Jules Verne sat in the library of the Sorbonne. The hour was late and he knew that he should be returning to his cheerless room, but the library was warm and the chair, while not exactly comfortable, was much better than the one that resided under the table he used as a desk. The pile of books beside him did not contain treatises on the law, for which he felt slightly guilty, but instead were the libraries reference volumes on that strange civilization that once ranged over large stretches of the country now known as Mexico, the Aztecs.

The pictures in this latest book showed sketches of devices found by explorers as part of that civilization. Jules was looking specifically for any mention of anything that might be a part of that strange vehicle he and his friends knew as the "Phoenix." This peculiar machine had the ability to move through time the way that Phileas Fogg's dirigible Aurora could sail through the air. He was about to give up on this one as well when he spotted a diagram that looked familiar.

He turned the pages of his own notebook to find his sketch for comparison. "Yes!" he said triumphantly. "They match!" He scribbled the name of the book down next to his drawing. When next he saw Phileas, Passepartout, and Rebecca, he would have something to report.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was coming. Someone silent. A shadow fell across his notebook. He turned quickly to look.

Jules jumped to his feet to confront the figure, then felt slightly foolish as he realized its feminine shape. Not that he had not had problems with females of a villainous bent before, but this one was merely standing silently watching him. He could see no signs of guns, knives, or anything else that might be interpreted as a weapon. She was dressed completely in black, including black gloves and a thick black veil. Very tall for a woman, he noted, almost as tall as Phileas. "May I help you?" he said finally.

For a moment there was no reply, then the veil stirred. "You are Monsieur Jules Verne?" The voice was muffled by the veil, and Jules could not guess at her age from the sound.

He nodded, realized she probably could not see too well, and spoke. "Yes, I am." He was still too wary to remember his manners. Lately, strangers had meant trouble and only trouble. "And you are?"

There was a suggestion of a chuckle in the muffled voice. "You could not pronounce my real name. For now, you may address me as Madame Coates. That is close enough to suffice."

Had Jules been a cat, his fur would have started rising. All that black and no real name. He edged away, sidling along the length of the library table. "And, what can I do for you, Madame Coates?" he asked cautiously.

"A small thing. But, important. At least to me. However, the explanation is long and standing is tiring. Will you come with me to my coach?"

 Chapter 3: Leaving the Library

Jules paused, and the woman leaned a bit closer.

“I understand your hesitation, Monsieur Verne, but it is imperative that you come with me immediately.” She glanced around briefly, then murmured, in a voice so soft he could barely catch it, “There are those who would gladly prevent this meeting… very… dark and troublesome individuals – do you understand?”

Jules caught his breath. Could she mean – the League of Darkness? He glanced around the quiet Library, and suddenly made his decision. He caught up his notebook and coat.

“Very well, Madame, I will accompany you.”

The woman made a sound of triumph, and caught Jules by the arm. “This way,” she whispered, "the front entrance is being watched.”

She led him through the dark Library, into the store-rooms in the rear. She indicated a set of double doors.

“This way, Monsieur Verne, through the loading-dock. We must hurry.”

Suddenly Jules was aware of the sound of footsteps coming up behind them, hurrying footsteps, that did not sound like the usual shuffling footfall of the aged Librarian. He hurried after the tall woman, who had already opened a door, and was looking outside.

“It is good,” she whispered, as Jules came up beside her. “We are unobserved.” A large black coach pulled up into the alleyway at the back of the Library. The driver was unrecognizable in a hat, dark coat and scarf. “Very good, here is our transport,” smiled the tall woman.

Swiftly they exited the building, and entered the coach. As they left the alley, Jules, looking out the window, saw two men exit the Library by the door they had just used. It was impossible to recognize them, by the brief glance he had, but he did notice that one of the men wore a scarlet vest beneath his coat.

The coach turned into the street, and Jules turned back to the woman. Was she his abductor, or his rescuer? He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman stopped him with a gesture.

She flung back her veil, to reveal – the handsome face of Phileas Fogg!

“Surprised?” Fogg asked.

Jules' mouth dropped open. "Phileas!" he gasped. "What - why -"

Fogg interrupted him. "Verne, honestly! You trusting fool! I *told* Rebecca you would fall for it and -"

"Re- Rebecca? She knew -" Suddenly, Jules' amazement turned to anger. "You tricked me! But why, Fogg? What reason can you have?"

Fogg sighed, and sat back in his seat. "Well, it was not entirely a trick," he admitted. "I really did need to pick you up, *without* being recognized." He held up one hand to silence his companion. “But really, what were you thinking, going off with a strange woman?”

“But she wasn’t a strange woman –“ Jules began, and Fogg snorted.

“Don’t play word games with me, Verne, I am not in the mood. How many times have we told you to be careful? There are those who would consider you a rare prize – and yet you walk straight into the arms of strangers without a thought.”

Jules blushed. “I am sorry, Fogg. But she – I mean you – well, I didn’t sense a threat from her – er, you – oh, you *know* what I mean!”

Phileas gave a gusty sigh, and then chuckled, shaking his head sadly. “Verne, Verne, what can I do to make you understand the dangers you face?” He regarded the young writer steadily and smiled. “I shall just have to resign myself to becoming your perpetual rescuer.”

“I am sorry,” Jules repeated. He sighed and added, “I will be more careful, I promise.”

Fogg’s lips twitched. “Well, I suppose that will have to do.”

Jules frowned. "You said you needed to pick me up without being recognized. Those two men at the Library – were they looking for me?"

"Not exactly. They were looking for ME, although finding you would not have been a bad thing, from their point of view. Bait, you see," he added, as Jules began to ask another question.

"Bait?" Jules considered this. "But why are they looking for you, Fogg?"

Phileas paused, and carefully peeked out through the curtains. "That will have to wait, Verne," he answered. "We are due to meet Rebecca and Chatsworth in -" he glanced at his watch, "ten minutes. In the meantime, you can explain to me what you were doing in that musty Library."

Jules swallowed his questions. Phileas Fogg would tell him whatever he chose, *whenever* he chose. Quickly he filled Phileas in regarding his search.

At the end, Phileas was frowning. "Damn. I am sorry I didn't see that sketch of the Phoenix. It is not a thing I would like to see fall into the wrong hands." He glanced out the window again, as the coach drew up to a stop.

With a grimace, Phileas pulled the veil back over his face. "Remember, Verne, my name is Madame Coates."

"Quickly, Verne," Phileas demanded, trudging toward the funeral parlor. And, stopping at the side entrance, he started rattling the rusty cast iron latch.

Jules rushed to catch up. "Uh, Fogg... I'm mean, it's a foggy night Madame Coates, are you sure this is the right door to be..." But, before he could finish, Coates/Fogg scurried over the threshold into the dark interior.

Jules rushed to catch up, entered the room and out of habit, started closing the door behind him.

Fogg yelled, "Verne, don't close that door!"

But, the door gained a momentum of its own - as if some strong brute was pulling it shut from the outside.

Click.

The bolt latched; the room was bathed in pitch blackness.

Fogg pushed Jules aside as both men fumbled about the door looking for a way out. But, there was no knob on the inside.

"Damn, Verne. You are an idiot," Fogg said as he launched into one of his long-winded put-down speeches, pushing aside his veil as the disguise was to longer needed.

But Jules ignored Fogg's hot-headed tirade as usual. Instead, he focused his attention on a mysterious green luminescence coming from the floor of the far corner. He wandered over to look at it.

As Verne walked deeper into the room, the wafting mildewed dust he stirred up in the musty dampness bit into his sinuses, threatening to make him sneeze.

As he walked, the stone floor abruptly ended as Jules' foot caught on a metal ring which almost caused him to lose his balance.

"Fogg, I think I've found a trap door in the floor. And there is a light behind it," he whispered, trying to to alert whoever could be in the room below.

The dark was not as dark as it had been as Jules noticed his eyes stared to adjust to the very dim light in the small room.

He turned to look at Fogg who was continuing to chastise him, and continued the one-way banter at considerable length - per usual - as if Verne were intently interested and hanging upon every word.

Instead, Jules looked through Fogg, who, as it happened, was leaning up against an elongated box made of polished wood.

An item which until now had gone unnoticed.

"If you had been listening to what I have been saying, Verne," Fogg continued.

"--You would realize how serious the matter could be. The Admiralty is furious, we could be looking at another war with France."

THAT got his attention, no matter how difficult it was to take Fogg seriously in widow's weeds.

Jules rose to his feet and pointed at the box beside Fogg. "What's that?"

"What?" Fogg glanced at the box, then dismissed it with a wave. "Someone's dearly departed, no doubt."

"Not here. It's too new. Too recent."

Fogg hand ran over the finish of the wood and then he leaned closer to it, sniffing. "Odd."

Inwardly, Jules cringed. "How can you--?"

"Salt-tar. This has been near sea water and recently." Grabbing a handle of the box, Fogg began to pull it from the shelf.

The lace gloves he was wearing proved to be something of an obstacle and he uttered some faint imprecations beneath his breath about impossible hemlines as he stumbled his way backward over the edges of the dress. Jules ran to help him, trying to fight his way around the other end of the box, but the bottom was wet and slimey. His hands slipped and the box crashed to the floor.

Taking a step back, Jules glanced at his hands and found they were glowing, covered with a green, luminous slime. He swallowed nervously and tried to bend his fingers - they were stiff, but they still worked well enough. There wasn't any pain either, the goo cool to the touch, but incredibly sticky.

"Fogg?"

"What--? Oh." Fogg's lips twisted into grimace. "That looks unfortunate."

"It doesn't hurt," said Jules, somewhat weakly, and growing more fascinated by the minute as he realized there was no apparent harm to the mixture.

"Well, as you've made yourself a light source, do come over here and give me a hand."

Jules took a step or two toward Fogg, holding his hands out to light the way. Almost immediately, he kicked part of the contents of the box, stopping as the thing skittered across the floor.

Rifles. Dozens and dozens of rifles.

"I think," said Fogg, a finger to his lips, "this is precisely what we were looking for." He knelt down, then gestured for Jules to join him. "No - don't touch any of it, just hold your hands there so I can take a look."

Obeying, Jules dropped to his knees and held his hands out. Fogg picked up a rifle and examined it in the dim, greenish glow.

"American made - my guess would be the Northern States." He turned the gun over, sighted down the barrel, then ran his fingers carefully over the length to find an incised manufactuer's mark. "Verne - you're doing a splendid job as a latern. In fact, I think you're glowing more brightly now."

"It's not me," said Jules, glancing back over his shoulder toward the trapdoor. It had begun to rise, the strange, green glow filling the room with an eerie light as--