then, the Chronostone could be
anywhere
. Still, the demon reasoned, anything was better than crawling back to the Hadean Executive with the happy tidings that he, Astoroth, had somehow managed to lose the Boss's most prized possession. With this in mind, he pleaded with the voice on the other end of the line, “Look, I'll try and get it back before anyone notices. For my sake,
please
don't let the Boss know it's,
ah . . . missing, or he'll relocate me as a cockroach in Moscow. . . .”
             
    Night fell in the Forest of Caledon. Helmets lay abandoned in the ferns, swords littered the mud, and a watery moonlight picked out the battlefield where Nostrilamus's legionaries had failed to defend themselves against the dragon attack.
    Drawn, not by the smell of unwashed humans, but by the brilliant light that poured out of the excavated casket, the dragon had stood statue-still behind the legionaries, watching as each rope of pearls, each little leather pouch of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires had been plucked from the hoard—until at last, at the very bottom of the pile, Nostrilamus came upon the single stone whose brilliance made all the other jewels seem dull and tawdry by comparison.
    At that point the dragon cleared her throat and announced her presence. “I'll have
that,
squirt,” she growled, stepping forward to claim the egg-sized diamond. “I've been hunting for yon earring for eons. Pass it over,” and extending a massive, taloned paw, she shouldered through the terror-stricken circle of legionaries.
    If only they hadn't put up such a
fight,
she thought, patting her vast belly with faint regret. Italian food was
so
fattening. She'd let the scrawniest one go, watching in amusement as he ran screaming into the forest, gemstones spilling from his pockets, sheer terror giving his feet wings. Self-preservation overcoming his greed, Nostrilamus had abandoned the most precious treasure of all without a backward glance.
    “Silly boy,” the dragon whispered, reclining in her roost at the top of a Scots pine and reaching up with one talon to check that her long-lost earring was safely in place. It dangled from her ear, each facet of the diamond-like stone catching the moonlight and sending sparkling reflections dancing across the clutch of eggs beneath the dragon's belly. With no desire other than self-adornment, the dragon had no idea of the immense power currently decorating her ear. In its time, the gem had been given many names—Precious, Pericola d'Illuminem, Ignea Lucifer—names spoken in many tongues and in as many countries across the world as it was traded, passed on, inherited, and fought over. It answered to one name only, however, and that was Chronostone, the Stone of Time.

Scary Biscuits

    A fternoon tea on the lawn had evolved into supper, and despite the gnats and the slight chill in the air, the Strega-Borgias and their guests still sat outside round the table. The light in the sky had faded to a dusky lavender, so Latch had hung several lanterns from the lower branches of a flowering cherry tree. Tock and Ffup had combined their swimming and fire-lighting skills to send a flotilla of candles set on lily pads floating serenely across the moat. Black Douglas produced a three-quarter-sized violin from a small case and, tucking the tiny instrument under his beard, proceeded to draw from it a haunting melody. Round the table conversation ebbed and flowed, the music weaving in and out of the voices like an endless ribbon. Even Mrs. McLachlan relaxed her hawk-like watch over Damp and, closing her eyes, sighed with deep contentment.
    “They played that tune at our wedding, didn't they, darling?” Signora Strega-Borgia said to her husband, wishing to
somehow lighten his mood. Luciano was not for cheering up, however. The hideous prospect of a week of wall-to-wall houseguests stretched out interminably ahead of him, and he declined to reply.
    “Oh, Luciano, surely