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despite his knowledge that the man was most likely a murderer, he wanted Talis so badly in that moment that his balls hurt and his heart twisted with yearning.
    The audience gasped. Artemis blinked. Red and gold feathers sprouted from Talis’s body as he began to change. Arms became giant wings, his torso rounded and flowed into legs that thinned but looked no less powerful, and his head changed from human to bird. Shreds of material that had once been a shirt and pants floated to the ground, rent and discarded.
    Artemis swallowed, feeling dizzy. It was a wonderful illusion, complete in every respect from the top of his magnificently crested head to the bottoms of his three-toed, clawed feet. Artemis stared, amazed.
    “Incredible,” he said aloud, even as the illusion turned and looked straight at him with amethyst-colored eyes. An icy shiver went through him.
    Massive wings beat the air, the sound they made very loud in the sudden hush, and the illusion rose gracefully off the stage, hovering ten feet above it without effort.
    “I am the Phoenix,” the bird said clearly in a resonant voice unlike that belonging to Talis, and burst into flames. The music played on for a few measures and then stopped.
    There was a moment of complete silence, and then the audience was on its feet, screaming and clapping and shouting their approval as the Phoenix burned, bright embers flying out around him in a golden shower.
    Artemis took a frantic step forward. “Is that real? Jesus, it’s not real!”
Ammon’s hand was on his arm, stopping him. “Wait.”
The Phoenix moved its wings enough to remain suspended in space, even as the fire consumed it. There was one long harsh cry from its burning throat, and then it was gone, vanishing into nothingness.
The audience applauded and yelled for another five minutes before realizing the show was over and there would be no encore. What could possibly follow such a thing?
Artemis turned to Ammon. “Take me to him. Now.”
“He awaits you.”
Ammon gestured for Artemis to precede him, and the detective immediately headed for the dressing room, Talis’s PA trailing behind him. However the illusion had been produced, its effect had been stunning. Artemis could still hear the thundering waves of excitement out front.
As he reached Talis’s dressing room, he felt a sharp prick at the back of his neck. His hand instantly went to the spot, cupping the abused skin. What the?
His vision darkened at the edges and weakness made his knees tremble, and he realized he’d been injected with something. Ammon had drugged him.
His last thought before he passed out: I’m dead .

Part Two Travels
Chapter One Artemis
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
—Francis Bacon
    H
E HAD to struggle to regain consciousness, fighting his way up through layer after layer of cloying darkness, and when he finally managed it, he was exhausted. He took stock of his body first. A fierce headache pounded behind his eyes, and his bladder was full to bursting. His stomach ached, but the cause of that couldn’t yet be determined. Carefully, slowly moving his limbs, he opened his eyes and sat up.
    He was in a canopied bed in a luxurious room lit with candles on stands. The flickering flames worsened his headache substantially. Groaning, he held his head.
“That will pass,” Talis said.
    Artemis swiveled his head, moaning as pain shot up the back of his neck. Talis sat in a brocaded chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching him closely. He wore a black shirt and black pants, and he was barefoot. His pale hair glowed in the golden light.
    Artemis had many questions, but they would have to wait. “Bathroom.” His voice rasped from a dry throat.
Talis pointed.
Taking a steadying breath, Artemis rose and made his way to the toilet as quickly as he could manage, pushing the door shut behind him. Candles burned here, too: on the sink, back of the toilet, and around the tub. Fumbling