Magic & Mayhem: 7 Mystical Romances to Enchant You
Author: Susan Conley
Date: 2014-11-24 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal
Description: Mix a touch of magic with a pinch of danger and stir in a hunky hero, and you have the perfect recipe for a love potion to make you swoon. These seven stories make for a delicious brew of paranormal romance: That Magic Mischief: Dumped out of the blue by her boyfriend, Annabelle’s hopes of walking down the aisle seem more remote than ever—until the metaphysical takes matters in hand. Life After Death: Chelsea’s mission is to guide ghosts to the next world, but can Brad save her when it’s her turn to die? A Matter of Fate: Someone is setting death-spells targeting mortals, so it’s up to half-tr
Publisher: Crimson Romance
Rights: Copyright © 2014

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Contents

That Magic Mischief

Life After Death

A Matter of Fate

The Kindred

The Amulet

Love of Her Lives

Immortal Love

That Magic Mischief

Susan Conley

Avon, Massachusetts

This edition published by

Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com

Copyright © 2013 by Susan Conley

ISBN 10: 1-4405-6441-8

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6441-3
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6442-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6442-0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123rf.com/Paola Giannoni

For all the old pals

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

EPILOGUE

About the Author

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Jennifer Lawler and everyone at Crimson Romance!

For the speedy response from NYC re: fashionable boites, thanks to Tanya Dean, Michael Conley, Nancy Fava, Sara Zatz, Johannes Kroemer, Melanie McLynn Conley, Herb Ouellette, and Nic Quaife — family and friends who are better than Google.

To Johannes, and Vanina Feldsztein for all the beautiful photos.

To Ciara O Dowd and JJ Harrington for being fantastic workshop co-facilitators: doing the work in the beginning of 2012 helped keep the spirit of this story on the front burner. Also, thanks to Ciara for her very patient responses to completely insane queries about using tracking changes in Word.

And sincerest possible thanks to every single person who asked, “How’s your next book?” because it expressed to me a belief that there would be a next book — and so it is.

Prologue

It was time.

This decision was far from arbitrary, but the human attached to this Pooka wouldn’t understand. Humans, sniffed the Pooka, as she lazily changed into a he and then back into a she. That race understood precious little, not only about the world they lived in, but the other worlds as well.

Underworld, Innerworld — they hadn’t a clue.

But … in fairness. This Pooka’s creature (as she was fondly beginning to think of the woman) well, she was a bit of a different story. A seeker, she was, investigating the limited ways and means that humans had at their disposal to peek beyond the veil, to peer though the dimensions, to tune into the vibrations of other beings and other levels of being.

What’s ’er name again? The Pooka consulted her astral calculations … ah, yes, Annabelle Walsh. Thirty years of age, college educated, photographer, Irish-American. Unmarried. Unattached. Unhappy. Ah well, thought the Pooka. A wee bit of that tough love and the girl would get herself sorted. She was almost there, what with her sacred space and aromatherapy and all — although all that feng shui rubbish was right out.

Ah, well, that was her job then; set the girl straight and no mistake about it.

She was — unusually — a Pooka committed to helping.

In her own mischievous, playful, disruptive way.

Whether she, herself, liked it or not.

If this human wanted, as she seemed to be attempting, to connect with spirit, to walk the path of fairie, to consult the oracle —

So be it.

But those silly candles with the nonsensical Chinese characters have got to go.

Chapter One

What was the point of being a witch if Annabelle couldn’t manage a spell to fix her broken heart? There, she’d said it; I’m a witch, I’m a witch, I’m a witch! She felt slightly guilty, and a tiny bit fraudulent — she wasn’t in a coven or anything, and she couldn’t be sure that any of the spells she’d tried had actually worked. What Annabelle had done was read a bunch of books, created a sacred space in her apartment, listened to her inner voices, and … well, observed the Celtic calendar and all that. Two years in a row, she got on the Uptown Number 1 to go to the summer solstice celebration, at St. John’s Cathedral, at 3:00 A.M.

At least it made her serious.

Rolling over in her bed, light slanting through the ground floor windows of her one-bedroom in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, she stared at the pattern that the past-midday sun made on the ceiling. She fixated on the place where the ceiling met the wall in the southwest corner of her medium-sized boudoir, and wished she had done a better job painting the walls the soothing Wedgewood blue — things got sloppy around the edges, and she knew she’d never be bothered touching up the ceiling with white, even though the bits of blue tortured her. Not as much as they had tortured Wil — whoops. Almost lost it there. Oh, nooooo; even the mean, stupid, lousy, crappy things he said had the power to set her off crying.

Rolling over, other side; bad choice. Three million sodden, crushed tissues littered the floor, or rather, coated it. It was sickening, this was sickening, it wasn’t the end of the world, it was just, you know, a breakup, an ending, the making of room for a new beginning, an opportunity for psychic fine-tuning — Oh God, she thought, Remember when Wil — when he teased me about my affirmations, it was really so cute, and obviously he was listening to me … When he made up all those hopelessly corny little sayings, and even went so far as to write them down on index cards and tape them up all over the apartment? Helplessly, Annabelle started to cry again. Prepared as always, she ripped into tissue box number four, and was about to settle down for another good bawl when the phone rang.

Her stomach flipped — then rushed to her throat — then hit the floor. For a second, a split-second, the gaping, aching hole in her chest filled with a bubble of hope. Amazing, the thought that can fill a split-millisecond: It’s him! It’s Wilson! He’s changed his mind and he wants me back, oh God, okay it’s him and he does still love me.

Her body sang with it, the relief, the exhilaration, but in another split-millisecond, in the time it took or her to check her caller ID, she knew it wasn’t him. It was Lorna.

She tried for blasé, or at least cheery.

“Hi!” There. That was peppy, the peppiest she’d been in days.

“You sound dreadful.” Annabelle could hear the cloud of Gitanes Blonde exhaled, could see it filling Lorna’s minuscule West Village studio-with-loft-bed.

“I’m fine.” Annabelle snorted into a tissue. “Coming down with — ”

“Anna. Please. I’m not completely insensitive. Did you sleep?”

“Eventually. Nightmares. I’m sure I’m PMS’ing as well.”

“Would you like to talk?”

“Oh.” Annabelle’s voice clogged as her broken heart got caught in her throat. “Yeah. Maybe. Later. I’m still in bed.”

“I’ll come out to you.”

“Oh my God, it’s that bad, isn’t it? I mean, visit me? In Brooklyn? Take the F train?”

“I will be taking a cab, of course. I don’t love you that much.”

“The place is a disaster, I haven’t cleaned in days — ”

“This may never happen again, Anna, so enjoy it. I’m coming over.”

Annabelle hung up as the tears surged again: those were the exact words that Wil — that he had used the day he unexpectedly called her, a call so unexpected, she’d known immediately something was up …

• • •

“I’m coming over.”

Annabelle almost dropped the receiver: it was four-twelve P.M., and Wilson was calling. If Annabelle had learned anything in the three years and nine months she’d known and loved him, she knew that he never called on odd minutes. Not in terms of ones, threes, fives, etc., but odd in terms of being off the hour or the half hour. Nor did he call, ever, during business hours.

A little quirk of his, an adorable little control-freak quirk, totally in line with one of the first compliments he had ever given her: “You’re so orrrrrrrganized,” he’d rumbled when he first saw her apartment (third date), stroking his hand down from the top of her ash blonde head, hesitating at the small of her back, and turning her toward him for a kiss.

“Hello? Annie?”

“Hi, yeah, come on over. You sound weird? Bad day?”

“We need to talk.”

No. No way. Battle stations. Danger. Danger. Annabelle took a breath. “Whoops. Sounds serious. Have I been leaving the seat up again?” Humor. Good. Good girl.

“I’m in a taxi. (Taxi? Oh shit.) I’ll be there in ten.”

“Wilson, please.” Teary, begging.

“Annie. Just wait. I’m on my way.”

Dial tone.

Ah, there’s a feeling she hadn’t felt since second grade, when she routinely used to faint during math. Every Tuesday, this kind of feeling would overcome her, a light-light-lighter-than-the-air-that-was-slowly-leaving-her-body feeling of disconnection. The room would zoom away from her, then rush back to proper perspective, her skin would tingle all over, with sounds distant and echoing in her ringing ears and especially, especially, the slow blur of vision, the glowing ring of light that entirely filled her line of sight and then went black.

“I will not pass out, I will not pass out, come back, come back, come back, Annabelle Annabelle Annabelle … ” Her head continued to buzz. Head. Headache. Aspirin. Bathroom. Face. Make up.

Face. White. She’d always thought that was a literary flourish, pale as a ghost and such. Nope, there it was, her round Irish face as chalky as cheese. Chalky as cheese, chalky as cheese …

This would be a good time to rearrange the bookshelves. The aspirin bottle clattered into the sink. She’d been meaning for weeks to switch from chromatically arranged within theme — women’s fiction, travel guides, travel writing, homeopathy, art, history, art history, herbs, etc. — into a more straightforward and visually varied alphabetical mode. Perhaps — ah — complete and utter alphabetization was called for, i.e.: art, drama, homeopathy, etc. Perhaps she need not throw out the idea of chromatic arrangement, either; she could color-code each section by investing in an assortment of hand-painted rice papers from Kate’s Paperie and —

He’s going to break up with me.

Those photographs — hmmm. Why not set them in chronological order, starting from the top right, along the shelves, in front of the chromatically and alphabetically sorted books, as necessary? A wonder she’d never thought of it before. And her souvenirs, the ones she’d bought herself, and the ones that Lorna and Maria Grazia brought back from their travels, organized perhaps, by weight and volume.

He’s going to —

Phone. Speed dial. Ring. Ring. Ring. Please. Please.

“Maria Grazia? It’s Annabelle. I think … I think Wilson’s going to break up with me.”

Chapter Two

Waiting for Lorna, Annabelle sat by the phone, which was also by the front door, the door to the bathroom, and the kitchen sink, and looked around the long and narrow front room. She had cunningly divided it into a ‘living room,’ a ‘dining room’ (where she was currently seated), and an ‘office.’ Her eyes roved from her tiny loveseat, to the tall narrow pine bookshelves that flanked her ‘office’ desk, to her sacred space, which was actually an old sewing machine she’d picked up off the street … which should have been the biggest clue that the thing didn’t work.

So much for those slipcovers she thought she’d run up. Too heavy to drag back out again, she began idly placing objects on the sky blue cloth she had draped over the top: a vase of flowers, crystal candleholders holding beeswax candles, a few of her more important goddess books, a tin of incense that Maria Grazia had brought back from Morocco, a box full of images she had yet to paste into a wish book, and her tarot cards.

Annabelle lit the candles and sat down on the floor. She tried deep breathing for a few seconds, and feeling slightly calmer, took the deck out of its wooden box, and began to shuffle the cards. Her mind was far from clear, she was far from centered, but she wanted answers. She wanted results. She wanted guarantees.

She let her breath flow in and out; it lulled her, cleared her head, calmed her down, and the smell of the burning wax soothed her, as she tried to formulate a mature, non-attached-type question. Not: Will Wilson come back to me, please, please?

Her breathing hitched. Yeah, definitely not that. “Okay. The issue is … Wilson. Um. Do we have a future together?”

She turned over a card. The Knight of Pentacles, reversed.

“Damn it.” Reversed, this Knight meant carelessness, a standstill in affairs. “Okay, so if things are at a standstill, that means they can move forward again, right?” She turned another card.

Three of Swords, reversed. Sorrow due to loss. Well, duh, Annabelle thought, and then winced, as if she’d said it out loud. As if the cards could hear …

She turned over the next card warily.

Wheel of Fortune. Not always a good sign, though, as it could mean an unexpected loss rather than a gain, even when in the upright position as it was now. “I don’t know what any of this means,” Annabelle mumbled, knowing full well what it meant. This was all about the now, and she didn’t like the now.

At moments like these, Annabelle found it was usually a good thing to stop pulling cards.

Queen of Cups. She shivered. That was her court card. Good natured, intuitive, a loving female figure, one whose imagination often outweighed her good sense …

Strength. The beautiful woman gently pats the lion on his head, symbolizing serenity, and the power of the human spirit to overcome any obstacle. Yeah, yeah, yeah …

The Sun. “Summertime? Two months from now? I’ll be better in two months?”

Annabelle gathered up the reading and returned the deck to its box. This wasn’t what the cards were for, to be used as replacement for experience and living. Even if she didn’t like what her experience was telling her and the way her life was going, it was time to put the tarot away.

She continued to sit. She tried to go back to the deep breathing but got bored. She just sat still, and remembered that she’d never had much luck reading Wilson’s cards. Maybe it never worked was because it was almost always post-coital, the only time he was ever mellow enough to entertain the idea. She could never make sense of his configurations, none of the images seemed to relate to the others, she’d pull card after card and make a spread that was meaningless, confused. He would lose interest and patience. She would feel as though she’d failed. Ugh.

She’d like to blame it all on him, but she supposed her own muddled thinking got in the way as well: always hoping he was asking about the future of their relationship, whether she would marry him, whether she would like an emerald-cut diamond in a platinum setting, as opposed to a three carat marquis-cut in white gold.

Someday, maybe, she’d find that remotely amusing.

But not today. Rising, she left the candles burning and got some incense going as well. Lavender: soothing, healing. She wanted healing. She wanted that fistful of pain to get out of her chest and dissolve into the ether. She wanted all her lessons learned in a six-week correspondence course, she wanted a whole, strong heart, she wanted Wilson back, she wanted all the sadness to leak out of her pores, she wanted her life back. Her self back. Now.

• • •

Lorna emerged from the taxi at the corner of Court and Clinton. She ascended the curb, and paused. Having never been, in her entire life, on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge, she sniffed the air, unable to imagine what this part of the world could possibly smell like. Finding nothing out of the usual, she removed her iPhone from her elegantly understated Coach bag and called up her Map app. As she waited to be enlightened as to her coordinates, she cast her cool glance over the neighborhood.

This was, indeed, a neighborhood. If pushed, she would grudgingly admit that it was rather pretty. The buildings were lower, the trees were taller, the combination allowed the light to filter down in a soothing green — very natural, she mused. The storefronts were homey and well kept, and the predominantly Italian flavor to the place gave it an old world, old New York vibe, and, she could maybe, perhaps, see the charm in living in a place like this. Well, it really was darling, wasn’t it. How nice for Anna.

But for Lorna — no. The mental leap required to cross a body of water every day to get into the city did not register as doable. She couldn’t conceive of it. Crossing bodies of water meant a journey, not a commute. She was perfectly happy in the West Village. Who wouldn’t be, really. Downtown, convenient, leafy, as leafy as this, in all honesty — if you stood on her toilet you could see the Hudson. Anything anywhere on the island of Manhattan, just a raised arm away. The idea of having to take the subway everywhere, sitting there, rocking and bumping around with the hordes — not only that but the time involved, walking to the subway, waiting on the platform, sitting on the train, getting into town, transferring, for God’s sake.

Had the neighborhood glanced back at the tall, willowy woman standing as still as a statue on the curb, it would have taken in the platinum blonde locks that fell, sheet-like, down her back, noticed the flawless ivory skin, the impeccable maquillage, the tasteful ensemble, and perhaps, perhaps, it would have shivered just a little bit. Lorna would graciously accept the conclusion of cool, as she cultivated coolness — but only her friends would know, in her heart of hearts, that she would clutch at the verdict of cold. And that’s why they were her friends, the best friends in the world.

As her handheld hovered between question and answer — My God, not even a decent connection out here — Lorna reached for her smokes. Extracting a pack of Gitanes from the pocket of her oyster grey Anne Klein car coat, she flicked the lighter (also located in said pocket), and stepped gracefully out of the way of a mob of mothers wheeling their progeny down the sidewalk.

Families. Lorna shuddered mildly. Screaming kids, disgruntled dads, washed-out moms. Surrounded. No wonder Anna was so distraught about that idiot Willy. Lorna allowed herself the ghost of a smirk. How he loathed that. How he loathed her. Mister Other People’s Money Humorless Bloody Wilson.

Ah, but poor Anna. Poor, poor dear. It had been ages since she’d dated anybody that was even as passable as ol’ Wils. Such a big heart, a big romantic heart that took anybody on board and gave them a shot. Good Lord, that wrestler guy. Always had an A&P bag full of vitamins and powdered drinks on hand so he could bulk up at will and in all situations. And that string of actors, useless bastards, who used up all her mousse and stole her CDs. The yearly crush, the annual all-consuming fixation on some guy at work, or the donut vendor, or God knew.

How could anybody be that receptive all the time? Anna walked around like an open flower — not like she was a flake, or a Moonie, but you could see it in her face, especially since she got heavily involved in that witchy business. We’d all been relieved when she started dating ol’ Wilson, thought Lorna, giving her phone an impatient shake. Well, he was entirely too pretentious, but he was steadily employed, had his own apartment, and spoke in complete, intelligible sentences. So what had happened?

It didn’t seem like Maria Grazia had much of a clue what was going on, which was truly strange, because she, of the nonexistent boundaries, was always the first to know. Mind you, she had been present almost immediately after The Dumping, but as far as circumstances were concerned, MG was as clueless as Lorna was. It was a bit mysterious, not at all like Anna to hold out, or neglect to ‘share’. Especially when she was running around trying to read people’s fortunes, or giving her friends little wish boxes on Valentine’s Day.

Lorna used hers to hold her condoms. Unlike the Metropolitan Museum of Art, this was by no means a permanent collection. In her youth, those wild and crazy days, fruit flavors would have been top of the pile, but now she was into a sophisticated brand of French ticklers, ordered through the mail from an exclusive Tunisian import-export. Only for connoisseurs of top-of-the-line, adventurous, blistering sex. And no indeed, you wouldn’t know it to look at me.

She shook the iPhone once more. No love for her, thanks. She vaguely remembered having been there, in that doughy, semi-conscious state of absorption and symbiosis, and she’d rather be forced to wear sneakers with her vintage Chanel suit for thirty days in a row than revisit that maudlin, cloying swamp of a place.

She really ought to get on with it. ‘Get on with it’. Like it was a chore. It wasn’t that, at all: Lorna would do anything for darling Anna … but the truth was she really wasn’t the comforting type … Was it too early for cocktails? Going on a bender — Lorna was excellent company for that. She glanced at the page her phone had deigned to load. Oh. She was right there — practically in front of Anna’s building. She quickly searched ‘liquor stores Court Street’ and, feeling daring, walked toward those — admittedly charming — storefronts.

• • •

Lorna made entrances. Annabelle could hear her heels clacking briskly down the hall, and as she opened the door, Lorna swanned in without a hitch in her stride, having fully expected the door to be opened. Indeed, it never occurred to her that it wouldn’t, and if it hadn’t, she would have been shocked down to her French pedicured toes.

She stopped short in the middle of the ‘living room’, spun, kissed Annabelle on both cheeks, and plunked the plastic shopping bags down on the counter. She looked around, nodded, “Very sweet,” and threw herself onto the loveseat.

“Please tell me that you have matches. My lighter died.”

“Yeah. Been smoking my brains out.”

“Poor Anna.”

Annabelle got a book of matches from the big jar on top of the fridge, matches from all the restaurants she’d ever been to in New York. It was terribly sentimental, and she knew it, which was why she started using them … and then snipping off the covers and throwing them into a box, maybe she’d decoupage them onto a chair or something.

She looked at the chosen matchbook, and practically threw them at Lorna.

“Easy, darling.”

“They’re from Nobu. Our first date.”

Lorna lit up a fortifying Gitane, exhaled, and tried to stay patient. She really wasn’t any good at this. “Easy, darling. Honestly. All right, now, how long have you been holed up in here?”

“Three days.”

“Good God,” Lorna averted her eyes from Anna’s disheveled state. “And does it … seem like it’s … passing?”

“This is going to take a while. I can feel it. I don’t know why, but it will.”

Lorna got up and started taking things out of the bags. She sat Annabelle down at the table, and, after rinsing them in the sink, handed her some strawberries.

“First things first. Daiquiris.”

“I don’t want to get drunk, Lorna — ”

“Just a little tipsy, maybe slightly soused, nothing to write home about, just take the edge off. Something to accompany all those cigarettes.” Lorna began poking around in the cupboards.

“Do you have a blender? Thank God. I couldn’t imagine where I would get a blender around here. Not that this isn’t a lovely part of town. Quite charming.

“I must admit I’m un peu dérange. I don’t know what happened, how it happened, even exactly when it happened. So. I am here and all I want to do is help you along the road to recovery, get you back up on that horse, etc., etc. Tell.”

Annabelle watched as Lorna simultaneously chopped ice, poured rum, chain-smoked, and carved out identically dainty wedges of lime. The whirr of the blender cut in before Annabelle could speak, and it was just as well. Lorna was fabulous, but not exactly the most comforting type of friend. But Lorna was exactly what she needed today: smoking, lightly cursing en Français, and maybe, after all, drinking.

“I should put on Adele,” Annabelle offered, leaving the berries for the stereo. “Or maybe Billy Holliday.”

“No, darling, that’s my brand. Slightly out of your league.”

“Thought your heart couldn’t be broken.”

“It’s for breaking the hearts of others, not for repairing my own. Sit.” Lorna resumed her lounging position on the couch, and Annabelle, preferring the floor, sat cross-legged on a big cushion. Lorna ran cynical eyes around the altar space, lit up another smoke, and handed Annabelle a cocktail.

“Tell.”

Annabelle took a sip of the daiquiri, and told.

Chapter Three

She was in the bathroom repotting her fern when the door opened. After three years and nine months, she and Wilson had keys to each other’s places, although naturally she spent more time at his than at hers, he living conveniently on the Upper West side, even though it took them both just as long to get to mid-Manhattan from his place as from hers. She stuck her head out of the doorway, and looked up, cheerful, she hoped, hopeful at worst, trying not to look as afraid as she felt.

He stood in the doorway, Barney’s trench coat belted at his waist, the correct length of pinstriped trouser on view, trousers whose cuffs draped the precisely correct amount atop polished Pradas. He was buttoned up against what she assumed was the spring chill, but could also have been against whatever strange strain of virus that he presumed was breeding out in the Brooklyn hinterlands. His dark brown hair was slicked back as usual, and his hand-made, hand-tooled leather briefcase was gripped in his right hand, left hand free for retrieving his cell phone in case the office should call. The office always called. He was clean-shaven, his boyish face unable to support a ’stache without him looking like a Halloween hobo. His sweet, boyish face — expressionless. Tension around the eyes, but otherwise remote.

This didn’t bode well.

Hands covered in dirt, Annabelle went to him, stopped herself, and washed her hands in the sink.

“Have you seen Fern? She’s growing like gangbusters. Who would have guessed. Although I guess your run-of-the-mill forest floor gets only slightly less light than my ‘living room’ does, so there you go. Doesn’t she look great?” Annabelle charged out of the bathroom and put Fern back in place, fussing a bit with her fronds before turning to face Wilson. They stood in silence.

Silence being a relative term: Annabelle could hear her heart beating in her ears.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” Was that her voice? That thready little squeak?

“I. I don’t know.” He leaned forward and put his copy of her keys on the ‘dining room’ table, and then retreated a few more inches.

“What’s. Going. On. Please.” She was choking.

“Annie. I. I can’t — I’m not in love with you anymore. I don’t — I think you love me more than I love you. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s me.”

“Have you met somebody new?”

“Annie. Let’s stay calm — ”

“What about the trip to Ireland in June?”

From the front pocket of his briefcase he extracted a manila envelope.

“Your ticket is in here, along with a few letter-sized envelopes of your share of receipts from the last two years. You may need them for tax purposes. Also the journal that you used when you stayed at the apartment — which I didn’t inspect, needless to say, and a few pictures that I thought you’d prefer to dispose of as you wished.”

Frickin’ banker. She could feel an enormous rage beginning to boil, a feeling that was going to be bigger than her, bigger than him, bigger than Brooklyn if she opened her mouth. Whatever it was, whatever this dark whirling mass of emotion was, there was no way it was going to make it past the lump in her throat. She could say nothing. She could do nothing. She was barely there at all.

He continued to stand, holding out the envelope. She couldn’t look him in the eye, and so looked at it. How could her whole relationship with him fit in an 8^1⁄2 by 11 container?

He put the envelope down on the table. “I’d like your set of my keys, please.”

In a daze, she went into her bedroom, and dug through her purse. Her purse was as supremely ordered as the rest of her life, yet she couldn’t seem to focus on finding … oh, that’s where the nail clippers had gone. She had brought them to the gym with her when she went to the sauna last week, and had forgotten to put them back in the medicine chest. She’d go do that now.

She stopped short in the doorway, and felt she didn’t recognize her own front room. There was a man standing there, a man who last night on the phone had told her he loved her. Now he was telling her he did not. One statement was true, one was a lie. One was a lie for only these past few minutes, one was a lie for a much longer time.

Keys.

She went back to her bag, rummaged, found them. Looking out the window, trying to breathe, she saw Maria Grazia trying to hide behind one of the impossibly thin trees that lined Union Street. Thank God. MG was here.

She floated somewhere outside herself as she handed Wilson the key ring with the small clay heart that dangled from the chain. Shifting his briefcase under his arm, he removed the keys from the ring, and put the heart on the table. Whoever said he had no sense of the symbolic? No flair for the dramatic?

“I hope that we can still be friends.”

Annabelle’s spirit snapped back to attention and a laugh — strangled, but still a laugh — squeezed out of her throat.

“I doubt it.”

They stood and looked at each other. Or rather, Annabelle looked at him, this sudden stranger, and Wilson looked for his permission to leave. Annabelle turned away, he turned the knob, and the door snapped shut.

She stood, numb, the silence in her head shattered by the sound of the shutting door, the ringing in her ears growing into an insistent buzz, a buzz that was actually the doorbell, being rung not by Wilson who had immediately changed his mind, but by Maria Grazia rushing in to help sweep up.

• • •

“I just feel — I just feel — like, gutted. You know? Empty. It really hurts. It really hurts, Lor, I mean, nothing — remember Ted? Remember how bad that was — I remember the Labor Day weekend after he finally said he didn’t really love me, I remember lying around in my nightgown for the entire weekend, just lying on the couch, eating these little bonbon ice cream things and crying and watching this crappy little black and white TV … A repeat of Twin Peaks was on. The original movie. God, that was amazing. The script was flawless, I mean, without a flaw, I always meant to get my hands on the screenplay, back when I was writing screenplays, I mean — ”

When was the last time she and Annabelle had gone on a bender? Was she always this maudlin? Unfair, Lorna, unfair. Having been taken through the whole event, but without much going on in the back-story department, Lorna could understand the shock to Anna’s system. Selfish bastard. Not news to her. She didn’t think men were universally stupid, or from Mars, or wherever, but she did think the majority of them wholly uncivilized and thoughtless. And here was yet another case study proving her point.

Time, perhaps, for another pitcher.

“No, Lorna, for crying out loud, are you trying to kill me? I hate this, I hate this, I already feel totally out of control — ”

Lorna sat back down.

“No more drinks, please.”

“Smoke?” Lorna offered her the second pack of the day.

“Yeah. Tell me a story. Tell me a story about work.”

“Hmm. You know that new fellow, the oddly straight male who has decided public relations is his metiér? Well, it is not, so he’s decided he’s going to sleep his way to the top. Via me. Really. Except, Mr. Ruthless Ambition is sending me flowers and chocolates, if you don’t mind. I mean, do get it over with, if you take my meaning. This is not so much a story as an anecdote.” Lorna laughed lightly into her drink.

“And how’s The Star?”

“Impossible since Entertainment Weekly put her on the cover. We got a memo requesting additional services for her bichon frise, including manicure, or claw-icure or whatever, and a massage. A massage for a bloody dog! You cannot make this up. Did I tell you about the mineral water outrage? No? Sure you didn’t hear all about it on Fox? Well — ”

Annabelle watched Lorna speak. Watched more than listened, not that she didn’t want to listen, she was a good listener, but she couldn’t really hear. She was stinkin’ drunk. It hadn’t gotten so bad that Lorna was multiplying before her eyes, but focus wasn’t her strong point at the moment. She watched Lorna gesticulate, her usual pristine manicure sparkling in the diffused sunlight, she watched Lorna’s long, white blonde locks shiver, watched her earrings slap furiously against the side of her face. Oh — they were the agate and amethyst stones that Annabelle had given her for her birthday —

“Hey. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey. You’re wearing the earrings. I didn’t think you would.”

“They go with the Narciso. I do love them.”

“Do you feel any change in the frequency of your migraines? The combination of the crystals ought to have a healing effect — ”

“Anna.”

“Okay, okay. Go on.”

Lorna recommenced her detailed and detachedly hilarious account of the high jinks of one of her highest profile clients. Annabelle wondered yet again how the self-possessed Lorna Bates, the avowedly not warm-and-cuddly Lorna Bates, could make such a success out of working in as touchy-and-feely a business as public relations. That, she supposed, was it exactly: Lorna’s self-possession — intimidating on a good day, something akin to nuclear fission on a bad one — could get her and her clients anything they wanted, through sheer force of resolute will.

Annabelle knew for a fact that Lorna had the personal cell number of both the Lifestyle and Entertainment editors of The New York Times, and that they ran in fear of her. She presented competence, exuded confidence, suffered no one gladly, much less fools. Even on a Saturday afternoon, she was painstakingly turned out to the nth degree, and was without a doubt in line to start her own business, sooner rather than later.

Annabelle looked down groggily at her stained and faded T-shirt, and her threadbare sweats. She had style — sure she did. But the idea of dressing up just to cry like a baby didn’t make sense. Her sweetly bobbed hair was lank, her eyes were sore, the underneath part of her nose was red and raw, and in the intellectual part of her mind, she knew that this was beyond miserable. But she also knew it was necessary.

She tended to fall in love quickly, and fall out of it excruciatingly slowly. Well, I’m a romantic, she thought. Okay? She’d have a crush, have some dating, maybe it would soon merit the ‘R’ word, and then … and then.

Hey! Not like she was the one that got dumped all the time. Sometimes — often — she was the one who made the decision to let the thing fade away. Remember Adrian? She was the one who took it slow. She never even kissed him. It was like elementary school, it was so innocent. That faded away very nicely, thank you, no hard feelings, no endless autopsy of the event. Actually got back on her feet and got onto the next thing.

Which had been Wilson.

“ — And then, in she sweeps, not even waiting for permission to enter, and she’s holding a chicken leg by the skinny end with her fingertips, demanding to know how this offensive piece of meat found its way onto her vegetarian plate — ”

Oh, Lorna, she thought. Sometimes I wish I had a bit of your cool detachment. You never get your heart broken. You would have added up the signs, the little behavioral hiccups, you would have known the score. You would have never gotten blindsided like this, never. She’d never been so shocked in her life.

Had she? Really? Been shocked? Totally and completely … ?

Well. Maybe in a while, she’d actually be able to look at that truthfully.

But not now. Now, she was going to sink, sink completely and fully. In previous heartbreak situations, she had dusted herself off, gone on a trip, taken a class, gotten a haircut, you name it. This time was different. She didn’t know why, but something had to be processed. Something had to be let go. Maybe that’s what that tarot card was about. Change, shifting direction, not nice gradual change, but brutal, heartless change. Maybe I should look that up and —

“Hold on there, darling.”

Annabelle had lurched up suddenly and almost fallen over. She plopped back down too quickly, and thought for a horrified second that she was going to puke. She imagined Lorna covered in spew. Standing there in those insanely high heels covered in vomit. She shook her head to release the mental image — she’d been practicing her creative visualization assiduously over the past year, and didn’t want it to start working now.

The phone rang.

They both froze. Even Lorna looked wary.

It rang again.

They looked at each other, and Lorna quirked a brow. Annabelle shook her head.

And again.

Lorna shrugged and gestured. Annabelle shook her head faster.

Lorna rose abruptly.

“We can speak, it’s only the phone ringing. I’ll get it.” She grabbed the receiver without checking the caller ID and answered it, putting on a fake French accent.

“Oui, ’allo?” Annabelle could hear a confused response through the handset. Lorna smirked and mouthed ‘Maria Grazia’, and batted away Annabelle’s reaching hand.

“Esscusem moi, mais I no speak ze Eeenglish tres good. ’Oo ess thees please? ’Allo? ’Allo? — ” Annabelle snatched the phone from her.

“MG? It’s me. No, Lorna. Sure. Yeah. Of course. Yes. Okay. Bye. Bye.”

Lorna was smiling like the Cheshire Cat wreathed in smoke. “She’s so easy it’s not funny anymore.”

“She says she’ll take care of you in person. She’s on her way over.”

Lorna handed Annabelle another box of tissues as she welled up again. “Here. Good Lord. Anna. We love you. Yes? We want to take care of you … for as long as the statute of limitations allows.”

Annabelle laughed, blew her nose, and threw the soggy tissue at Lorna’s head. Lorna leaped up from the couch and in one fluid motion gained her feet, opened the freezer, and removed yet another tray of ice.

“One more round. Just like old times.”

Chapter Four

Maria Grazia bustled. She was perfectly able to affect a sinuous sort of swing of her hips — her lovely and curvaceous hips, as she often thought of them — but it was bustling time, and so she did. Not that Lorna was not a good friend to Belle, but ice was not what was needed right now. A little flash of Italian-American fire would do the trick.

Which inspired Maria Grazia to pull her collar up around her face as she booked down Atlantic Avenue. Holy Mother, if Aunt Angelica got wind she was in the old neighborhood, there’d be hell to pay. She’d never hear the end of it, she’d get cut out of the will, her own mother would rain brimstone down on her head … She cranked up the bustle before she got sidetracked by a bakery.

Sweet or savory? Madonna mia, who knew? She herself knew there was a deli on the corner of Clinton and DeGraw, or maybe it was Hicks and something. She decided she’d hedge her bets. Safely out of the realm of her relatives, she let go of her collar and shook back her strawberry blonde curls. Aw, she loved the old place, even if she was in danger in running into half of her family. They still couldn’t understand why she chose the Lower East Side over the safety of south Brooklyn, but if she was going to be a hot young fashion designer — and she was building up to the boil, she just knew it — she had to be where the action was.

Oh, but look at that glorious window treatment! Maria Grazia was considering branching out into textiles, and the rich satin lining on display only served to emphasize the sheer decadence of the velvet that it lay against. And look at the way the fabrics framed those gorgeously flaming orange tiger lilies! Maybe she’d redo the window of her storefront. She stood and breathed in deeply, as if she could smell the flowers from the street. She took her latest notebook, and a pen, from the pocket of her trench coat — it was her own design, and the cheerful cottage flower print contrasted nicely with the severity of the cut — and, standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, started making notes. She checked the number of the house in case she wanted to come back, and as she looked back to the window, a frowning older woman was standing in the center of Maria Grazia’s view. She smiled — a blinding affair of straight white teeth, dimples, and sheer joy that amped up the sincerity and warmth of her glorious face — a smile that visibly made the woman relax and smile in return. MG waved and moved on, and the women stood for some time watching her walk away.

Maria Grazia had that effect on people. Well, on strangers. Strangers took in her (in her opinion) delightful curves, her tumbling curls (thank you, Mama), her heavily lashed brown eyes (Papa, grazie), and were immediately put in mind of a Botticelli. A Botticelli that liked a good meal.

Once people got used to her, however, her looks no longer created that dramatic effect. Particularly once she opened her mouth. Well, what could she do, she was who she was, she grew up in frickin’ Brooklyn after all, and at best, her gravelly tones called to mind Marianne Faithful. At worst, they merely called to mind a cement mixer. A cement mixer relentlessly churning rocks and grit at top volume — Oh! Snapdragons!

Belle would love those, and flowers were perfect for a broken heart, MG supposed. She herself was too busy to get her heart broken. And how was she supposed to meet any eligible men — straight ones — working in fashion? She had too much to do, too many years yet on the Ten-Year Plan, and who knew, maybe she’d meet somebody, like maybe a reporter or something, coming to do a feature on her for Vogue? No, a website. Men worked on the internet, not at haute couture magazines. And in the article she might remember that on a spring day in Brooklyn, she’d seen snapdragons growing in a garden and had the idea that made her famous, to make a watered-silk evening gown whose skirt perfectly mimicked the shape of the very petals she was contemplating now.

But these were not flowers in a deli that she could just grab. Hmmm. She stood there, gazing at them, as if willing them to pick themselves and cluster in her hand. They’d be perfect for Belle’s altar. And she wanted to get a closer look at the petals, the way they joined the body of the bud … She looked up at the brownstone, its well-kept façade hopelessly imposing. A characteristic burst of confidence had her bounding up the stoop and ringing the bell; the door opened slowly, suspiciously, and MG busted out with The Smile. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but one of my dearest friends has had her heart broken, and I thought ‘Those snapdragons would be just the thing to cheer her up’.” The Smile grew brighter as the door opened wider, and Maria Grazia knew success. As usual.

The offering was more than generous, and she went on her industrious way, only to stop short again as she smelled some glorious smell wafting past her. Food, food, food; raised as she was, food was central to her life, and she’d go out of her way for a rich, enticing flavor. She decided to follow the smell; it now seemed it was to be savory that she sought, and wandered down Baltic Street toward Hicks, deeper into Cobble Hill.

What a rotten time to get dumped. It was almost full springtime, the crocuses pushing up out of the small patches of dirt that ringed the trees that curved over the streets like the vault of a cathedral. She breathed deeply and could smell (under the carbon monoxide) dirt and trees and leaves and everything that made her want to move out of the city and into a house perched on the side of a hill, overlooking a field of wild flowers. Her family would go completely insane if she left the city. That’s why it was vital that she work her way over to Europe (Year Seven, maybe Eight) and into the pockets — er, closets — of the continental rich and famous. One photo shoot in Hello! and she’d be in. But until then …

Mmmmmmm. Look at that prosciutto. And that perfect oval of crusty bread. There was nothing for it but to buy the loaf, buy the ham, and maybe some cheese, and some of those garlicky olives. She’d bet that Belle hadn’t been eating, just smoking and crying, poor kid, poor kid. Maria Grazia had never seen her friend fall apart like that, ever, not in almost twelve years.

It had to be a good thing. Her old nonna, who was, God love her, one hundred and two years old, had always said that the way to the heart was through its cracks. Despite the fact that she herself was single, and didn’t give a damn about men, not at this point in the Plan (Year Three), she had a pretty thorough working knowledge of the courses that various relationships took, having grown up around nothing but relationships.

If things worked out the way she thought they would, Belle was going to meet the love of her life. She smiled, and two little boys blushed and ran.

She was glad about this magic thing as well. Her other old nonna (ninety-seven and a half) used to read palms, and was she always right, or was she was always right? She was always right. It had to be a gift, sure, but who knew what kinds of things somebody could do if they didn’t try to do them? She liked to think she had an open mind. Now, Lorna could do with an old oiling of the hinges on her mind, the snotty bitch, MG sighed fondly. She wanted the best for both of her best girlfriends, and if Belle found it in abracadabra and Lorna found it in wheeling and dealing, who was she to judge?

Turning left onto Union Street, she stopped, very close to where she’d lurked that day, the day of the dumping. She couldn’t help but wonder what it was that made Wilson act in such a bloodless fashion, beside the fact that he maybe didn’t even have any blood, that frickin’ standoffish, cold fish. What could the sex have been like? What was his family like? Belle had never met them. This made MG suspicious straight off the bat. Anyway, the bastard broke her dear friend’s heart, so to hell with him. She spat in the gutter, and made a gesture that had the ladies across the way crossing themselves in protection.

She looked at the window that faced onto Union Street, and wished she had some magic — wished she really believed in it, old nonna or no old nonna — that would help Belle through what was going to be a shitty, shitty time. She could maybe set Belle up with a few of the cousins … MG almost spat again. And if you wanted a boyfriend and they weren’t related to you, would you go out with them, Maria Grazia Bevilacqua? Hell, no. Not some frickin’ dime store guido for her girl.

Ultimately, Belle needed somebody very much like herself: enterprising, sensitive, sympathetic, creative — and someone who wouldn’t bat an eye upon getting a load of Goddess Central.

Hey. It could happen.

• • •

Maria Grazia breezed in and let the banter begin.

“Hey, blondies! You know, we’ve known each other almost thirteen years.”

“Thanks for the update.” Lorna sniffed.

“It’s more like twelve,” Annabelle objected.

Maria Grazia set the bags she’d brought on the counter. “Twelve, thirteen, what difference does it make?”

Lorna allowed herself a small scowl. “All the difference,” she retorted.

“Lorna, you don’t look a day over 30.”

“I am 30! We’re all 30!”

“And you call me easy. Are those daiquiris?”

“None for you, not if we’re going to go for a trot down memory lane.”

Annabelle listened to her friends bicker, as they always did. Twelve years worth of boys and men, jobs and careers, dreams and realities. It made her eyes fill again as she sorted through the odd assortment of things that MG had brought. She sniffled and immediately felt herself embraced by Maria Grazia and enveloped by her ever-present cloud of Thierry Mugler’s Alien.

“Good Lord, Maria Grazia, do you bathe in that stuff?” Lorna grabbed herself a tissue and held it over her nose.

“The only thing you two have in common are your highly sensitized noses.” Annabelle hugged Maria Grazia back, and watched Lorna totter over to the window to open it.

“We got tons of stuff in common!” MG protested. “College, travel, that apartment in Midtown — God, what were we thinking! — lingerie sales, ambition — ”

Lorna cut in. “Our penchant for fruity girl drinks, costume dramas, Marcus Andersen — ”

Annabelle hooted. Her first hoot in days. “Marcus ‘The Mandersen’ Andersen. I forgot about that. Too bad he moved back to Stockholm or else I would have taken a crack at him, too.”

“It wasn’t about ‘taking a crack’,” Maria Grazia insisted. “It was, quite obviously, a terrible mistake.”

“An astonishingly, impossibly ignorant mistake. How he mixed us up, I’ll never know.” Lorna sat back and reveled in her mind’s eye. “Despite the blondeness in common.”

“He was thicker than the ice on the Hudson in February.”

Annabelle cut in. “But didn’t the lack of The Smile stop him?”

Lorna smirked. “My mouth was otherwise engaged.”

They all hooted as one, and raised their glasses for a toast.

“To The Mandersen,” said MG. “Long may he wave.”

Maria Grazia began to elaborate on Marcus’ less obvious charms, and Annabelle wondered if Marcus ever thought of any of them. Did he ever stop and smile fondly of the year away he had spent in New York, and all that it had entailed?

Did Wilson ever think of her now? Not like that much time had passed … Was he second-guessing himself at all? Did he miss her, even the tiniest little bit? Had he uncovered some little something that she had left behind, that he had missed in his sweep of the Upper West Side to rid himself of all of her things? Did he pick up the phone several times a day to call just to hear her voice on the answering machine? Did it occur to him that he’d made a terrible, horrible mistake …

Maria Grazia’s hand on the top of her bob brought her out of her torturous reverie, and she didn’t even know she’d been in tears until the tissue touched her cheek. MG pulled up a chair, and gave Annabelle another in a series of much-needed hugs and brisk, profanity-laced, words of comfort — in much the same way as she had done, on the very day that Wilson had dumped Annabelle …

• • •

In a blur of her own fine tailoring, Maria Grazia ran across the street, and took Annabelle’s stoop three steps at a time. Her strangled voice answered the buzz, and MG quickly said, “It’s me, it’s me.”

Annabelle’s flushed, teary face greeted her at the door. Without a word, MG embraced her and led her to the couch. They sat, saying nothing, Annabelle crying and Maria Grazia soothing.

It seemed impossible that Annabelle’s relationship could be over. Just three days ago, Saturday, they had all hung out at his place, a quaint one-bedroom on Riverside and Ninety First, eating a pseudo-gourmet meal (not freshly prepared, Maria Grazia sniffed) and drinking loads of wine, watching a video … Annabelle had been working pretty hard revising the most recent draft of her latest historical fiction thingie — Maria Grazia didn’t pretend to understand Belle’s work, it seemed so coldly objective, and so not Belle’s own personality — anyway, this was practically her first night out in over a week. Wilson had seemed … well, how did Wilson ever seem. They had appeared as affectionate as ever — or was the affection all on Belle’s end, always touching, stroking, smiling?

The thing that had been interesting about this particular relationship was that Annabelle didn’t seem to need to talk everything over, to ‘figure it out’ in front of her friends. Maria Grazia had assumed that she was doing that actively with her boyfriend. There had been a calm to the last seven or so months that, to her, spoke to a maturity in relationship, a departure from slumber party mentality.

“He said. He said — he didn’t love me. As much as I loved him.”

“That frickin’ asshole.”

“He said — but last night on the phone, he said, ‘Love you’. I knew it. I knew the words were meaningless. I knew it didn’t mean — I knew all along that it’s just words, it’s not, it’s not — ”

“Had anything happened? The day before or since Saturday — ”

“Things were fine Saturday. Sunday — I, I was exhausted. I really wanted to get that draft right before I sent it off to another agent. I was going over it at his place, and I, I don’t know, I got scared, you know? Nervous. I got a little weepy and … he kind of blew it off. I wanted some kind words. Just a few kind words. ‘You can do it, honey.’ That’s all.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, from your frickin’ boyfriend.”

“And he just went off about how this was always the way, as long as he’d known me, this behavior, this crying in front of him. And how I had just been on the phone with Lorna and everything was fine, why wasn’t I all upset with her, and I had been, but she gave me one of her pep talks — ”

“I’ll bet — ”

“But he didn’t hear me, and she had actually cheered me up, but this is big for me, you know, I’ve been trying to make it for so long, and I — ”

“What? Go on, Belle — you can tell me.”

“I’ve been having a hard time, feeling like he wasn’t supporting me. I felt so whiny, ‘Oh support me, support me’, but it seemed unfair, like I had to play some role, some thing I had to do, be this cute sexy girl who just liked to go out to dinner and the theater, and not have a, a, a, weak spot, to not be able to handle every single thing.”

“Uh huh.”

And I brought it up, this feeling, and I used all the stupid correct psychological terms, like ‘I feel like’, and ‘When this happens I feel like’ and he just said, you keep picking and picking at the same thing, and I said it’ll keep coming up if we don’t work it out!”

“No shit. You’re absolutely right.”

“And it just got worse, and I started crying more, so I dropped it. And then I left because I, well, I wanted to give the manuscript a little boost, do a spell, you know, something to send it on its way, and I got home, and felt calm, and I got my work done, and I called him and apologized — again — and he said okay and he said ‘Love you’ and we were supposed to go to Lincoln Center tonight for a thing that I bought the million dollar tickets for. It was all a lie. It was all a lie.”

“No, honey, it wasn’t all a lie, but let’s leave that for another day. Okay? Had anything happened at all, over the past few weeks, that could have … ?”

“He was busy with some client, he wasn’t around, or available, much. We talked on the phone every day, I gave him space — the negotiations surrounding meeting for a cup of coffee were worse than the Middle East peace process.” Annabelle laughed — sort of.

Her voice trailed off and she laid her head in Maria Grazia’s lap. This had to be a nightmare, a hallucination, a joke. It had to be.

“Let me get you a tissue, okay? I’ll make you a cup of tea, and we’ll just sit, and we’ll talk if you feel like it, and — we’ll get through the day.”

“Don’t you have meeting or a client or something?”

“Nothing. Ssssh. Okay? Chamomile or regular?”

Maria Grazia took over, calmly, quietly. The sound of the traffic on Union Street droned on, the beginning of the pre-rush hour rush. The light was quickly fading from its only source in the room, the building’s inaccessible back yard, and Maria Grazia lit a few candles, even — especially — on Annabelle’s little altar.

The picture of Belle and Wilson that took pride of place was from their trip to Maine. Maria Grazia took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy …

“I don’t think he’s going to call me. I don’t think we’ll get back together. Do you think we will? MG?”

“I don’t know, honey. But people do all the time.”

“Yeah. People do. All the time.”

Maria Grazia threw her eyes up to heaven. Madonna mia, there’s no way that dirtbag is coming back. She handed Annabelle her cup of tea, and sat back down on the tiny couch.

“I have to get that manuscript off tomorrow. How am I going to do that? How am I going to … I — I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

Maria Grazia leaped to her feet. ‘Can’t’ had that effect on her. It made her leap to her feet and want to change the world.

“Oh, yes you can. Yes you can!” she said firmly, turning on some lights. “I’ll help.”

“I — ”

“No. Come on. Sorry, pal, tough love. You’ve just been dumped — ” Maria Grazia remained unswayed by the slight squeal of pain and the new wave of tears that began running down Annabelle’s face, “ — and that’s bad enough. Right now, in this moment, you need to get active. You’ll be even angrier tomorrow if you blow this. Now. Up. Hug. Okay. It’ll all be okay.”

The two friends stood in the middle of the front room, embracing. The sound of Annabelle’s muffled weeping was the only sound apart from the spring breeze rattling the blinds. Maria Grazia looked at her friend’s back, reflected in the mirror that hung over the altar. She’ll need all the help she could get, she thought. Hope there’s something in that magic after all.

Chapter Five

It was odd, this “walking around thing”. This “putting one foot in front of the other”. She’d been up and walking around for most of the last fifteen and a half days since Wilson had ended it. But then she’d been at it for years, really, this walking business. Annabelle called on those years of experience as she left Manhattan’s main post office and made her way downtown.

Equally amazing was this seemingly infinite ability to make it through the day. Communicate. Order coffee to go. Speak to people — people who were strangers, speak to them without crying? Easy peasy, really. It was the moments in between that were still a challenge. Moments like … oh … this one, moments in which she was alone with her thoughts.

Anything could set her off. Songs that formed the soundtrack of their days together were able to bring her to her metaphorical knees, and she’d had to leave Macy’s the other day because they started blaring a truly horrible-under-any-circumstances Justin Bieber hit, but see, it had been playing in the taxi they took back to her place the first time they’d made love …

Time for a lamentation break. A Latin American hot dog vendor caught her eye and put his hand on his heart. Annabelle smiled weakly, and as she passed him, he ran out from behind his cart and pressed a few napkins into her hand.

“He not worth it, mami,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “You gonna be all right.”

She thanked him and walked away. Two blocks down the avenue it struck her that maybe he was an angel or something, that maybe if she turned around to look for him, he wouldn’t be there, cart and umbrella vanished in the blink of an eye. But no, she could see, even from this distance, that he was there, busily making his next customer one with everything.

Annabelle dabbed at her drippy nose with one of his napkins. Well, it was kind of him, anyway. She turned to begin her solitary stroll down to the subway when out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the shop window on the corner of Eighth and Thirtieth.

Oooh. A new witchy store.

Annabelle was pretty sure that she knew every single herbalist, tarot card reader, reiki practitioner, chakra adjuster and purveyor of crystals and incense in the five boroughs. This was a new one on her — and it looked as though it had been there for ages, its dusty front window packed to the gills with books, decks of tarot cards, and a crystal ball perched, extremely precariously, on top of the whole shooting match. There was no name on the door, just a symbol, a small spiral painted in gold. Her hand on the doorknob, she felt a moment’s hesitation, a cold feeling going up the back of her neck, the kind of shiver she got when she was working a ritual that actually seemed to be … working. She took her hand off the knob — something, some small voice at the back of her head started to whisper a cautionary phrase — and then the door swung open with an eerily echoing chime, a minor scale than descended rather than ascended, and Annabelle crossed the threshold.

The smell of sage was overpowering. Smoke from several bunches of the dried herb billowed from sconces along the wall. More candles than seemed possible, much less safe, flickered from tabletops, bookcases, and from chandeliers hung from the low ceiling. Crystals sparkled from display cases, alongside silver jewelry and embroidered leather pouches. Books piled upon books, in no particular order, with no regard for subject matter or alphabetization by author. Annabelle was appalled. The ominous little nurgle at the back of Annabelle’s neck turned into annoyance as she surveyed that haphazard display. It was the first feeling of determination she’d had in a week, and honestly, how in the world was anybody supposed to find what they came for if they didn’t know where anything was —

“I know where everything is.”

Annabelle dropped the pile of books she’d begun to sort. The voice, rasping yet somehow melodious, sounded like it was coming from overhead.

“But the true question is, do you?”

Annabelle swung around. Now the voice was coming from behind her. The smoke seemed to billow more furiously, and the candles to flicker more madly, and the music that had piped softly over the stereo system seemed to swell as Annabelle peered into the depths of the shadowy shop, trying to locate the voice that had just read her mind.

“Not much mind reading to be done, chicken. I know a control freak when I see one.”

The voice took shape and came forward out of the gloom. Raven black hair hung in waves down her back. Eyes the color of burnished jade regarded Annabelle from behind surprisingly trendy spectacles, and her small white face was pointy at the nose and chin. Great swathes of multi-colored scarves covered her from head to toe, but Annabelle could see a regular old pair of Levis showing above the bright red Chuck Taylor sneakers.

“I’m not a control freak,” retorted Annabelle, belatedly. “I’m organized.”

The apparition snorted with un-apparition-like disdain.

“I’m not! I mean, I am! I mean — ” Annabelle almost shrieked. She never shrieked.

“Would you ever calm yourself, pet. Come have a cuppa.”

The woman led the way back to a small circular table tucked into the farthest corner. A great glob of melting candle pooled in the center of a worn velvet cloth, and an unusual deck of cards was spread out along the very edges of the surface. Before Whoever-She-Was hastily gathered them up, Annabelle thought that the house pictured on one of cards looked very much like her family home, that one of the little boys looked like her brother when he was in kindergarten, and that there were several of her with an unknown man who looked — wow! — pretty darn hot.

“What are those? Are they tarot cards? Do you do readings? How long have you been here? What were those — ”

“Oh, sit down and have a biscuit.”

A tin of chocolate cookies was dropped brusquely in front of her, and Annabelle sat down. Somehow, she didn’t feel unsafe, exactly — maybe slightly asphyxiated from the endlessly burning sage, but otherwise, well, what the hell?

“Hell’s got nothing to do with it,” cut in Whoever-She-Was. “That sort of thinking was attached to any practice, even the simplest herbology, back in the middle ages when the old way was forced out by the Christians. No offense to the Christians, mind you. Sure, I’m one myself. I can remember, back in the day — ”

Annabelle took her cup, milk and two sugars, just as she liked it, and butted in. It seemed, if impolite, the only way she was going to get heard.

“Who are you? Some kind of psychic? Do you do readings or what?”

The woman huffed. “No patience, not a bit of patience.” She threw herself into the chair opposite Annabelle. “Sure, just grab a handful of any old stones, call them runes! Buy a wee book on the Tarot, and suddenly you’re an old hand. Stare into a puddle of water and call it scrying, and when you tell yourself what you want to hear, call it divination. Rubbish!

“I am called Maeve and I am one of the Old Ones. I am everywhere and nowhere. I know everything and nothing. I see into, out of, through, and beyond. I am, if you don’t mind, The Real Thing, Miss ‘I am a Witch’ and you’ll pay your respects and wait on me!”

Whoops. Annabelle grabbed a cookie. She took a sip of tea. She tried to visualize the distance to the door behind her, wondered if she’d make it if she —

“No need to make a break for it,” sighed Maeve. “Got a bit dramatic there, did I? Sorry, sorry. It’s just I do hate to see the young squandering their gifts. It’s time you put yours to better use, you see. It’s time for you to meet your destiny.”

“But, but, but — ” Destiny? “I don’t have gifts. I mean, I’m just kind of investigating, like, The Goddess, and, and, maybe doing a spell or two, and, you know, doing a bit of aromatherapy, mixing my own oils — ”

“Don’t go all squirrelly on me now, girleen. Too late for that. The Pooka won’t wait any longer.”

Annabelle sat frozen in her chair as the many candles in the shop mysteriously extinguished, leaving only the mess of wax on the tabletop aglow. The background music had changed to the simple beating of a muffled drum, and as impossible as it seemed, the sage continued to burn and burn, and smoke and smoke, until it seemed as if she, Maeve, and the table were floating in midair. Annabelle grabbed onto the edge of the table — it felt as though the room had begun to spin. The drum beat faster, and the smoke billowed around the madly dancing flame of the candle. Annabelle began to feel dizzy, her blood pounding in her ears, the palms of her hands sweaty and slowly slipping from the edge of the table, she felt her chair shift and rock along with Maeve’s swirling voice, and when she thought she would surely suffocate, faint, collapse —

A hazelnut hit her on the head and bounced into her lap.

The table stopped spinning.

The once dark room was full of light, and empty of smoke.

Everything was back to normal.

“Now.” Maeve nodded. “There you are.”

“Here I’m where?” Annabelle sputtered. She brandished the hazelnut. “What the hell is this?”

“Language, missus! Although I daresay yer one and ye will get on just fine.”

“Look, Maeve — I’m new to this, right? I mean, I do my tarot thing, go for a biannual auric cleansing, phone the Psychic Friends, whatever. I come in here, minding my own business, and get caught up in some ritual or whatever — and what’s this about a Pooka? Isn’t that like a, a, a poltergeist or something? What’s that got to do with me?”

“No patience!” Maeve roared. “It must be this city, each and every one of ye running around like there’s no tomorrow — well, there is a tomorrow, and one after that, and one after that, and if you want to know anything, anything that is of, or not of this world, then you must show some patience!”

“Don’t yell at me!” yelled Annabelle, clutching the hazelnut.

They glared at each other across the tiny table. Maeve’s scowl quickly turned into a knowing, smug grin.

“Well, now, chicken. Haven’t even cast your mind toward auld Wilson, have you? Hmmmm?”

Humming to herself, she rose, and cleared away the tea things. Annabelle sat stunned, the tiny hazelnut in her hand growing warm and, she had to say, it felt like the thing was giving her a bit of comfort.

“Take your time, child. Do your research. Look up Pookas in one of yer auld books. Wait. Watch. Learn.” Maeve came over, and held Annabelle’s face in her two small hands. “Heal.”

And then it was over, and Annabelle was out on the sidewalk. Blinking in the sunlight, the sounds of the traffic alien somehow, she began to wander off down the avenue. She rubbed the hazelnut between the palms of her hands and realized, yeah: she hadn’t fretted about Wilson, nor about the latest rejection she’d gotten on her book. She felt weird: tired and sad, but not hopeless. She felt pretty good — not freaked out or anything.

Until she turned to take one last look at the shop.

And it wasn’t there.

She ran back, rattled the doorknob — and it came off in her hand. She pressed her face against the dusty picture window, and couldn’t see past the stacks of boxes and the general gloom. She walked backwards into the middle of the sidewalk, and looked up at the building. The whole thing was derelict, and looked like it hadn’t been inhabited in a hundred years.

The hazelnut leaped straight up out of her palm, somersaulted in the air, and fell back into her palm, where it shook itself as if … as if it were laughing.

She looked at the nut and then at her watch.

“I’m late!” She groaned. “Lorna’s going to kill me!”

Chapter Six

Lorna checked the time, and then slammed her iPhone down on the table. Maria Grazia tore her eyes away from the menu at the sound, and shrugged.

“No show,” she said. “Weird.”

She went back to her menu as Lorna’s lethal manicure drummed a death march on the tabletop.

“Every minute I spend out of the agency requires an hour of overtime to make up for it,” Lorna grumbled. “She knows that.”

“She’s got a lot on her mind, you pain in the ass, the least of which is your work schedule. Give her a break.”

Lorna huffed through her nostrils in reply and toyed with her flute of sparkling Italian mineral water. Sunlight poured through the atrium of the painfully hip Upper West side restaurant. Fiero’s was as exclusive as it got, and was clogged to its cathedral ceiling with types: established celebrities and their entourages, celebrities on the ascendant with their hyper-alert managers, celebrity wannabes and the publicists who would mold them into fame.

Each table was draped in hand-embroidered, hand-woven linen from the hills of Tuscany, and were placed at cunningly discreet distances: far enough apart to promote privacy, but close enough should an occupant want his or her hottest bit of gossip or latest triumph to be overheard and make its way around the room, and out into the world at large.

Lorna instantly found comfort — not via the delicate touches of greenery strewn about or the gorgeous scents wafting out of the kitchen — but in the feeling one can only get when floating on a cumulative cloud of expensive perfume and when bobbing in a sea of Dolce & Gabbana.

Maria Grazia, meanwhile, found the design to be pleasantly airy but pretentious and devoid of originality. She glumly examined the breadbasket, grudgingly left by a waiter hampered by serious delusions of grandeur. Swathed, as if the product of a royal womb, in a square of rust-colored raw silk, were three of the tiniest rolls she’d ever seen.

“If Belle chose to ditch us, I can’t blame her. Look at these!” she demanded, thrusting the basket across the table. “I’ve seen cold sores bigger than these rolls.”

“Do tell, oh celibate one.” Lorna reared back from the carbohydrates as though avoiding flaming toxic waste.

“Cold sores, not herpes.” A waiter with a haircut more expensive than Maria Grazia’s shoes sailed by with an enormous plate that played host to what appeared to be three ravioli and a seared stalk of celery. “Did you see that? I’m going to have to have lunch right after I have lunch. I hate this place.”

“We could have eaten at my desk,” snapped Lorna, and cutting across Maria Grazia’s sarcastic “Woo hoo!” she continued, “But I’m treating, so I get to choose.”

She raised one perfectly polished index finger ever so slightly, and as if on wheels, their supercilious server glided toward them.

“Paolo, I’ll have my usual, thanks.” Lorna handed him her menu, a roll of hand-illuminated parchment, and scanned the room once more. Nobody was here today.

“For appetizers, I’ll have the radicchio and asparagus confit, the mozzarella tomato salad, and the panzanella, and for an entrée I’ll have the bistecca and eggplant roulade with a side order of minestrone soup. Can you tell me if that entrée actually comes with any steak?”

The waiter was looking so far down his nose at Maria Grazia that his eyes were practically shut. Then Maria Grazia smiled, and all was forgiven; Paolo stumbled toward the kitchen and actively contemplated how he could work harder to make Table Sixteen happy.

Lorna laughed. “Don’t you get tired of that?”

“Of?” Maria Grazia quirked a brow.

“The Smile, and the effects thereof.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sighed theatrically, as she shook out her napkin — or tried to. It was especially large. “Listen, it’s just as well that Belle’s not here. She’s in pieces and this is no place for human emotion. Her sorrow would have clashed horribly with the frescos.”

“I wanted her to feel surrounded by luxury. The good life,” Lorna insisted. “But I will agree that it’s not precisely her style.”

Maria Grazia buttered the tiny pieces of bread as best she could, and waved the now-empty silver basket at the pining Paolo. “She is the true starving artist of the three of us. In theory, anyway. Ideals, idealism, and all that.”

“I wish she’d get her work on track,” Lorna exploded. “We both know that she is an extremely accomplished writer. Why does she insist on focusing these dry-as-dust historical novels? We both know that her talents run more to documentary than narrative, so to speak. How does she stand it? No career, now no boyfriend — good riddance, but she does like having boyfriends — and on top of it she lives in Brooklyn. My God!”

“We love her anyway, despite the geographical flaw.”

“What are you implying? I adore her!” Lorna delicately placed a hand on her heart; several rivals seated nearby wondered if indeed anything beat there. “And I can’t stand watching the friend whom I adore just spin her wheels!”

Paolo arrived laden with plates, all for Maria Grazia, and another serving of bread. He waited vainly for another flash of The Smile but Maria Grazia never grinned with her mouth full.

Lorna went charging on. “And what about all this new age-y witchy business? I’d never been to her apartment, I’d had no idea that there were candles everywhere, and all those straggly pots of herbs on her windowsills, and that truly bizarre lunar calendar — ”

“It’s more a spiritual pursuit than anything else, and, dear Lorna, it’s not really any of our business. No one scolds you about the way you carry on.”

Lorna sat up so straight that it appeared as if someone had tugged her up by the tops of her ears.

“I do not ‘carry on’.”

“You work like a drayhorse — ”

“Excuse me, a what?”

“ — and you sleep around like a Chelsea boy — ”

“A dray horse?”

“ — and smoke too much, but it’s nobody’s business but your own, even though there are those who might think that you’re squandering your life.”

“A horse? Do I look fat in this?”

“My point: I did not come here to dish Belle.”

Lorna’s furious riposte was dampened by the reappearance of Paolo, this time with Lorna’s organic salate di spinaccio in lemon juice, and Maria Grazia’s steak. She looked at her plate, and couldn’t claim to be surprised by its lack of bulk. “This must have been raised on the Upper East Side.” Nevertheless, she dug in.

Lorna stabbed her fork around her plate; she had a vague sensation, the kind she hadn’t allowed herself to experience since she was a teenager, that quite possibly could have been her feelings feeling hurt. How dull, she thought, and strove to keep the rhythm alive.

“So I’m a workaholic-slash-smokeaholic-slash-shagaholic? Are you suggesting I join a group, perhaps?”

Maria Grazia laughed. “You’re outrageous, bitch! I’m starving — let’s defer round two.”

From day one, they had always been the best of sparring partners, from the very first day of college when they met outside a club, trying to fake-ID their way in. After some conversation, Lorna accused Maria Grazia of putting on a cinematic accent (she was still rather proud of the use of ‘cinematic’) because she was in a new situation and no one would know whether or not that was her real voice. MG had roared, “You’re outrageous!” As Lorna had chosen to cultivate such a personality trait the minute she had graduated high school, well, she’d known that they’d be best friends. Their crossfire often made Anna twitch, being the least confrontational of the three — and it could, at times, get fierce.

Lorna watched Maria Grazia inhale her meal, and delicately crossed her knife and fork over the remains of her salad. She waved to a distant table — I thought she got canned, Lorna thought to herself, and cast her eyes around to case the room once more. Hmm, wasn’t that The Aging Daytime Drama Star with Interior Beauty’s resident handyman? That’s interesting —

“Enough with the scanning. I feel like I’m getting a frickin’ x-ray.”

“If you won’t allow the discussion of Anna and her career prospects, can we at least trash Wilson? I have been longing to.”

Maria Grazia nodded as she swallowed the last precious mouthful of her steak. “That we can do. Over dessert. Who’s that one, over there? Silver fox.”

“Oh, him.” Lorna smiled and waved at the rather dashing older man three tables away. “He has tragically found himself on the losing end of a pitch for the three year contract to represent MGM’s east coast interests.”

“I suppose congratulations are in order?” MG raised her glass.

“Oh, yes,” breathed Lorna. “And you?”

“Well.” Maria Grazia hauled up the voluminous napkin and patted her lips. “I’m sure I’ve designed the new ‘It’ bag — each one hand made, sadly by me alone at the moment, but don’t tell — and one of Oprah’s people were in the other day looking at them. And in fact, she bought one.” She smiled like the cat that got the cream. Hmm, cream …

“Isn’t that interesting,” Lorna sang, and they smirked at each other. This was where they were at their best, and most at home with each other, in their ambitions.

Maria Grazia cleared her throat. “Breaking my own rule — ”

“How unusual.”

“But. I wish … Oh, I said we wouldn’t dish Belle and here I go, I am hopeless — ”

“Oh, just go on!”

“She’s so talented, but she has no animal instinct, or something. She’s not thinking it through logically. She’s got some romantic image of what being a writer is, and you are right, you are so right, her strength is in, like, living history, remember that series she did on that artist? He’s frickin’ famous now, because she made him famous.”

“And now she’s wasting her time on relics — ”

“Enough, enough. I hate gossiping about friends with other friends, I won’t do it. Shutting up now.”

Lorna sat back and waited. It was part of Maria Grazia’s digestive process to rattle on at length.

“And that Wilson was no help. So patronizing — remember at her birthday, the last one, when he gave her that supremely inappropriate, never mind impersonal, faux leather desk agenda thingie? So crass, not even real leather, and her poor little face, I think she was expecting ‘An Avowal’, as Jane Austen might say. ‘The Ring.’ I know she did. I just know it. She really wanted to marry that stuffed shirt. Bastard. I wonder if she’s heard from him, if he’s looking for post-break-up pity sex, or something. I hope not. She’s not ready to see him. No. You know, I really am convinced that this rupture is a good thing.”

“Oh?” Lorna knew that this was all that was required.

“I just wish she had more energy, I swear that asshole was like a vampire, sucking the life out of her.” She accompanied this with a visual rendering of what she imagined the sucking to look like, using elaborate hand movements. “And that is why all her magick-y stuff is a goddess-send, it’s the only thing he didn’t suck right out of her.” Reprise of hand movements. “I was tempted to drape her door with garlic myself. And he dressed like a clown, a frickin’ banker clown. Dessert?”

• • •

Walking back to Lorna’s office, heads turned in reaction to the both of them. Lorna’s height and Maria Grazia’s curves, each appealing to different strata of the male of the species, meant they had always been each other’s best wing-women. Clearly, even in the swiftly moving Midtown traffic, they still had what it took. Added to their entirely different tastes in said males of the species, their untrammeled ambition, and all the water under years of bridges … well, they understood each other as well as anybody could ever understand another human being, within reason. Frankly, it was seriously annoying Lorna that she suddenly felt she didn’t understand Anna at all.

“All those bloody soul mate books warped her brain.”

Maria Grazia flung her hands into the air, and sent a winning smile to the pedestrian she’d almost knocked to the ground. “Leave it alone! So she wants a long-term partner, so what. You and me, we’re simple, we both don’t want the same thing. We can support her without having to be like her.”

“I think she needs a … how shall I put this? A rebound.”

They paused outside Lorna’s building. Maria Grazia thought about it.

“I might go there with you on that. Has she ever done that? A one night, drunken, reactionary shag?”

“I think after that wrestler guy, she met some guy in a bar who was, perhaps, a guitar guy or a poet guy. Younger.”

“Younger is key, I think. She has all sorts of issues around younger men that won’t let her take it so seriously. Seriously would be bad at the moment. I need to get some display cases built in, the carpenter is a hottie, maybe I’ll make her come over to the shop and then I’ll throw her at him.”

“Excellent. I cannot believe I’ve only just thought of this.” Lorna’s eyes, framed by her lemon yellow shades, narrowed in thought. “We’ve got a pack of interns, one or two of them are sensitive college boy types. Yummy, should one’s taste run to graduates. Any one of them would do. They always give parties — I’ll get invited to one.”

They looked at each other satisfied. Job well done, plan of action agreed, everything under control. Annabelle would be fine. Annabelle would find her way through this. Annabelle —

Was running flat out toward them. Her hair flew straight out, up, and back from her head, her cheeks were flushed with exertion. As she waved at them wildly, both Maria Grazia and Lorna thought, “She’s lost her mind.”

Annabelle grabbed each of them by the arm to stop her momentum, and bent over double, panting. She tried to speak and catch her breath at the same time, which oddly enough didn’t work, as she began to explain herself.

“Ohmigod ohmigod sorry late missed lunch sorry sorry shop tarot shop mind reader psychic vision thing?” Annabelle gasped. “Smoke candles blew out I don’t know I don’t know time warp or something shop gone two hours disappeared ran up here all the way freaked out hazelnut!”

Chapter Seven

The youthful buzz of Matrix PR, Lorna’s employer for the last four years, rocked down the elevator shaft, three floors away. Once the elevator arrived at the forty-second floor, it wasn’t hard to see why. A bank of thirty-five television sets welcomed visitors, each proudly displaying a sexy, modish show reel of the concern’s hottest properties. That none of the screens were synchronized, and therefore none of the soundtracks were running in tandem, bothered no one but the luckless receptionists; the cacophony represented the cutting edge of the agency’s values, and Lorna welcomed the familiar din as she and Maria Grazia tried to surreptitiously frog-march Annabelle onto the premises.

They moved as calmly as possible across the open plan office, Lorna’s eyes taking in everything via peripheral vision, making sure she knew who was doing what where, and whether or not any of her colleagues had spotted her and her friends. Lorna steered Annabelle and Maria Grazia toward her modified cube; in an effort to reflect Lorna’s seniority in the agency, the powers-that-were had enclosed the space with semi-frosted glass. It was better than nothing, with “nothing” generally being the order of the day in a company in which those powers behaved as though their employees should be paying them for the privilege of working there.

God forbid they should actually come across with a proper office, Lorna thought bitterly, not for the first time. Proper office or not, Lorna prayed to make it in there unchallenged. She was positive that Annabelle was radiating insanity vibes and wanted her behind closed doors — well, door — now.

They cruised past Lorna’s assistant Zoe, an overly serious twenty-year-old sporting a severe crop of hair colored an improbable shade of red and heavy horn-rimmed glasses. She had opened her mouth to speak, but obeyed Lorna’s raised hand and shut her mouth again.

“No calls — none,” Lorna ordered, as Zoe quickly opened the door and leaped aside. “No tea, no coffee. We are not to be disturbed.”

As she and Maria Grazia led Annabelle into Lorna’s office, Zoe jumped into the doorway and blurted, “Vera Wang called and said that the shantung strapless was unavailable for the MOMA opening because someone from Revenge requested it.”

Lorna’s brows rose and knitted simultaneously. “We’ll see about that,” she muttered as she firmly ushered her assistant away.

Lorna sagged ever so slightly against the door, and watched as Maria Grazia sat Annabelle down on the miniature leather couch. She strode to her desk, a small but perfectly formed Phillipe Starck knock-off, and sat. She immediately clicked into her email, and proceeded to winnow.

“I need a minute to go through these. Anna, can you put the oddness on hold?”

“I’m not odd.” Annabelle jumped off the couch and went to lean against the single window. “By the way, the feng shui of this entire floor is a disaster.”

Lorna looked at Maria Grazia. Maria Grazia looked at Lorna. Neither of them knew where to start. Annabelle sank onto the floor between the desk and the couch, her right hand in her right pocket. She seemed lost in thought, or as Maria Grazia thought, just lost. She started stroking her friend’s hair, both as a soothing gesture and a means of making her look less crazy.

“Hey, Belle? Take some of those deep breaths you’re always recommending, okay? So, what’s up?”

Lorna set aside her wireless mouse. “Now, Annabelle — ”

“Sorry about lunch.” Annabelle looked up at Lorna. “Sorry.”

“I got over it,” she replied lightly, and leaned forward in what she thought was a firm, yet non-confrontational manner.

Maria Grazia continued to stroke Annabelle’s hair. “Honey, I don’t think we really understood what … delayed you. You were pretty upset and we didn’t really make out what you were trying to tell us.”

Annabelle took a deep breath. “I mailed my manuscript off from the post office on Eighth. It’s got good vibes in there, and I feel like it’s safer, like it’ll get where it’s supposed to go.” Lorna rolled her eyes discreetly as Annabelle plowed on. “I started walking, and I saw this shop, a new age-y kind of place. I’d never seen it before, so I went in.” She took a sip of water, and said, almost dreamily, “Can I have some tea? She gave me tea.”

“She?” Maria Grazia prodded gently when Annabelle didn’t continue.

“The woman. Irish, I think, she sounded Irish, she gave me tea, and she had this deck of cards on a table, and there were like pictures of my life on them or something — ” Lorna’s eyes clashed with Maria Grazia’s, who made a shut up face at her. “Then we sat down and she started channeling or something and all the candles went out and there was this huge cloud of smoke from the incense and it felt like we were floating and, and, and then it was over and this … this nut hit me on the head.”

Annabelle took her hand out of her pocket and held out the hazelnut. Maria Grazia and Lorna both leaned forward. They all looked at it in silence.

It lay there.

“Good Lord,” huffed Lorna.

“It’s a hazelnut,” said Annabelle.

“Uh huh,” said Maria Grazia calmly, while wondering if anybody she knew had a shrink who would do a drive-by.

“This nut hit you on the head,” said Lorna.

“Yes.” Annabelle nodded avidly.

“From out of nowhere.”

“Yes.”

“And this … woman. She wasn’t surprised or shocked or anything.”

“She said, ‘Well, there you are.’”

“Did she say what it was, or maybe what she thought you should do with it, or if it was a … special hazelnut?” Maria Grazia applauded herself silently on her aplomb, as years of dealing with loony relatives paid off at that very moment.

“I’d say any hazelnut that dropped out of thin air had to be pretty ‘special’.” Lorna’s voice dripped with frosty sarcasm. “I’d say that any kind of Celtic medium or whatever that could conjure up a magical nut has to be rather bloody talented — ”

“Could you maybe not be such a snot for a second?” Annabelle snapped, and Lorna gaped. Not like Anna to snap. Not like Anna at all. “I know you don’t believe in my spiritual pursuits and that you think I’m a wacko, but quite frankly, I don’t believe in any of this — “ She waved her arms around, her gestures taking in Lorna’s office, Zoe, and the whole of Matrix PR. “I don’t think that that any of this matters, but you’re my friend, so I go with it. I would appreciate the same suspension of disbelief from you at this time.”

Lorna was aghast. “You believe in magical nuts and you don’t believe in public relations?”

“Girls! Please! Let’s keep to one thought at a time,” Maria Grazie begged. “Belle, honey, do you really think that this is a magical hazelnut?”

Annabelle narrowed her eyes at MG, who held up her hands, palms out, in a pacifying manner. She shot her eyes at Lorna, who sat frozen, disbelieving, at her desk.

“I left the shop, got my breath back. Then I wanted to ask about those cards, the ones I saw on the table, but when I turned back, it was gone.”

“The table?” Maria Grazia was feeling hopelessly confused.

“The shop!” Annabelle shouted. Lorna’s face was as blank as if it had been shot full of Botox.

“Gone! Dusty windows, the doorknob came off in my hand, all the books and statues and candles — gone! I banged on the door, on the window — and it — the hazelnut — laughed at me. I had it in my hand and it shook and rolled around like it was laughing at me.” Annabelle poked at the nut. It wobbled a bit at the prodding, but otherwise remained still and dumb.

“Sweetie … you have to admit that this is all a teeny bit out there,” said Maria Grazia, softly.

“I guess.” She glared at the nut, and poked it again.

MG grasped at another straw. “Maybe we could go on the web and do a bit of research?”

“Maybe she could chop it up and make a batch of magical snickerdoodles. Maybe she can put under her mattress and in the morning find out if she’s a princess. Maybe she could take it out to the Sheep Meadow and plant it — ”

“Hey!” Annabelle’s face cleared of its dismay and her eyes lit up. She scrambled to her feet, and slipped the nut back into her pocket. She started to say something — stopped — started again — whispered “Bye!” and charged out of Lorna’s office so suddenly that Zoe leaped straight out of her seat and fell on top of her desk.

Lorna looked at Maria Grazia. “Now tell me that you’re not worried. Tell me that you’re not terribly concerned.”

“I am worried and terribly, terribly concerned.” Maria Grazia raked her hands through her hair.

“What’s she going to do?”

Maria Grazia looked at her balefully. “What you said, I guess.”

“Good Lord. This is nonsense.”

“What if it isn’t nonsense?” Maria Grazia curled up on the couch. She herself would have luxurious pillows scattered all over the thing; maybe she’d make some for Lorna tonight. “Maybe this did happen. Maybe she is magic and psychic and all that. I mean, look how good she is with the tarot, right? She is always right. Always.”

“A card is a card. A laughing, magical hazelnut is another thing altogether. Did you hear her … yell at me?”

Maria Grazia giggled. “I did, and I saw your face when she did. Priceless.”

“She’s losing it.”

“She’s still hurting. It’s only been a couple of weeks, a month, tops. Whatever gets her over the repulsive Wilson, I say bring it on.”

Lorna rose and moved to lean against the front of her desk. “You think she’s really going to plant the thing?”

“It’ll probably just rot away in the dirt.” Maria Grazia got up from the couch, and went over to give Lorna, who looked as if her feelings had been hurt, a little hug. Lorna hugged back, and looked at Maria Grazia in a fresh wave of incredulity.

“How can she say she doesn’t believe in PR?”

Chapter Eight

“Ooh, baby, baby, love me like it was yeeeesssssterdaaaaaaay — ”

Annabelle’s fist descended on her alarm clock. “Shut. Up,” she snarled, and rolled over.

Love. Ha. Pop songs. Ha ha. It was all a bunch of crap, a mountain of garbage. Love, friendship, divination, spells, dreams, ambition — bullshit. What was the point of it all, anyway, love and friendship especially. Half the time you got dumped by your lover, mocked by your friends, and rejected by stupid agents who didn’t realize that she, herself, Annabelle Walsh, had written the latest hot historical fictional novel that was even better than the ones about those stupid paintings.

Annabelle flopped over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Her hands fisted in the sheets, and she experimented with kicking her heels, tantrum-like. It felt good, so she did it again. And then again, harder, so her hips sprung up off the bed. This had definite possibilities, and she began kicking, steadily, harder, bam bam bam until the bed was a blur of bouncing sheets and blankets and limbs accompanied by a dangerous squeak of springs that threatened collapse until Annabelle, having broken a sweat, ended it all with a hearty, “Bleeearrghughaaaaaahhh!”

She rolled over yet again and curled up into a ball. Should have tried that in Lorna’s lame excuse for an office on her two-square feet of designer remnant carpet. Some friend, Annabelle thought sullenly. “Some stupid friend,” she said aloud, keeping herself company. And Maria Grazia. “Ha,” she said. Talking to me like I was crazy or something. Her heart was broken. “My heart is broken,” she reminded her pillow, “and they look at me like, oh, what’s your problem, get over it already, we all hated him anyway, so what are you so upset about, ‘Anna’ — or ‘Belle’ — or whatever you call me!

“My name is Annabelle. I hate those nicknames. I hate them. I hated that Wilson called me ‘Annie’. Like I was a stupid orphan in a stupid play!”

She sat up, propping her six pillows against the wall, and crossed her arms over her chest. She kicked her sheets and blankets onto the floor, and pulled her ratty, over-sized nightshirt over her knees. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her clock tick over from 11:15 to 11:16. She shifted the blinds a bit for the weather report. Sunny, sunny, sunny by the looks of it, not too windy, and the handful of pedestrians strolling up Union Street weren’t grimacing with cold — all the earmarks of a beautiful day.

Whoopie.

Annabelle slumped back against the pillows and took stock. At least she seemed to have dried up. There had been no floods of tears for almost two whole days. The grumpiness and tantrum thing seemed like the heralds of a new phase. Maybe it was like those five stages of grief, surely Maria Grazia would know — not that she was ever going to call her again or anything. She certainly wasn’t going to continue to foster a friendship with someone who thought she was a raving lunatic. And that went double for Lorna, that stuck-up bitch, what did she know about heartbreak? — “Not like she has a heart.” I need to stop talking to myself, Annabelle thought, at least out loud. She pulled the already stretched-out collar of her nightshirt over her mouth.

Obviously, the statute of limitations as regarded the public mourning of ex-relationships had expired. Obviously, she was meant to adhere to some sort of schedule of recovery not of her making. Obviously, she was just a big fat baby and nobody cared about her, or about her feelings.

“Okay, Walsh, cut it out!” She leaped out of bed, then briskly made it up, straightened her shoes to run in neat pairs at the foot of her bed, threw yesterday’s clothes into her laundry bag — and then caught sight of herself in the mirror above her dresser. Still a little on the wan side, hair a bit lifeless, but it all showed in her eyes, eyes that despite the flashes of anger and the blur of activity, still looked like two little blue pools of hurt and sadness and despair. She touched her reflection, barely recognizing herself — Who am I, who am I, who am I?

She got back into bed and pulled the covers over her head.

If only she could sell her book. If only she had an agent. If only her blog would hit the big time. If only she didn’t have to pick up the odd sub-editing job, the occasional review, the random feature. She cared about history, not the dry, dull kind, but the kind that was about people who did interesting things in interesting times. If only her areas of expertise — artists, musicians, actors — weren’t so oversaturated. All she needed was the one break, the one subject, and she’d be minted. She cared about what people did, and how they did things, and the things they made, and she knew she was good at it, at translating their actions into words —

Maybe I just suck, she whined to herself. “Maybe I am, quite simply, a crappy writer and a crappy girlfriend and a crappy person.” Which is why I have friends that suck.

Lorna and her magical snickerdoodles. Bitch. Just to show her, Annabelle had gone and planted the hazelnut, liberating a long-dead fern from one of her prettiest pots, a hand-thrown, hand-glazed terracotta she’d picked up at a Celtic Arts Fayre, a beautiful bronze and green thingie covered in spirals and whatnot.

Ha. And Maria Grazia — “Now, sweetie, maybe you could let us know exactly what you mean by the phrase ‘out of thin air’. Do you mean that it is made, possibly, out of air, air that is thin, right?” Annabelle mocked MG’s thick Italian accent, and then felt terrible.

“Okay, get up now, Annabelle,” she said, “Get up up up up up and out of this bed and send out a query, write a post, get some crappy freelance gig, think positive! Gogogogogogoooooo — Go!”

She lay unmoving, staring at her one true friend, the ceiling: always willing to listen, always there. She closed her eyes, knowing that it wouldn’t be offended, and ran through her mental Rolodex, trying to come up with some names of people she’d worked for, trying to remember who might be busy enough to throw her a bone. She’d fallen out of touch with most of them. How’d that happened? Well … in the last year or so, if she was being honest, she had kind of blown off a few things, not returned calls, because, well … she and Wilson had always seemed to be away whenever a gig came up, or on their way out of town, or else, you know, they’d been busy with stuff … Then Wilson would talk her out of her self-chastisement and say it didn’t matter, and why should she take other people’s dregs. And what was the point of all this commercial stuff? She didn’t want to be a hired gun, he had insisted, there wasn’t much of a future in that, didn’t she want to be a serious writer anyway, it was certainly more legitimate cachet to be literary rather than commercial —

“Wait. A. Minute.” Annabelle sat up suddenly. Wait just one minute. That had been her idea … right? Literary historical fiction as opposed to straight biography, so much sexier and trendier and … She fisted her fingers in the hair at her temples. “It was my idea, wasn’t it? It was — oh my God. But. No, I said — I thought I decided — no way.” Whose decision was it?

Was she that far gone?

Annabelle finally got out of bed for the day. Shuffling her feet into her plush bear foot slippers, she decided that she couldn’t possibly investigate that train of thought without a serious infusion of fennel tea to ensure clarity.

Wow.

Way too much excitement for one morning.

She opened the door that led to her ‘living room’ — and gasped.

Chapter Nine

Overnight, a plant had grown in the pot in which Annabelle had sown the hazelnut, if grown is the proper word. No, on second thought, it didn’t even come close. A growing plant implies quiet, peacefulness, a gradual unfolding of branch and flower.

Overnight, a plant had exploded out of the pot in which Annabelle had planted the hazelnut.

“Holy shit!” shouted Annabelle.

She couldn’t take it in; an entire corner of her ‘dining room’ had been shanghaied by a twisting, gnarled, and enormous … tree, practically. If not for the large pink flowers that seemed to float above the knotty branches, the thing would look quite sinister indeed. It seemed to be swaying slightly, and dreading the mess if it actually toppled over, Annabelle inched over and propped the heavier bits over the back of a chair. The plant vibrated a bit at her touch, and seemed to send out a slight, airy hum as she arranged it. She lowered herself into the second of her two chairs, and stared.

Somehow, the pot was still intact despite the fact that, in theory, the roots of the … thing should have been as great in size as the plant itself. No horticulturalist, Annabelle at least knew that much, that the roots of trees went as far down into the earth as the tree itself shot up toward the sky … or something.

She cautiously extended a finger and lightly stroked one of the branches, and the result was a sound akin to delicate wind chimes. Oddly enough — as if things weren’t already odd enough — despite the fact that plant ranged up toward the ceiling and completely filled its corner of her ‘dining room’, it didn’t seem to be blocking light coming in from the window; always low lighted at best, the room actually seemed a bit brighter.

Annabelle thought longingly of a cigarette. As if it had read her mind, the plant quivered in distaste. “Great,” said Annabelle. “Not only enchanted, but judgmental. I’ll smoke if I damn well please!” Branches began to wave in reaction, and Annabelle scooted her chair back a bit. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a bough slowly edging a pack of Marlboro Lights toward the main body of the plant. “Shit,” Annabelle leaped up from her chair and backed up against the door to her flat. “This is getting too weird, even for me.”

The phone rang, and Annabelle was tempted to let the machine get it, but somehow the handset landed on the floor. As she picked it up, out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of branches waving a bit as if it had knocked the phone off its cradle. Annabelle took a deep breath, and answered without checking the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Well, hi there! It’s Kelli callin’!” Her gushy Southern accent oozed down the line.

“Hey, Kell. How are things?”

“Oh, I’m just fine. But,” pause, lowering of voice, sympathetic. “How are you?”

Annabelle stared at the plant, and then turned her back on it.

“Oh, you know.”

“Yes, I do. I do know. Oh, Annabelle.”

“But I’m getting back out there, work-wise, I mean, sending off to the agents.”

“Good for you! Keep busy with work, that’s what I always say.”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“Well, as to that! I’ve got a new show about to get off the ground, and I really need someone to develop the website for me. I’d do it myself, but I’m producing and directing, and gosh, I can’t do everything myself!”

“Yeah, I don’t know, Kell — ow!” She turned to look at the plant, which was quivering slightly in its pot.

Kelli’s molasses voice exuded solicitude. “You okay, sugar?”

“I just — something — hit me on the … head. Yeah, okay, okay, I’ll do it.”

“That’s so great! And maybe you could look at the script?”

“Uh, screenplays used to be more my thing, Kell — ”

Bright tinkling laughter made Annabelle wince. “Oh, close enough! Listen, my little brain trust is meeting tonight. You can come on down, can’t you?”

“Yeah, got nothing else going on,” Annabelle muttered as she put down the phone. She could have sworn that the plant folded in upon itself, smugly.

• • •

Trudging up the stairs of a restaurant so expensive she was surprised she was let in without showing the maitre d’ the contents of her wallet, Annabelle wondered, again, what the hell she was doing. Being gently bullied by Kelli was one thing, but being rather more tenaciously bullied by a plant was another entirely. She paused on a landing, not so much to catch her breath as to catch her … spirit. A roomful of strangers wasn’t exactly something to look forward to. The fact that these strangers had all been inveigled into doing something they probably didn’t have the time to do added another layer of lunacy to the whole mess.

She felt like she owed Kelli, but she didn’t really, not in material terms. An editor of the popular and influential NYC Weekly, the city’s most highly regarded alternative newspaper, Kelli had basically, for all intents and purposes, been keeping Annabelle solvent for the last few years. I do the work, it’s a fair exchange, she scolded herself. But there was this thing about Kelli, this eternal feeling of obligation, like the exchange could never be even-handed, because wasn’t Kelli so thoughtful, always thinking of Annabelle, ensuring that her name stayed out there — whether she wanted it to or not?

And publishing didn’t pay, as everyone knew, but nobody knew where Kelli’s money came from. Not her everyday capital, but the flow that allowed her to finance her thrice-yearly forays into theater, video, art installation … just about any idea Kelli had, she executed via a decidedly un-anorexic cash cow.

I’m outta here, Annabelle thought just as Kelli appeared at the top of the next flight. “There you are, sugar! We’re all just waiting for you!”

Annabelle smiled wanly up at the vision that had appeared on the landing, turned out in a severely tailored oyster-colored designer suit. Unlike the majority of New York females of ‘a certain age’, Kelli actively cultivated a settled and matronly air, mitigated by expensive clothes and unmistakably real baubles. Her ash-blonde hair looked entirely natural, and her seemingly innocent ice-blue gaze was bracketed by barely discernible lines. In spite of all this — the Ladies Who Lunch suit, the limpid gaze, and the lazy drawl, Annabelle knew that if she so much as made a move to leave, Kelli would be on her like a puma on an antelope.

She meekly followed Kelli into the exclusive eatery’s ritzy private dining room.

Head down, she charged toward the only empty place, uncomfortably squeezing her bags between the table and her lap. She nodded to what looked like several ethereal dancers across the table, and sneaked a glance down its length to find — Maria Grazia!

She raised her eyebrows slightly. What are you doing here.

MG flicked her lashes at Kelli.

Annabelle waggled her head a shade. Thought you were immune …

Maria Grazia lightly rubbed her thumb over the fingertips of her right hand. Amex.

Annabelle smirked and sat back, and began arranging the tools of her trade on the table. She knew that Kelli liked to get business out of the way of the enjoyment of not only the food, but also of her own particular brand of bonding, which involved the amplification of everyone’s accomplishments, a continual recital of the project’s worth, a gentle reminder to all and sundry of the career-boosting properties of the job at hand, and matchmaking.

Laptop was joined by pad and pen. Annabelle could cross-platform multitask, and relished any opportunity to do so. She set up her micro-cassette recorder with its multi-directional mic — better safe than sorry — and rolled some tape.

“Testing … testing … one, two, three — ”

“Da da dada dum DADA dada dum — ”

Annabelle heard the voice — a wordless rendering of the opening bars of New York, New York, in just about the worst Frank Sinatra impression she’d ever heard — but all she saw, at first, was an arm, male, sheathed in a blinding white shirt. The sleeve was turned up to reveal a rather fine specimen of forearm, but her vision was filled with the whiteness of the shirt, and the texture of lovely, heavy cotton. Her nose twitched, entranced by the shirt’s freshly laundered scent, with just the hint of the heat of the iron lingering. What was it about a clean white shirt on a man? A nicely pressed white shirt, as she let her gaze slide upwards, that billowed over the outline of a solid bicep, that clung so evocatively to a strong male shoulder?

She cut her eyes up to the face that was smiling down at her. Green eyes, tousled auburn hair, and a dimple in the cheek greeted her discomfited gaze. Her apparent chagrin only increased the blinding quality of his grin.

He shrugged. “Thought it might give you something more interesting to listen to.”

Annabelle rewound, the screech of the tape covering her increasing … What? Her increasing what? So what, she thought, cute guy, with an accent, nice shirt, dime a dozen — is my hand shaking?

She played it back, and grimaced as his voice came on. “Your Liza Minelli needs work,” she … teased? What? Am I teasing? What am I doing?

“Ah, now, no need to pander to the ego,” he rejoined, and bumped her shoulder with his.

Which she ignored, because she got a look at what was spread before him on the table. “Is that — ” she gasped for air. “What is that, that … mess?” She looked up at him — Up? Was he tall on top of everything else? Wait, what ‘else’?

And Jamie Flynn’s first good look at Annabelle Walsh involved two very wide, very outraged, and very, very blue eyes.

“What, my gear?” He looked down at his pencils, colored and otherwise, the sheets of slightly crumpled paper, the pad that had long since lost its cover, the edges of the pages curling willy nilly, the squashed tubes of gouache, the battered brushes, and the large and a blackened wad of kneaded eraser.

“It’s a mess!” Annabelle squeaked, and had to sit on her hands to resist smoothing the papers, lining up the brushes, and squeezing the bottom of each and every tube of paint until they were uniformly ready to dispense color evenly and manageably. “Is that how you treat your tools?”

“Now that’s a kinda personal question.”

Annabelle grimaced. “And was that supposed to be Mae West?”

“Are you keeping your sense of humor packed away somewhere in that unimaginatively orderly rucksack?” He gestured with a chewed-up charcoal pencil, a look of equal distaste on his face.

“This, if you must know, is the way a professional keeps on her toes when on location, when the number of variables that would impede a successful transcription of events naturally increase a thousand-fold.” Annabelle pretended to tend to her laptop, even though it was already well tended.

“Calm yourself, missus, I’m only joking you.” He reached into a brown paper bag (Annabelle actually closed her eyes) and tossed some more arty implements down on the pile. “You really shouldn’t scold strange men about their tools.”

Annabelle turned and tried to keep her eyes off the growing pile of disorganized stuff that was spreading all over the floor like a virus. “Hmmm,” she said, changing the subject. “Irish.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “Indeed.”

Kelli came meandering by, a bit breathless, as usual. “We’re just now about to start, ya’ll. So exciting. Oh, have you two met? Annabelle Walsh, Jamie Flynn. Jamie, Annabelle.”

“Sort of,” said Annabelle, cutting her eyes at him.

“She’s been criticizing my tools,” Jamie said, cutting his eyes right back.

“Isn’t that fiiiiine,” Kelli murmured, absently, and meandered away again.

Jamie looked at Annabelle and laughed, and she felt a weird little thrill, something that reminded her of something else that she couldn’t put her finger on. This thrill was located somewhere in her belly, and it rolled around as if she’d unexpectedly swallowed a goldfish. She immediately felt self-conscious, and began to move things around in front of her. Was she flustered, or something? She was definitely nervous all of a sudden, the gleam in Jamie’s eye triggering something kind of simple and kind of complicated at the same time. She grabbed her wine glass.

“So, you’re the playwright?” Jamie shifted in his chair to fully face Annabelle. Maria Grazia, who had been meditating over a glass of truly fine Bordeaux, perked up, curious.

“God, no!” Annabelle booted up Word. “I’m a writer, but I think in this instance, I’m more of a scribe.”

“I’ve got some parchment in here if you’d rather go the medieval route — ”

“Don’t! Don’t take anything else out of that bag!”

Jamie laughed again. “I don’t need to take my show on the road, generally, as it were.”

“Aren’t you the set designer, or something?”

“Uh, no. Doing Kelli a favor … ”

“You and everybody else,” Annabelle muttered into her wine.

“’She made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’”

“Excellently rendered Robert Redford — ”

“Ah, now. You’re just winding me up.”

“So, what do you do?” Annabelle twirled her wine glass — and then made herself stop. Just a question, she thought. Not flirting.

“I’m a painter,” Jamie replied. “Well, you know. I paint, not so much selling yet, but some. I restore things, paintings, painted furniture, and the like. So I’m a restorer-slash-painter.”

“Slashed, huh? So you must be living here for a while.”

“A good few years, almost six and a half.”

Any continuing banter was interrupted by Kelli’s suddenly business-like voice delivering her spiel. Annabelle listened with half an ear, aware of the guy beside her, aware of Maria Grazia signaling her from her end of the table. MG spun her butter knife around to point in The Irish Guy’s direction.

Annabelle shrugged her right shoulder a fraction. So?

Maria Grazia tucked a curl behind her right ear and tilted up her chin. So who is he?

Some guy. Annabelle flicked her fingers dismissively.

Maria Grazia blinked slowly. Hot.

Annabelle took up her pen and began to make nonsensical notes. Stop it.

MG smiled into her wine, but stopped it.

The pitch — which wasn’t really necessary, they all could use the abundant funds Kelli was sending their way — was brief, ardently attended by the dancer types, who were painfully sincere, and somewhat less zealously heeded by those who felt shanghaied. Annabelle snuck a look at her watch, energy flagging, that dragging feeling of sadness and emptiness threatening to swell —

“Sorry?” Annabelle looked up as Jamie’s elbow nudged her side. “Yes?”

Kelli smiled brightly, a sure sign she was peeved. “I was just sayin’, sugar, that this was where you come in! We need words, words that encapsulate the essence of the work. Beautiful words. Unique words. Nouns. Verbs. Adjectives.”

They all looked expectantly at Annabelle, Jamie managing to mug at her with only half his face.

“Uh. Sure. Can you give me an idea of what you’re looking for?” Good bluff.

“Nice one,” Jamie whispered, finding himself having to resist reaching out to flick her blushing cheek playfully.

Kelli took a deep breath. The dancers joined her as one, with hands clasped at their hearts. “Scallop. Waft. Bedazzle.”

Jesus. Annabelle dutifully typed them into the blank document as the dancers cooed. “Got it,” she said, and stifled a sigh.

“Wonderful!” Kelli enthused, and called a halt to the proceedings.

“Need some help?” Jamie leaned in again as Annabelle shut everything down. “Let’s see. Gallop. Shoelace. Noodle — ” As she laughed up at him, the first true smile he’d seen on her face, he added a few to himself: Gorgeous. Bright. Sexy …

Annabelle tidily returned everything to its place in her bag, and tried to keep her itching fingers away from Jamie’s brushes. Surely she had some zip-close plastic bags on her; she rarely went anywhere without them, and she could casually offer to show him how easy it would be to scoop up the tubes of paint and put them in the —

“I see I was a bit too hard on ya.”

Annabelle broke out of her reverie. “Huh?”

Jamie pointed at her bag. “That. It’s a nice touch.”

Annabelle glanced down at her bag. Tucked into a corner as if it was meant to be there was one of the blossoms off the mystery monster plant. “Hmph,” she huffed, and glared at it, and then, by extension, Jamie. This seemed to strike him as funny, and he snickered again, a mischievous little giggle that sounded as if it had its roots in his childhood.

“Surely I’m not to blame for that as well — ”

“Everyone! Let’s all move ourselves around now, we must all meet one another if we’re going to be a team!”

‘Everyone’ rose, and began to mill about, changing places. A scenic designer started brandishing an old-fashioned Polaroid camera, one that actually spit out pictures, right there, in the moment, and Kelli nearly swooned. Jamie swept his gear off the table into the paper bag, and was treated to another shocked glare from Annabelle. He did take care, however, with the pencil sketch he’d done of her, of her smiling face …

The meal dragged on. Trapped between two mimes, Annabelle ate as quickly as was humanly possible, refused a coffee, and said her goodbyes to Kelli. Maria Grazia tapped her throat — Call me! — and Annabelle tried to ignore the staring Irishman, until, annoyed at his gawking, she stuck her tongue out at him and left.

“She’s a funny way of flirting with a fella,” he murmured, but not indistinctly enough for Kelli’s finely tuned ear.

“Why, Jamie, was our Annabelle flirtin’ with you?” Her drawl increased exponentially with the prospect of romantic intrigue.

“I reckon it was flirting. I — she — we’d been having a chat, like, and well, it was, you know. Feck’s sake, like.” Jamie briskly dug into his crème caramel.

“That’s real interestin’,” Kelli drawled. “You interested?”

“In her?”

“No, in investing in the stock market.”

“Both, actually,” Jamie grinned.

Kelli patted him on his forearm (so muscular) and couldn’t help letting her hand linger to give it a little squeeze. “I’ll have my broker call your broker, but as far as the other is concerned … well. Annabelle’s somewhat emotionally distressed, due to an unexpected and inelegant termination to a long term relationship.”

“So she’s single?” Jamie’s eyes lit up speculatively.

“Umm hmm.” Kelli’s own eyes took on the dreamily fervent gleam of the unrepentant matchmaker, and her mind shot from zero to sixty — from the elegant dining room where they now were, to a simply gorgeous wedding reception at the Central Park Boat House — in under five seconds. She leaned conspiratorially against him.

“This might take some … finessin’. You just leave it all to me, ya hear?”

Chapter Ten

Plodding through the proofs of a banking annual report so dry, she felt as if she was physically dehydrated, Annabelle forced herself to focus. This was lucrative, if dull, work. And the deadline was insane; if she made it she’d be amazed, but she had incentive, and not all of it monetary.

Basically, she was terrified to go back to her apartment. What better way to avoid the mystery monster plant than to work, work, work? After all, it was her tried-and-true method of avoidance: in the past, it had been particularly effective on those Friday nights when she didn’t have a date, which, pre-Wilson, had been almost every Friday night …

She forced her attention back to the page she was currently proofing, and given that her mind was wandering, wasn’t really prepared for the next thought that came sneaking in: maybe if she’d kept at her own work, the dumping wouldn’t have been so painful? Or so unexpected?

“What the hell!” Annabelle snapped to herself. Why did that keep coming up? Everything had been fine, so what if he’d seemed ridiculously busy toward the end, and so what if she had had a few Friday nights on her own, she liked her own company, she needed a bit of solitude — why was she talking to herself in italics? She crossed out a particularly egregious misuse of ‘it’s’, and happily placed the printout on the done pile.

The enormous clock that hung over the steel desk in the tiny airless room ticked and tocked loudly, and Annabelle briskly worked through the next twenty pages, and blinked as her eyes began to feel heavy, heavier, heaviest. God, this stuff was boring. Had she honestly thought it would be a good idea to take a gig that had to do with stocks and bonds? Was she that desperate to avoid going home? She turned a page, and groaned.

The ‘fun’ section of the report should have been a relief: it was, mainly, pictures from all of the softball games and holiday parties … but wouldn’t you know it, wouldn’t you just know, there was Wilson, third from the right, grimacing into the camera at a recent charity art auction. Which was exactly the gallery in which the two had met.

She examined the photograph as though she were sifting for fragments of a pot in an archaeological dig. Was he remembering? Was that why he was grimacing? Was he grimacing due to the power of nostalgia and regret that was surging through him? Or was he just annoyed that he had to be there at all? She closed her eyes and put her head down on the desk. How can this be happening to me? How many flippin’ banks were there in Manhattan? Why should she be the one to get this gig? How was she supposed to forget Wilson if he kept cropping up?

She had met him at an art opening, a last-minute reviewing-bone thrown to her by Kelli. The gallery was downtown, so far downtown it was practically in Atlanta, and she could tell that its sole purpose was to sell over-priced art to clueless bankers and brokers. One of those clueless bankers was Wilson, who despite being, oh, more than a shade shorter than she, was handsome, and interested in her: he talked to her the whole time, and then asked her for her number and then actually called!

So what if he’d liked the lame art, so what if she’d totally forgotten to make any notes and wrote the worst review ever written the next day. So what if he’d teased her several times about being a hack, and why wasn’t she writing The Great American novel? All she’d heard was ka-ching! A banker! All she’d seen was his fit build, the little crow’s feet by his eyes that crinkled when he smiled, his very expensive suit. All she’d felt was the yearning to be in a relationship — with him, of course! Not just any old relationship … right?

The thought made her gasp, and then forget to breathe, and then start to feel a little light-headed. I need some Rescue Remedy, she thought, scrabbling though her bag. “What the — ” she whispered as she came up with a handful of Polaroids. “How did — ” she muttered as she flipped through them.

They were from Kelli’s stupid dinner meeting thing, and there he was, that messy Irishman and his big goofy smile, grinning down the table, laughing over something that had been said. She sighed, remembering his laugh. He laughed at everything she said, which was, like, a dream of hers … oh, but maybe he was just an easy laugher? Maybe he just laughed at everything, even though he seemed to find her — oh, whatever, Annabelle!

She leafed through the images, and wondered about her reaction to this disgracefully disorganized Dub. She’d found out, in passing, only in passing of course, from Kelli, who’d been fairly forthcoming with information, that he was from Stoneybatter, a born and bred Northsider, whatever that signified. It wasn’t like she’d called Kelli or anything, Kelli had called her, already demanding copy and if she — Kelli — had mentioned Jamie Flynn casually, and expounded, perhaps with intent, then it was nothing to her — Annabelle.

She tossed the pictures into the garbage can under the desk, and got back to work.

Chapter Eleven

Hesitating outside of her apartment, Annabelle looked up and down the hall, and then pressed her ear against the door. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was hoping to hear, or better yet, not hear, but it seemed like a good idea and —

“You left your radio on!”

She leaped away from her door, the voice exploding out of nowhere. Damn it.

Nosy Ned the Neighbor had materialized at the foot of the stair, as he often did, the minute she’d arrived. Short, round, and avid, he was forever knocking on her door asking to borrow a cup of this or a pint of that, and at least three times a week always seemed to be on his way down to the basement or out to the lobby to check for errant Chinese food menus just as Annabelle was unlocking her door. Ned the Nuisance.

“Yeah, hi, Ned,” Annabelle mumbled as she nearly broke the key in the door trying to open it as swiftly as possible.

Ned the Nuisance insisted, “All day! There was noise coming out of your place all day long! I almost called the super!” His beady little eyes lit up like Christmas. “You know, if you left a set of spare keys with me, I could go in and take care of stuff like that for you.”

“No, thanks, Nos — Ned. It’s not that big a deal. Thanks, though.”

“Well, you know that the more energy you use, the more the building uses and then we all get charged accordingly. That could drive our monthly rates up two, three, four dollars! It could, you know!”

“Thanks, Ned, okay, yup, okay, bye, bye,” and Annabelle slipped into her ‘living room’. She leaned her head against the door and threw the two deadbolts, locked the doorknob, and drew the chain across. All of this was fairly routine, but tonight she added a new challenge by executing the familiar maneuvers with her eyes closed. She leaned her forehead against the door, and considered knocking her head lightly against the wood, but figured that would just send Ned back down the staircase. Was she too mean to poor ol’ Nosy Ned? Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he didn’t have any friends. Maybe he was hopelessly in love with her. Maybe she was losing what remained of her mind.

Maria Grazia would bellow that Annabelle was too busy taking care of other people’s feelings to take care of her own …

If she was being honest with herself — oh, go on, why not — she was afraid to open her eyes. The day had been busy enough without having to deal with what was going on under her very own rented roof.

If she was really really being honest with herself, a part of her was intrigued by what was going on. Hadn’t she loved watching re-runs of Bewitched, reading The Chronicles of Narnia, when she was a kid? Hadn’t she always wanted to wiggle her nose and send herself flying through the air — hadn’t she spent an entire summer poking around the closets of her childhood home, looking for a portal into another world? She’d always hoped something like that would happen, but still …

Hey. She opened her eyes. Maybe I could talk to the thing.

Weren’t people supposed to talk to their plants?

Did any of them actually expect answers?

Annabelle turned slowly, keeping her back against the door, and took a deep, cleansing breath. And blinked.

Every one of the little pink blossoms had disappeared, leaving behind one single, extremely large bloom, a bloom bigger than her head, and the slightly swaying branches. “Ooooookay,” she took in another deep breath. “Done a bit of pruning while I was away, huh? Is that the noise that Nosy Ned was talking about?”

No response, although the branches seemed to sway more energetically.

“Uh. Right. Um, there was a flower in my bag, at Kelli’s dinner — did you put it there?”

The branches continued to sway, and the flower began to rock — was it nodding?

Was it time for her to call the nice men in the white suits? Annabelle sighed and gave up. She just needed to do some more research, even though Google had been shockingly mute on the subject of enchanted hazelnuts. Maybe she could ask around a bit, although she couldn’t imagine how she’d broach a conversation concerning large scary sentient plants that bloomed overnight.

“Okay, let’s just be normal. Let’s just do what we do every night, even if there’s an Unidentified Growing Object in the house.”

Well, one good thing: she hadn’t rushed in and headed straight for the landline. The landline that Wilson had relentlessly encouraged her to ditch, and then in turn was one of the very few who actually used that number. Even though cell phones had made contact a fait accompli, there was nothing that warmed her heart like the ‘boopboopboop’ tone in her ear when she picked up the receiver. Four ‘boops’ — hurray! Annabelle jabbed the ‘play’ button, lugged her bag over to her ‘office’, and listened to her messages while she unpacked.

Beep. “Hello, Anna. Calling to see if you’re … fine, and to invite you to a work party, which I know sounds dull, dull, dull, but it shouldn’t be too awful, it’s in the new condo place over in North Chelsea. This Saturday. Call me.” (Lorna). Annabelle huffed. Maybe a party might be okay — but ‘North Chelsea’? Who made that up?

Beep. “Well, hi there, Annabelle!” (Kelli) “I had this wonderful idea, I know you’ll just love it. There’s show going up that I think you should see, it’s very much along the lines of what I’m hoping to achieve, and let’s say we make it a little ol’ assignment for the paper as well. Now, it’s down on the Lower East Side — ” And Annabelle grudgingly took down the info. It was work, after all.

Beep. “Hi honey, it’s MG.” She still identified himself, even though Annabelle would know her voice in a crowd in the midst of a tornado. “Sorry I missed you, I was thinking of you, and I was hoping everything was okay with your … nut, and how you were feeling, and Jesus, that Kelli thing, my momma always said, no such thing as a free plate of puttanesca, but aaannnyway, yeah, I have to go to some boutique opening in your neck of the woods, probably three frickin’ shirts and a beaded hand bag, but why not come along? Ooookaaay, using up all your tape, okay, please, call me honey, okay? Bye!” Someone just had her dinner …

Beep. “Annabelle, this Cybill Franklin-Smith, editor of World Trax magazine. Got your number from Kelli over at NYC Weekly. I’ve got a tough deadline to meet and she recommended you very highly. It’s an interview with Dan Minnehan, the world famous Irish singer and guitarist, and I’m hoping you’re free. He’s, well, a character, and I hear you’ve got a way with, uh, difficult personalities. Give me a ring on my cell at — ”

Annabelle pushed the ‘delete’ button. “No, I will not interview some grumpy old man. Damn it!” She glared at the plant, which had begun to wave in protest and was, she was sure, emitting some kind of low-level whine. “Mind your own business!” Grabbing her smokes, she went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Lorna first. Annabelle always returned calls in the order that they were received.

Machine. “Hi, it’s me. The party sounds good. Let me know what time to meet. Oh, by the way, that was a great idea, the one about planting the hazelnut? It grew over night and it’s a big enormous flowering plant that hides my cigarettes and sometimes answers the phone for me. See ya!” Ha — put that in your Gucci bag and smoke it.

“Hey, Kell, yeah, that sounds fine, the show thing, and I suppose it’ll go toward helping develop your website — ” Whenever I get around to it — “I also got a message from some magazine person, and I know you think you’re doing me a favor, but I’m not interested in — hello? Hello? Hello?” An enormous burst of static had cut off Annabelle’s tirade, just as she was building up a good head of steam.

She stuck her head out the bathroom and glared at the plant, its tentacles guiltily fluttering, as though trying to appear ineffectual. “Don’t touch anything! You hear me? Nothing!” Slam.

Maria Grazia — cell phone. “Hello, this is Maria Grazia.”

“Hello, this is Annabelle.”

“Hey, honey. I thought you might be mad at me, and that you were screening your calls, and that — ”

“Did you have a nice dinner?”

“I did, sushi, a nice crab roll and some tempura. So, are we okay?”

“I guess. It was more Lorna than you, anyway. But I’m going to a party with her, so. We’re okay too.”

Score! Maria Grazia punched the air with a fist. And speaking of … “So what about that guy in the white shirt? Yowza!”

“What, the Irish Guy?” Annabelle began twisting a lock of her bob around her finger, and watched herself in the mirror, to assure herself that she looked utterly blasé. “He’s very disorganized.”

“Yeah, whatever, honey, but he sure got those shoulders organized!”

“Maria Grazia! This is so unlike you.”

“Big changes for everybody, it seems — I’ve never heard you yell at Lorna in all our years.”

“You know, I’m just trying to defend my serenity, and I suppose that you can’t always be serene about defending it, if you know what I mean.”

“Kelli said he was asking about you.” Oh, shit, I shouldn’t have said that. MG pointlessly clapped a hand to her mouth.

“He?” Annabelle stalled for time as her heart inexplicably began to race. He was asking about her, after she said rude things to him and stuck out her tongue at him? Freak. “He who?”

“Picasso! I don’t know, I have a feeling about him — ”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m not interested. You should have seen the state of his tools.”

“I did, sweetie, and they looked fine by — ”

Annabelle hooted. “What’s gotten in to you?”

“Spring is in the air, Belle, and, you know, I think he likes you.”

“Gee, you think so? Really and truly? You know, he did ask if he could carry my books home for me — ”

Maria Grazia heaved a sigh. “Never mind, forget it, I just have a feeling about this, and my thumbs are tingling, it’s a Bevilacqua thing, they never lie.”

Time for a change of subject, thought Annabelle. “Hey, you know, I did what Lorna said.”

A strained silence proved the tactic’s success. “What did Lorna say?”

Ha ha! “You know, to plant the hazelnut. I planted it.”

“Uh huh.”

“And it grew out of the pot, like bang! Overnight. It’s huge,” Annabelle went back out into the ‘living room’. “This morning it had big pink floaty flowers all over it, but when I got back, they’d all disappeared except for one really gigantic bud — well, no it’s too colossal to be a bud, the thing’s as big as a bicycle wheel — so this one big flower and it nods at me — yes, yes, I’m talking about you, and it, like, screws up my phone calls when it doesn’t like what I’m talking about.”

Panic fiber-optically sped down the line into Annabelle’s ear. “Sweetie, are you — do you want me to come over, maybe — or why not crash with me tonight, I — ”

“Hello? Hello?” Annabelle infused her voice with nerves and, she hoped, terror. “Maria Grazia? I can’t hear you! Hello? Oh, no — ohmigod! Please don’t! Please don’t!”

“Annabelle!”

“Oh, hi. You broke up there a bit.”

“Fine. Be that way. But don’t come crying to me if this turns into Little Apartment of Horrors!” Click.

Annabelle gently returned the handset to its cradle and went back into the bathroom. She left the door open and started taking off her makeup.

“That worked out great, don’t you think?” She stuck her head around the door again. This wasn’t really all that crazy, lots of people talked to their plants. “MG means well, and she supports my alternative therapies and all that, but I feel like she let me down a bit. I really do. When push came to shove, she just wasn’t all that open-minded. And I suppose Lorna thinks she’s going to point me in the way of a rebound. That might not be such a bad idea. What do you think?” The plant seemed to be shuddering with displeasure. Annabelle went back to her toner. “No? Don’t like that idea? Well, too bad. Boo hoo hoo. I’m going to do just what I want, and if that means getting loaded and bonking some twenty-year old mailroom boy, that’s exactly what I’m going to do!”

She could hear a noise that sounded like wood scraping on glass, plaster and linoleum, but decided to ignore it. “Having a little hissy fit, are we? You know, it’s about time that we got something straight here, like, who’s the boss, right? I’m the boss! I supplied the dirt under your roots and I pay for the roof over your petals, and that’s that! And if you think that I’m going to be strong-armed into taking any jobs that I don’t like, for people that I don’t even know, then you’ve got another thing coming, missy — although I don’t know if hazelnut trees are feminine, I’ll check that online. And another thing, I — ”

A tiny, tinny voice was coming out of the other room, and Annabelle froze, mid-way through smearing paste on her toothbrush. Ohmigod! she thought, ohmigod, it’s not talking back, is it?

She charged into the ‘living room’, only to find the phone on the table, the voice coming through the receiver. She picked it up, and gingerly held it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Annabelle, thanks for getting back to me.”

“Uh. Sure. Um — ”

“Cybill Franklin-Smith. World Trax magazine?”

“Of course. How are you?” Annabelle stabbed at the plant with her toothbrush, and it evaded her with the grace of a prizefighter.

“A bit under pressure, as you can imagine, so I’ll have to cut to the chase. Minnehan’s a crotchety old guy, tough on even his best days. He won’t have had a gig the night before, so he should be … fresh enough for a 10 A.M. chat. The turnaround is brutal — ”

“I’m pretty fast — damn it!” The plant took her toothbrush. It completely disappeared.

“Sorry?” The branches waved wildly in Annabelle’s face.

“No, I’m sorry. I, um, dropped something. I transcribe really quickly. And I take notes during the interview.”

“Old school, excellent — ”

“Listen, Cybill, thanks for thinking of me, I’m not interes — ” Thwack! Annabelle rubbed her bottom. Would she have to go out into the street to get away from the flippin’ thing? Only the idea of Nosy Ned kept her in her apartment. She hissed at the plant, and was sure that it hissed back.

“If it’s money, let me tell you, I’ve got a pretty healthy budget for this. Minnehan is making a dramatic comeback, and who knows, if he likes you, it could turn into more. Anyway, the number I’m thinking of is — ”

Cybill quoted a fee that stopped Annabelle in mid-swing, and caused the plant to relax back into its pot, and, if possible, look infuriatingly complacent.

“Oh.” Annabelle sat down on the floor, hard. “So, um. What exactly are you looking for? General interest, or a time-of-day kind of thing, how he is at that moment, or — ”

“Surprise me. Do what you want.”

“This seems a bit too good to be true.”

“So you’d be crazy to turn me down.”

They both laughed, and despite the unforgivable coercion on Kelli and the plant’s part, Annabelle couldn’t help liking this Cybill Franklin-Smith. “Okay, I give up. When and where?”

As they firmed up the scheduling, Annabelle kept the plant in her peripheral vision. It seemed quite calm, and damn it, yes, it was definitely self-satisfied. Hanging up, she turned on it.

“That was manipulative and sneaky! I know you’re behind all this weird shit that’s been going on! And that was my favorite toothbrush! I have had enough of you for one day and night, so just … sit there and leave me alone!”

She stomped over to her ‘office’ to fire up her laptop, dug into her bag for her memory stick, and her hand hit — a Polaroid?

An exact duplicate of one of the Polaroids of that slapdash Irishman.

Polaroids do not have negatives. She shivered, and spun around and glared at the plant.

“I threw those in the garbage!” Grabbing it by a corner, she winged it over in its direction. “Since this is obviously your doing — you keep it!”

If she hadn’t sailed in to her bedroom and slammed the door … she would have seen the picture get caught.

Chapter Twelve

The breeze off the East River carried a smell that was astoundingly close to nature, the smell of actual water with a touch of actual sea salt. Amazing, thought Jamie, ambling down Greenpoint Avenue for home. Live here long enough, and you see — or smell — everything; the next thing they’ll be telling you, there’ll be fish living in that river.

But who needs a river full of fish when you’ve got the city that never sleeps? Jamie laughed at himself, at his own corniness, at the idea that he could still be impressed by this sprawling, impossible place. And that he could still, even after six and a half years, almost seven, feel like he’d only just arrived.

Did he feel as if he belonged? Not sure, now. Not sure. In fairness, he still traded on the accent thing, and thickened it as necessary. It was a bit of a cop-out, but if nothing else, Jamie had enough cop on to know that in this town, you did whatever worked. And also in fairness, if he was in fact being fair with himself, he’d pretty much fled Manhattan, or what he usually called city center, and settled across the river in Brooklyn, in a neighborhood that — be honest — had more in common with Dublin 7 than it did with downtown.

A Polish working-class neighborhood, the tenements and factories weren’t the least bit reminiscent of Stoneybatter’s red brick, two-up two-downs — it was more the quality of the folk, the same family-oriented, hard-working ethic that Jamie knew by heart. They had a lot in common, the Polish and the Irish, even down to the beige, boiled cuisine, but at least the Poles knew how to lash on a bit of horseradish or whatever to give the food a spark. He waved through the storefront glass to Lena Kowalski, the lady in the dry cleaners, and she flapped one huge, muscular arm at him, and starting shouting something he couldn’t hear, and as it was in Polish, he couldn’t understand it either. Since she always shouted, he couldn’t be sure if she was commenting on the weather, or scolding him for forgetting his dry cleaning. Had he left in a jacket or trousers? He’d have to check for a ticket when he got home, and legged it across 9th Street against the light, more afraid of Lena Kowalski than the oncoming traffic.

The pavement. That was pretty similar too. Nice and wide, and bumping up against the front garden walls of the apartment buildings. A bit like auld Manor Street, that led down to Blackhorse Road, that led down to the Liffey. Now that was a river. No cleaner than any of these American rivers, but a river that had a more of a personality than either the East or the Hudson. And he had actually seen a school of fish swimming in it. Alive yes, pelting it for the Irish Sea, most definitely, but an entire school of fish.

“Jamie! I got fresh asparagus, first of the season!”

Bobby Malachevski waved a bunch of bright green stalks at Jamie from underneath his vegetable stand’s boldly striped awning.

“The first asparagus of the season? Sure, that’ll cost me an arm and a leg.” Jamie shifted his handful of shopping bags from his right hand to his left.

“A man’s gotta — ”

“Make a living, yeah, yeah.” Jamie put on a frown, and settled in for a nice haggle. Never mind that he had patronized Bobby’s shop since the very first day he’d moved into the neighborhood, it was their thrice weekly tradition, and it would be honored.

“Look at this eggplant — ”

“Aubergine.”

“Whatever.”

“Bobby, I’ve been tellin’ ya for what, almost seven years now, it’s an aubergine.”

“Hey, how come you’re Irish and you call it something French? Hah? Hah?”

Jamie wasn’t sure, so he changed the subject. “I like the look of those red peppers.”

“May wee, monsewer, les peppaires. How many?”

Jamie smirked. “Trois.”

“Trois, by which you mean three, which in the Polish language, the language of the angels, is trzy.” Bobby briskly tossed three crimson peppers into a plastic bag, weighed them, and added them to what was going to be a pile of produce — a pile whose cornerstone was a big bunch of asparagus spears.

As they bantered, Bobby added some portobello mushrooms, a bag of basil, another of rosemary, seven ripe vine tomatoes, and, inevitably, a sack of spuds. Jamie shook his head as he paid the man. “You can take the lad out of Ireland, but you can’t take the potato out of his bloody shopping.”

“Food, it’s comfort. Hey, you ever thinka goin’ back, or you here for good?” Bobby handed over the change, and went back to arranging his stalks of asparagus.

“Ah, well. No idea … things changed over there, Celtic Tiger, then changed again … although if I keep up the painting racket, I could get out of paying taxes if I went back home.”

“Are you shittin’ me?” Bobby’s eyes bulged out of his head. After almost twenty years in the family business, he knew a sweet deal when he heard one. “No taxes? No taxes? You’re nuts if you stay here, man. No offense, I’d miss your sparklin’ personality, not to mention your vegetable habit, but Jesus wept … no taxes … ”

Jamie left Bobby to mutter into the heads of lettuce, and worked his way toward home. He waved to a couple of the kids on their way home from school, and wondered why he’d let that slip. If he moved back to Ireland, yes, he could claim artist’s status and therefore all the proceeds from his art would be exactly that — all his. He knew that Dublin had changed, grown, improved drastically — but could he really leave all this behind? Was he close enough to being established? If he got an agent he could pretty much live anywhere — work in Dublin, show in New York, sell in Europe … Could he have his Big Apple and eat it, too?

It wasn’t like him to get ahead of himself like that. That was more his Auntie Maeve’s style, always grabbing at his hand for quick scan, pouring tea down his throat for a bit of a reading, whether you wanted it or not. Ah, sure, he loved her, mad as a bag of hammers as she was, adored by the entire family … but also one of the reasons that most of the sons, daughters, and cousins had stayed behind in Éire, as she was safely planted in Amerikay. All but Jamie, and if anything, bless her, she was as good a reason as any to get the hell out of Dodge.

As he approached the converted umbrella factory, the new guy on the third floor was coming out. Jamie settled in for a bit of a chat, but the fella just grunted hello and walked quickly toward the avenue. Jamie caught the door a split second before the heavy metal hit him in the face. Even if he lived here until he died, he’d never understand the lack of conversation.

He grabbed the post off the floor, and began the six-flight walk up to his floor. It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to, like, get into the lad’s business. Just say hello, feck’s sake like, howaya and all that, just being friendly, neighborly. I’m not looking for a new best mate, but would it kill you to stop for a half a bloody minute for a bit of a chat —

He was still ranting silently as he unlocked the door to his flat.

It was a New York miracle, thanks to Our Lady of the Boroughs — no one in Manhattan, unless they bought in Soho in the Sixties or Tribeca in the very very very early eighties had anything near to this much space. Industrial-sized (although why it required this much space to make umbrellas, he’d never know), with big windows and floor to ceiling columns — it was movie star stuff. The fact that there was no central heating wasn’t noticeable if you grew up in a terrace house in Stoneybatter, and the dust, well, the dust went unnoticed. Who cared if the windows were opaque? Or that walls had been thrown up willy nilly, cutting the space into flat-mate sized pieces? Given the size of Jamie’s family, it didn’t faze him living with five — or was it six? — people. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard a peep out of the northwest corner in weeks.

The hardwood floor didn’t gleam, but it did seem to go on for miles. The floor to ceiling windows, despite their opacity, let in light from four sides. Exposed brick walls framed the windows, and Jamie had gotten an electrician cousin in to replace the factory-standard fluorescent lighting scheme with something decidedly more atmospheric. He made his way to his living section, which was the largest since he was the one who’d been there the longest. The space had room to spare for his studio space, much less the massive king-sized sleigh bed of hand-carved mahogany that he’d restored by himself, and beautifully so, if he did say so himself. It had taken him ten months and four days to complete the thing, and there was nothing so satisfying as climbing into it after a long day’s work. Except that he’d been climbing into it alone for longer than he’d like to think. Definitely longer than it had taken to fix up the bloody thing.

He threw his stuff everywhere in a seemingly random manner, but knew exactly where everything was. This level of disorganization was, in fact, organization in disguise, and as the second youngest of five, he knew how to masquerade his stuff as junk to avoid getting robbed. It stood him in good stead, as the building had been broken into fairly regularly when he first moved in, but by now the word was out that the sixth floor was a dead loss, and he hadn’t been troubled in ages.

The kitchen was the only place that he kept under what others might call control. To him, it was as creative a place as his studio, and he’d colonized it as soon as he moved in. It took pride-of-place in the center of the flat, and looked as though it had been robbed off of one of those home shows. A top-class food processor shared a pristine countertop with a slow-cooker, a KitchenAid mixer, and a cappuccino maker; his cooker and hob were spotless and the best that a consumer could buy. Garlic and chili peppers hung in bunches from a drying rack above the stove; bottles of flavored, cold-pressed oils lined another worktop, and his selection of vinegars, honey, mustards and other exotic condiments could rival that of any fashionable bistro across the river. He expected that if the art thing didn’t work out, he’d open a restaurant.

And at the top of Jamie’s list of specialties would be the marinated salmon steak with lemon grass, wild basmati rice and honey-grilled leeks and … asparagus, since he’d caved and bought a bunch. The salmon was fresh out of Stosh Zielinski’s fish store, and while he waited for the marinade to seep into the steaks — two hours or so, he was a patient man — he’d chop up some spinach for a salad, maybe with some bacon and boiled egg, and toast some of yesterday’s foccacia for croutons.

As he mused about whether or not to grind some walnuts for the salad dressing, he idly poked through his post. Bills. Right. Phone, gas, electric, the usual. Postcard for a play … ah. Kelli’s website announcement. Catchy turn of phrase on the front — Jamie turned the card over, scanned for a credit, found one in four-point type he could barely read … yeah, Annabelle Walsh. The scribe.

Well, there was nothing for it, since his memory was jogged like this. Being suckered into that ‘brain trust’ hadn’t been his idea of fun … but it hadn’t been a total waste of time. Annabelle Walsh. Irish somewhere, he supposed, and the temper to match. Her face, when she saw the state of his supplies! And her voice was nice. Female. Womanly. And dark blue eyes like, like — Jamie stopped, and felt like a right eejit. Dark blue like dark blue eyes. Feck’s sake. Like. And a tall curvy body … Natural, like. And she was tall, too. Did he mention that she was tall? That was nice. Nice for … well. Lots of things. He supposed.

Annabelle Walsh. Just got dumped by some bloke. Seemed a bit soon, if Kelli was telling the truth, to be … curious. But, he was, in all things, a patient man. He noticed a handwritten note: “I haven’t forgotten our little chat!!!!” Four exclamations marks. And a further note about going to see some play or other to “inspire his creativity!!!” And three more. Would it never end?

He chose to focus on the first half part of the message. Kelli apparently didn’t think it was too soon for Annabelle to jump back into the water. Well, he’d see what Annabelle had to say about that.

And he’d see about helping her to decide.

Chapter Thirteen

The Pooka purred like a cat, and wished she could shift-shape into one, just for the minute, but she knew it was more trouble than it was worth at this stage. She was stuck being this hybrid hazel tree/potted plant until Annabelle figured out how to liberate her. The Pooka was confident that her human would sort it out. She’d already gotten Annabelle to speak to her properly, hadn’t she?

Oh, if only she could have a bit of a stretch! Unfortunately, when she had tried to move about the flat a bit she had, apparently, raised quite a bit of noise dragging that stupid pot around — enough noise for that meddlesome, chubby fella to come poking around, banging on the door, and generally making a nuisance of himself, in a patently transparent attempt to chat up Annabelle.

He hadn’t a chance in heaven, not with her woman, or the woman she was becoming. The Pooka allowed herself another round of smugness. So far, so good. Annabelle and Jamie had met, and Annabelle was more than interested; the girl’s career was back on track, and all that was left was The Kiss. Then the Pooka would be free, and Annabelle would be, too.

Until such time, however, a little bit of fun here or there couldn’t hurt anyone …

Chapter Fourteen

“I had a busy day,” said Annabelle snidely as she locked her front door. “And you? Oh, good, sat around, grew a bit here, trimmed a bit there, did you? Great. Great.

“Oh, what did I get up to? Thanks for asking!” Annabelle hung her bag up on the hooks that were mounted on the inside of her ‘office’ closet door, and hung up her coat as well. “Let’s see … worked a bit in the library, during which time I tried to research how to get rid of you. Funnily enough, every time I got close to finding a clue, ‘something’ would happen, and I’d have to run off and pick up all the books from the floor because the trolleys had fallen over — just as an example.”

She picked up the grocery bag she’d left by the door, and haphazardly started unpacking it. “I know it’s you! Don’t shake your bloom at me! You are messing with my life out there, in the world!” Annabelle tore the cardboard cover off the top of her take-out lasagna, and practically threw it into the oven.

She plopped herself down on her little couch, and glared at the plant. It held its stalk ramrod straight, and its branches were stiff with dignity. “Don’t give me that, that outraged sensibilities thing.” She reached into the pocket of her jeans and waved a piece of paper around. “I’ve found just the thing, smarty pants.” Annabelle sneered as the plant seemed to rear back in surprise and dismay. “Just the thing to put you in your place.” Tossing the paper down onto her tiny coffee table, she went into the bathroom and shut the door.

The plant’s longest branch reached over and opened up the folded sheet, and the bloom appeared to be reading down the list Annabelle had copied down. It nodded, satisfied, and when it heard the toilet flush, let the paper drop back down into its original position.

Annabelle burst out of the bathroom, hoping to catch the plant in action, but was greeted to the agricultural equivalent of thumb twiddling.

“I’m onto you,” she growled, and moved around her apartment, gathering up supplies. Putting some atmospheric rain forest music on the CD, she took down a white china bowl out of the cupboard over her stove, chose two cones of frankincense from the drawer under her sink, and took four tea lights out of the box she kept on top of the refrigerator. Also on top of the fridge were several mason jars full of herbs, and, consulting her list, saw that she was missing meadowsweet, but thought that lavender would do in a pinch. The book had also suggested sage, but she was up to there with the stuff. A handful of sea salt and a smaller bowl full of water rounded out the spell’s ingredients.

Turning, she approached her altar. “Would you mind?” she asked snootily, and the plant cleared some the space it had been hogging. Nice. Someone had drawn a moustache and glasses on the picture of Wilson that was still there. “Aren’t you funny. A real laugh riot.”

She removed everything from the altar’s surface but for the two white candles in the crystal holders, and then sank down to the floor, and set up the incense, the four candles, and the two bowls. Putting the herbs into the larger bowl, she lifted it to her face, and breathed in the earthy scents of the mixed herbs: the lavender and rosemary and cinquefoil. She put the bowl on the floor, in the center of the square of light made up by the votive candles, and slowly breathed in as the smoke of the incense blended with the fragrance of the herbs.

At times like these, she always felt really self-conscious. Every single book she’d ever read, every website she’d ever consulted, said that this was the part that would make or break a witch’s ritual. It was the moment of openness that determined whether or not the will behind the exercise could really contain the outcome. Was she strong enough for what she wished for? This didn’t seem so important, this was just a gentle banishing spell, one that was meant to convince the plant that it was time to take its energy elsewhere.

Annabelle closed her eyes and allowed her breathing to steady as she took in equal parts oxygen and frankincense. The light of the candles flickered against her eyelids like wraiths, and she guessed she felt pretty centered. The next thing that was required was to visualize what needed banishment.

This was the hard part. Whenever she tried to meditate, her mind would start skipping like a little girl playing hopscotch, from one idea to the next, to bits of conversations she’d had minutes, even hours before. She sighed impatiently, and tried to summon up an image of her hazel plant. There it was, that silly pink bloom, nodding at her, now less energetically, now fading, with its petals dropping one by one, and crumbling into dust.

Oh, no, thought Annabelle, I don’t want it to die, just go … away, some place else. She tried to replace the image, and ended up with one of the plant wrapped in a mackintosh and carrying a bag, waiting for the Court Street Bus, which was so silly she started to laugh, and opened her eyes. She grimaced at the plant, which looked like it had been having a bit of a quiet chuckle. “This is serious, if you don’t mind,” Annabelle scolded, and closed her eyes again.

She controlled her breathing once more, and thought maybe it was time to use the phrase the book had suggested. As she lit another cone of incense, and swirled the sea salt and water mixture in the one bowl, she recited the words, first half-heartedly, and then with growing confidence, “Salt of the sea, smoke of the earth, a spirit here must leave its berth. Light of the sun, fire of bright day, carry this spirit on its way.”

Annabelle took a pinch from the bowl of herbs, and sprinkled into the salted water. Holding the bowl between her hands, she closed her eyes and spoke the spell again, stumbling once and having to squinch an eye open to find her place. Again, as she regulated her breathing and began to relax, Wilson’s face once more entered her mind’s eye. Not his smiling face, not his first-thing-in-the-morning face, not even his stressed-out work face, but the stone face he showed her the day he dumped her. His slicked-back hair had never looked so sleek, his boyish cheeks had never looked so harsh, his golden brown eyes had never looked so flat. Efforts to replace his image with that of the plant failed; frustrated, she said aloud, firmly, “GO AWAY!”

The CD had played out. Her voice seemed to echo in the quiet. She took the bowl of salted water, and using her fingers, sprinkled some on the bloom of the plant, and on its branches. She poured the rest into its soil. Blowing out the candles, she gathered up all the bits and pieces and put the bowls in the sink. She suddenly felt a little sad, like she would miss it. She turned. It was still there. Maybe it looked a little wan around the edges? Nope. Nothing had changed.

“And that, in a nutshell — no pun intended — is my problem.” Annabelle gathered up the books she’d brought back from the store, and headed off to bed. “Expecting everything to happen instantaneously.” She’d check the book again and see what kind of time frame she was looking at. She really needed to think positive. She knew that, of course, all the books said that a positive attitude was the most important tool in the magical toolbox. I wonder if there’s a spell to get rid of all these stupid thoughts that are always going through my mind, she thought as she drifted toward bed …

Annabelle’s bedroom door clicked shut. The rays of the waxing moon filtered down the airshaft into the living room, and the plant was bathed in gentle blue light. Had anyone been watching — and of course, no one was — they would have seen the plant begin to glow as a blue halo emanated from it, root and branch. As the glow intensified, the branches of the plant began to wave, and with a rather inelegant sound akin to that of someone slurping spaghetti, its tentacles retracted, in the blink of an eye, into the pot.

• • •

In the middle of slicing the loveliest leek she’d seen in a good while, Maria Grazia’s phone rang.

MG closed her eyes as she picked up — sometimes it was still nice to be surprised, ya know?

“Hi, there, Maria Grazia, how’s every little thing?”

And sometimes not. “Fine, Kelli. Listen, don’t think I’ve even begun to think about your … wafty babushkas, ’cause let me tell you — ”

“No, no, no, no, no! Of course not! Next week is plenty of time!” MG slammed the knife down on the counter and walked away. Better safe than sorry. Whose fault is this, Maria Grazia, whose? Whose?

“So what’s on your mind, Kelli.” This is what happens when people have money, frickin’ tons of money, they just call you in the middle of your dinner, well, in the middle of making your dinner, and you frickin’ jump like a poodle and —

“I don’t know if you noticed … oh, I don’t know if I should … I know that our Annabelle has only really just begun to emerge from her heartbreak … ” Kelli trailed off predictably.

What exactly is on your mind, Kelli? “What exactly is on your mind, Kelli?”

“It’s just that Jamie was asking after our Annabelle.”

“Yeah, the white shirt guy, the artist guy, you already told me.”

“Yes. Jamie Flynn. He’s Irish.”

Huh. Annabelle was into Ireland. “Yeah, and?”

“Well … ”

“Kelli, I don’t want to rush you, hey, who would, but I’m in the middle of something here.”

“I — I had this idea, and I need your help. If you agree. Only if you agree!” Her voice dropped, dripped with a whisper of slyness. “And Lorna’s help, of course … ”

Maria Grazia’s risotto thickened with the plot, as she stirred and heard Kelli out.

• • •

Lorna had painstakingly applied a cucumber and yogurt mask, carefully polished her toenails, and was about to start thinking about getting her summer clothes out of storage when the phone rang.

“Yes?” she huffed.

“Hi, it’s Maria Grazia.”

“I know your voice, MG, for God’s — ”

“Listen,” Maria Grazia rushed in, “Kelli called me.”

Lorna sat back on her sofa bed and wiggled her drying toes. “Thanks for calling, darling, but surely you know I couldn’t care less?”

“This isn’t about Kelli, not exactly, it’s about — ”

Lorna lit a cigarette. “Dear, I was just about to mentally winnow through my summer collection, something that I’ve been looking forward to all day, all during an incredibly stressful and trying day, and — ”

Maria Grazia cut in again. “I went to that thing, Kelli’s brainstorm thing — ”

“I know — ”

“And there was this guy there, well, a man, really, he was more a man then a guy — ”

Lorna sat up and nearly smudged her pedicure. “Oh my Lord, are you going on a date?”

“Of course not!” Maria Grazia shouldered her handset as she patiently stirred and stirred the risotto. “Kelli told me that he was flirting with Belle.”

“Really.” Lorna touched up her toes and gently flapped her feet around to dry the polish. “And she was flirting back?”

“Apparently.”

“Hmmm. Interesting.”

Maria Grazia cleared her throat. This was going to be the hard part. “She … she wants us to help her … to set them up.”

Lorna’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, does she?” She swung her feet carefully onto the floor, and went into the bathroom. Who did Kelli think she was, especially since she, Lorna, was going to throw Anna in the way of a few horny twenty-somethings in a few days? Just exactly who were Anna’s closest friends, anyway, and who exactly would know her better than her very best friends, know what’s best for her, and with whom she should be rebounding?

She glared at the hardening goo on her face. “I don’t think it’s any of her business what Anna gets up to, and who is this guy anyway — ”

“Some Irish guy, a painter or something, he’s doing the backdrops or whatever.” Maria Grazia gently folded the walnuts into the rice. “And he’s very cute, well, okay, handsome, even. Tall, and he was wearing this white shirt, this pristine white shirt.”

Lorna sighed internally at thought of a handsome man in pristine white shirt. “We both know how Anna hates being set up.”

“We know, and Kelli knows, but — but I think Kelli’s right.”

Lorna paused in her ablutions, her face half clean, half greeny-white. “You must be joking.”

Maria Grazia turned off the stove, and poured herself another glass of pinot noir. “It gets worse.” She gulped down a mouthful of the tangy wine. “She wants us to meet.”

Lorna switched ears. “I am unsure that I heard you correctly.”

“She wants us to meet.”

Lorna scrubbed the rest of the mask off her face and began to lightly apply serum to her damp skin. “Surely you know what my answer is — ”

Maria Grazia roared down the line, “Listen! You know I am breaking my cardinal rule! I am meddling! I am running interference! I am colluding! I am plotting! You know what this is doing to me! All I am asking is that you entertain the notion that we might do something to make our friend happy!”

Lorna’s sighed windily. “I have conditions.”

“Fine!” Maria Grazia stuffed a spoonful of risotto in her mouth.

“I will not meet for a meal, for a coffee, I will not meet for so much as a street corner pretzel.” Lorna dotted eye cream carefully on her lids. “In fact, I think a street corner is the perfect location for a spot of conspiracy. I would, of course, prefer to do this via email — ”

“She’s got a foolproof idea — and her condition is that we meet in person.” Stuck in the middle again, Maria Grazia! Faccia di merda!

“If she thinks she’s going to hypnotize me into taking on her ridiculous show — ”

“This is not about you!” MG bellowed.

“This,” Lorna’s voice held a threatening tone. “Had better be worth it.”

Maria Grazia sank onto her hand-reupholstered divan, replete with the cushions she’d run up just the other day, and sighed with relief. “It will be … I have a feeling about this … ”

Chapter Fifteen

Annabelle lowered herself down to the floor, and leaned against the foot of her bed. It was now three weeks and two days since Wilson had broken things off. Every Tuesday since then, she had taken time out to have a bit of a twinge or a pang in the early afternoon — they had always marked the anniversaries of things, why stop now? She could visualize an appropriate line of greeting cards: Thinking of you … even though I dumped you last year. There might be some money in that.

Or not. Anyway, she felt that she’d been taking pretty good care of herself, although she seemed to be back on the cigarettes again. The drama surrounding the plant had taken her mind off things, and having work had helped, too. So why was she sitting on the floor of her bedroom in front of her open closet, wearing nothing but panties, a bra, and a long face?

Why had she agreed to go to this stupid party with Lorna? Not only did it mean dragging all the way into Manhattan on a Saturday night, it also meant getting cleaned up and dressed up and having to talk to strangers and maybe meeting some guy, some rebound kind of guy, and doing that rebound kind of thing. She supposed all of it was essential to her getting over Wilson, but she had certainly tried this kind of no-holds-barred post-party bang in the past, and it had only made her feel bad. The idea of kissing somebody, frankly, made her feel a little bit nauseous, much less the possibility of nakedness and a mattress marathon.

Now that the plant’s branches were gone, she could chance a phone call to Lorna, begging off. Both the thought of the plant’s absent tentacles — surely her fault — and the idea that the only reason Lorna was doing this was to get Annabelle back into the swing of things, made her feel guilty, and as she was filled up to the brim with stupid feelings, she really wasn’t into adding a new one into the mix.

Well, all this grief had had one interesting by-product; she was pretty sure she’d gone down at least one dress size, if not two, and that therefore opened up the possibilities inherent in the Skinny Section of the closet. She hadn’t dipped in there since last year, before all the rich dinners and various fancy lunches she and Wilson had shared had begun to catch up to her thighs. Just for the sake of argument, she looked through the Party Time Section, and didn’t feel up to all that taffeta and sparkle. The Casual Section was just that, too casual for a ’do in North Chelsea (for crying out loud!) and the Dumpy PMS Section didn’t even rate a look.

The only thing about the Skinny Section was that every scrap of fabric in there had associations with the early part of her relationship with Wilson. She wasn’t big on shopping, and hated to waste hours over racks of tops, bottoms, and everything in between. Until she became the significant other of an up-and-comer like Mr. Monroe, black jeans and a low cut top seemed to work just fine, no matter the situation. Dating Wilson had changed all that, and she had the clothes to prove it.

The flesh-colored floor-length jersey had always given her the creeps and she’d only worn it once. She had felt naked, and couldn’t take all the double takes all night long that told her that everyone else thought that she was naked, too. That gold brocade circle skirt with the crinoline had gone very nicely with the one hundred per cent silk tank top — except for the fact that one hundred per cent silk wrinkled like a tissue at the wearer’s first breath. Unlike those Connecticut girls that made up Wilson’s social circle, girls who were bred knowing how to avoid wrinkling fine fabrics through the kind of controlled breathing that rivaled that of Indian yogis, Annabelle routinely had the thing in such a state that she felt like she had wrapped herself in a raisin.

Ah, the cherry red scrap of satin that had cost her a kidney and her spleen. Despite the fact that she gotten it cut-rate at Filene’s Basement, it was still designer, still unbelievably expensive — and unbelievably short. That had been interesting, and in fact had inspired the best sex of their relationship, the kind of impatient, heightened, sweaty, demanding, up-against-the-wall sex that Annabelle found she really really liked. Wilson had apologized for a week, and now Annabelle wondered, for the first time, what had she been thinking?

What red-blooded American male would apologize for participating in mind-blowing, exciting, spontaneous, fun sex? He had even sent flowers. What a … jerk.

“That’s a good sign,” said Annabelle to the inflammatory little dress. “We’ll keep you in reserve when a likely suspect shows himself.” A flash of curly hair, green eyes, and shoulders hugged by pristine white cotton flitted through her brain, but she refused to let it linger.

Ugh. That hideous, stuffy, depressing trouser suit. As gray as a pigeon in Grand Central Station, and not half as attractive. Double-breasted and pin-striped, the trousers didn’t fit her properly and made the womanly swell of her belly appear gargantuan. The jacket was tailored in such a way as to stick straight back out behind her, over the curve of her rump, so that the overall impression was that of a stuffy, puffy, female impersonator.

No up-against-the-wall sex after that event. What a disaster. It had been one of (not that she knew it at the time) their last outings, an afternoon wedding that Wilson had assured her would be businesslike and efficient. Imagine my dismay, Annabelle thought, blushing scarlet even at the memory, when it became apparent that the thing was full-out black tie — perhaps if I’d known the party was in the Empire Room, I’d have made another choice?

The Empire Room was the kind of place that would inspire one to commit hari-kari were one dressed incorrectly. She’d been as incorrectly dressed as she’d ever been in her life, and did Wilson care? Nope! Just told her she’d looked fine, avoiding eye contact, wearing the strained, bored look that he’d been sporting for the last few weeks. She slinked off to the bathroom to take off her top — no, really, it had been a great idea, she was wearing a lacy camisole over her Wonderbra and with the jacket buttoned up, she looked like she was working a pin-striped sexy vibe … until she’d returned, and was faced with the redhead.

The sleek, petite, and sparkling redhead who was hanging on to Wilson’s arm. Her auburn French twist crowned a heart-shaped face that appeared as innocent as the dew, until the eyes revealed a shrewd and calculating gleam. A thigh-skimming, slim column of ice blue silk draped her slight form, and she barely topped Wilson’s shoulder — much less Annabelle’s.

Who was this bitch?

The bitch was Winifred Barnes, Wilson’s childhood friend. Their family’s acres had corresponded, and as Winnie’s tinkling little laugh attended to Wilson’s reminiscence of summers spent in the saddle, her eyes flicked up and down Annabelle’s ensemble, and her face set in an almost imperceptible mask of mocking disdain.

Annabelle perceived it, attempted three times to get Wilson — whom Winnie teasingly called ‘Willie’ and made him blush — to join her at the buffet, the bar, anywhere that wasn’t Winnie’s side … and having turned to snatch yet another glass of bubbly off a passing tray, she found herself on her own. Just like that. Within in seconds, she was standing, like an ungainly pin-striped lamppost, in one of the most romantic rooms on the planet, planted like a pole on the edges of what was quite obviously the hoitiest, toitiest New York/New England society wedding in decades. She had watched Winnie lead Wilson around by the arm, watched the little bitch allow everyone to think that she and he were together — but no one in the room, not even the friends of Wilson’s that she’d met before and knew her as his partner, looked surprised to see the two of them working the crowd.

And she’d run. She hadn’t made a scene, she hadn’t tried to work the room herself, she’d turned tail and fled.

Annabelle balled up the suit and threw it onto the floor. Time to get together a bag for the Salvation Army. She slowly lowered herself to sit on the foot of the bed. Why hadn’t she seen that? No — she’d seen it, but it had obviously been too much for her. Winnie and Willie. Ugh!

“I asked him, and he said no, he wasn’t seeing anybody — or did he? I asked him, I know I did, I definitely remember asking … ” She stuck her head out of the bedroom. “Hey.” The plant barely twitched its bloom at her. “Come on, no hard feelings. Listen, I know you weren’t here or anything, but I can’t remember if Wilson answered me when I asked him if he had met someone else, and I thought maybe — ” But the plant was sulking, and turned its stalk on her.

“Fine.” A burst of energy, part humiliation, part fury, surged through Annabelle’s veins, and she thought fleetingly of donning the red dress and the devil take the hindmost. She briskly shoved dresses down the closet rail and stopped dead at the Armani.

The Armani. It looked like a scrap of polyester nothing on its hanger, but Annabelle knew from experience that it fit like a dream, and was a cunning blend of natural fibers that resisted unsightly wrinkling. Floor length, scoop-necked, short-sleeved, and body con, it was slinky and sexy without being smutty and slutty. If there was any magic in the world, it was in this dress, a dress that managed to be provocative and dignified at the same time.

Wilson hated that dress. It had made her the center of attention at the Amagansett Yacht Club, and had left him sulking in its understated, sensuous dust.

It would do just fine.

Hmmm … and as Wilson had never liked it when she wore red lipstick, or when she applied mascara to both her top and bottom lashes, she chose her Chanel Premiere Rouge and laid on the Maybelline. A deft application of eyeliner to her inner lids was a nod to her adolescent past, and she had to admit, it did the job: the thin line of black lent a mysterious air to her normally wide and guilelessly dark blue peepers.

A liberal spritz of smoky, sexy Addict by Dior added to the femme fatale aura, and gave Annabelle a huge boost in the esteem department, whether she was really trying for a fatality or not.

She came up short when it came to footwear. Damn. A girl just never got over being the tallest in the eighth grade class. Deep in her heart, Annabelle knew that a nice, narrow, three-inch heel was what was required to do the outfit justice, but she simply didn’t own any. Again, an annoying image of wide, white clad shoulders and a six-foot-one, six-foot-two frame sprang to mind, but she drove it out and stepped into nondescript but functional black flats.

A small but deceptively voluminous little black evening bag was commandeered to hold her cell phone, lipstick, ATM card, cash, keys and smokes. She was ready.

She walked out into the low light of the living room, and paused. It had been, literally, years since she’d gone out on her own, gone out socially without a man by her side. Her stomach did a little nervous flip, and she had to sit for a second at the ‘dining room’ table. She knew better, knew that being with someone who lied to her, and who didn’t tell her the proper dress code, and dumped her in the middle of the day, wasn’t a worthy companion in life. Such a person was not someone who had what she was looking for.

What was she looking for? She rose and stood before her altar, and by extension, her mystery monster plant. She wanted someone who … thought she was funny, and who thought she was smart, and listened to everything she said, and paid her compliments, and made sure she was never alone at a party … and was taller than she was.

Oh, damn it. Not more tears. She checked herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the outside of her bathroom door. No damage. Wished she could say the same for her heart, and then rolled her eyes at her own melodrama. Grabbing up the short black leather biker jacket that took the overly sophisticated edge off the Miracle Dress, she slung her bag diagonally across her body for safety’s sake, and started unlocking the many locks of her door.

Behind her back, the plant snapped to attention, and as Annabelle cautiously peered around the edge of the doorway — no Nosy Ned lurking on the stair — it shot out a sparkling, iridescent cloud that wrapped itself around Annabelle from head to toe.

Annabelle sneezed, checked herself once more in the mirror, and left the apartment.

As the locks shot into place from the other side, the plant bobbed its head, and giggled.

• • •

“No hard feelings?” Lorna appraised herself in one of the elevator’s mirrors. She wiggled her skirt up a little higher — as if it were possible, thought Annabelle.

Annabelle leaned against the opposite wall. “Nope. Funny — my words exactly to my mystery monster plant. I did a ritual last night and made its branches disappear. I think it’s mad at me.”

Lorna chose to ignore this obvious and pathetic attempt to try her patience, and glanced at Annabelle’s ensemble. “The dress?”

“Armani.” Sometimes talking to Lorna felt like speaking in tongues, but she always got a little thrill when she could play along. “Wilson hated it.”

“I approve on all fronts.”

“So, are you trying to set me up with somebody?” Annabelle fussed with her hair, and scowled at her reflection in the elevator door.

Lorna checked that her hose was equally transparent from heel to thigh. “Why in the world would I do that? I know how you hate it.”

“Or are you trying to get me into a rebound situation? I mean, what is this, a bunch of interns having a beer bash or something? I know that you and Maria Grazia think I’ve got something for rebounding with younger guys, but I don’t, even though every time I’ve ever broken up with someone I’ve ended up getting drunk and boffing some Columbia sophomore.”

“You’re out of luck, this bunch all went to NYU. And they’re graduates.”

“And Maria Grazia, for some strange reason, wants me to go to some book launch or something, a book about sports! Maria Grazia? Please! She couldn’t tell a baseball from a hockey puck! And Kelli is running around telling everybody that some sloppy Irish guy is talking about me, or something. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know — ”

The elevator’s happy chime let them know they’d arrived, and cut off Annabelle’s tirade. Lorna wiggled her skirt up another millimeter or three, and led the way out onto the fifty-second floor. “Anna, just leave it to us, all right? We’ll get you back on the road to recovery,” said Lorna as she headed toward the loud, thumping music.

“I can do it myself,” mumbled Annabelle. As she got no reaction, she shouted over the now-deafening music. “I CAN! MYSELF!” Annabelle wedged herself into the apartment in Lorna’s wake. A long narrow hallway clogged with downtown-fashionable young bodies seemed to go on for days until they arrived into the spacious living room. If it wasn’t for the extremely loud Duran Duran CD blasting on the stereo — the Eighties were the new Seventies, after all — you could have heard a pin drop as the hosts clocked that Lorna, their ice-queen, untouchable colleague, had arrived. Even in the midst of a blaring rendition of “Hungry Like The Wolf”, Lorna could make an entrance. Annabelle squirmed around her friend as the minions paid their respects, and headed for a window.

Air. And view. Times Square shone in the distance, an endlessly recycling festival of bright lights and flashing signs. Annabelle lit a cigarette, and leaned against the windowsill, as Lorna materialized with two bottles of Heineken and three young men.

Oh, crap. This isn’t going to be worth it, thought Annabelle, as she tried to look even vaguely interested. All three young men seemed so … bright and shiny, all sporting oversized skateboarder shirts over top of incredibly expensive Hugo Boss trousers. Cookie-cutter boys, with the same unsullied, open faces that practically shouted Score!

Not if she had anything to do with it.

“Annabelle, this is Mike, Marty, and Mitch. Some of the … freshest talent at the agency.” Lorna ran a finger down Mitch’s arm, and sent him into visible paroxysms of delight.

Annabelle felt compelled to make conversation. “So … are you guys roommates?”

Mike took the lead. “Yeah. Since college.”

“Yeah. NYU,” illuminated Marty. Mitch was still quivering, and was, for all intents and purposes, out of the picture.

“Buddies,” said Annabelle.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Definitely. Omega Beta Phi, woo hoooo!”

The guys banged bellies, and fell back, grinning.

“ Lorna and I went to art school, we weren’t into that Greek stuff — we were roommates in college back in — ”

“Yes, thank you, Anna — ”

“ — Well. I was very interested to discover that the fraternity initiation process has its roots in actual Greek culture, geared more toward the Goddess, mind you. Do you guys know anything about Goddess culture? It’s a viable alternative to the truly debilitating and denigrating patriarchal society, such as the one we ourselves live in at the moment and — ”

Lorna grabbed Annabelle by the elbow and forcibly dragged her toward the kitchen, leaving three pairs of glazed eyes in their wake.

“Lorna, I was about to enlighten your colleagues with a bit of matriarchal wisdom — ”

“Very funny. Just relax, for God’s sake. Relax!”

They stood with their backs to the wall of another hallway, one which, if the noises were any indication, led to the bedrooms and the bathroom. Endless flushing and moaning emitted at intervals from down the narrow hallway’s length, and Annabelle was shocked at how quickly the bedrooms had been commandeered by gasping couples. I really must be out of it …

Both she and Lorna finished their beers at the same time, and made the move for more beverages simultaneously. As they squeezed their way to the kitchen, Annabelle’s back brushed up against someone else’s and that someone else immediately grabbed her arm. Lorna took one look and kept moving.

Annabelle turned and gazed up into a dazed face that was at least a full foot above her own. A severe brush cut indicated a recent trip to the barber’s, and flushed, beefy cheeks seemed to point to a few post-work, pre-party cocktails. The loosened tie thrown over the shoulder screamed ‘Wall Street’, and the large hand had the kind of calluses that bellowed ‘racquetball’.

“Excuse me — ” Annabelle made to follow Lorna, who had disappeared.

“My name is Chad, and you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.” The look in his eyes resembled the expression on a love-sick puppy.

“Don’t get out much, do you, Chad?” Annabelle tried to retrieve her arm.

Chad threw back his head and laughed. Loudly. And long. “Ah HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! What a sense of humor! I love a sense of humor in a woman!” He stopped laughing abruptly, and gazed soulfully at her once more. “I love your jokes.”

“Uh, joke, singular — ”

“HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Did you hear that?” Chad addressed the entire party. “Don’t you just love funny women!” He continued, softly, in Annabelle’s ear. “I know I do. I know I could love you.”

Damn it! “You don’t even know my name — ”

“Please tell me, tell me your name! But I know already that it’s the most beautiful name in the history of names, in the pre-historic history of names, tell me, please tell, I beg you, I beg — ”

“Annabelle, okay, just shut up.” Shit! She told him her real name.

“Annabelle. Annnnnnabellllllllllllle. The goddess Annabelle, the Shakespearian queen of the fairies of the forest!” Chad trailed off in ecstasy, and grabbed her other arm and pulled her close.

“There is no Annabelle in Shakespeare, you dumb ass!” She tried to struggle out of his grasp without struggling.

“You’re so smart! So literarily astute! I love smart women — but only smart women named … ANNABELLE!”

Lorna! Lorna! Maybe for once she’d actually manage a telepathic communication. LORNA!

“I need to … go to the bathroom. Please. My friend, uh, she’s sick, I need to find her — ”

Chad eyes lit up at the idea. “We’ll go together! We’ll find your friend, together!”

Annabelle edged away, as best she could with six-feet-seven-inches of male attached to her like a limpet. “I’d prefer to go on my own — ”

“I’d NEVER leave you alone!” Chad was looking positively wild-eyed at the thought. “I’d NEVER leave you alone at a party!”

Wait a minute. Annabelle stopped dead in her tracks.

Laughing at her jokes.

Thinks she’s smart.

Won’t leave her alone at parties — “I don’t believe this!” She shook her head, and triggered off a manic spate of nodding from Chad.

“Neither do I! I don’t believe that the smartest, funniest, most beautiful woman in the WORLD is talking to me right now!” He looked as if he might weep.

Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “So, Chad. What do you think of my dress?”

His eyes closed, blissfully. “I think I might be blinded by its sexy sophistication.”

“Think I’m pretty funny, do you?”

Chad threw back his head and howled once more with laughter. Lorna appeared with two fresh bottles of beer in her hands, and looked utterly appalled.

“Think I’m smart, too?”

“I could fall at your feet in my own intellectual inadequacy.”

“Right.” Annabelle leaned into him and tugging on his arms, brought her mouth up to his ear. Leaning closer, closer, as Chad’s face took on a look of sheer ecstasy, she whispered, “Sacred circle hear my doubt, shield me safely round about, bring love in — keep freaks out!”

As if a bucket of frigid water had been dumped over his head, Chad stood straight up and let go of Annabelle. He looked down at her, and shook his head as if to clear it. “Whoa. Like, sorry,” he mumbled, and backed away.

Lorna handed off the beers to an innocent bystander, and grabbed Annabelle’s recently liberated right arm. “Are you okay? What in the world was that?”

Annabelle took a deep breath, and looked Lorna in the eye. “You wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you. I gotta get out of here.”

• • •

Back out on Thirtieth Street, they paused at the corner of Eighth, waiting for a taxi. Annabelle was mumbling to herself, and Lorna, a little peeved at the early exit, kept prodding for an answer.

“I told you, you don’t want to know.” Annabelle lit up a restorative smoke.

“It’s not that hazelnut nonsense, is it?”

“You. Don’t. Want. To. Know.” She offered a Marlboro, which Lorna accepted grudgingly. “Thanks for the outing, anyway.”

“Just trying to help.” Lorna exhaled elegantly.

“Yeah, you and … everybody else.” Annabelle looked west as Lorna looked uptown.

“Anna. We care about you. We want you to be happy, to have what you want. Maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea in the world, maybe that guy was a bit over the top — ” Lorna cut across Annabelle’s sarcastic “Ha!” “ — but you’re the one who’s always wanted a boyfriend, and always had to have a boyfriend, and whined when you didn’t have a boyfriend, and whined about the boyfriend when you had a boyfriend, and now you don’t have a boyfriend, and you were at a party where you could, quite possibly, have found another boyfriend, if you’d given it a chance!”

“I don’t just want a boyfriend, I want a relationship!”

“I want a relationship!” Lorna mimicked, and Annabelle looked away, stunned. “I do not, in any way, profess to be acquainted with the ways and means under which one undertakes to initiate a long-term relationship, but I think that at the very least, you have to go out and actually meet people!”

Annabelle and Lorna stood glaring at opposite ends of the street. “This is your idea of helping me?” Annabelle’s voice wobbled a bit. “You of all people try to tell me how to build a relationship — you haven’t had one since 2004!”

“We’re not talking about me!” Lorna shouted, and raised an arm to flag down a cab.

“Well, then, don’t expect me to do the things that you do to meet people!”

“I’m not, but this is New York City, how else do expect to meet people if you don’t go out! You don’t have a job, how do you expect to — ”

“Hey. The scribe. Howaya?”

Lorna and Annabelle turned west as the cab screeched to a halt beside them. Annabelle gawked and Lorna stopped shouting.

“Oh. Hi. Restorer-slash-painter.” Annabelle froze, and silence reigned.

Lorna charged into the breach. “We haven’t met. Lorna Bates.”

“Jamie Flynn.” They shook hands, Jamie politely, Lorna assessingly.

“Odd hour for a delivery?” Lorna mused, indicating the wrapped, flat object under Jamie’s arm. Jamie looked at it as if he’d never seen it before.

“Um. No … well, yes. A — something for a relative. She rang me, last minute, I’m to meet her here, somewhere … ” He trailed off, and shrugged, and tried to look nonchalant, as if he always wandered around Manhattan at night, carting paintings around.

“Jamie’s a painter.” Annabelle felt Jamie’s eyes on her and wondered who had let loose the host of butterflies now swarming in her belly.

“How do you two know each other … ?” asked Lorna, and behind her back, motioned at the cabbie to relax.

“The thing — ” said Annabelle.

“The show — ” said Jamie.

They both stopped short, and Lorna smiled inquiringly.

“Jamie — Kelli — ”

“Annabelle — the play — ”

The cabbie honked his horn impatiently. He didn’t have all night.

“Well, okay. Nice seeing you. Uh. Again.” Annabelle dove into the taxi, and waited for Lorna to stop shaking Jamie’s hand. He tapped on the window before he walked away.

As the taxi sped off east, Lorna turned to Annabelle.

“So?”

“So what?” Annabelle turned toward Lorna and tried to camouflage the fact that she was looking out of the back window out of the corner of her eye.

“So. Is that The Irish Guy?”

Annabelle turned fully to look out the window at Jamie’s receding form. “He’s — yeah.” As the cab turned south, Annabelle turned around and slumped slightly in her seat.

“Interesting.” Lorna turned forward as well, her fingers itching to get at her cell phone.

“He’s — we just met at the thing — did Maria Grazia say anything? To you? About … him?” Annabelle twisted the strap of her evening bag absentmindedly around her finger.

Lorna watched her friend cut off the circulation to her pinkie, and suppressed a wicked, triumphant grin. Wilson, and memories of Wilson, the very essence of Wilson, was about to get shipped out to the dump in Staten Island. “She mentioned that some hot guy in a pristine white shirt was into you.”

“He’s not!” Annabelle heard herself and she sounded like a teenager. “He’s just … He isn’t — it’s nothing.” She turned away and stared out the window, as the lights of the Village blurred past the speeding cab.

Ah ha, thought Lorna. Very very interesting.

Chapter Sixteen

When he woke up in his childhood room, it was even smaller than Jamie remembered. It may have been an effect of waking in the dead of night — there wasn’t a sound in the house but for his own breathing, which seemed to echo in his ears. Lying on his side above the covers, he could see the pile of clothes that lay at the foot of his single bed, a pile that cunningly hid his football boots, his stash of sweets, and his prized collection of American comic books.

It struck him as odd that after all those years of his mother champing at the bit for him to ‘sort out that mess!’ that she had, in his absence, resisted the urge to purge … but then he remembered that his oldest sister had taken the house ages ago, and surely this would be the room of a niece or a nephew? His breathing became labored as his disorientation increased, the lack of any other sound, even a creak of the old house settling, began to feel alarming. Why was it so silent? Why was it so dark? Why was he wearing his old flannel pajamas? Panicking at the sight of his grown up arms and legs sticking well out of his Zig and Zag gear, he tried to rise, to get up and away, but he was paralyzed. He tried to shout for help, but he couldn’t even move the muscles of his throat. Alarm overwhelmed him and his breathing came faster and faster until —

He was standing in the garden of Aunt Maeve’s detached house in Dollymount. Slightly derelict, the family was forever urging her to sell it, rent it out, do something with it. It was prime real estate in this day and age, and priceless if you were a romantic, which it seemed that Maeve was. She was ‘saving’ it, and wouldn’t be drawn out on the subject. Jamie had always loved the place, and he wondered if that ridiculously large shed, practically a barn, was still out back, and as soon as thought of, he was standing before it, and it was unrecognizable: remodeled into an enclosed shelter, he faced a bright blue door that swung open to reveal a fully kitted out studio. His own long worktable ran down the center of the room, his tools and works-in-progress everywhere in the usual jumble. The roof was glass, and natural light poured into the place like manna from heaven. I want this, he thought, and moved into the room. As he did, the intensity of the light increased until it was blinding, and he could do nothing but shield his eyes against the glare —

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing on the bank of a peacefully flowing river. The opposite side wasn’t far away; overcome with the desire to ford it, he gauged the depth of the water, and knew it was too deep. He walked east to look for a shallower crossing. The banks were wooded, and as he moved through the trees, deer and hares and great blue herons watched him pass. Far from skittish, they seemed to look on approvingly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement on the other side of the water, but every time he paused to look, there was nothing. He kept moving, and without knowing how he knew, he knew it was Annabelle.

The river was rushing now, and narrowing, and he began to run, certain that he would be able to ford the river and get to her. The trees became a blur as he pelted through the forest, and he came crashing through the underbrush to stop at a point that was no more than three feet across. Annabelle stood facing him, her face placid, her eyes shadowed by — confusion? Fear? Hope? He couldn’t tell. Her hair tumbled all around her, much longer than he’d remembered, and the gown she wore seemed to be flowing into the river. He moved to cross, but something held him back, an invisible barrier, and Annabelle seemed to be as trapped as he was.

Simultaneously, their hands came up, reaching across, and they leaned as far forward as they were able, their fingertips practically touching as the river rushed harder, the sound became a roar as —

Jamie woke up to the sound of a wild, blustery thunderstorm. The rain rattled on the umbrella factory’s metal roof, and wind pounded the windows. Must have been the rain, he thought, making me dream of Ireland.

Or an evening spent in pursuit of Maeve.

He slumped at the edge of the bed. What the hell was she about? Demanding a visit, demanding the picture he’d promised her, insisting it be that very night, at that very time, and then not turning up? And why she wanted to meet him in front of some derelict shop in ‘North Chelsea’? Well, who knew with Mad Maeve.

A big yawn kept him occupied for a moment or so, and gave him an excuse to remain perched on the bed. Stretching mightily, he stood, the siren call of a prospective double espresso impossible to resist.

Some grounds, a quick blast of hot water and two heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar later, Jamie was well on his way to full participation in the day, and better able to consider what might best appease his growling belly. Toasted homemade brown bread topped with butter and strawberry jam? A three-egg omelet filled with brie and spring onions? Fried potatoes and rashers?

All of the above. Fully awake at the thought of such a feed, Jamie began slicing, chopping, and mixing, and only when he had all the bits and pieces of his meal ready for assembly, did he allow himself to continue to review events of the night before.

Annabelle. The irritatingly organized writer. Some dress … Jamie mechanically added cheese and onions to the bubbling eggs, and tossed bread in the toaster. And the combination of the little leather jacket and that sexy blonde bob … He smiled to himself as he ground more beans for more coffee. Annabelle. It was, he had to admit, ages since he’d even thought twice about a girl, since …

He leaned a hip against the counter and stared blindly out the window. Did he want to ‘go there’? “Don’t go there!” He could almost hear Sherrie’s thick Noo Yawk accent rasping in his ear. One of her favorite phrases, it covered a range of subjects including queries as regarded her incessant shopping, and whether or not, during the last six months of their three-year relationship, all those midnight telephone calls really did have to do with the running of her fledgling art gallery.

No … let’s not ‘go there,’ Jamie decided, as he rescued his omelet in the nick of time. The toast had gone stone cold, the rashers and spuds gone greasy, and the eggs were suddenly unappetizing. Only thoughts of Sherrie could put him off his food.

Another cuppa would set him straight, and all the food could be reconstructed and resurrected for lunch. Maybe a bit of work would set him fully to rights … but a wander into the studio reminded him of something else he was trying to forget.

It wasn’t trouble with his restoration commissions. It had nothing to do with his gig for Kelli. It didn’t even have anything to do with his own work — a miracle in itself. In fact, he toyed with the idea of giving the glass panels he’d been experimenting with a trial run in Kelli’s production/installation … God knew, she could afford it. Yeah. Yeah. Hmmm. Whadadya know, he thought to himself, sarcastically. I must be some kind of genius.

But what kind of genius, he wondered, would turn down the chance of multi-year funding? Precisely what kind of eejit would fail to at least take a shot at such a scheme, even though that scheme originated, and would have to be executed, in Ireland?

Jamie unenthusiastically took up the clipping a Dublin-based brother had sent to their mother, who had sent it on to himself. Fully funded for three years, studio space provided, materials provided up to seventy per cent. All he had to do was submit a piece of work of mythological origin, appropriate for display in the county council office of choice —

Disgusted, Jamie crumpled up the clipping for what seemed like the hundredth time. He didn’t mind the public art aspect of the submission; in fact, he thought the more art in public spaces, the better.

No. It was the hokey Oirish bloody Celtic Twilight bollocks of the subject matter. It was everything he’d always dreamed of — since becoming a proper artist — wrapped up in almost everything he’d always tried to get away from. Feck’s sake. Who needed another bloody Cuchulainn statue? If he was to enter this competition, how would he match his figurative skills with an interesting subject? Preferably female — they were infinitely more interesting than the males. Emer, Grainne, Deirdre of the bloody Sorrows … no, no, and no. All too well-known, cliché.

If he was going to do this, he’d have to rescue one of the figures from their sad, seemingly choiceless destinies, or at least definitively show some sort of humanity that many of these Celtic types seemed to lack. He dug around for a sketchpad. The last part of his dream flashed into his mind’s eye: Annabelle on the banks of the river, her hair and dress seeming to flow into the water, and the water seeming to flow into them —

Sinann.

Jamie scrambled around on his hands and knees, looking for his new favorite pencil. Turned into a river for daring to drink out of the holy well of some mythical salmon — he’d have to check that, and made a note — he imagined that instead of punishment, the mythical maid saw it as transcendence, as the freedom to roam the breadth of Ireland: flowing, forceful, necessary.

He rapidly sketched the figure of a woman whose hair and dress were transforming into waves of water, her body leaning forward, her arms reaching up in what was a gesture of abandon and triumph. Her eyes would express her victory and her face the strength of her decision. He imagined the image flowing like the water she was, over a huge sheet of glass, lit from behind. And whether he liked it or not, he imagined that his imaginary goddess’ face had a familiarity to it …

Jamie reached over and, for the thousandth time, uncrumpled the clipping his brother had sent. His stomach rumbled, and resigned and invigorated at the same time, he thought it best to eat brunch now before he got lost in his latest creation.

• • •

Lorna approached the corner of 22nd and First with trepidation and irritation. The potential for melodrama has not been suitably plumbed, Lorna sneered. Why not simply take the tram out to Roosevelt Island? Why not take the bus out to Jersey? For God’s sake. Clutching her Hermes scarf more closely around her throat, she shivered as she made her way up the block.

Her annoyance increased at the sight of Kelli lurking in the shadows of a dumpster, clothed in black from head to toe, and was gratified to see that Maria Grazia was visibly vexed. Lorna fixed a chilly smile on her face — never much of a challenge, and certainly less of one when the wind was coming off the East River as it did now — and strolled up to the two.

“Why, hello, comrades,” she greeted them, and Kelli looked around wildly, furtively handing out folded pieces of paper.

“I know it’s chancy,” she panted, “Putting the plan down in black and white, but — ”

“Ooh, let’s memorize the contents, and then you can eat them!” Lorna suggested.

“This wasn’t necessary, Kell,” MG cut in. “We’re not stupid, it’s all simple enough.”

“I want to run through it once more,” Kelli insisted, her eyes darting up and down the avenue. “I call Annabelle and give her the assignment. I promise her two tickets — ”

“One intended for me — ” chirped MG, getting caught up in the spirit of it all despite herself.

“Which you cancel at three twenty-five P.M. Eastern Standard Time,” said Kelli.

“With apologies, and I suggest that she give a Lorna a try — ” MG continued, and she and Kelli cut their eyes to Lorna, who replied, flatly, “To which I agree, but then, inexplicably, I cancel at exactly seven-fifty Eastern Standard Time, even though she wouldn’t not go because it is a job.”

“She needs to have the extra ticket for Jamie!” Kelli shrieked.

“He needs to sit next to her!” MG howled.

“This is how it will transpire.” Lorna crossed her arms and stared off into the middle distance. “You, Kelli, will give Annabelle this assignment. You will have the box office set aside her tickets. He will not in fact have a reservation. I believe we can rely on Annabelle to offer him the ticket, and on Cezanne to accept.”

Kelli scribbled on her master list, and Maria Grazia wondered, “Do we still need to be involv — ”

“Yes!” Kelli hissed. “We need a fail-safe! We need a back-up!”

We need to wrap this up. “I think that should do. Shall we?” Lorna linked her arm through Maria Grazia’s and applied the Grip of Death.

“Ow. So, Kelli, all that good for you?”

Kelli ran her eyes over the notes, and nodded slowly. She raised her eyes to meet Lorna’s and she smiled warmly, admiringly. “So simple, yet so direct. What a mind you have, Lorna. No wonder you’re such a success. And to see you share its wealth in aid of a dear friend — oh. It touches me. And, I must confess, stirs up a powerful envy in me, to think that you’ve never married your amazin’ skills to one of my innovative projects — ”

I have no more time to waste on this creature, thought Lorna, as she spun MG around and headed back toward civilization. “Goodbye.”

• • •

They left a cautiously scuttling Kelli at Second Avenue, and walked further west, Maria Grazia bustling, Lorna clacking along in her Louboutins.

“That wasn’t too terrible,” MG muttered, trying to gauge the severity, on a scale of one to ten, of the blankness of Lorna’s expression.

“That was quite enough. And I knew she would try to mesmerize me into working on what is surely to be yet another misguided, yet well-funded effort — ”

“It wasn’t too terrible,” Maria Grazia insisted. “Let’s hope it was worth it.”

“If I hadn’t gotten a look at Kandinsky, and at Annabelle’s face when she saw him, I wouldn’t have shown.” Lorna lit up a well-deserved cigarette.

“And what about his face?”

Lorna inhaled consideringly. “I don’t know if I can — It was … theatrical shock. You know, the kind of emotion in a scene that’s about … well, love, I suppose. When the hero sees the heroine for the first time. It’s banal on film, but it was rather … um … what’s the word … ”

“Authentic?” asked Maria Grazia, longingly.

“Exactly, authentic.” Lorna narrowed her eyes as she scanned MG’s face. “That was longing I heard.”

“It was not.”

“It was. You sounded yearn-y.”

“I did not!”

“Did. My, my.” Lorna stubbed out the butt. “Santa Maria Grazia the Pure expresses longing yearniness re: romance.”

“Are you quite finished?” Whenever Maria Grazia tried for snooty, for Bates-esque hauteur, she failed miserably.

“For the moment,” Lorna murmured, delighted at the prospect of a chink in MG’s chaste armor.

Maria Grazia pulled Lorna over to the nearest coffee shop and said what she was sure was the final word on the subject. “All that’s left is for us to keep our heads, and to follow these stupid instructions. It’ll be a snap. Belle believes in synchronicity and fate and all that crap. She won’t suspect a thing.”

Chapter Seventeen

She didn’t like to think that she was a cynical creature, or distrustful, and if she couldn’t trust her oldest, dearest friends, then who could she trust?

But right this second, Annabelle didn’t trust Maria Grazia or Lorna as far as she could throw them.

Or Kelli, for that matter. As her body swayed with the rocking motion of the F train to Manhattan, her mind seemed to take on the same aspect, looking at her present situation from side-to-side rather than dead on. Exhibit A: Kelli had booked her to review a show. Okay, so that often happened. But Kelli had distinctly — distinctly — mentioned that the show was in a similar vein to her own production, and wouldn’t it help Annabelle’s development of Kelli’s website if Annabelle checked this one out? The kicker? Oh, just that several of the ‘brain trust’ would probably be going along as well, the major players, the lighting guy, the choreographer, several random mimes … the set painter.

When Annabelle had begun to question that little nugget of info, Kelli had promptly hung up.

That may in fact be exhibits B & C, Annabelle thought as she continued to sway.

Exhibit D: Maria Grazia had rung less than an hour later, commiserating about the ‘assignment’, but happy enough to go along. She’d book the tickets so that they could sit together. She seemed to be rather adamant about this point in particular, despite Annabelle’s protests that as a reviewer she would be given a pair automatically — and MG had promptly hung up.

Exhibit E: Lorna had rung her that afternoon sometime around three to say that Maria Grazia was sick with laryngitis, and that she, Lorna would be Annabelle’s date. This is where it got extremely fishy. Lorna’s loathing of Kelli extended to her projects, to any projects the woman thought worthwhile, to the very air she breathed. When Annabelle questioned this — dial tone.

Am I a suspicious person? Annabelle didn’t think she was, but she wasn’t sure anymore. Seriously, though? In the last few weeks, hadn’t Lorna tried to set her up? Hadn’t Maria Grazia been bugging her about Rembrandt? Oh! Annabelle bounced in her seat — Exhibit F! All teasing about the painter-slash-restorer had inexplicably ceased. Ohmigod, thought Annabelle. What if he’s there tonight? Her eyes widened, and she leaped up from her seat, for no apparent reason, resulting in absolutely no reaction whatsoever from the rest of the train’s passengers. She sat back down again abruptly.

Well, so what if he was? Who cared? She didn’t. “I don’t,” she said aloud, and was once again roundly ignored. Nevertheless … she checked out her appearance as best she could in a grimy, clouded window. Hair: excellent; make-up: minimal but flattering; fragrance: Jo Malone Lime Basil & Mandarin; outfit: casual with a bit of sexy thanks to a low-ish cut top, and new faux-lizard bottle green ankle boots with a three inch heel.

She was sick of pretending that she hated being tall.

So … if anybody cared, she looked pretty, thank you very much.

The train shuddered to a halt at East Broadway. Two stops to go, and Annabelle put a hand to her chest, her heart inexplicably racing. Her broken heart — beating like a drum. She had better pull herself together, because if something was up, it wouldn’t do to be all aflutter and … expecting something to be up — which it wasn’t — how could it be? Maria Grazia didn’t know The Irish Guy, and Lorna only saw him the one time and … no!

Annabelle shook her head and sat back in her seat. “No way!” she cried, and a homeless guy, pushing his shopping trolley down the aisle, agreed. “No frickin’ way!” he hollered. The only connection between The Irish Guy and herself was Kelli, and no way could she imagine that Maria Grazia, much less Lorna, would kick off some master plan between the three of them.

The homeless guy turned to her as she rose to get off at Second Avenue. “Stranger things have been known to happen!” he bellowed with glee, and Annabelle rushed off the train, up the stairs, and into the fresh air of a semi-balmy spring evening. As she strode up the avenue toward the theater, she was blind to the usual mayhem that was the Lower East Side: the newest generation of Mohawk-sporting teenagers, the steady stream of guys with guitars slung across their bags on their way to early gigs, the gaggles of bridge-and-tunnel girls, over-dressed and over-loud, descending on the cheap Mexican restaurants and the even cheaper pitchers of margaritas. She wasn’t nervous, excited, hopeful — nothing. She had too much on her mind, the last thing she needed was … expectations. She was too raw to flirt, too tender to even fathom anything that would be more than a soulless one-night stand. Resilience was one thing; another entirely was the kind of flexibility that spoke to low standards and lack of self-respect. “I have self-respect,” Annabelle mumbled. “I know what my limits are. I’ll know when I’m ready to date again.”

Not that she and Wilson had really ‘dated’, in the strictest sense of the word. They met, and went out, and went out again, and never had any issues around availability or exclusivity; it was an unspoken assumption that after the first weekend away, they were officially a monogamous couple. That tended to be her pattern, actually, and Annabelle, lost in thought, narrowly missed being flattened by the Second Avenue bus. I must be a serial monogamist. I’ve never, like, had to juggle men — and the ensuing mental image of herself in red nose and curly green wig, tossing around fully grown men like bowling pins, made her laugh out loud. Maybe I should try that, she thought — and immediately discarded the idea. It’s just not me, she thought, running across the avenue against the light. It’s good to know that.

She warily approached the door to Two Two Two, an experimental theatre and dance space at 22 East 2nd Street. Negotiating the gauntlet of junkies and winos certainly added to its cutting edge cachet, and Annabelle wondered, not for the first time, how people could bear to work in dives like this one.

She was surprised upon entering the lobby to see an elegantly designed room, all chrome and low lighting; sheets of chain metal hung down the walls to the tiled floor, and the exposed girders of the ceiling were antiqued to look like weathered copper. Recessed lighting threw only the most flattering illuminations onto the people thronging the lobby, but the cool and distancing lines of the room were not equal to the absolute chaos of opening night, an excess of energy in the air that translated itself into high-spirited chatter and bursts of laughter. It was exciting, and Annabelle told herself that’s what had those rogue butterflies doing another circuit of her stomach. Opening night nerves. They must be contagious.

Annabelle began to work her way toward the box office when her phone rang. Lorna.

“I’m here, over by the door.”

“Darling, can’t make it after all. Crisis.”

And that, Annabelle knew, would be all that she’d get in the way of explanation.

“Great,” she said. “Thanks so much letting me know.”

“Oh, of course.” Silence.

An explanation might be nice. “Yeah, I don’t know if I’d be good company, anyway. My plant died. You know, the one that grew out of my hazelnut?” Take that!

“Your … what?” Lorna shrieked.

Any intent Annabelle had about goading Lorna disappeared as she realized that she was really sad about the mystery monster plant. “I did a ritual, last week, and all the branches disappeared, and then there was just this one big bloom, and now the flower’s all shriveled up and it looks like it’s sinking back into the dirt.”

A deep and arctic silence greeted this remark. Annabelle, lost in regret, went on. “I guess I kind of got used to it, you know? I’ve been living on my own for four years now … but it wasn’t like having a roommate, not exactly. It didn’t leave dirty dishes around and drink all my milk, although it did deface some photographs and steal my favorite toothbrush.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Annabelle could the furious clicking of Lorna’s lighter.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Annabelle pushed her way through the crowd; it was almost show time.

“No. It isn’t. Are you completely insane? Little bags of herbs to hang over the door are one thing, a crystal or two to put on the windowsill is another. All that is fairly harmless, but this? You cannot expect me to believe this.”

“Hmmm. Now, if I understand correctly, if I’m really crazy, then I wouldn’t know it, and I would say ‘No, I’m not crazy!’ But if I wasn’t crazy, then I’d freely admit the possibility that my sanity was questionable. So … yes, Lorna, I am crazy!” Her voice rose as she continued. “I am out of my tree, ready for the booby hatch, the nuthouse, I am certifiable and ready to go quietly with nice men from Bellevue!”

She hung up as triumphantly as one could on a cell phone, and spun around, not looking where she was going and —

She plowed into the The Irish Guy.

“Fancy meeting you here!” Annabelle snapped, glaring at him.

He laughed. “Has the show already begun?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Annabelle was beginning to feel a little foolish, combined with a dash of recklessness: a potentially potent combination, since she suddenly didn’t care if this guy thought she was totally crackers, and she didn’t care if the whole thing blew up, because she knew, she just knew that her friends were behind this ‘chance’ meeting. The hell with it, she thought. If it all blows up, then I can just blame it on them.

“Stella! Stellllllaaaaa!” Jamie started howling apropos of nothing, tearing at his white T shirt, and Annabelle couldn’t help it, and cracked up. It’s not his fault after all …

“You do a much better Brando than a Mae West.” She edged her way over to the box office, and he followed.

“My family are great ones for the impressions. Okay, who’s this.” Jamie composed his face into hang dog lines, his eyes drooping at the corners, his forehead creased with the weight of the world. “’Play it again, Sam,’” he lisped, and Annabelle applauded.

“Ingrid Berman! Very good.”

Jamie sighed dramatically. “You’ve no ear at all.”

“I think the problem is actually your mouth,” Annabelle retorted, and then wanted to die. I can’t believe I said that, she thought, and in effort to stop staring at aforementioned mouth, which was grinning at her, she turned to the annoyed and clearly put-out box office girl.

“Annabelle Walsh,” she said briskly. “NYC Weekly.”

This terse statement had a galvanizing effect on the box officer, who flipped through an index box furiously, as if one moment keeping Annabelle waiting would impact on the imminent review of the show.

“Nice one.” Annabelle looked at Jamie quizzically. He nodded to the obsequiously searching box office manager, and grinned. She shrugged, smiled, and turned to accept her effusively proffered envelope and program.

“Really nice,” he murmured, although, given his proximity it was hard for him to say if he was talking about Annabelle’s effect on the woman behind the little window, or the effect Annabelle’s perfume was having on him, a kind of lemony-limey thing that made him want to lick the little pink earlobe that was nestled in a sweep of lush blonde —

“Wha’?” he asked inelegantly, looking down into her eyes, those wide, smiling blue eyes.

“Your turn,” Annabelle breathed, and edged back to lessen the nearness.

“Ah, yeah. Jamie Flynn.” And with no less enthusiasm, the attendant trawled through the reservations.

Her confusion turned to sheer desperation as she looked between Annabelle and Jamie. “I’m afraid I haven’t got a ticket for you.”

Yup, Kelli is in it, too. There will be hell to pay. “Funny enough, I have a spare.” She smiled comfortingly at the distraught box office girl, and looked up (up!) at Jamie. “That’s handy. Both Maria Grazia and Lorna cancelled on me tonight.”

“Lucky me.” Jamie’s eyes twinkled as he followed her into the auditorium.

She angled her head over in his direction. “Oh, I don’t know. I feel I should let you know that this whole thing is a conspiracy.”

“You mean like the thing with the kidneys and the tub full of ice?”

“No, that’s an urban myth,” Annabelle said. “Anyway, if I was in your position, I think I’d like to know what was what, and the what of this is that my friends are throwing me at you.” That ought to do it — she had yet to meet the male who didn’t run like the wind at the first whiff of romantic interference.

“Are you afraid I mightn’t catch you?” He gave into a lesser form of temptation and whispered in that tantalizing ear, inhaling a lemony-limey-womanly blend that went straight to his head.

“You’re assuming that I want to be caught.” Annabelle tried to edge away, but the aisle was impassable, and she was, for all intents and purposes, trapped.

“Typical male self-centered behavior. It’s terrible, I know.” He kept the tone light as he recognized the mutinous set to her jaw, the anxiety that underlay the brash tone — not for nothing did he have three older sisters, and Annabelle’s mood was reminding him of his second oldest sister, the sensitive one whose heart was all the more defended for being worn on her sleeve. He knew he’d have to go easy, or else he’d blow it. Why this had become so important, he’d wonder about later, but between the gorgeous scent and the vulnerable blue eyes, he was lost.

As masses of people pushed them first left, then right, Annabelle was turned completely around to face Jamie. He sounded flippant, but there was something going on his eyes, that even his usual layer of light amusement couldn’t cover. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it wasn’t self-centeredness at all. Someone shoved vigorously into his back, with a force that would have toppled them both had Jamie not quickly grabbed Annabelle’s shoulders, taking all the weight.

Nose to nose, eye to eye, the sound in the manically busy theater seemed to fade, and Annabelle thought, Why not kiss him right now? That’d definitely send him running for the door and put an end to all this machination and manipulation and, and, then I’ll know for sure whether or not he was any good at kissing and —

“Looks like I’m throwing myself at you as well,” he murmured, and Annabelle stared at him as he stared at her mouth. She took a deep breath and moved back a fraction. Holding up the tickets, she raised an eyebrow. “J7 or J9?”

“J9. ‘I’m feelin’ lucky.’”

“Pacino?” Annabelle wondered aloud. “Or Ned Flanders?”

“Missus, you’ve no thought to my ego at all.” Jamie plucked a ticket out of her hand without looking, grinning down at her, his gaze lingering on her mouth, and Annabelle — Annabelle swept by him into the row of seats with what she was sure was aplomb. I can handle this, she thought, and then almost tripped over her own feet when Jamie laid his hand on the small of her back.

• • •

‘Johan Und Johannes’, a deconstructionist mime/dance/musical that purported to dramatize the history of Gutenberg’s movable type with a nod to queer theory, was reaching its climax: as the two main actors sung their last exchange with one another, one symbolically in jail via marriage, and the other actually in jail for what had once been termed ‘gross indecencies’, twenty-six mimes, each representing an individual letter of the alphabet, threw themselves around the stage to compose some of the more provocative and significant words. That there was a deficiency of vowels didn’t seem to noticeably detract from the overall effect. Annabelle had hand to them, for despite the overall mimic element of ‘pretending to be in a box’, the music was quite beautiful, and the setting evocative and spare. It was sophisticated if a little self-conscious, and at seventy-five minutes straight through, vigorous yet thorough. Annabelle heaved a little sigh of relief. It made her job that much easier.

As she and Jamie reluctantly joined in the rapturous standing ovation, whatever irritation Annabelle felt with her friends passed. What was the point of staying mad? They meant well, and, as all her books told her, whether witchy, self-help-y, or otherwise, nobody could make her doing anything she didn’t want to do; nobody but her dear departed plant, the thought of whose passing making her sigh as the stage lights went to black, and the house lights rose.

“Sorry it’s over?” Jamie leaned over and shouted in her ear over the continuing applause.

“Huh? Oh, well, it wasn’t that bad, was it? Thank God. I really don’t like to write bad reviews. I mean, I write excellent reviews, but I don’t like to — you know what I mean.” Annabelle sighed. “No, I had a plant, and I think it died before I left the house.”

“Like, it just keeled straight over? Plants usually take their time about dying.”

Annabelle shook her head. “This wasn’t an ordinary plant.”

They filed out with the rest of the audience, the majority of whom were openly enthusing about the show.

“That really was kind of okay.”

Jamie nodded. “I don’t know why Kelli had me come to see the set, sure, there was none to speak of … ”

An awkward silence fell as the penny dropped, and Annabelle started folding and unfolding her program. Should they go for a quick drink? Would he ask for her number? Would she ask for his? What difference did it make — did it make a difference all of a sudden? Oh God — this wasn’t happening … was it?

“What?” she blinked and looked up at Jamie. Apparently, in the midst of asking herself questions, Jamie had posed one of his own.

“Are you off? Now?” He repeated.

“Um. I have to write this up, file it. I kind of need to do it right away, and I never go out after, people always want to talk about the show, which is natural, of course, but I can’t risk, you know, not having my own … thoughts.”

“Right. Okay, Well — nice seeing you, even it was under imposed circumstances.” He took a step back, stopped, stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Not so bad, really, after all,” Annabelle said “And not your fault, or anything.” Damn him with faint praise, why don’t you.

“Okay, so. Good luck with the review.” He took his hands out of his pockets. Put them back in. “Have a nice, uh, Saturday night.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Two matching, searching grins later, and Jamie was out the door, and Annabelle was feeling slightly forlorn. Damn it, she thought. What happened to all that righteous indignation? Where had all that high dudgeon gone? How had The Irish Guy gotten under her skin? What difference did it make? Why did she feel like she’d blown it?

Chapter Eighteen

At four A.M., after blindly stumbling to the bathroom, Annabelle stumbled out again, slightly less blindly, awake enough to take in the state of her practically dead hazelnut plant. Blinking rapidly, trying to focus, her head throbbing, she was shocked to see that the huge bloom was now one-tenth its original size, and that the stalk was so weak that it couldn’t even support the bloom’s diminished weight. The plant hung limply over the left side of the pot, like a rag doll.

The rush of regret that Annabelle experienced seemed excessive, given that all of her energy since encountering the nut had to do with getting rid of the damn thing. Was it too late for her to administer a blast of reiki? She placed her hands on either side of the pot, cupping it gently, but it was so frigidly cold that she pulled her hands away in surprise. Damn it, she thought. Freezing cold, cold as the grave? “Oh no. I’m not going to cry, am I, not over this?”

She reached out — then hesitated. In all this time, she’d only once touched the plant directly. “I wish there was something I could do for you.” She stroked the wilted stalk, and lightly touched a desiccated petal. “I wish I could help.”

Sadly, Annabelle shuffled back to her bedroom, and quietly shut the door.

At 4:07 A.M., the plant rose up one last time, and like a drowning man, slowly sunk beneath the surface of its soil.

At 4:08 A.M., the beautifully glazed and celtically decorated pot began to shake violently.

BANG!

At 4:08:01 A.M. on Sunday morning, Annabelle shot out of the bed she’d only fallen back into seconds before. Her heart racing, her mind choosing ‘gas explosion’ to explain the noise, she fell onto the floor. She crawled to the door, and edged it open, not at all sure what to expect, pretty sure she should put on some sweat pants, definitely sure that Nosy Ned would come knocking any second now.

Still on her hands and knees, she crept forward. Would the oven be in pieces? Was the window in the ‘dining room’ shattered? Was there danger of suffocation, or something? Should she just crawl out the front window and run for the cops? What if the —

“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Annabelle shot to her feet and surveyed a disaster that had nothing to do with a gas stove, and everything to do with that flippin’ plant! Dirt covered everything — everything! — table and chairs, couch, coffee table, the dishes in the drain, the dishes in the sink, her computer, her filing cabinet, the fridge, the stove, the bookshelves. Mounds of muck lay on the floor, and Annabelle realized that every single book, framed photo, knick-knack and tchochke she owned had flown off every shelf and surface, landed on the floor, and gotten covered in soil.

Shards of pottery were scattered throughout the place, and she leaned down to pick one up. The remnants of a beautifully hand-drawn spiral was etched into the small piece of broken clay.

Her heart was no longer racing with fear — it now pounded like a high school marching band of anger. She threw the piece of clay in the general direction of its original resting place on her altar — now covered with a pile of grime — and stood frozen in place, quivering with rage, chest heaving with every furious breath.

“And I felt sorry for you?!” Annabelle roared. “You pain in the ass, trouble-making, frickin’ … nut! You made this mess! You clean it up!”

• • •

Six thirty-five A.M. Damn it! It was Sunday morning, the crack of dawn, and Annabelle was wide awake. What a mess, she thought. What a literal mess. Curled up under the covers, she willed herself to go back to sleep, but how was that supposed to happen when every single nerve ending she possessed was vibrating with the kind of tornado of emotions that required a pharmacist’s cocktail to soothe?

She got out from under the covers and tip-toed over to the door. Pressing her ear against it, she listened for … what? The sounds of a mystical cleaning crew putting her apartment to rights? God damn it, so much for a trip to the Met this afternoon, although a springtime Sunday was probably the single worst day to go to the museum. Not that it would make mopping up that mess out there any less irritating or arduous … She yanked open the bedroom door —

The room was so spotless, it shone. Annabelle closed the door, banged her head against it just to make sure she was awake, and opened it again.

Still clean — probably cleaner than it had ever been since the building was erected. The hardwood floor gleamed as brightly as the mirror on the wall, and the sink had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. She could see herself in the oven door. Every key on her computer’s keyboard looked as though it had been spit-polished. Her altar, most importantly, seemed restored to its former state, and then some: it was spotless and gleaming in the dim light of the corner, and as Annabelle approached it, it appeared to be glowing with more than cleanliness.

Perched on the edge of the surface sat a small figure, seemingly composed of grey smoke and black shadows, wearing a long cloak. Its streaming locks waved as if stirred by a slight breeze and were emitting a glow, like the light of the full moon in winter. The only thing colorful about it were its piercing hazel eyes, eyes which crinkled at the corners with spiteful glee as Annabelle, shocked beyond belief, backed into the bathroom and shut the door.

“First things first,” Annabelle muttered aloud, and stuck her head under the faucet. The rush of freezing cold water did nothing to wipe out the image of that gnomish, spooky figure sitting in her front room. Repeated dunking in the ice-cold stream spewing into the sink did not wash away her panic.

Shaking the excess water out of her hair, she looked at herself in the mirror. Eyes wide with shock, the top of her head soaked with water, she poked her cheeks, her chin, her ears, to convince herself that she was actually awake. “Maybe I’m dreaming,” she whispered to her reflection. “Maybe this is just a dream.”

She rubbed her face and hair briskly with a hand towel and when she looked back up at the mirror, the reflection of a life-sized version of the figure from her altar appeared in the glass. “Oh, this isn’t a dream, chicken,” it said, its voice sounding like a combination of a whisper and an echo.

Annabelle ran out of the bathroom and back into the living room, and hid behind her little couch, leaning up against its back. She sat still and tried to take deep cleansing breaths, but her heart was pumping with such anxiety that she couldn’t seem to breathe deeper than her collarbones.

Okay. Okay. How to forestall an anxiety attack: ground yourself in your body. Annabelle made herself become aware of the coldness of the floor under her butt, of the scratchy fabric of the couch biting through her light T-shirt. Okay. Now name your surroundings. “My computer, my camera equipment, my bookshelves, my pictures, my books … ” Annabelle trailed off as she got a good look at her usually meticulously organized bookshelves. Not only were they completely out of alphabetical order, all the genres had been mixed up, and some of the books had been replaced upside down, or with the bindings facing in, toward the back … “I don’t believe this!” She leaped up and began to pull the volumes out by the armful.

“Yes, you do. Deep down, you believe this. Else I wouldn’t be here.”

Goosebumps erupted along Annabelle’s arms and legs. If this were a movie, the heroine would inevitably engage with the creature instead of doing the sensible thing, which would be to run out of the house. Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille, Annabelle thought giddily. Refusing to turn around, she strove for a light, conversational tone as she sorted her books into their proper order. “Maybe I do believe this. But did you have to make such a mess?”

The creature’s tone turned decidedly sulky. “I cleaned it up, didn’t I?”

“You made in the first place! So it doesn’t count!”

“You said that you wanted to help! Calling out to the Universe in all the four directions, help me, help me!” She whined, pathetically.

“What?” Oh, yeah. I did, didn’t I. “And this is the thanks I get?” Annabelle threw Jane Austen down on top of Virginia Woolf. “Do you have any idea how long sorting out my books is going to take?” Annabelle huffed an irritated sigh, and separated Joseph Campbell and Edith Wharton.

A low grumbling and a grudging mumble told Annabelle that she’d won a point. “Stand back!” the creature demanded. Annabelle turned and saw that she had now become a rather large swan, and that it was sitting on the ‘dining room’ table.

“Why?” Annabelle demanded, boldly, considering that since this thing seemed able to become anything it wanted, that it might not be very wise to spar with a supernatural entities with unlimited powers. “Why should I?” she demanded, recklessly.

One minute she was standing in front of her bookshelves, the next, in a blink of an eye, she was on the other side of her couch, and her books were flying around the room, swirling as if on the current of a hurricane, floating and flying about like a flock of birds. Spinning and spiraling in a crescendo of flapping pages and fluttering covers, they lightly set themselves back on their shelves, perfectly aligned, alphabetically according to genre, just the way Annabelle liked them. One dramatic beat later, her knick-knacks, photographs, and tchotchkes followed suit, arranged chronologically in a fashion that Annabelle had always thought about, but had never got around to doing.

“Satisfied?” it snarled, now an enormous black cat lounging on the arm of the couch. With a sound like the damp snuffing of a candle, only magnified, it disappeared.

Annabelle lowered herself onto one of her chairs. The silence was deafening, and she was exhausted. It was too early in the morning to be experiencing otherworldly phenomena, and now that the thing had shown itself, she didn’t know what to do. Maybe she should go stay with Maria Grazia for a few days, or even just go out now for a bit of breakfast and a reality check.

She went to throw some stuff in a bag, just in case, and dragged on a sweat suit. Grabbing up her coat, and checking for her keys, she went to unlock her front door — and found she couldn’t. The chain wouldn’t budge, nor any of the locks. She fruitlessly tugged at the doorknob, but it didn’t even move enough to make the least bit of noise. She was locked in her own apartment.

• • •

At eleven A.M., Annabelle’s stomach rumbled for the millionth time. She’d been hiding out in her bedroom for hours, and now she was starving. She’d kill someone — something, more like — for a cup of coffee, two chocolate croissants, some strawberries, and a big, fat cheese omelet. Her stomach rumbled louder at the thought. She knew she had nothing in the fridge, and that she hadn’t bought coffee in almost six months.

Annabelle tried to psyche herself up. “Come on! You are being a total wimp! This is your house! You let that plant push you around, and now you’re cowering in your bed just because some, some, some thing is shapeshifting all over the place?”

She remembered crazy Maeve and her prediction about the Pooka — was that what it was? She never did do that research, having gotten sidetracked by the flippin’ plant. Fine, then! Time to get to work on figuring this whole thing out, and time to eat something. She flung open the door once more.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the apartment, and a beautiful spread of chocolate croissants, strawberries and raspberries, in cream, and a steaming plate of the largest, fluffiest eggs Annabelle had ever seen, was laid out on her little table. Beautiful cutlery and crockery added to the overall impression of bounty, and she took a chair, poured herself a cup of the aromatic brew, took two big bites from a croissant, lapped up three heaping spoonfuls of the berries and cream, and felt like this was the best breakfast she’d ever had — until it occurred to her to question where the food had come from.

“Bleerrgh!” She spat out a berry and dropped the delicate china coffee cup, which didn’t break, but bounced and righted itself in its saucer. A robust yet echoing laugh filled the room, and Annabelle, mindful of the myth of Hades and Persephone, wondered if she was going to be making an unexpected holiday in Hell.

“Hell has nothing to do with it.” It was back, lounging on the couch in its original, vaguely female gnome shape. Its cloak and hair moved like the light of a candle on the wall, and the creature’s big greenish-hazel eyes fixed unwaveringly on Annabelle. “If you’d bothered to learn a bit about me, you’d know that.”

“Yeah, well, there don’t seem to be any websites about hazelnuts turning into plants turning into … you.” Annabelle looked longingly at the empty coffee cup, which filled itself a split second after her fleeting thought.

“Seems a shame to waste it … ” It purred, returning to the form of a black cat as it leaped lightly up onto the tabletop next to the coffee pot. “Go on, then. It’ll do you good. Go on.”

Annabelle got up and moved to the couch. “I won’t! Any fairy story or myth that features the eating of magical food always ends badly.”

“The bargain is struck, in any case.” The cat leaped down to sit on the chair. In mid-leap it transformed into a satyr, and crossed its furry, goat-like legs.

“Would you mind picking one thing and staying with it, please?” Annabelle moodily picked at the nub of the couch. She glared at the satyr. “It’s getting on my nerves. And what bargain? We don’t have any bargain.”

The satyr let out a gleeful laugh and clapped its hands. “Oh, indeed we have. You did, in fact, eat of the food I laid before you, and in doing so you have agreed to help me get back home. Hmmm, let’s see … ” As it rose, it changed shape again, this time into a large blue heron. Holding aloft one large wing, it counted out what Annabelle ate on several feathers. “One cup of coffee,” the bird clucked as it trained a beady eye on Annabelle. “Two bites of a chocolate croissant, and three spoonfuls of berries — “ Its voice rose to cut off Annabelle’s protest. “You’ll wish it was more, missus. So.” Flapping its great wings, the heron turned its other, equally beady eye in the direction of the couch. “You have exactly five weeks in which to return me to Ireland … or else.”

“What? I’m not going to Ireland! And this isn’t fair, at all. I didn’t know what was going on, I didn’t know the rules, so there’s no bargain! And why should I help anyone that, that, forces innocent people into taking unwanted trips!”

Back in its semi-human, cloaked guise, the creature tried for a conciliatory, wheedling tone. “But what about all I’ve done for you? Organizing your new career, getting some spirit back in that blood — not an easy feat when I was stuck, planted in that bloody wee pot! Helping you get over your little break-up with that tosser … isn’t that what you wanted? Wasn’t that what you asked for?”

“I never asked … ” Annabelle trailed off. Well. Okay, that’s what all the rituals had been about, and she was stunned to think that it had actually worked, and not at all surprised that it hadn’t gone the way she wanted.

“Ha!” It rose and began to pace back and forth in front of the couch. “‘Hadn’t gone the way you wanted’! You human! Never satisfied, never happy, always asking for more, more, more, while we work ourselves down to the bone, trying to take on board all your wishes and satisfy all your whims. Never a bit of thanks for our magic touch, the slightest show of appreciation, it never occurs to you that we have a better grasp of the consequences of your silly little dreams, while we — ”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Annabelle demanded, cutting off the creature’s tirade.

It stopped pacing and turned to face Annabelle fully; as it did so, it increased its size until it seemed to fill the whole room — its voice certainly did, resonating off the walls and ceiling. “I am a Pooka, neither male nor female, animal or mineral, flora nor fauna, but any of them at any time, on any whim. I am a mischief-maker, a shape-shifter, a trickster. I have the knowledge and the means to bestow upon you your heart’s desire — ” The Pooka shrunk down to half size. “If you have the brains to realize it yourself.”

It sighed. “Pookas are usually relegated to the realm of the poltergeist. People think we exist simply to make things go missing, to fiddle with electricity and wiring, to manifest ourselves in any number of small things that go wrong. Ha!” Her hair seemed to wave more exuberantly as she warmed to her rant. “Luckless Pookas are we who are attached to a family, time out of mind, for our responsibility is great, and even more thankless! We are ever at the beck and call of any member of a family to whom we have become attached — ”

“Oh!” Annabelle leaned forward, touched. “Are you attached to me? Oh, wow! And you’ve come all this way, to help me?”

The Pooka looked down its nose at Annabelle. “We only come when the humans for whom we are responsible are in danger of making a complete and total bollix of their lives.”

Annabelle leaped to her feet. “I was doing just fine, thank you very much! So what, I got dumped, I didn’t have a job, or any prospects, um … I was going to be fine! I was definitely going to get better, and, and, and … damn it!” She threw a throw pillow — as well suited for throwing as its name implied — at the Pooka. It stopped short of touching the creature, suspended itself in mid-air, and then floated to the floor like a feather. “I don’t need your help, I don’t want anything to do with you, and I sure as hell am not going to Ireland!” She fled for the apparent safety of the bedroom, leaving the grinning Pooka to groom its flowing locks as it faded from sight.

Chapter Nineteen

Six fifty-five P.M. In the hours since the debacle of the magical brunch, Annabelle had organized two and a half bags of clothes to donate to the Salvation Army; had purged her make-up collection of any and all lipsticks, eyeshadows, and eyeliners she’d had for more than a year; had arranged her underwear and sock drawers chromatically; had cleaned out the top shelf of her closet and decided, without too much guilt, too keep everything up there just as it was; and changed her sheets — twice. Occasionally, she stuck her head out the door, and even though the room was empty, she stayed inside where it was safe. Did she feel threatened? She sat down on her bed, and wrapped her arms around a couple of pillows. Not really. Just irritated, the kind of adolescent irritation that came from feeling like her life was being organized by forces beyond her control.

Annabelle sat up straight. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe these forces weren’t beyond her control. The thing … Pooka … said that it was there because it was attached to her. Maybe she herself had to take control of it. Maybe she herself had to grab the bull by the horns — uh oh, Annabelle thought. What if it actually turned into a bull? Maybe she needed to get a major grip, on herself.

Maybe she needed to get up out of bed and out of the bedroom. One step at a time, she thought. Time to take back the living room.

She scooped up the cast-off clothing and nonchalantly strolled over to her little couch, upon which she rested the bulging bags. She hummed to herself as she put on the kettle, relieved that the Pooka hadn’t decided to turn off her gas. The cupboards were, as she had suspected, bare; that’s what happened when she got busy. She wondered if the Chinese food guy would hand her some egg foo yung and fried rice through the window? No, there was enough leftover spaghetti and meat sauce to get her through the night. And as for tomorrow …

She had a gig tomorrow! She banged her fists on the countertop. She had research to do, CDs to listen to, batteries and micro cassette tape to buy. Time to multi-task: she tossed the pasta into a pot, added a bit of sauce and turned the gas on low. Pouring hot water into a mug of fennel tea, she booted up her computer to start surfing Dan Minnehan. As she waited for her Powerbook to get ready for business, she packed up her laptop bag, threw in a pad and paper, checked her cassette recorder, realized she had plenty of batteries …

Hey, she thought. For a minute there I forgot I was haunted.

In almost no time at all, thanks to her orderliness, she was as ready as she’d ever be for the music guy interview. She sat down on the couch, pushing the bags aside, and finished off the rest of her tea. The spaghetti was beginning to bubble on the stove top. The door, from where she was sitting, still looked locked. Sighing, she got up gamely to give it another go. Nope. She wasn’t going anywhere soon.

She and the Pooka needed to have a little talk. Annabelle cleared her throat, and, since she was pretty used to it already, began addressing the thin air.

“Excuse me! Hellloooooooo!” Annabelle rose and moved around the room, for lack of anything better to do than sit still and talk to herself. “I have a gig in the morning, if you don’t mind? A gig that you worked so hard to drum up for me, talentless, pathetic little me, incapable of managing my own life!” Probably not the best tack to take …

Okay. “Pooka? Pooka? Please unlock my door. Please let me out. You didn’t like being trapped in the pot, did you? How do you think I feel? Pooka?”

Nothing. Annabelle, out of the mood for food, moved the pasta off the burner and shut off the stove. She dug out a pile of her witchy books, and started thumbing through the indexes. The book about fairies was informative, but Annabelle didn’t think any of the extremely helpful hints applied in this case. The rituals in another volume were all designed to banish spirits, not call them forth. Poltergeists, phantoms, and apparitions of every stripe were covered in detail, but no one had a thing to say, good or ill, about Pookas. She slammed the last book shut; strike fifteen, she was out.

As always, she put everything back in its rightful place, and went around the room, lighting every candle she owned and lowering the light of her floor lamp. She’d gotten over her aversion to sage, and decided to fire up the fresh smudge stick she’d bought last week in Stick, Stone and Bone. It took some patience, as the tightly packed dried herb resisted easy lighting, but Annabelle persevered. As she inhaled the smoke and blew her breath on the struggling flame, she felt herself begin to calm down from the overly eventful day, and as the smoke began to fill the flat, Annabelle felt the first bit of peace she’d had in —

A sharp, echo-y shout filled the room and the Pooka dropped straight down from the ceiling and onto the floor at Annabelle’s feet. Its billowing hair seemed to snarl with annoyance, and Annabelle held the fully burning stick of sage in front of herself, like a vampire hunter flourishing a crucifix.

“Stop waving that bleedin’ thing about,” the Pooka groused, rubbing its bum and rising. “You summoned me properly, so put it out, why don’t you.”

Annabelle looked at the innocently smoking sage and shrugged. That’s something to put down in a book — maybe she’d be the one to write about Pookas for posterity, and close the Pooka information gap.

“Well?” The Pooka took on the shape of a centaur and perched its near-side hindquarters on the arm of the couch. Its eyes glittered brightly hazel, the only consistency between shiftings, and Annabelle made another ‘note to self’ as regarded the increasingly interesting idea of a little Pooka handbook or something —

“I haven’t got all night!” The Pooka’s bellow blew back Annabelle’s hair; she put down the sage, and sat down on a chair, facing the glaring half-man, half-horse.

“What else do you have to do? Who else are you torturing?” Annabelle grumbled, glaring back at the mythical beast.

“You certainly weren’t too keen on hearing me out earlier — ”

Annabelle cut across the whining tone. “Listen, we have to come to some sort of an agreement. I have a gig tomorrow, one that you forced me into taking, I might point out, and I am still locked in here!”

The Pooka had the good grace to look a bit guilty, and hunched its massive shoulders in contrition. “Oh, right. I forgot. Sorry.”

“Forgot! Sorry! What kind of all-powerful paranormal figure are you!” She would get a guardian spirit that was dotty and forgetful, wouldn’t she?

“I am not dotty!”

“Stop reading my mind!”

More glares all around, and Annabelle realized that she’d been shouting at the top of her lungs. Great; all she needed was an untimely visit from —

KnockknockKNOCKknock — KNOCK! Annabelle looked at the Pooka, and it turned into a little mouse. She gestured at it, and the mouse twitched its little nose in the direction of the door.

“This is all your fault!” Annabelle hissed, and the mouse ran down the couch, and jumped up into the sink. Annabelle undid the chain and locks, and shook a finger at the rodent. “You better help me!”

Annabelle opened the door, and surprise, surprise, there was Nosy Ned in all his fervent glory, his eyes practically rolled back in his head at the thought of a potential rescue.

“Hey, Ned,” said Annabelle, in what she hoped was a passionless, disinterested, not-needing-help-of-any-sort tone.

“I heard a scream!” He was virtually foaming at the mouth. “I figured you were in trouble!”

“No trouble,” Annabelle soothed. “It was the television.”

“You don’t have a television! Remember, when I asked you tape the Britney Spears concert for me, on HBO, you said you didn’t have a television! Remember? You said you couldn’t do it because you didn’t have a — ”

Unbelievable. “Ned, that was like, four years ago! Really, everything’s fine, thanks anyway, but — ”

She tried to shut the door, but Ned had slyly wedged his foot against the doorjamb, and he wasn’t budging. In fact, he was quite forcefully pushing back, his roly-poly frame masking a surprising strength. Annabelle tried to shove him out without appearing to shove him out. It soon became clear that she was fighting a losing battle, and as Ned’s avid little face lit up with imminent triumph, and as Annabelle was starting to see her life flash in front of her eyes, he suddenly went limp as a noodle and fell to the floor. Annabelle gasped, and made to lean down to help him, when just as suddenly he jerked to his feet. Head and hands flapping, he swung around and mounted the stairs, taking them two at a time, his feet barely touching the industrial strength carpet that covered the risers.

Annabelle shut her door, and turned to look at the Pooka, now having taken the shape of what she guessed was an Italian puppeteer. The Pooka laughed merrily, and wiggled its fingers as if manipulating a marionette. Annabelle shook her head and blew out a relieved breath. “Thanks,” she said, only a teensy bit grudgingly. “That was a close one. Hey!” Annabelle sat back down, and leaned forward eagerly. “If you can do that, do you think maybe you could — ”

She was cut off by an irate and sarcastic braying bark. The Pooka shifted its shape, flapping its flippers and throwing back its head to balance a striped rubber ball on its nose.

“Yeah, okay, got it.” Annabelle sat back. “So what’s the point of this relationship, then? You only help me when it suits your mysterious whims, and I have to take you back to Ireland.” She looked away, feeling a sadness that she thought she’d conquered days ago. “Wilson and I were supposed to go in June, and now I don’t want to go at all!” She turned back to glower at the Pooka. “What in the world could possibly be in this for me?”

“Well, let’s see … ” The Pooka shifted back to its elfin figure, and it tapped itself on its chin in thought. “You get your puir wee broken widdle heart fixed, you get to become a successful writer, and you get your husband. But sure, what’s that in the grand scheme of things?”

“Hu — Hu — Huh? Husband? What? Who?” Annabelle jumped up and, lacking the room to get up a good session of pacing, sat back down again, hard.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” The Pooka sat back and allowed a triumphant breeze to tease its cloak.

“What if I don’t want a husband!” Annabelle’s hands were knotted in her lap.

“What do ye take me for? Some feckin’ thicko?” The Pooka rose and came to stand over Annabelle, who refused to shrink back. “You will do as I say or there will be trouble, missy, let me tell you.”

Annabelle rose and brazened it out. “Oh yeah? Not if I figure out how to get rid of you first!”

The Pooka smiled, its hazel eyes alight with guile. “Sure, what’s an amended bargain between friends? Let’s see … ” It floated up to the ceiling and spread itself out like a fresco. Annabelle sat back down, and refused to inconvenience herself by craning her neck back to stare at it.

“If, in the course of the five weeks, you contrive to banish me, then you are freed from the obligation of transporting me back to Ireland — ” Annabelle opened her mouth to point out the creature’s apparent ease of movement, but was cut off. “Transatlantic travel, once I have begun my journey through form, is an impossibility on my own. I need your help.”

Annabelle wasn’t fooled by the plaintive look in the Pooka’s eye. “Right,” It said, and before Annabelle could agree, the Pooka continued, “However! If, before the five weeks are up, you contrive to kiss your future husband … well, then, dearie, all bets are off, you will have no choice whatever, and it’s off to Éire we go.”

“My husband!” Annabelle scoffed, but she couldn’t deny the fact that her whole body lightened at the thought. My husband? She scoffed again, “In a pig’s eye.”

A Pooka pig squatted on its haunches before her, and winked. Extending a hock, it smiled widely and said, “We’ll shake on it, so.”

Annabelle extended her hand, and when it made contact with the shadowy hoof, an electric tingle ran up her arm, the air pounded with sound of the ocean’s roar and the apartment filled with the scent of salt air. Her head began to spin, her sight became fuzzy around the edges, and her breathing came fast and short as the Pooka laughed and laughed and laughed …

And as soon as Annabelle let go, the sound died down, the scent dissipated, and the Pooka began to slowly float back up to the ceiling, a pig with lightly beating wings.

“Hey!” Annabelle had a thought. “If you won’t keep to one shape, will you at least tell me what to call you?”

The Pooka laughed as it faded from sight, its gaiety fading along with its form, and just before both voice and figure finally disappeared, Annabelle heard, as if whispered directly into her ear:

“Call me … Callie.”

Chapter Twenty

If there was anything that Annabelle hated more that disorganization, it was lateness, and she was running very, very late. Lack of a decent sleep Saturday night/Sunday morning hadn’t helped, nor had the fact the somehow, her alarm clock had failed to go off. Maybe the fact that it no longer told time, but ran LED stock quotes straight from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, had something to do with it.

Oddly enough, her usually reliable shower was sort of a problem as well: instead of the run-of-the-mill stream of water she had become used to, it alternatively spewed out shards of ice, darts of flame, and dishwashing soap.

Add to that the fact that her bags had been mysteriously unpacked sometime during the night. It had taken her ages to discover her laptop hidden in the oven, and all her unused tapes tucked inside her sugar bowl. She managed to dress herself without too much interference, but had a lengthy and almost fruitless battle trying to lock her door, as her key kept either turning to rubber so it wouldn’t go in the locks, or slipped and slid out of her grasp like a cheeky tadpole.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told Callie to stop reading my mind, thought Annabelle, as she finally descended the stairs to the subway. Hoping to avoid another crusade from Nosy Ned, Annabelle had refrained from swearing aloud during her morning trials — and she certainly didn’t have time to summon the Pooka with sage. She charged through the turnstile, not noticing that the automatic readout told her she had $600 worth of credit remaining on her MetroCard, and impatiently began pacing back and forth up and down the platform. She checked her watch, whose face was now a picture of Lindsay Lohan, sans hands and numbers. Half past a freckle, Annabelle thought ruefully, and spun around in the opposite direction. Being late was bad enough without knowing exactly how late she was. And the F train, not known for its punctuality, was sure to hold her up even further.

That damned Pooka! Why couldn’t she have inherited Bruno Ganz, from Wings of Desire, as a guardian angel? Or even, like, Glinda the Good Witch, for crying out loud. She would get the most spiteful, manipulative, scheming, mischievous entity going, wouldn’t she? “Would you do me a favor,” she muttered aloud, scattering a few nervous commuters, “And send along a freakin’ train, please?”

Whooosh. An F train swept to a stop at the platform, as if out of nowhere. The few straphangers who were paying attention looked slightly confused, and one or two flew off the train in a panic. Those that had been waiting were so delighted that their wait had been cut by at least twenty minutes that they rushed right on.

Annabelle hesitated, and despite the fact the conductor had closed every other door, the one she stood in front of remained open. She stepped on, the door closed with a bang, and the train shot out of the station. Slinging down her bag to rest between her feet, Annabelle leaned up against a pole and looked around a bit sheepishly. Luckily, she thought, no one suspects that it was because of me that the train made its unexpected and unusual appearance from out of —

Eyes darted around the car as someone’s cell phone started ringing. No one’s cell phone rang hundreds of feet below Brooklyn. Annabelle looked around as well, until more than one set of eyes settled on … her. Composing her face in blasé lines, she blithely flipped open its cover and calmly said, “Hello?”

“It never hurts to say please!” snapped Callie, who then hung up.

Annabelle shoved the phone in her pocket and avoided the curious stares of her fellow passengers. This, she thought darkly, is getting to be a real pain in the ass.

• • •

Cybill Franklin-Smith was a slightly frazzled but stylishly dressed African-American woman, and after about thirty seconds, Annabelle knew that she’d made the right decision in taking the job. In addition to the shockingly adequate fee that the woman was paying her, Cybill had good instincts, and was savvy enough to introduce herself and leave Annabelle to it.

“He’s in there,” Cybill said, pointing toward the hotel bar, as she shouldered her oversized, quilted bag. “He’s a bit … grumpy this morning.”

“Because he has a hangover, or because he doesn’t?” Annabelle quipped, and Cybill laughed.

“Exactly.” They both laughed again, and Annabelle realized that she might get to like this kind of gig — at least until she got her first historical novel published.

“Good luck,” Cybill called over her shoulder as she made for the door. If Annabelle didn’t know better, she’d have thought that the editor was running out of the line of fire …

Whatever. She wanted to get this over with, ASAP, and get back to ringing up some of those agents. There were, apparently, a whole slew of literary reps who specialized in her sort of thing, and this journalism stuff would at least get her name out there, and if she got back to tending her blog, she’d probably see some hits when the feature ran.

Annabelle’s entrance into the gloomy, heavily paneled bar provoked the house parrot, housed in an ornate Victorian cage, to burst into an aria of frenzied squawking. Squinting in the low light, Annabelle approached it, checking to see if its eyes that all-too familiar green, and her proximity sent the colorful bird into further hysterics.

“Jesus, would you ever get away from that bloody thing!” A guttural growl exploded from around the short end of the bar, and Annabelle looked over to see a small, crouched figure leaning with its head in its hands. A battered fedora hid the face from view, but the Irish accent gave away its wearer’s identity. “Feckin’ crack of dawn for feckin’ interviews and the feckin’ bird is feckin’ screaming down the house and destroying my feckin’ head!”

“Watch your language!” Annabelle retorted, deciding to fight fire with fire.

“Ah, Jesus, a girl reporter,” Minnehan moaned. “Last time they sent a girl, she had me talkin’ about me girlfriends, and me mammy — ”

“I said, watch it!” Annabelle heaved her bags onto the opposite end of the bar, and proceeded to ignore the irate mumbling coming from the shadows. Okay. There had been no reason to bring her laptop. Not that she often tapped away while talking to anybody, but you never knew: she’d once bonded with Perez Hilton over hardware.

Instead, she chose to wire herself for sound, swiftly slipping the hair-thin cable up her sleeve, and tucking her miniature cassette recorder into the breast pocket of her jeans jacket, and edged over to the slouching genius of an Irish guitarist and singer-songwriter.

She watched him check her out from half-mast eyelids, and, despite the smoking ban, he struck a wooden match and lit up a cigar. Annabelle hopped up onto a stool, and mimicked his posture, elbows on the softly gleaming bar.

“I’m Annabelle Walsh,” she said, casually angling her wrist toward him “And I’m a woman, not a girl.”

“Ah, Jesus, a feckin’ feminist! From feckin’ Kilkenny!” He bared his teeth at her.

“Yeah, my grandmother was from Inistioge.”

“And you realize you’re all but Welsh? Did you know that, did ya?” Minnehan took a drag on his cigar, and expelled the smoke downwards onto the bar.

“And you’d be from … Kerry?”

Minnehan roared. “No, I am feckin’ not! I’m a Dub, born and bred!”

As he leaned forward and got in her face, gesturing with the cigar, Annabelle snapped, “You’re from ‘feckin’’ Killiney, you posh bastard.” He froze in mid-lunge, his mouth hanging open in disbelief, his moldy old hat shoved to the back of his head to reveal a cowlick of … blond curls.

He leaned back, and turned almost fully away from her. “Watch your feckin’ language.”

Sulking, he took another deep drag from his cigar, and as reflected in yet another mirror, he looked like an injured, aging gnome. Silence, but for the ruffling feathers of the parrot.

Annabelle reached over to her bag and retrieved her pad and pen, deciding it would look rather odd if it didn’t look like she making some kind of chronicle of the event —

“No autographs!” Minnehan bellowed, and swatted at the pen.

“Don’t touch!” Annabelle scolded. “My dad gave me this. It’s a Mont Blanc. Graduation present.”

“Me Da give me this,” Minnehan reached up and handled his hat fondly. “And his father give it to him.”

Annabelle scratched a note without looking at the page. Minnehan stroked his tatty old fedora with unconditional love.

This was fun.

“It’s a shame that hats went out of fashion.” Annabelle considered the battered chapeau. “There’s nothing like those old Forties films, Jimmy Stewart in a pin-striped suit and dapper headgear.”

Minnehan nodded sagely. “Now, I would have had a wee cap growing up, and the father would have had this on his head every day of the week, not just on the Sunday. Character, it gave to a man. Dignity. Feckin’ shame, indeed.” He stared off into the middle distance, lost in thought, and Annabelle lightly scratched down another impression, an impression that encompassed atmosphere and personality and the present moment.

“That your role model then, you wagon? His Girl Friday, Rosalind Russell, girl reporter?” Minnehan squinted at Annabelle, and she realized that she passed whatever kind of test he’d set.

“Okay, so, what’s that mean? Everyone I met in Ireland called me a wagon within fifteen minutes.”

The venerated Irish rock n’ roll icon threw back his head and roared with laughter, his eyes tearing, his widely open mouth exposing his sadly inadequate orthodontia. He continued to howl, and Annabelle continued observe, and record, glad enough of the reaction even if she still didn’t know what ‘wagon’ meant. For she was sure that she now had her lead: a prose portrait of the world-renown, excessively touchy and famously curmudgeonly Daniel Minnehan wiping tears of mirth from his smiling eyes.

• • •

The simple proposal to go out for a walk turned into a mammoth undertaking: several bodyguards — or minders, as Dan called them — were required to tag along, and Minnehan’s curious but worse-for-the-beer band mates, all six of them, decided to come along for a laugh.

Not exactly designed to blend into the environment, Annabelle thought ruefully. And no way to make sure that I’m not taping traffic as opposed to chit chat. There had to be some way to make the best of this less-than ideal situation …

Dan paused just then, and cracking a conspiratorial smile, laid a hand on Annabelle’s arm to detain her. Lost in conversation, his handlers and pals kept on walking; so used to his taciturnity, they didn’t realize he had dropped away. Annabelle grinned back, and jerked her head to left, west down a Village side street toward the Hudson River. Dan took to his heels, and in seconds, the two of them were tearing down Bank Street, and away. Laughing like successfully truant children, they charged across Ninth Avenue and paused for breath, leaning against the stoop of one of the neighborhood’s ancient and rare clapboard houses. Annabelle, in between gasps for air, scribbled down more word-pictures of the hyperventilating guitarist: bent over double and wheezing; looking up from the bend to glare at her; flashing the two fingers sign at her and laughing.

“Want to go to the river?” Annabelle asked, as they fell into a more sedate step.

Minnehan had the grace to look a bit guilty. “Shouldn’t stray too far, they’ll go mental.” He paused to relight his cigar, and they took a turn uptown into the meat packing district. “I’d kill for a cuppa.”

They made their way to a cafe, and settled down at an outside table. Not quite the kind of promenade one would get on the streets of Paris, they watched the butcher’s trucks rumble past, skidding through puddles of liquid that didn’t bear too thorough an examination. Annabelle had to change the tape, and in turn revealed her hidden weapon, but oddly, Minnhan didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s a nice bit of gear.” Minnehan nodded at the recorder.

Annabelle grinned. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

Minnehan snickered. “Jesus, I’ll bet your man is kept hoppin’, day and night.”

A little stab of hurt shot through Annabelle’s heart that almost took her breath away. “Well, actually, he wasn’t much of a hopper. He and I. He. We. I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment.”

“Some eejit, then,” Minnehan declared, slightly abashed and mortified at the thought of potential tears. He looked at her worriedly out of the corner of his eye.

Annabelle laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to start crying.”

“Ah, well. Bigger and better things.” The tea arrived, and Minnehan rejected it, unhappy with the presentation. As he impatiently instructed the waiter as to the correct preparation of a pot of tea, Annabelle taped the entire proceedings, and second-guessed her lead.

“So you’ve been back to the ‘auld sod’ to check out yer ‘roots’?” Minnehan sneered.

“I did, you grouch, and my grandmother’s family home is now a car park.” Annabelle tilted the tape recorder toward him, and took up her pen again.

“Feck’s sake, like!” Minnehan exploded. “I wouldn’t know me own country if I didn’t feckin’ live there meself.”

“A lot of it wasn’t what I expected, and I hear it’s changed even more since my last trip.” Annabelle took up a cup of now-acceptable tea, after Dan had rather daintily poured it out.

“Well, you’d have to see it for yourself to believe it,” he muttered into his cup.

Annabelle grimaced. “I may not have a feckin’ choice.”

At Minnehan’s inquisitively arched brow, Annabelle took another sip of the tea. Oh, what the hell, she thought. Not like I’ll ever see this guy again.

“Do you know anything about Pookas?”

He sat back in his chair and took a meditative drag off his stogie. “What, like the annoying wee buggers that move yer gear so’s you can’t find it for a week?”

“Um, well, like the sort that follow you around and change shape and generally start trying to force you to do stuff like take them to Ireland.” Annabelle blurted this out in a rush.

Minnehan took another drag, and then a sip of tea. He crossed his legs, and leaned forward, his free hand stroking the brim of his hat.

“Oh. That sort.” Not even the slightest trace of mockery showed in the musician’s piercing black eyes. Annabelle leaned forward as well, even though she was the one who now felt extremely skeptical.

“Would you ever put that thing away!” Minnehan removed his hat, and Annabelle was treated to the sight of a monk-like tonsure of fading blond curls.

“Okay. Go on.” She laid the tape player — still running — on her lap, and leaned her elbows on the little table. Dan looked about furtively before he began.

“There’s a piseog — that’s Irish, for old wives tale — about a certain … strain of Pooka that’s been damned to follow the fortunes, or misfortunes, if you like, of the human race. Now, your common-or-garden variety of Pooka is a free spirit, a bit of scallywag that comes and goes as it pleases, messin’ about with people’s possessions, changing the signs on the roads so that travelers get lost in the back of beyond, and the like. They don’t haunt a place, they sweep in, create a bit of havoc, and then take off again.

“This other lot, now … ” Minnehan looked about a bit, and lowered his voice another shade. “The story goes that this rogue crowd of Pookas got into more than a spot of bother from feckin’ around with the Queen of the Ban Sí, and missus, that is not something that anybody wants to do, living, dead, undead … “ He trailed off again, and took a somewhat nervous sip of cooling tea. “Now. The Pookas had interfered, shall we say, with the fella the Queen had been courting, and banjaxed the whole romance, if you want to call it that. Infuriated, the Queen laid a geís — a curse — on the troublesome crew, that demanded they each go in service to a different family of the province. It’s not in the Pooka’s nature to do service, if you get my meaning, so the Queen added a bit about the Pookas having to … organize the future happiness of the human to whom they had been attached. Like, love-wise, in that regard, if you take my meaning. They had to make a match between one of their people, and one of her people, one of the families that counted on her, em, regard. Even if they managed to pull off their duty without feckin’ around too much, if they wandered too far from the land of their origin, they would have to be transported back or else … ”

“Or else what?” This, thought Annabelle, is really just my luck, isn’t it?

Minnehan coughed, nervous. “Or else they’re damned to limbo for all eternity. The thing is, if one of them had to go so far afield, it meant that they’d made a mess of things back in Ireland.”

Annabelle sat back. “Oh, man.”

Minnehan leaned back as well. “So? You’ve got yerself a Pooka, have ya?”

Annabelle told him everything that had happened since her meeting with Maeve and the advent of the hazelnut, up to and including the events of that morning. Minnehan shouted with laughter. “It’s not funny! And she — he — whatever — is threatening me with a husband that I don’t even want.”

“Is that so?” Minnehan mused. “Me own auntie had a spot of bother with one of that lot, went around talkin’ to herself and generally running wild, claimed she didn’t want the benefit of their expertise, shall we say, and sure didn’t she settle down by the end of that year into a fine aul’ marriage with the village smith.”

“Great.” Annabelle looked at her recorder and fiddled with the directional mic.

“Yer man might come back to ye, now,” Minnehan offered half-heartedly.

“I don’t want him back,” Annabelle said definitively.

“Got an iron in the fire?” Dan wondered.

“I haven’t!” Defensive, Annabelle started gathering up her gear.

“Ah, go on … ” Lighting his cigar for the hundredth time, Minnehan leaned forward keenly. “Nothing like a bit o’ gossip.”

“Just some guy. Some Irish guy.” Annabelle ignored Minnehan’s meaningful grunt. “My friends tried to throw me at him the other night, at the opening of this show, and it’s none of their business, you know? But then I kind of … well, it would have been nice if he asked for my number, maybe, or something.” She trailed off, sullen.

“What’s he called?”

“His last name is Flynn.”

Minnehan’s eyes lit up with puckish glee. His shout of laughter scared a flock of pigeons into flight, and chased a hard-working platoon of transvestite hookers further out toward the Westside Highway.

Annabelle waited for him to compose himself. She tapped her fingers impatiently on her teacup as he slowly calmed down.

“My nutter of an auntie, the one who married the smith, always told me that I’d see the truth of her, em, experience, one of these days, and so I have, and I’m off to light a candle to her blessed memory.” He ruined his pious statement with an utterly wicked giggle.

Annabelle rose with him, and knocked away his extended hand. “You want to tell me what is so feckin’ funny?”

“Language!” He tried for a conciliatory look, and took her hand. Wrapping both of his around hers, she could feel the calluses of a thousand gigs stroking her palm. “Let’s just say I’m not laughing at your troubles, and I comprehend your story with the whole of my heart. I am only amused as ever at the truth in aul piseogs and the real-life that always comes through in the fairy tale.” He patted her cheek, and tweaked her nose. “Now look me in the face and tell me you don’t fancy this Flynn character.”

Annabelle avoided his gaze, shrugged, and said, “Maybe I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. Maybe.”

Minnehan grinned and clapped his faithful fedora on his half-bald head. “You mightn’t be able to help it.”

Chapter Twenty-One

In the two weeks following the Minnehan experience, Annabelle’s freelance writing career took off like a rocket. One recommendation from Cybill Franklin-Smith, it seemed, was worth its weight in gold, and she found herself interviewing hordes of new people, interesting people, from all walks of life.

Taking the long way home to Carroll Gardens via Smith Street, after conducting yet another successful interview, this time with a Brooklyn-based personal-chef-to-the-stars, Annabelle allowed herself to fully feel the impact that her suddenly flourishing livelihood was having on her life. Basically? No complaints, really, except for the fact that she’d been practically bullied into the whole thing by a freakin’ supernatural life form. But then, she’d always been kind of stubborn. She guessed it would take an intervention from a Celtic mythological figure to get her off her butt.

No, she thought. It’s not that I’m lazy … “I just got sidetracked. Big time,” she muttered.

Jeez, she thought, shaking her head in disbelief. I had really let Wilson, er, influence my life, hadn’t I? The little teasing comments about journalistic hackery, so easily overlooked when they’d met in that gallery, erupted now and again, particularly when Annabelle had an assignment that interfered with weekends with Wilson’s colleagues, either in the Hamptons or Stowe, depending upon the season. It was easier to start taking smaller gigs, and anyway, he was paying for everything, so surely going along wasn’t a big hardship —

Annabelle stopped short — luckily, it turns out, as the parking lot she was passing was emptying out as the pre-rush rush hour started to kick in. Yes, Annabelle, that really did happen. That is how the madness, the chasing after agents and publishers and research, began. With distance, and a certain degree of asperity, she could see that Wilson had been edging her into a career that was more sensational and less embarrassing to explain to his friends. ‘My girlfriend the historical novelist, so trendy’ had that bit more cachet than had ‘my girlfriend the freelance journalist’. Had she — she had, she had let this one person, this one relationship, derail the entire course of her life. And as much as she’d love to dump the whole load of blame onto Wilson’s deceiving, stuck-up dark brown head … well, she did have to take responsibility herself.

She had gone down a path not of her own making. That’s why it wasn’t working out. It wasn’t hers.

Well, there’s that all figured out, she thought. I am not the kind of person who can succeed on someone else’s path. This was as good a time as any to do an exercise she’d read about in a holistic health book, and she proceeded to make a mental list of all the things she was and wasn’t.

I am organized.

I am punctual.

I keep my promises.

I am a writer! Of what I want to write! (Yay! She cheered herself on.)

I am … a witch?

Her phone, which she hadn’t bothered to turn back on after leaving the interview, vibrated in her pocket. Wonder who this could be.

“Hello, Callie.”

Genuine surprise. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Who else could call me when my phone is off?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that witch business if I was you. You’ve got acres to learn before you could call yourself that in any case.”

“Well, I must have some potential. I’m dealing with you, aren’t I?”

“Now as to that. Have ye booked yourself on a flight to — ”

Annabelle tried for a breezy, dismissive tone to change the subject. “How’ve you been, anyway? Oh, nice work on the inside of the fridge, although it seems a waste of such an elaborate mosaic reproduction of The Last Supper. But I do like all that silk and satin bedding you replaced my other stuff with. No complaints there.”

“That’s a first!” the Pooka shot back. “Dare I hope that you’ll have the same reaction when you realize who your husband is.”

“Bullshit!” Annabelle shouted rudely, getting a few dirty looks from the rest of the crowd waiting to cross the avenue. “Sorry, sorry — ”

“Thank you,” said Callie, rather primly.

“Not you!” Annabelle shouted again, and several people moved away down the curb. “Listen, no one’s going to force me into anything, not into a relationship, and especially not into a marriage! And besides, you don’t even know what my type is.”

Annabelle hung up and shoved her phone back into her pocket. As she strode south, she tried to get herself back into the beautiful spring day, surely the first absolutely perfect day of the year thus far; not a cloud troubled the achingly blue sky, and a light breeze wafted by, carrying the smell of earth and grass and flowers. The few trees that studded the pavement were well in leaf, and the birds were happily chirping away. In fact, they seemed to be making more noise than was usual, because Annabelle actually noticed their song above the traffic.

Actually, Annabelle noticed, the flock that was twittering away on Smith Street seemed a bit … disturbed: they were swarming in crazed loops from tree to tree, and they sounded alarmed. She paused and looked up and spotted the cause of their distress, an oversized crow with — wait for it — hazel eyes was chasing them all away.

“Stop it! You’re making everyone crazy now, even innocent bystanders!” Standing under a tree full of demented birds was probably a really bad idea, and Annabelle moved well away. “Leave them alone! Come on! Come on out of there!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Annabelle saw a little boy drop his scooter and go running toward a nearby brownstone. All she needed was an oversensitive Cobble Hill mother calling the cops, and she hurried off down Smith. For safety’s sake, she pulled out her phone and pretended to talk into it, as the bird followed in her wake, hopping from mailboxes to parking meters to the roofs of cars.

“You’re looking rather … solid,” Annabelle noted, as the Pooka’s smoky, shadowy textures seemed to have coalesced into a more conventional appearance.

The crow paused on a pyramid of oranges piled up in front of a Korean deli. It seemed to droop as its voice came across through Annabelle’s phone. “It’s a terrible thing, missus, a terrible thing. The more firmly I take to form, the more likely it is that I am failing in my task. And the punishment … the punishment is great and severe.”

The bird took to the air, and Annabelle watched it circle above and away. “Wait! Listen, I met that Irish musician guy, and we got to talking, and he told me this legend or something? About the Queen of the Ban — ”

An ear-splitting cawing came through the phone as well as filling the air, so much so that one or two passersby looked about for the cause. Annabelle watched Callie the Crow flail about a bit against an invisibly high wind, and as the bird battled an element only it could see, Annabelle felt her first feeling of genuine fear and sadness for her Pooka. What was going to happen to it? Maybe it wasn’t such a tall tale after all —

“You’re a revelation, you are. Finally starting to sink in, hey?”

So much for that. “I am beginning to realize that I’ve spent the last three years and nine months of my life getting subtly pushed around by the guy that I thought — I hoped — I would have married. So I object to this less-than-subtle manipulation regarding my personal life, my professional life, my choice of vacations — ”

“Aren’t you sick o’ bangin’ on this way?” The bird landed on Annabelle’s shoulder, and hissed into her ear. “If you would have married that aul’ tosser, why not the next fella you meet? Why not … him?”

The waiter who had come out to place the sandwich board in front of Chez LuLu found himself spun around by the scruff of the neck and planted in Annabelle’s path. A flutter of a feather spun him around on his toes, and his eyes began to dart with increasing unrest as another light flick of a wing caused his mouth to drop open, giving Annabelle a good look at the state of his teeth.

“He’s got ’em all,” said Callie. “And all his hair.”

“Let him go!” Annabelle, appalled, giggled. “He’s a waiter in a place called Chez LuLu. As if he was straight.”

Dropped back down to terra firma, the waiter fussed with the board as if nothing had happened. Annabelle and the Pooka made their way across Bergen Street. Her conscience flaring up, Annabelle turned to check that the poor waiter was okay, and as she turned back, found herself face to face with a muscular male decked out in jogging gear. His slightly flushed face took on an alarming scarlet hue as Callie bounced him up and down in a parody of his former movement.

“No. Let him go.” Callie did, and the jogger broke into a flat-out run. “I wouldn’t guess he was playing on my side of the field, either. Are you a boy bird or a girl bird?”

A gauntlet of likely suspects were momentarily jerked out of their present moments and paraded before Annabelle’s discerning eye. It was actually a bit of a hoot, and despite the rumors and what everyone said, there really were plenty of men in New York City — except Callie seemed to be an equal opportunity Pooka, and wedding rings, sexual preference, and advanced age didn’t seem to be any part of the criteria. Annabelle spun around, her back to the action, and had to laugh. The crow settled to rest on the rear view mirror of a motorcycle.

“You’ve got no standards at all.”

The crow huffed. “Maybe you have too many!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Annabelle rolled her eyes. “You’re as bad as Lorna, fixing me up with anything with a penis. I don’t want a married, bisexual, ninety-year-old man! I want someone to like me because he likes me, not because you’ve, like, bewitched him or something. I don’t want you to make anybody like me!”

The big black bird ruffled its feathers and stretched out its wings. “It’s bloody useless exercise in any case. You know as well as I do that somebody already ‘likes’ ya, but you’re being dead thick and stubborn about it. ‘Like’! Ha!” The Pooka’s voice dripped with scorn, and it took to the air, flying low, beating its wings to stay level with Annabelle’s annoyed face. It flew at her, and forced her to step back and back and back. “Love! Lust! That’s what you should be aiming for, missus. ‘Liking!’ HA!”

With that, the bird lightly pecked Annabelle on the nose, making her jump back in surprise — and right into Jamie Flynn’s waiting — and curious — arms.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“I told you I’d catch you.”

Annabelle leaped away, and, as it became increasingly apparent that the earth at her feet wasn’t going to do her a favor and swallow her up, she made a bit of a show of straightening her hair, her denim jacket, her shoelaces … Unless I run away down the street with my head in my bag, she thought, I’m going to have to look up at him sometime.

“Hi.” Oh, very good, Annabelle. Pithy, yet appropriate. Succinct, yet suitable.

Jamie removed his Ray-Bans and scratched his nose with an earpiece. “Howaya. Working?” He gestured towards the smaller version of her monstrously organized bag dangling precariously off her shoulder.

“Interview with a celebrity personal chef. And you?”

“Delivered a hope chest to a client.”

Annabelle’s eyes lit up. “A hope chest? For a bride? Like they used to do in the Fifties?”

“She’s practically in her fifties,” said Jamie. “Fourth time around, and she’s running around town after linen and lingerie.”

“Four weddings. That’s something else.” Annabelle had cause to ponder the unfathomable deepness of her middle-class mindset. I am middle-class, she reluctantly added to her mental list of qualities, and sighed.

Jamie misinterpreted the sound. “You fancy four walks down the old aisle?”

“Oh, God, no!” Annabelle reddened again. “I was thinking that I’m old-fashioned and hopelessly middle-class since I’m shocked by the idea of three divorces. I guess that’s the issue, looking at it as four weddings as opposed to four marriages.”

She thought she heard the cackle of a crow blow by in the wind …

“So!” She carried on brightly, refusing to acknowledge either omens or portents. “So, how’d she like it?”

Jamie shrugged. “Ah, you know, she’s mad about everything at this stage. The ceremony’s tomorrow.”

Annabelle grimaced. “Cutting it a bit close, weren’t you?”

“Sure, it added to the drama.”

“You look a bit wiped out.” I am a clod, Annabelle thought. “I mean, like you’ve been working hard.”

“Ah, sure,” Jamie said, wryly. “I’ve got this deadline for a thingie, over in Ireland, a commission kind of thing, and I’ve been working flat out.” He held up a phone card, still wrapped in its cellophane. “I stopped in here to buy this so I can call the Council while I’m out, let them know I’ll be a bit late with it.”

His complete lack of concern with lateness threatened to send Annabelle into a tizzy, but hey — not her business. But — “So … an extension. You’ll get an extension.”

“Things are much looser over there than here.” Jamie grinned into her dilating pupils and shook his head. “It makes things over here hard to get used to.”

“Even after almost seven years?”

“You remembered.” His smile widened. “It’s almost worse, in a weird, inverse related way.”

Annabelle tried not to stare too hard at the thrilling stubble on his chin, at the even messier-than-usual head full of curls, at the smiling green eyes. Staring in general was not only rude but also kind of disturbing to her as well. The more she looked at him, the more used to it she got, and she felt extremely wary of getting used to Jamie Flynn, not the least of which was the fact of that bloody Pooka’s threats re: husband-y things and, and, and the state of her heart in general —

“Huh?” There I go again, off on a tangent, she thought; Jamie had asked her something.

“Do you live around here?” He repeated himself patiently.

“Oh, uh huh. Carroll Gardens, between Court and Clinton. Do you know it? I’ve been at that place for four years, but I’ve been around the neighborhood since I graduated college. And this,” she gestured to Smith Street at large, trying to stop the babble. “It’s unbelievable, the way it’s changed.”

“I lived on Atlantic Avenue for a week — crashed with a cousin — and it was dire down here. Deadly. Literally.”

“And now look at it.” They scanned the upscale restaurants, and hip, jewel-box bars, cheek by jowl with a few stalwart laundromats and Spanish bodegas.

“It couldn’t know itself.”

Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “You still have your accent. That’s kind of unusual.”

He laid it on thick. “Ah, now, missus, and sure it’s only useful to have a bit o’ the auld accent going now.”

“Where did you go after Atlantic Ave? Woodside?”

“Jesus, no!” Jamie exclaimed. “No, I stayed away from the displaced Irish, and moved in with the displaced Poles. I’m in Greenpoint.”

“Oh, the hip new gallery scene. I read about in the New Yorker.”

“Most of it’s like, stolen clothes hung up on sheets of tornado fencing and spattered with red paint for blood, and shite like that.” Jamie’s lip curled with disdain.

“I’ve never made it over there, so I’ll take your word for it.” A torrent of schoolchildren, liberated at last, came pouring down the street toward them, and they had no choice but to fall into step to avoid the deluge.

Jamie scratched his head with his cell phone. “Why not come out and have a look. Greenpoint’s not at the other end of the earth.”

Uh oh. Annabelle kept in step, but her mind whirled off in a thousand directions. Was he — did he mean — what if — oh, for crying out loud. “I vaguely remember seeing it at the end of the L.” Non-committal, but not dismissive, she thought. Your move, Irish Guy.

Jamie forged on. “Ah, sure, some Saturday afternoon, I’ll show you around, take you to Jimmy Polgardi’s Polish Palace for a meal. No strings.” He grinned, beguilingly. “No pressure.”

“Huh.”

“Just friendly. Right?”

“Oh.”

They kept walking and now Annabelle was slightly insulted. Just friendly? Not exactly the anathemic ‘just friends’ but pretty darn close.

“You, know, I guess I am a self-centered male after all,” he said. She stopped dead, and he turned to grin down at her. “I’m assuming that you’d be interested in spending any time with me at all, however innocently. You weren’t too pleased with your friend’s little scheming the other night.”

“No, no, it’s not that! Not exactly. Well, kind of. I mean, I was pissed off at them — but — I’ve had a lot going on, I mean, well, I had this boyfriend and he … we broke up and I’ve been getting over that, and on top of it, Maria Grazia and Lorna and Kelli come up with their plot to get us together and that bugged me, and I’ve got this Pooka that’s been making a mess of everything — ”

Whoops.

Jamie cocked his head to one side. “A Pooka? You mean the Irish sort?”

Annabelle blushed, and imagined that her head would spontaneously ignite and burn to a cinder in under five seconds. “Um. Yeah.”

Jamie cocked his head to the other side. “Here? In Brooklyn?”

Annabelle wondered if throwing herself in front of a bus could possibly feel worse than terminal mortification. All she could manage was a nod of her head.

“Huh,” he said. “That’s weird.”

“It’s weird,” insisted Annabelle, “But I’m not making it up — ”

“Because my auntie always told me that they never left ‘the auld sod’. How did you get your hands on one?”

Annabelle stared at him. Was there something about Irish males that made them particularly open-minded? Or particularly screwy? No way was she going to tell him the whole story and risk scaring him off, even if she wasn’t interested in him romantically … or anything … at the moment. She expelled a slightly cowardly breath, and edited the experience.

“Uh, well, the whole thing was an accident, and it’s begun actively interfering in my, er, life. It’s kind of hard to explain. I have one, and I’m trying to get rid of it. Like roaches.”

“Hmmm.” Jamie seemed lost in thought, as if he was trying to see a way out of relieving her of her Pooka problem, and not planning a daring escape. They continued down Court Street, mulling things over as if they were trying to figure out a problem on their income tax returns, or how to stop the bathroom tap from leaking even though you’ve changed the washer ten times.

Like it was normal.

Jamie shook his head. “I’ve never heard of this before in my life.”

“I interviewed Dan Minnehan the other day — ”

“Dan Minnehan?” Jamie cut across in a strangled voice. “Dan Minnehan? The Dan Minnehan?”

Annabelle felt absurdly pleased and very, very cool. “Yeah, yeah, grumpy old Irish genius musician guy.”

Jamie dropped his head into his hands, and tugged at his rampant curls. “Dan Minnehan! I’d sell my own mother into white slavery in Constantinople just to — no, I wouldn’t even dare shake his hand … only to breathe the air of the same room as Dan Minnehan, I would sell my nieces and nephews as well.” He looked at her with an added layer of respect laid over top of the attraction.

Oh, my gosh, thought Annabelle. I know that look. He is, in fact, attracted to me.

“So he told me a piseog?” Jamie nodded, still looking dazed. “About how a bunch of Pookas messed with some Queen — “ More judicious editing, things were surely complicated enough with Pookas, much less throwing in Ban Sí, “And they got stuck helping generations of the same families of humans with their — ” Whoops. “Problems.”

Jamie looked thoughtful. “There’s that auntie I was talkin’ about. She’s mad. A total nutter. Has the sight, like, drives us all bonkers with visions and premonitions and tea leaves and shite. She used tell us a tale, mostly to frighten us to pieces, you understand … ” He trailed off, apparently lost in thought, and Annabelle got a nice, healthy look at his strong and manly profile, and she almost giggled at herself for the ‘manly’ part. He turned to her, and caught her staring.

“Go on,” she urged, blushing.

It could not be humanly possible to blush this much in under one hour.

“Right,” Jamie said. “I can’t really call it to mind, but I could ask her, if you like?”

Annabelle stopped. They’d almost gone past her building. That was fast, she thought, ruefully.

Rue? Uh oh.

“This is me.” She turned to look at him, as he cased the building, the location, the amount of traffic.

“Nice place, all right.” He shifted from one foot to the other like a teenager, and promptly put a stop to that. “So will I?”

“Your aunt. Yeah. Sure. If it’s not too nutty.”

“They’re pushy creatures, Pookas. Not as bad as roaches, but if you let one in, God only knows … ”

“Oh, no!”

Jamie tried to backtrack. “I’m only joking you. A cousin had one, and eventually it went away.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Em. So, well … I’ll ring you, I reckon, when I know anything, I mean, the aunt’s a bit hard to get hold of, she’s always off on her broomstick or whatever, em, so I could — Jesus, will you ever give me your phone number?”

Annabelle dug out one of her business cards. “It’s got all my numbers on it, and both emails, and my Twitter. So. Cool. Thanks. Great.”

Annabelle backed up the stairs as Jamie backed off toward Court Street. “Sound,” he said, as they slowly moved away from each other. “Sure, I’ll give you a bell. When I know.”

“Excellent.” Annabelle paused at the street door, and nodded and smiled and stalled. “Hey, thanks, you know? Everyone else thinks I’m crazy.”

“Ah, well,” Jamie grinned. “No imagination.”

“Well,” said Annabelle. “See ya.”

“Good luck,” said Jamie. “Mind yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

“Cheers, bye.”

Annabelle slipped into the vestibule and out of sight.

• • •

Jamie nodded — a good day’s work all in all. He slipped Annabelle’s card into the breast pocket of his leather jacket, and looked around.

He hadn’t a notion where he was.

Sure, he thought, there must be a subway around here somewhere …

Chapter Twenty-Three

Annabelle slid stealthily into her apartment, soundlessly shot the locks and drew the chain across. Hanging up her coat, she stepped out of her shoes and then, and only then, ‘arrived’ home — and noticed that Callie had once again made some adjustments.

Candles flickered on every possible surface, and a light and beautifully floral scent filled the flat. She saw a ring of incense cones burning on the floor around her altar, and a large chunk of pink rock sat on the top. The whole place felt … clean? Warm? Lovely. “Thanks,” smiled Annabelle.

“Took you long enough.” Callie floated down from the ceiling and dropped into the chair furthest from Annabelle’s sacred space. Of human size, and in the form of the cloaked figure, the Pooka leaned a weary elbow on the tabletop.

“Sorry.” Worried, Annabelle moved toward her. “You look rotten.”

“Your gentle concern is warmin’ me heart.” Callie waved her away. “I’m all right. Need a bit of a sit-down.” She clutched her cloak close to herself and sat back in the chair. “We’ve got some work to do this night.”

A chill ran down Annabelle’s arms. “Work? Like … magic?”

“Magic isn’t magic, missus, and the sooner you realize that, the better.” The Pooka shrunk down to about a foot in height, and repositioned herself on the edge of the table. “It’s time you let aul’ Wilson go.”

Annabelle plopped into the chair that Callie had vacated. “I’ve let him go! I don’t expect him to call any longer, I don’t look for him on the streets, I don’t go past our ex-favorite restaurants — ”

“Jesus, girl, are you as bad as that?”

“ — I haven’t googled him in, like, six days! I don’t fantasize about a reunion, or even one-night stand scenarios, I don’t remember what he smelled like, or what his hands felt like, or the way that he used to twirl a bit of my hair around his index finger when we used to read the Sunday Times in bed, or how he used to like it when I went suit-shopping with him, or the way he used to chop carrots, kind of diagonally, not in strips or even little circles … ” Annabelle winced. “Gotcha. What do I do?”

Callie smiled, the first genuine smile she’d produced in Annabelle’s presence — it warmed Annabelle’s heart, and made the Pooka look angelic, benign, and like a friend. Annabelle leaned forward and touched the edge of Callie’s cloak — it felt as cold as the pot did the day the hazelnut — or Callie-as-hazelnut — died. Oh no — was she —

“First things first.” Callie stemmed what was, she was sure, a load of frenzied queries. “I’ve set the warmth of fire about your working space, for protection and for illumination. The incense is jasmine for cleansing, and geranium for hope, and there’s a bit of rose quartz there for you to keep to remind you of how far you’ve come.

“Now. Gather up everything, every memento, every photo, every gift, large and small, anything that had to do with Himself, and bring it here.”

Annabelle rose, and started collecting the bits and pieces she had strewn about the apartment, things that she hadn’t even noticed were still around. The framed photos were obvious, but she could see, sticking out from underneath a wodge of papers pinned up on the bulletin board above her desk, a few casual snapshots from picnics, boating trips, and parties gone by. A trawl through her CD collection showed her that she had a pile of music that she’d bought because Wilson liked it — she decided to keep The Cribs and Eels, but added The Best of Robbie Williams, among others, to the outgoing pile.

As she moved through the remnants and reminders, she realized that she was easily able to decide what to keep, and what to get rid of. She didn’t feel the need to toss it all out the window, least of all the silver bangles he’d given her, which she liked very much — but why hang on to anything that didn’t really have a value, like a bunch of ticket stubs and love notes. ‘Love notes’ with inverted commas, more like, as Annabelle shook out her journal and let myriad scraps of paper float down onto her satin bedspread. ‘Terse messages offset by a few X’s and O’s’ seemed a more appropriate term, and Annabelle smiled at her own hopelessly romantic streak.

I am a hopeless romantic.

Wilson … was not.

Clutching a handful of Wilson’s handwriting, Annabelle paused in the door of her bedroom. Callie sat waiting, eyes closed, as still as a stone, and Annabelle tried to imagine what it would be like if the Pooka wasn’t around. The terrible regret came over her, and Annabelle took a deep breath to keep herself steady.

“No tears, now,” scolded Callie, as her eyes snapped open, and she shook out her cloak. “Let’s get down to business.”

“You know, maybe I should get rid of all of them.”

“All of what?” It wasn’t often that an omniscient, supernatural creature was nonplussed.

“All of who. All the Exes. Yeah! Okay, wait.” Annabelle ducked back into her bedroom, and Callie heard a closet door slide open; a scrabbling sound accompanied by muffled swearing went on for a few minutes, until Annabelle emerged, triumphant, carrying a decoupaged cardboard shoebox. Sitting down in front of her altar, Annabelle shoved all the Wilson stuff to the side, and opened the box.

“I did the collage myself, of course — it’s held up pretty well. I’ve had this since I was fourteen.” She grinned up at the Pooka, whose eyebrows had risen so high they’d disappeared under its hood. “Oh my God! Look!” Annabelle held up a packet of papers tied up with a faded pink ribbon. “These are all my clippings from the local paper, of this guy that I had a crush on in high school. He was on the football team, and he didn’t know I was alive.”

She laughed as she thumbed through the cuttings. Laying them aside, she brought out a handful of photos. “Ohhhhh, man, I forgot about these!” Annabelle held up several for Callie to have a look, and the Pooka, impatient, nodded briskly. “I went down the shore with my best friend Pauline Hegarty and we met these guys and hung out with them for three weeks. It was the summer before I went to college, and … ”

She trailed off, distracted by another memory that she’d kept in this box at the bottom of her closet. “These are some of the drink tickets that Mike Phillips and I stole from the student council office. He was the president and the biggest criminal going. He broke my heart.” And yet she smiled, the pain so far in the past that she couldn’t be hurt by it. “Oh my God! I don’t believe it, look!”

“C’mere, chicken, you needn’t dispose of anything you have a fondness for. And I — we haven’t time to purge every single man ye’ve ever met in yer entire life!”

“Okay, okay.” Annabelle reorganized the box and decided not to replace the lid. Putting the open box before her, she chose a few things from her outgoing-Wilson pile and put them aside. She crossed her legs, and in concert, both she and Callie began to breathe.

“I’m ready.”

The sound of bells, lightly ringing, began to follow Annabelle’s breathing, and as she struggled with her wandering mind — I’m out of milk, I need quarters for the laundry, I should post on my blog, I should post, I should post — the gentle sound of the ringing bells, that seemed to float on a wind that was flowing through the apartment, soon replaced all that hectic thinking and Annabelle became conscious only of her breath, of Callie’s breathing, and the soothing smell of the burning incense.

“This is only simple, chicken, and up to you.” Callie’s voice, usually exasperating and abrasive, was a tender whisper in her ear. “You are the owner of the memories that are arranged before you, and you are the only one that can choose to keep them or to let them go. You are the only one with the power to reduce them to ashes, and as ashes, let the winds of change spirit them away.”

In her mind, Annabelle saw herself raise up the reminders of her old life with Wilson, saw them lift up from her upturned palms, saw them burn as gently as the incense burned, saw the ashes of the memories swirl about her, multi-colored, on the light and gentle breeze that filled her apartment, and saw them disappear out of the room, out of the window, out of her life.

She became conscious, once again, of her breath, of Callie’s breathing, of the dying smell of the floral incense, and of the light of the candles playing against her lids. The tears running down her cheeks were silent and cleansing, and she added the keepsakes she’d set aside to the other, older, no longer volatile memories that she was fond of and wanted to hold onto. She replaced the lid, and running a hand over the top of the box, looked over at Callie.

“Thanks.” She smiled, and wiped away a lingering tear. “That was perfect. I really appreciate all your help.”

Pookas blush. Who knew? “Sure, a little appreciation goes a long way. You could do with having some manners put on ya.”

Annabelle noticed that the Pooka seemed unnaturally agitated. Was Callie actually wringing her hands? The brilliant hazel eyes were clouded with anxiety, and while the rest of her was still a shadowy gray color, she was looking even more dense than when in her earlier avian incarnation.

“Putting on weight?” Annabelle cracked. The alarm in Callie’s eye’s multiplied, and Annabelle rose to comfortingly put her hand on the Pooka’s little head. “Come on, Cal, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on — and we have to have a conversation about the Queen of the Ban — ”

“Sssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Callie hissed, as she flew up into the air and around the room, searching in corners, peeking around doors, peering out the window. Her whole body vibrated with nerves, and Annabelle was starting to feel a bit paranoid herself.

“I know we have a deal and everything, and I am still not interested in being forced to go on some wild Pooka chase to Ireland, but … what’s going on? You look kind of terrified, and I, well, I wouldn’t mind helping you as long as it doesn’t entail leaving the country.”

Callie hissed. “Ah sure, what could ever shift you from yer wee little flat and yer wee little articles and yer wee little friends and yer wee little — ”

That peace treaty hadn’t lasted. “I mean it, Callie. I’m tired of fighting with you. We’re getting nowhere. You’re in trouble, and I, by the way, am not a stick in the mud, or set in my ways!” Hmmm. She’d get back to that later. “Okay. So maybe I take you back to Ireland. Where in Ireland? How long do I have to stay? What exactly do I have to do?”

“Sure we’ll just, what do ye Yanks say, ‘play it by ear’?” Callie wheedled.

“No. Feckin’. Way.” Annabelle faced the Pooka, who was now practically hiding in the sink. “Minnehan told me about Her. Okay? So I know that you’re not out to get me or anything, that you’ve been forced into helping me, but hey, everything’s cool now, right? You got me all this work, I’ve been doing a lot of healing and thinking and stuff, I’m, um, meeting new people … “ She trailed off, avoiding Callie’s piercing gaze. “Can’t you just make contact, give the thumbs up, and … um.”

They looked at each other, and Callie was the first to look away. She was back to wringing her hands, and worrying a pendant that Annabelle hadn’t noticed before. It was made of stone, stone that looked as if it had been broken. The Pooka’s voice was a whisper as she lifted the necklace toward Annabelle.

“When we were punished by Herself, we were all given these — Ha! She only forced them about our necks. They are shards of the marriage stone, Her marriage stone, the one, through our harmless fooling about, em, we managed to blow to smithereens.” Callie shoved the pendant deep beneath her cloak. “The more time as goes by, the tighter the band around me neck. Only when every last scrap of stone is back in place will the geis be lifted and we’ll all be free.” Her head bowed, she mumbled. “It’s down to me.”

“What?” Annabelle cried, appalled. “What do you mean?”

Callie raised eyes gone dark green to bore into Annabelle’s. “It’s down to me. I’m the last one.”

Annabelle slapped her hands to her face and stood, frozen, in disbelief. “You’ve got to be frickin’ kidding me!” She scraped her fingers down her face and linked her fingers around the back of her neck. “Please tell me you’re joking. You’ve got to be joking! It can’t be all down to you! Why is this happening to me?

“All I wanted was to get over a relationship. That’s all! A few chants, and incantation or two. Some herbs, some candlelight! Incense! And what do I get? The world’s last remaining cursed Pooka on my conscience!”

Callie had expanded to fill the opposite end of the room, but Annabelle could see the strain in her face, the effort it was costing her to achieve intimidating proportions. Against her better judgment, Annabelle crossed over to Callie, and laid a hand on the Pooka’s arm. Looking into hazel eyes full of anger and fear, Annabelle tried to soothe. “Sorry. I’m kind of scared, okay? I don’t want you to be stuck in limbo for eternity, but I don’t want to head off into something that probably has consequences for me, and so far away from home.”

“Home.” Oh, shit, was Callie going to cry? “Home, for some, is a more fluid concept than for others.”

“And this whole husband thing.” Annabelle gulped. “So I lied, I do want to get married, but to have a marriage, not just a big party and a big dress, and not just to bail you out of a jam! I mean,” Annabelle hesitated, and took a chance. “Maybe I could have some kind of idea of, you know, who? Who it was? Maybe I’d be less nervous?” She trailed off. Callie had gotten her emotions under control and had shrunk back down to look Annabelle in the eye.

“I can’t say.”

“You could, but you won’t?”

“I can’t and I musn’t.”

“You might if you wanted?”

“I could if you … ”

“If I … ?”

“If you asked.”

“I did ask!”

“Specifically.”

Annabelle gulped. “Oh. So if I put a name to him, if I said, uh, ‘Is So-and-So my future, um, husband’, then you could say?”

“Yay or nay.”

In the thickening, fateful silence, Annabelle remembered being a little girl, tearing the petals off of poor innocent daises, playing with Ouija boards, begging to pull the wishbone … and as she got older, investing divinatory power into the quizzes in monthly issues of Cosmopolitan, always, always with a variation of the same question in mind: Will Joey be my boyfriend? Will Bobby ask me out? Will Wilson marry me? Everything else — college, writing, career, seemed to be within her grasp, within her power, but this, this world of her heart, had always seemed cloaked with mystery, shrouded with uncertainty, a source of bafflement and secrecy, and the only thing that she felt she didn’t have the notion of a clue about.

And now here she was, countless dead daisies later, standing in front of her very own Pooka, with an invitation to inquire, with a guarantee of an answer … and she was mute, she was stalling, she was exhilarated, she was frightened, it was too much, it wasn’t enough, the moment was now, the moment was upon her —

The moment had passed. An explosion of activity in the hallway, a noisy gang of girls giggling and shrieking as they charged down the staircase and rushed out of the building, into the open-ended possibilities of a Friday night on the town, caused Callie to snuff out like a candle, leaving Annabelle alone, with a seriously missed opportunity.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Have you spoken to her lately?” Lorna tightened her scarlet pashmina around her neck. It was yet another glorious day, but the springtime air still held a bit of winter’s chill.

Maria Grazia nibbled on the fruit and yogurt she’d ordered to tide herself over until the other two were ready to eat. “Only to tell her about this.”

“How did she sound?”

Maria Grazia sighed into her cup of cappuccino. “She sounded really well. Bright. Happy.”

Lorna’s brow creased. “Good. I mean, really. Maybe this magic plant thing has passed.”

“Well, I didn’t ask her. I’m still feeling guilty about that botched set-up thing.”

“Did she mention Da Vinci?” Lorna kept an eye on the passersby, should Annabelle materialize among them.

“No.”

“Oh.”

They sat back and watched the passing traffic. From their vantage point, early Sunday afternoon Chelsea was just beginning to pick up speed, as matching couples walked matching dogs up and down Eighth Avenue: the cutting edge, fashionable fellows marched by with tiny Jack Russell terriers on leather leads, the rough trade boys accompanied by pit bulls with red bandanas around their necks, just like their masters, and the random hetero family with a big shaggy mutt, all went about the business of either eating out and reading the Sunday papers, or fetching bags full of bagels and cream cheese to eat at home while they read the Sunday papers. Car traffic was at a minimum, and while an occasional bus rumbled up toward Penn Station, the terrace of the Rocking Horse Cafe was delightfully carbon monoxide-free.

“I do not want to do this.” Maria Grazia grumbled. “I do not want to get involved, I do not want to interfere, I do not want to referee. There’s a reason I keep out of this shit, I grew up with this shit, somebody not talking to everybody, it makes me frickin’ pazza, I did not want to get mixed up in that that misguided set-up thing and look where it got me! One of my best friends hating me.” She signaled the waiter for another serving of fruit.

Lorna ignored Maria Grazia’s rant, and snuck another drag. Even if it was a potentially lazy Sunday, she was still annoyed that Annabelle had yet to show. “She does not hate you. Why is she always late?”

“I am not always late.” Annabelle breezed up to them, arms full of irises and daffodils, a bright smile on her face. “I was, in fact, too early, so I went over to the flower market. Aren’t they beautiful?” She settled the bouquet into the seat next to her, and beamed at her friends.

Maria Grazia smiled weakly, and Lorna scowled.

“What’s your problem?” Annabelle asked casually, casting an eye over the menu. “Where’s our waiter? Have you ordered? Did you buy the paper? Aren’t I full of questions?” She laughed, and several heads turned at the unjaded sound. No one laughed disaffectedly in Chelsea.

Maria Grazia’s second appetizer arrived, and Annabelle ordered a bagel with lox and cream cheese, earning another deadly glare from Lorna, who asked for dry toast and another black coffee. The glower intensified after Annabelle and the waiter engaged in an exhaustive comparison of the various herbal teas the restaurant offered, and their strengths and weaknesses.

“Stop scowling, Lorna, you’ll ruin Maria Grazia’s digestion. Oops, forgot! Nothing ruins Maria Grazia’s digestion!” Annabelle fussed with her flowers. “I feel like I haven’t seen you both in ages. Not since before you both stood me up, anyway.”

A strange and complicated silence settled over the table. Annabelle ignored it and, humming to herself, watched the people go by, getting lost in the parade of personas and their pets. A breeze blew in off the Hudson, tinged with the tang of the sea, and she had a sudden vision of miles of high cliffs, and the ocean pounding at their feet, gulls swooping up above the grassy rim, and below near the rocks, as the hypnotic sound of the water crashing against the land lulled her into rest along with the warm, bright sunshine —

“Anna!”

Blinking a bit, Annabelle came back down to earth. “Hmmm?”

“I said, let’s just get this out of the way!” Lorna lit another smoke, and Maria Grazia studiously mixed and re-mixed her berries with the creamy vanilla yogurt.

“Get what out of the — ”

“The thing! The thing at the show, the set-up thing!”

Annabelle looked genuinely puzzled. “What about it? That was weeks ago.”

“So? So you haven’t been calling me or Maria Grazia, Maria Grazia has been so worried that you’re mad at us — ”

“I’m not mad, I’ve been busy,” Annabelle interjected. “I’ve been working, like, every day — ”

Lorna barreled on. “And I — well, I simply don’t have the patience for one of your snits.”

The waiter dropped down the beverages, and fled. Annabelle stirred her tea, and as she gazed into her cup, she imagined that the slowly swirling tea was picking up speed, spinning about faster and faster, taking on the force and power of a whirlwind gone out of control, and Annabelle realized that she was getting seriously pissed off.

“I am not in a snit.” Annabelle calmly sipped her tea, but felt a flow of anger slide down her throat into her belly. “Far from it, in fact. I am, in fact, in the best mood I’ve been in since Wilson dumped me. Remember? I got rather viciously dumped a bunch of weeks ago.”

“Six and a half. Six and a half weeks ago.” Maria Grazia mumbled into the dregs of her cappuccino, and grabbed a piece of Lorna’s toast.

“Almost two months? Really?” Annabelle shook her head. “I can’t decide whether it feels more like two days or two years.” She sat back, forgetting that she’d just been in the middle of a burgeoning tirade. Two months. That didn’t seem like a huge amount of time to get over something that had been a big part of her life for all those years, but time was relative, maybe the relationship actually didn’t merit much more grieving, but it did seem like she might like some closure —

“Anna!” Lorna waited impatiently as their server doled out their orders, including Maria Grazia’s three scrambled eggs with sausage and bacon, rye toast, and a side order of hash browns, which she reached for like a lifeline.

“Calm down, missus, and leave MG alone, you know she hates this kind of thing.” Annabelle serenely spread cream cheese on the lightly toasted sesame bagel. Arranging red onion and capers on the soft surface, she then layered the almost transparent strips of salmon over the top of the whole thing. So much neater this way, she thought as she admired her handiwork. No capers slipping and sliding all over the top of the lox, and the onion helped anchor them down —

Lorna’s fist slammed down on the tabletop. Annabelle took an enormous bite of her bagel, and suppressed the desire to grin at her agitated friend.

“Go on,” Annabelle urged, after a thorough chewing-and-swallowing. “Something seems to be on your mind.”

Lorna shoved away her portion of unbuttered toast, and signaled for more coffee. She composed herself by flattening her already orderly and shining mane, smoothing her hands over her cheeks, and rearranging her pashmina. “I’ll get to the point. We admit, we were in collusion with Kelli, attempting to orchestrate a successful meeting between you and Michaelangelo.”

Annabelle choked on her brunch. “Together? You got together? You met with Kelli, to push me at Jamie? Holy shite!” She leaned forward.

“Do you mind?” Lorna interrupted and Annabelle shook her head in disbelief. I, she thought, am really, really seriously getting steamed. “This was an unpleasant but necessary meeting that we entered into, despite our feelings about the other party involved, because we care about you, Anna, and we felt that no sacrifice was too great if meant that you were happy.”

“Lorna. Maria Grazia.” Deciding to keep her cool, Annabelle reached across the table and put one hand on Lorna’s rigid fists, and brought under control one of Maria Grazia’s madly forking-and-knifing hands. She looked at them both, warmly, and with a little regret. “Thanks. Really. I was a bit ticked off about the Jamie thing, but it really is up to me, isn’t it? Whether or not I hook up with this guy?” She let go, and sat back in her seat. “It sounds to me, Lorna, that you’re pissed off that it didn’t work out the way that you wanted it to.”

Shocked into silence, Lorna stared at Annabelle. Annabelle, in turn, stared back out at the crowd. A mighty stream of pedestrians were holding up the flow of traffic, and a bad-tempered bout of honking from a taxi caught in a crosswalk seemed to sound directly into Annabelle’s right ear drum. She turned to glare pointlessly in its direction, and noticed that the cab was level with their table. Atop its bright yellow roof was an ad for World Trax magazine, displaying the Dan Minnehan cover … featuring her name in the cover line!

“Look! Guys!” She pointed at the taxi. “My name! On the taxi!”

She stared after the cab until it was out of sight, and turned back to the table. Maria Grazia was grinning, full throttle, and several patrons of the terrace (and a few who had a view through the restaurant’s window) happily lost their trains of thought at the sight of The Smile. “Hey, honey,” she said affectionately, “I’m so proud of you. Really. What was he like?”

“His bark was worse than his bite.” Annabelle poured the last cup of tea out of the little pot. “We ran away from his handlers and we had tea in the meatpacking district. He was very helpful, actually, I told him about my Pooka, and he had some information that I needed to make a better connection with it. I’m trying to avoid having to bring it all the back to Ireland, but I’m worried, it’s ailing the same way it was when it was a hazelnut plant, and — ”

Lorna’s voice cut in like an ice pick. “What. Are. You. Talking about!” That she didn’t quite roar was a miracle.

Annabelle raked her fingers through her hair. “I know you guys are having a hard time with this, so I didn’t bother telling you that the plant turned into this thing called a Pooka, it’s kind of a supernatural creature that follows me around and creates havoc … um, never mind. It’s not fair to you,” she said reasonably, “And it irritates me that you don’t believe me, but, no, okay, I can understand it. It’s out of the ordinary, it’s a bit new-agey freaky-deaky, it’s not for everybody.” She shrugged, and grinned weakly. “It’s okay. Maybe I don’t need you to believe in this stuff anymore.”

Maria Grazia cleared her throat. “My nonna always said — ”

“I — I don’t want to know what your grandmother would say, Maria Grazia. I’m sorry.” Oh, boy, thought Annabelle, this is getting heavy.

“Anyway,” Annabelle chirped on. “Let’s change the subject. I ran into Jamie the other day, and he asked for my number because one of his aunts is a — “ Bad choice. “Well, he asked for my number, so there you go. Mission accomplished, no hard feelings, we’re all okay, okay?” Annabelle ended on a slightly anxious note, and thought that maybe a trip out of the country might not be such a bad idea after all.

“Show me.” Lorna sat forward now, avid.

“Show you … ?” Annabelle sat back, worried by the look in Lorna’s eye.

“This thing — what did you call it?”

“A Pooka.” Annabelle was feeling intimidated and she didn’t like it. Maria Grazia waved desperately for the waiter.

“Right. Fine. A Pooka. Show me.”

Maria Grazia reached for a non sequitur. “The pre-show cast bonding party for Kelli’s show is on Saturday night.”

“This thing is taking on epic proportions.” Annabelle laughed, trying to avoid Lorna’s basilisk stare.

“It’s in Greenpoint,” Maria Grazia continued, sounding a little breathless.

“How surprising.” Annabelle grumbled, forgetting her vow to keep her Pooka trouble to her herself. “This is all getting a bit too neat.”

“What is?” Lorna asked, conversationally. “Truly. Do tell.”

Fine, thought Annabelle. The gloves are off. “You really want to know? Let’s see. I become the unwilling but proud owner of a nut that turns into a plant that turns into a supernatural, celtic mythological being that can shapeshift — hence the hazelnut plant, you see. Now it’s left the world of flora and is strictly fauna — like birds, and bees, and such. Animals, mostly. Although it can ‘be’ human, too. Anyway, through its interference, I find myself on a path to gainful, steady employment, the premiere gig having been, as you know, the website for Kelli’s show … during which time I met The Irish Guy.”

Taking a sip of stone-cold tea for effect, Annabelle continued. “Suddenly, you and Maria Grazia join forces with a person with whom you, Lorna Bates, wouldn’t share the last lifeboat off the Titanic, in order to thrust me into the path of said Irishman. Now, handily enough, the pre-show cast bonding party from this inexplicably influential off-off-off-off Broadway show is in the very neighborhood in which the very Irishman lives.” Annabelle waited, and was greeted with a blank stare. “Hello! You think this is all a coincidence?!”

“Show me.” Lorna’s insistent voice was barely a whisper.

“It doesn’t work like that.” Annabelle scowled. “She’ll come if I light some sage. Got any on you? No? How surprising.” Annabelle looked around, feeling pressured and embarrassed and annoyed at being put on the spot. Lorna didn’t take her eyes off her. “She’s not a trained seal. I had all these ideas about things she could do to make my life easier and she won’t do anything she doesn’t want to do. I’m the one that has to do everything, including taking her back to Ireland, which, I mean, how am I supposed to afford that? It’s utterly pointless, by the way, to have a magical companion who expects something from you!” Annabelle had a little laugh, all by herself.

“Until you can show me, I will think you are crazy.” Lorna’s enunciation was sharp as a razor, and she lit up another cigarette.

“Why, in the world, do you think that I care about what you think about me!” Annabelle shot back, incoherently.

“Girls!” Maria Grazia begged. “This is getting out of control! I am afraid that all our years of friendship are about to go right down the frickin’ toilet! Annabelle, please!”

“This is not my fault!” Annabelle shot back. “I was minding my own business, picking myself up off the floor after my heart got shattered to pieces, and all of a sudden I’ve got Pooka trouble and my friends are turning on me!”

“Maybe this, um, creature, really does need your help, Belle. It certainly did its bit to help you out, maybe it couldn’t hurt, take a little trip — ”

Lorna cut in. “If this thing is for real, then I can’t imagine the consequences if you don’t give it a hand.” She took a deep drag. “And if she is throwing Matisse at you as well, hey, sounds like it’s got a lot in common with the humans who care about you — ”

Annabelle exploded. “This is not ‘care’! It’s complete and utter manipulation, on all your parts! Not one thing that any of you did was actually in my best interests! You were all serving some kind of agenda of your own!”

“Oh, please explain,” drawled Lorna, and Annabelle pinned her with a fierce look.

“I am sick and tired of you, both of you, living your romantic lives vicariously through me. Every single time I’ve had a crush, a flirt, a boyfriend, a one-nighter, a relationship, you name it, it’s like it was your business, like it was your crush, or flirt, or whatever! And on top of it all, nobody was ever good enough, or cute enough, or if you thought they were, then you shoved me at them like I was some freak who couldn’t handle her own affairs. Now, you’re trying to tell what to do about a magical creature that you didn’t even believe in five minutes ago!” Annabelle threw some money on the table, grabbed up her purse and flowers and rose to her feet.

Speechless, Lorna and Maria Grazia tilted their heads back to look up at her.

“I,” said Annabelle, pausing dramatically, “Have had it. Get lives!”

Lorna dropped the cigarette that had burned down to the filter and then burned her finger, and Maria Grazia ripped the heavy cloth napkin, that she had been twisting, in half.

The waiter dropped down Maria Grazia’s Belgian waffle and fled, recognizing the remains of a bad scene when he saw it, and went back to flirt with the sous chef.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Pick on her human, would they! She would have given that long-haired, frosty wagon a show that would have set her teeth on edge … if it had been allowed. The Pooka had reached, it seemed, the stage in which her contact with Annabelle was about to be severely curtailed.

Time was running out, and Callie wasn’t exactly positive that this was the way things were supposed to be going, and she had no way of communicating with the others who had gone before, and succeeded in their mission. She only knew that she was the last one, the very last, and that the simplest change of form in Annabelle’s presence was taking it out of her.

Stubborn bit of baggage, that Annabelle Walsh, Callie thought, not without a touch of pride. Wouldn’t push that one around any day of the week now, even with her soft wee heart. Past time that she gave those friends of hers what for, and got them on track to finding the loves of their lives …

As to that, she knew that something had to break, as regarded Annabelle, sooner or later. It was fate, after all, wasn’t it? There was, Goddess knew, a kiss in the shared future of Annabelle and Jamie, much less a bit of spooning and what have you. Did it have to take so bloody long? Were all humans this fussy and unwilling to receive celestial guidance?

If Annabelle only knew that all-powerful, all-knowing mysterious creatures were as powerless as any other soul when it came to themselves, she might have a bit of sympathy … Ah. The Pooka felt a surge of hope. Time to go straight for that sympathetic, soft heart. Annabelle had learned a harsh lesson about the nature of powerlessness — it was time to up the ante and get this business sorted once and for all.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Annabelle sat cross-legged on the floor of her front room. Spread out before her were piles of photocopies of her latest clippings, each with a personal letter of greeting, to a plethora of agents, editors, deputy editors, of every agency, newspaper, or magazine that she thought ought to be representing her or giving her work. She had sat down with her latest manuscript last night, and into the morning, and realized that it was absolutely not her thing.

But her voice was there. She started putting sheaves of paper into envelopes. My voice was there, Annabelle thought. Only it was saying the wrong things. Not that the work was completely useless: it showed her that she could take an idea forward, see it through, that her researching skills were nonpareil, and that she was, incontrovertibly, a writer. She’d also found the beginnings of what could turn into a short book, to do with an unknown Sixties Warhol hanger-on. Upon digging, Annabelle had found said hanger-on should most definitely be known. Maybe she’d pick that one up again, send out chapters to relevant glossies, maybe get her book deal that way.

Just because she didn’t have a gig that day didn’t mean she didn’t have work to do.

And keeping busy helped keep her mind off the fact that she’d had an enormous fight with her two best friends, and that her Pooka had gone missing.

Pushing an errant lock out of her eyes, Annabelle kept enveloping away, afraid that if she stopped, she’d grab the phone and start apologizing profusely, more out of fear than contrition. She wasn’t sorry — well, maybe she was sorry for yelling and being snotty, but she wasn’t sorry for expressing herself. It had been as much a surprise to her as to them, she realized. She hadn’t known that she thought that Lorna and Maria Grazia had been living through her relationships; now that she thought about it, the idea had a lot to support it.

Something weird had happened after graduation: neither Lorna nor Maria Grazia had ever been short of admirers, and both had taken full advantage of being away from home and being in their new lives. But even still … Annabelle shook her head. Even still, they had always had this weird fixation with her romantic business, maybe because she was less sure of herself than they were of themselves? Or because she went for ‘normal’ guys? It only got worse: once they got out into the real world, Lorna and Maria Grazia had just put their heads down and had gone about the business of making their marks on the world.

I, thought Annabelle, became their only source of relationship drama. Couldn’t they have gotten addicted to soap operas instead?

Gathering up her pile of mailers, she dumped them onto her desk, and dragged her little couch and coffee table back into place. Was there time to go to the post office? The longer those cards sat on her desk, the longer it would take for the phone to ring —

The phone rang.

Annabelle checked the caller ID. Number Unavailable. Oh, well. “Hello?”

“Annabelle. Howaya. It’s Jamie calling.”

Which reminded her that the third thing she was trying to forget about was the fact that he hadn’t called. Until now.

“Howaya, yourself.”

“Busy?”

“Nope, just finished packing up my latest cuttings. I’m counting on Dan Minnehan to get me a lot of work.”

“Jesus, I’d love to read that article.”

Annabelle laughed. “I understand that the issue will be out on the stands in two weeks.”

“Maybe we could work out some sort of arrangement, like a barter, maybe.” There was a provocative edge to his voice that Annabelle hoped had nothing to do with offering to put up some shelves.

“We might be able to arrange an arrangement.”

“I could see about getting rid of that Pooka for ya.”

Annabelle lay down on the couch, her head propped on one arm of the two-seater, her legs hanging over the opposite side, her bare toes in reach of the refrigerator, idly shifting magnets around. “Thanks, but I think she — it — may have gone off already.” She looked around, a bit sadly. “Nothing’s happened for days.”

“Maybe it got itself a one-way ticket back home.”

If he only knew. “I would have liked some warning, in any case. And it may … come back, or something.”

“C’mere, I’ve left some messages with that aunt of mine, and she’s fallen off the face of the earth. Off on some tree-hugging expedition, I suspect.”

Annabelle looked around her flat, at the crystals hanging in the window, at the flowers and candles, and lastly, at her altar and all her holistic, goddess-y bits and pieces. He’d think she was a total flake, wouldn’t he?

“You sound like you think she’s a total flake.”

Jamie sounded offended. “Not at all, she’s my favorite altogether. That’s just the kind of stuff she does with her time. She signed up, about twenty years ago, to fly to the moon as a civilian. She reckons her turn’ll come up in 2025.”

“I wanted to do that, but my mother wouldn’t let me.”

“Sure, it’s never too late.”

“I’ll check out NASA’s website, maybe book myself a round-trip ticket.”

They laughed and the slight pause was far less deafening than usual. Annabelle smiled at the ceiling, enjoying herself, wondering where all this was going, and hoping she could keep him on the phone without it seeming like she was keeping him on the phone.

“So, you in for the night?”

“Night?” Annabelle shot up off the couch and went to her bedroom window. “Already? I lost track of the time.” Chamomile tea would be nice right about now, and for dinner? Nothing. Damn it.

“Yeah, me too.” He now sounded distracted. “Nice neighborhood, Carroll Gardens. Loads of great Italian delis, homemade ravioli, fresh bread, gelato.”

“Oh, yeah? Huh.” Annabelle poured the hot water into the pot, and reached for a mug and honey. “They do great take-out things, like little trays of lasagna. I never bother with the raw materials.”

“Do you not know how to cook?”

“I know how to put something in an oven and not take it out until it’s done,” Annabelle said, sitting back down on the couch.

“So that would be a ‘no’.”

She laughed, only because she figured he thought that he was insulting her. “It’s not my thing. I like to eat,” she added helpfully.

“Well, I’ll have to make you a meal sometime.”

She sat up on the edge of the couch. She remembered this, the bob and weave of boy and girl and the making of plans.

“That could be arranged,” she said in voice she hoped was light enough to convey informality, yet sexy enough to suggest … something suggestive.

“Grand. Right. I may pop round the aunties’ this weekend, and you’re welcome to come along.”

Relatives before an actual date? No way. “We’ll see,” Annabelle said. “Let’s keep it loose.”

“Right. All right, so. Speak to you soon.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling. Bye!”

“Cheers, bye.”

Annabelle returned the handset to the cradle and paced around the room a bit. She knew the signs, she could tell that she was about to settle into a major dissection of the foregoing conversation, from the implications of choice phrases like “I’ll have to make you dinner sometime” up through to “Speak to you soon”, and as she began to build up a good restless pace, she stopped stock still.

Nope.

Don’t want to.

I, thought Annabelle, don’t want to be the kind of woman who does that sort of thing — not anymore.

Why not, she thought to herself, just let things happen as they’re meant to? “Why not,” she said to herself aloud, “keep it loose for yourself, Annabelle?”

The buzzer rang.

No one but Mormons rang Annabelle’s buzzer, and it seemed late in the day, even for them. Curious, but perturbed, brow furrowed, she considered answering the intercom in a Spanish accent, but instead — perhaps foolishly — chose to crack open the door and stick an eyeball out, since she could see the building’s front door from her front door.

It was Jamie, grinning at her eyeball, laden down with bulging shopping bags. “No time like the present!” His voice, muffled but cheery, came ringing down the hallway. She waved and stuck up one finger and said, cheerily, “Hang on a minute, okay?”

She slammed the door and flew into her bedroom. “HowcouldhejustSHOW upataperson’s HOUSE unexpectedlywithabunchoffoodandexpecto — damn it — I SMELL where’smylittlblacktanktop — Ihaven’tSHAVEDdammitdammitdammitdammit — ” and Annabelle shoved things under other things, pulled on some lycra capri pants, slipped her feet into her new slingback sandals, traded her holey T-shirt for a blue gingham cropped top, tried to tidy her mess of a hairdo, lashed on some mascara, skipped the lipstick, doused herself with some Jo Malone, and took a deep breath.

“If I wasn’t so organized this place would be a mess and then people who just turned up on my doorstep would be appalled by the state of my home — ” she muttered to herself as she yanked open her door and walked right into Jamie.

“Yer man let me in.” Jamie gestured over his shoulder at Nosy Ned, who was creeping up the stairs with almost no discernible movement. His beady little eyes were fixed violently on the innocent back of Jamie’s curly head, and Annabelle yanked him to safety, waved her thanks to Mister Meddlesome, and slammed the door.

“If this isn’t a good time, I can — I heard you kind of, em, grumbling a bit — ”

“Oh, no, not all, just a bit surprised. I kind of enjoy mumbling aloud to myself crankily,” Annabelle smiled, and with her left foot, nudged a pile of newspapers into the bathroom.

“You’re sure?” Jamie’s grip on the bags in his arms clutched, reflexively, and a pepper sprang out of one and hit the floor.

Oh, he looks all uncomfortable now. “Positive.” Annabelle picked up the pepper, and took one of the bags. “Will I show you where everything is?” She pointed to the kitchenette that ran along the wall. “It’s there.” They laughed, and Annabelle set her bag down on the table, and Jamie tried to balance his on the tiny strip of counter space that was between the stove and the sink.

“First of all,” said Jamie, pausing for effect. Annabelle had a horrified thought that he was going to start asking for Cuisinarts and copper-clad pans. “Corkscrew.”

“That I can do.” Annabelle heaved a sigh of relief. “I am assuming that you’re some kind of foodie, so I should warn you that there might be a severe lack of resources at your disposal, as it were.”

“All I need are a couple of knives, a pan or two, a glass of wine, and good company.” He smiled down at her as she started reaching around him, pulling out a small fry pan, a medium-sized saucepan, two small saucepans, a loaf tin, and a large crockpot. “Here’s the good knife,” she said, handing him a six-inch blade that hadn’t been sharpened since God knew when, and dusting off two odd wineglasses, went for the bottle.

“Does this have to breathe, or anything?” Annabelle asked as she uncorked the Chianti, and when she turned to look at Jamie, saw what was nothing less than a transformation.

“I thought I’d bring along a couple of things,” he said, slightly abashed. “Never go too far without any of my tools.” He had unwrapped what looked like a cloth belt that held a variety of cutting implements that Annabelle had only ever seen on cooking shows on television, and he was busily sharpening her good knife on a small block. He had also thought to bring a collapsible vegetable steamer and a whisk. Annabelle shook her head.

“I’ll remember this the next time you mock my organizational abilities.” She poured him a glass of wine and they toasted, smiling. “To … ” Annabelle trailed off.

Jamie smiled. “To good food, good wine, and the good knife.”

• • •

The apartment filled with the unfamiliar smell of homemade pasta sauce bubbling away on the stove. Annabelle had loaded up the CD player with a few choice albums, including Dan Minnehan’s latest. Jamie sang along, badly, with the title track, and Annabelle hid a smile as she tried to dice an eggplant according to his specific — but gently given — instructions. They’d made good headway on the first bottle of Chianti, and like the Wizard of Oz, Jamie’s little bag had come up with another.

Singing into his whisk, Jamie crescendoed along with Dan and sighed when the song was done. “Ah, well. I’ve always wanted to be a singer.”

“Hmmm,” murmured Annabelle noncommittally. Shame he’s tone deaf.

“Haven’t got a note in me head, I’m afraid.” He looked over at Annabelle, bent over the aubergine, struggling not to laugh. “None of us do.”

“How many of you are there?” Annabelle asked, as she surveyed her handiwork. Not bad. Let’s hope Gordon Ramsey thinks so, too.

“Well done,” he said as he scooped up the pieces of aubergine and threw them into a frying pan of lightly boiling oil. The ensuing sizzle, and the sudden burst of fresh pepper and garlic in the air had Annabelle’s stomach rumbling so loudly it almost drowned out Jamie’s reply.

“Two parents, three sisters, me, one younger brother. Dara, the oldest sister, married with kids, has the family home in the ’Batter. The folks have moved back out to Clare, into my mother’s family home. Second sister, Cathleen, is a wanderer, she’s in Bali at the minute, living on a boat with some aul’ geezer; the father won’t talk about it without his wee bald head turning scarlet. Third sister, Sharon, is also married with kids, and is a stand-up comedienne, the husband is her agent. Me: tall-dark-handsome-single-restorer-slash-painter, but you already know all that.”

“You’re not that tall,” Annabelle rose to light candles, and he jabbed at her playfully with a spatula.

“Youngest brother Sean, also married with kids, lives in the country near the mother. Ten grandchildren and the woman’s still not satisfied. Jesus,” he mused aloud, flipping aubergine in the pan, “It’s like some kind of sickness, some kind of lust for posterity, the woman’s unbelievable.”

“She putting you under pressure?”

“Ah, well, Cathleen gets the worst of it, really, since that fella she’s with is old enough to be her father. Living in sin.”

“Floating in sin.” Annabelle did the math. “That’s a lot of bodies at Christmas. Do you buy for all the nieces and nephews?”

Jamie shook his head, and turned down the heat under the pasta pot. “God, no. We’d be bankrupt. We pick names out of a hat, or Dara picks names by proxy. The kids all want Sharon, she gets them joke ice cubes with bugs in them, and fart cushions.” Jamie took a sip of wine and sat down at the table across from Annabelle. “How many of you are there?”

“A sister and a brother, both younger. Both still at home with the parents, in New Jersey.” Annabelle raised a hand. “No jokes, please.”

“I love Jersey. I did my J1 in Seaside Heights when I was twenty — it’s the reason I wanted to live here.”

“We went to Lavallette. I loved the shore. What’s a J1?”

As the gorgeous smell of tomato, eggplant/aubergine, garlic, basil, onions, and rosemary filled the apartment, the conversation flowed with the kind of ease that Annabelle had never experienced. Not that she was some kind of social moron, but she felt really comfortable — Well, I am in my own home, she thought, but still … this is just really nice and comfortable without being boring, and the cooking thing is very very sexy, I don’t think I’ve ever been with a man who actually hand-made me a meal before, in my whole life, and —

“Hmmm? What?” Annabelle blinked. Jamie was back at the stove, a patient look on his face.

He laughed. “One minute you’re in the room, and then it’s like you take a notion and off you go.”

“I know. I get caught up in my own tangents. Sorry.” Annabelle blushed and shrugged. “I’ve done it since I was a kid. Didn’t go down well in primary school. And Wil — ” Oh, yuck.

Jamie stirred the pot. “Your ex?”

“Wilson. Hated it. A banker-like tendency, I imagine, to dislike digressions. Especially silent ones. Can I chop something else?”

“All under control.” Jamie tossed the fresh pasta into the salted water. “I admit I am digging for information.”

“About Wilson? Really? Well, we went out for three years and nine months and, um, we travelled a lot. We had summer shares and lots of boat trips up the coast from Connecticut. It was very yuppie. I loved him. Things weren’t great toward the end, but I was in a fog or something. He came out here and dumped me, had an envelope full of papers and ‘receipts for tax purposes’. He hadn’t always been so stuffy … I think.” Annabelle rose, and started setting the table. “That’s enough of that, if you don’t mind.”

Jamie slid a loaf of garlic bread into the oven (which needed a good cleaning, possibly a sandblasting). “My ex didn’t even dump me in person. She sent me a text.”

“I don’t believe you!” Annabelle almost dropped the plates. “That’s impossible, nobody does that in real life, do they? I mean, nobody’s that much of a — whoops. You’re serious.”

“I am serious.” Jamie, lacking anything better to do, cleaned his knives. “She, Sherrie, had started up her own art gallery, which, as I’m sure you realize, requires whispered midnight phone calls and weekends away … ”

“Oh, no,” Annabelle commiserated, folding paper towels into interesting shapes to disguise the fact that they weren’t proper napkins.

“Oh, yeah. And she texted me from L.A., saying that it was over and that she hoped I’d get my things out of her place. She’d left a box with the doorman.”

“Oh, no!”

“And then she — ah, sure, feck it. Let’s not spoil our appetites.”

Annabelle took a deep sniff. “I bet all my neighbors think someone new has moved in. It smells great.”

Jamie drained the fresh linguine. “It’s not complicated, anybody could throw it together, it’s the ingredients that make the difference.”

Annabelle topped up his glass. “No, that’s not true, and don’t rationalize.”

“‘Yes, ma’am!’”

“Was that from that cartoon, I only saw it once, what, South Central — ”

“South Park, have you no appreciation for you own culture?”

“Only when it appreciates me.”

• • •

Two helpings of fettucine with tomato and eggplant sauce later, the second bottle of Chianti was on its way to a place in history. Annabelle thought about running out to the liquor store, but decided against it. Nature taking its course was one thing, but inebriated nature was another entirely, and Annabelle made a silent vow to never get drunk and bang some guy ever again.

“So what do you paint?” She got up and put the kettle on, and arranged a selection of teas on a plate.

“Landscapes, mostly. Ireland, primarily, oddly enough. I’m working on glass at the moment, I was walking by a building site, they were after tossing away sheets and sheets of it, twenty by forty feet, it was only going to waste. I used one for that application thing.”

“Wow.” Annabelle rinsed out a couple of mugs, and scraped what little was on left on their plates into the trash. As they waited for the kettle to boil, Jamie told Annabelle about Sinaan, leaving out the bit about the dream and the way it had ended up looking like her. As he described the government scheme, his work, and the benefits involved, Annabelle watched the visible wrestling match that this project had him in the grips of. He wants to go home, she thought, and he doesn’t know it. She smiled at him, fondly, and she had to fight a natural impulse to run a finger down and around the bicep nearest her as he lost himself in the tale.

“But sure you probably know that old yarn already.”

“No. Why would I?”

He gestured to her altar. “It looks like you have an interest in that sort of thing.”

The kettle whistled, and Annabelle got up to make the tea. “I do,” she said. “I don’t read auras or tea leaves, or anything.”

“One of my cousins does auras. She’s got a holistic center in the back arse of nowhere in Kerry. Also reflexology and animal communication. And Auntie Maeve, she does the tea leaves.”

“I’m not being defensive!” Annabelle said defensively, and they both laughed. She set the tea down with a few packets of purloined coffee shop sugar, ignoring Jamie’s raised eyebrow. “I just had a blow-out with my friends about this stuff. Maria Grazia and Lorna? The co-conspirators, of the set-up thing? They think I’m crazy. Which is their opinion, and perfectly fine, but I feel like they’ve been humoring me all these years, and it really bugs me.

“I mean, I’m not really Wiccan or anything, I’m just kind of an ‘over-the-counter’ practitioner, but my Pooka business kind of pushed their envelopes. They were okay with the tarot and stuff, but apparently their cut-off point has to do with interfering poltergeists from foreign countries.”

Jamie slapped his hand down in front of her mug of tea. “Go on, then,” he grinned. “Tell me my fortune.”

She reached over and bent his fingers over his palm. “I don’t do palms. I had a couple of experiences that got kind of … antagonistic. I prefer the cards — they provide a bit of distance between myself and the other person.” She reached toward her altar and stopped. “I don’t know — do you really? Want a reading?”

“Sure, why not?”

Annabelle’s face was clouded with emotion as she took her deck out of its wooden box. She looked up into Jamie’s questioning gaze. “I just realized that I never really offered this properly. I mean, I offered, but I kind of nagged about it, too. Lorna and Maria Grazia were unwilling guinea pigs as I practiced doing readings.” She scowled down at the cards in her hands. “That wasn’t very fair.”

“Friends fight all the time. You’ll make it up.”

“Maria Grazia has a pathological aversion to confrontation, and I’ve always been a bit afraid of yelling at Lorna, so these friends have never fought at all. So much to think about.” She smiled at Jamie, and held out the deck to him. “Shuffle them, and when you’re ready, cut the cards into three piles.”

Annabelle turned down the music, and shifted her chair over so that she was sitting closer to Jamie. “Don’t tell me the question, I don’t want to be influenced, because now that I know you better, I might want to finesse the outcome. Even so, the cards never lie.” They smiled into each other’s eyes. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Jamie closed his eyes and shuffled the cards, his strong fingers dexterous, the muscles in his forearms flexing with the movement. He smelled of clean laundry, and fresh food, and the spring night that was wafting over the windowsill. She watched him manipulate the cards — Lucky old things, thought Annabelle. Maybe I should have told I needed to be sitting on his lap in order to summon up the correct vibrations —

Jamie cut the cards into three piles and set them down. “Right. Go on, then.”

Annabelle turned over the top card on each stack.

The Three of Pentacles in the position of the present.

The Chariot in the position of the inherent challenge.

The World as the outcome.

“I can write these down for you if like, I never remember anybody’s readings. The pad there by the phone — thanks. This first card, the three of Pentacles, it’s all about success through effort. There’s so much going on right now, there’s an amazing amount of productivity, and the potential for even more work … ” She paused to choose her words carefully, and Jamie watched her eyes scan the cards, with the same utterly focused look that came over Maeve when she read the leaves.

“The Chariot, in the second position? It’s about journeying, not just physically of course, and in fact, it’s more often about spiritual movement, but I’m just getting the feeling that it’s about physical space as well. Because the last one, The World, is about wholeness, the journey into the completion of your being, your soul … hmmm. There’s plenty going on, and it’s all ‘right’, if you take my meaning, you’re not wasting your time or anything, it’s all about fulfillment of your personal truth as a person and as an artist.”

Annabelle shook her head. “That was a bit pompous sounding, maybe.” Suddenly nervous, she went to put on more hot water.

Jamie looked down at the spread, distracted by the fascinating imagery on the cards. “No, that’s exactly what I wanted to know.” He looked up at Annabelle, as she started doing the dishes, and reached out to grab her elbow. “Come on now, it’s grand. I’m impressed. It’s just another in the long line of interesting things about Annabelle.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder, and shut off the faucet. The dishes could wait. “Have you got any more questions?”

He shuffled the deck again, and closed his eyes. Opening them, he cut the cards in to three piles — hesitated, and then cut the deck twice more.

Annabelle arched her brows. “Okay, then.”

“It felt right,” Jamie grinned, and watched as Annabelle slid the top card off of each pile, and then turned them over one by one.

The King of Cups. The Queen of Cups. The Ace of Wands. The Ace of Cups. The Sun.

Now what? Annabelle thought, as she blushed furiously. She gathered up the cards. “Um, a positive outcome. A ‘yes’, for lack of a better word. Thumbs up, as it were.” She shuffled the deck a little madly, and stuffed it back into its box.

Jamie grabbed her arm again. “What? Was it bad?”

“No, I told you,” Annabelle blustered. “Full speed ahead.”

He smiled up at her, guilelessly. “I’m really interested to know what they meant.”

“Well, I put them away, I told you I forget as soon as I — ”

Jamie took up the pen and drew. “There was a king and queen. And then one that was a staff. The second was a cup, on its own? And the last one was easy, the Sun.” He showed her the paper. “So?”

Damn it. How was she going to explain the reading without explaining the reading? You’re assuming that he was asking about you, and himself, you and he together. Well, what else could it be? He came over here, made you dinner, told you straight out, basically, that he was single, and now he extracts the most sexual combination of cards you’ve ever seen in your life including your own court card —

“There I go again!” She forced a laugh.

“Away with the fairies,” Jamie said. He set down the pen and sat back, shrugged. “If you don’t know what they mean, it’s perfectly fine — ”

“I know what they mean! What, just because I don’t have all kinds of bells and whistles, tables spinning around and clouds of sage everywhere doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. Fine,” she huffed, “if you must know, the answer to your question is yes, the event that you’re hoping will come to pass, one that is of a romantic — ”

KnockknockKNOCKknock — KNOCK! Jamie and Annabelle swung around to the door.

Annabelle reached over and yanked it open. “Ned, what a surprise!”

“Would you mind turning down your music? I’m trying to watch American Idol!” Nosy Ned craned his head around Annabelle, and Jamie thought he’d do the bugger a favor by standing up so he could get a good look.

“Ned, my music isn’t that loud. You know what? I am sick and tired of your prying and nosiness. I am entertaining. Mind your own business!” She slammed the door in his face, and turned around, leaning against it.

“That was long overdue. He’s been torturing me for years, the nosy creep, and — ”

Jamie moved closer. “You were saying?”

“About?”

“The cards.”

“Oh. Um. Forgot. Sorry!”

“Something something, event I am hoping for will come to pass, ‘one that was of a romantic’, and then we got interrupted.” Jamie leaned a hand on the door next to Annabelle’s head, and shifted forward. Just a little, a little bit, but just enough.

“One that is of a … romantic nature. It will come to pass.” Annabelle glanced at Jamie’s mouth, which now seemed perfectly aligned with her own.

“And the cards never lie.”

“Nope.” She must stop staring at his mouth. “Never.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” he murmured as he felt an inexorable pull toward Annabelle’s somewhat parted lips.

“Oh, good. I hate it when people hate their readings,” Annabelle gasped, as he ran a finger down the side of her face, ending at the bottom of her chin, which he tipped up slightly.

“I am almost perfectly satisfied,” he whispered, as she gripped his wrist and then allowed her fingers to caress the back of his hand.

“Almost doesn’t count,” she practically moaned, as their eyes fluttered shut and she could smell the chamomile tea and honey on his breath as —

KnockknockKNOCKknock — KNOCK!!! The furious banging, landing, as it did, directly behind Annabelle’s head, inspired a great leap of fright out of her, with the consequence that she and Jamie painfully banged foreheads; she landed rather heavily on his foot, which knocked him off-balance and sent him crashing to the floor. Annabelle wrenched open the door once more, and glared down into the angrily trembling face of Nosy Ned.

“I’ve done a lot for you in the past, Annabelle, and I really resent the fact that you couldn’t be a bit more polite and hear me out when I made one simple request. And another thing. I don’t think that strangers should be wandering around in our vestibule!”

Jamie moved forward, swaggering, Annabelle thought, and as involuntarily thrilling as that was, it was up to her to put a stop to this. She looked up at Jamie, who was glaring down at fat little Nosy Ned, and laid a hand on his chest. “I’ll take care of it,” she said, and slipping out the door, forced Ned further into the hallway.

Annabelle opened her mouth to send him packing but before she could so much as inhale, a fierce and silent wind blew from behind her, plastering Ned up against the opposite wall. He fought mightily, as strenuously as one of ‘Johan und Johannes’ mimes, but to no avail; the mystery wind was too much for him, and tumbling like a leaf in a breeze, he was swept away on its current, around and around, up the stairs, into his flat, the dregs of the tempest slamming his door firmly behind him.

Annabelle leaned against her door, thankful that Jamie hadn’t witnessed that. As open-minded as he seemed to be, she didn’t think that he was ready to deal with this Pooka business.

“I wasn’t going to hit him,” Jamie grumbled as Annabelle shut the door behind her.

Men and their manly egos. Unbelievable. “I know. I’ve been avoiding confronting him forever. He’s been bugging me ever since I moved in here, so it was up to me to do it myself.” Sort of.

Jamie shoved his hands in pockets and glared at the floor. “Feckin’ little bugger ruined, you know, a moment.”

Annabelle began a straightening-up campaign, trying not to grin at his sulky tone. His hand on her lower back wiped the smile off her face as a little chill chased up her spine, and she started drying dishes a bit maniacally. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Sure, we might be able to find our way back, if we tried hard enough.”

Annabelle turned, clutching the teapot. “I have this thing — it’s sort of a reverse voyeuristic hang up? I hate thinking that anybody’s, you know, watching, and I mean, I know that Nosy Ned can’t see us, but I just know he’s got a glass to the floor, or something and I, I’d feel really anxious and nervy and wiggly and stuff.” She grimaced. “It’s dumb, I know, but if I’m not going to enjoy it — I mean, I know that I would, on some level, on a lot of levels!” She looked up at Jamie, beseechingly. “I mean — ”

He grinned. “Now I know what it sounds like when you talk to yourself in your head.” He tugged at a lock of her hair. “No worries, missus. Anticipation is half the fun, I always say.” He gathered up his knives and whisk and collapsible vegetable steamer, and Annabelle opened the door.

“That was really lovely. Except for the head-banging, falling over part.” Annabelle shrugged gamely.

“I’ll ring about an excursion to the auntie’s. Think about it.”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

“My pleasure. And the head-banging wasn’t so bad, but the falling over — fugeddabowdit.”

“Ah, Ben Stiller. Very good!” Laughing, Annabelle shut and locked her door, and held up a hand. “Callie — not in the mood, okay? There is no way you can be more pissed off than I am right now, so let’s just leave it.”

Turning off lights and blowing out candles, Annabelle headed off for bed, and didn’t hear the pounding that was coming from above, as Nosy Ned suddenly found himself the ball in an impromptu game of invisible soccer.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lugging her stuff out of 1175 Sixth Avenue, Annabelle sighed and slid her shades over her eyes. The midday sun shot off the glass and metal of midtown’s skyscrapers with a vengeance, and the buildings flashed and glittered as a cloud or two raced across the sun. It was the first truly warm day of the season, and the district’s canyon-like atmosphere served to trap the heat and intensify it. Add to that the manic hustle and bustle of office workers, couriers, deli delivery boys, and worst of all, tourists, and Annabelle felt almost unbearably oppressed by the environment. Give her the low-lying buildings of good ol’ Brooklyn any day.

And oh, God, the traffic. Every single taxi that went by was engaged, and she simply couldn’t face the subway, not at rush hour, not all the way back to Carroll Gardens from midtown. Hands on hips, she wondered yet again where her Pooka had gotten to, and why, when she could really use a supernatural helping hand, she was never around?

Callie would have also come in handy at the beginning of the interview: the subject, a middle-aged business man type she was meant to profile for BusinessWeek, had been so stiff and uncooperative that Annabelle had despaired of getting anything out of him at all. She had sent a thought out to her Pooka, asking her to shake the guy up a bit, but no mischief had been forthcoming.

That’s when Annabelle decided to think like a Pooka. While making a show of putting a new tape into her recorder, she noticed that Mr. Uptight Business Man was wearing a Jerry Garcia original tie.

“Mind putting on some music? I find it really inspiring,” Annabelle said. Even if it will make transcribing this tape a complete nightmare.

“Sure!” Business Man showed a spark of enthusiasm. ‘What do you like to listen to?”

“Well, I’d have to agree with Hunter Thompson — ‘Workingman’s Dead’ was one of the best records of the early seventies.”

After that, he was putty in her hands, and she was certain that her lead would have to be a description of his rousing session of air guitar while standing on his desk.

Well, she’d solved that problem. Now how about this one? She supposed she could go back inside, beg the security guy for the number of a car service … Don’t be ridiculous! A car service! Get on the F train, lazybones! She resolutely turned toward Sixth Avenue, when she saw Lorna and Maria Grazia walking toward her.

“Fancy meeting you here,” said Annabelle, trying for jolly and cheerful.

“Hey, honey,” said Maria Grazia.

“Hello,” said Lorna.

“Just passing through?” Annabelle looked expectantly at her friends.

Lorna looked confused, and Maria Grazia sounded it. “No,” she said, “We knew you’d be here, and we wanted to patch things up in person.”

It was Annabelle’s turn to be bewildered. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“You told us,” Lorna said impatiently.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did!” Lorna huffed. “On Sunday. You said you were doing an interview in midtown at end of business.”

“I did not. I didn’t even get this job until this morning.” Annabelle looked from one to the other. “It was a last minute thing, I got the call at 9:00 A.M. Which was ridiculous, but I couldn’t say no — ”

“You told us on Sunday!” Lorna was becoming increasingly shrill. “You must have told us, because how would we know otherwise! Maria Grazia, she told us on Sunday, didn’t she? Maria Grazia!”

Maria Grazia was shaking her head, thinking. “We knew this. Somehow we knew you’d be here. But how we knew it, I don’t know … ”

Annabelle arched a brow and leaned back down for her bag. “I’d love to make it up with you guys, but I have the feeling we’re going to descend into more argument if I broach a possible explanation for this unusual occurrence. Why not help me get a taxi, and we’ll meet Friday for dinner or something? I’d rather not hash it all out in the middle of the street anyway, and — ”

Lorna, who had been staring over Annabelle’s shoulder, suddenly reached out and grabbed her friend’s arm, a look of wary shock on her face. Maria Grazia, from her vantage point, could see what Lorna saw and braced herself for whatever was going to happen next.

Annabelle turned to look.

It was as if midtown Manhattan had gone into slow motion, sight and sound almost grinding to a halt. The light glared off the windshield of a nearby delivery van, temporarily blinding her, and through the flash of that bright white light, a couple appeared, arm in arm, walking toward her. Their shining hair glinted in the ferocious sunshine, and as they strolled toward Annabelle, she realized that it was Wilson. Wilson and that little redheaded bitch, Winifred. Wilson was monologuing, his voice drowned out by the bustling traffic, and Winifred smiled and nodded as he leaned over briefly and kissed the top of her head.

Out of the corner of her eye, Winifred saw Annabelle, and she raised her left hand to wave as regally as the Queen of England, to wave with her palm turned toward herself to ensure that Annabelle noticed the big, fat, shining, shimmering, sparkling diamond on her ring finger. She smiled and waved, waved and smiled, as the cold surge of utter disbelief threatened to knock Annabelle to her knees. She felt Maria Grazia’s hand on her back, bracing her, and she saw Lorna’s angry, disbelieving expression, and she quite simply froze and couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything.

The happy couple passed them by, close enough to touch, and Wilson, self-absorbed as usual, didn’t notice Annabelle or her friends. Still, as if in slow motion, Winifred continued to smile and wave — which is why she didn’t see the huge, wet dog come bounding across the street after having rolled around in the leavings of a carriage horse — didn’t see the big, wet, smelly dog making his way for her — didn’t see the dog leap over a parked car to jump right smack onto her chest, not only knocking her onto the pavement as he lashed his big smelly tongue all over her now grimacing, screaming face, but also knocking the big, fat emerald-cut diamond out of its platinum setting.

Wilson scrambled for the stone and it rolled out of his reach, rolled and rolled and rolled until it found, as if it had been looking for it, a subway grate that opened onto the deepest, darkest bowels of New York City. Gleefully, it skipped off a gray, dried mound of chewing gum, and, flashing its last, fell into what would surely be its final resting place.

Motion resumed its normal pace, as Lorna hustled to flag down a cab, Maria Grazia steered Annabelle into the backseat, and the cabbie miraculously accepted a Brooklyn destination with equanimity. Maria Grazia got in front and looked back at her friends. Lorna was uncharacteristically quiet, and was clutching Annabelle’s hand.

As the cabbie prepared to pull away from the curb, the dog leaped up at Lorna’s window and barked three times. Annabelle came out of her haze and looked the dog in its eyes — its piercing, hazel eyes. She began to laugh.

“She’s insane,” said Lorna.

“She’s shocked,” said Maria Grazia.

“She’s the dog!” said Annabelle, laughing her head off.

• • •

Lorna deferred to Maria Grazia, and waited for her cue. They had followed a now-silent Annabelle into her place, and both waited in the front room as their friend unloaded her gear. Maria Grazia had bustled around, lighting candles, digging out a box of tissues, and even though she didn’t approve, she had also found a pack of Marlboro Lights, and had helpfully extracted a few, laying them within easy reach. Lorna sat down on the couch, and Maria Grazia stood, wondering if there really was anything to be done to help.

Annabelle looked at her expectant friends. Maria Grazia had set the scene for a good smoke-and-cry, and Lorna, tense as she normally was in such circumstances, had been unflaggingly stalwart in the taxi, and now sat on the couch as if awaiting orders.

“I don’t want a difference of opinion regarding my sanity to come between us,” Annabelle said, as she sat down next to Lorna. “I know that you guys love me, and I love you, and that’s that. If my Pooka trouble bothers you that much, then I won’t speak about it ever again. It’s about to resolve itself anyway. I’ll be taking her back to the auld sod after all.” Annabelle laughed. “Husband or no husband, I owe her, big time, after that little episode.”

“So you think it was … ” Maria Grazia trailed off.

“Husband?” Lorna croaked.

“Callie,” Annabelle supplied, ignoring Lorna. “Yeah, the dog’s eyes were hazel, it’s the only consistency between the shapes that she takes on. The eyes are always the same color.”

“And you think that she, um, put it into our heads that you were going to be in Manhattan today … ” Maria Grazia trailed off in confusion.

“I guess,” Annabelle replied and looked at Lorna, who was scowling.

“I don’t like that bit,” she grumbled, “Running around, putting thoughts into people’s heads!”

“You should have seen my face when she stole my favorite toothbrush.”

“And what husband?” Lorna looked revolted.

“Can we talk about that some other time?” Annabelle closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the couch. A companionable silence fell. She wondered if she was going to cry, to burst into tears at any moment. She sat still, waiting for the deluge, and Maria Grazia eyed her sympathetically.

“So? How are you feeling?” MG asked.

Annabelle paused, gave it some thought. “I feel like shit, mostly. I feel like … ” she shook her head as she searched for the words. “I feel bad, but it’s a transitory kind of bad. I feel like an idiot — I don’t think Wilson is impulsive enough to get engaged to someone he’d only been with for two months.”

“Who was that bitch?” spat Lorna.

“An old childhood friend. So they had history, in any case.” Her voice wobbled, and a few tears gathered in her eyes. “Oh, that hurt. That hurt a lot. Did you see the size of that rock? Ow, ow, ow — “ Lorna reached over and clutched Annabelle’s hand. “It hurt because I had wanted it to be me, because I thought I wanted to marry him. And in the middle of me thinking all those things, he was already replacing me before he’d even unloaded me. Tea?” She jumped up from the couch and began grabbing mugs, heating water, and busying herself in general as the hurt she was feeling was rapidly turning into anger. She paused with her back to her friends.

“I stood there, where Maria Grazia is, I stood there and let him dump me, no explanations, no excuses, no illumination — I stood there and took it. I was so shocked, he got to walk out that door, mission accomplished, free and clear. I was so out of it, I was so stunned, that he didn’t have to explain himself in any way, and that is really pissing me off right now.”

The kettle whistled, and Annabelle sloshed hot water over the random tea bags she’d tossed into the mugs. She haphazardly handed them around, and almost tipped Lorna’s into her lap as she fell onto the couch once more.

“Any questions or comments at this juncture?” Annabelle looked at her unusually silent pals.

Maria Grazia and Lorna exchanged a look, and Maria Grazia cleared her throat. “So I was gonna apologize, before the Wilson sighting,” she said, “And I was gonna basically reiterate everything that you had pointed out to us, with our agreement that you are probably right, that Lorna and I have been slightly more focused on your love life than was entirely healthy. And that I should mind my own business, and I know better. I know! But I love you, and I couldn’t help it.” She sniffled.

“You’re a big girl now,” Lorna added. “And I apologize for interfering with you and Monet.”

Annabelle leaned over and air kissed Lorna’s nearest cheek, and got up to give an emotional Maria Grazia a big hug. “Thanks, guys. I apologize for making you let me read your cards, and your palms, and anything else I haven’t remembered that I tried to make you do.”

“There was that spate of reiki you were giving out,” offered Maria Grazia.

“And the time you tried to secretly feng shui my apartment,” added Lorna. “And remember that time you shoved all those herbs into my pocketbook before I went on my interview with Matrix?”

“And that whole color therapy thing with the little bottles of oils that you gave us for Christmas?” chirped Maria Grazia.

“Okay, okay!” Annabelle laughed. “No more alternative therapies unless I’m asked.”

“Are you really okay?” Maria Grazia sat down on a chair, finally relaxing.

“I guess. I’d already let him go,” Annabelle said, “And although I can’t deny that the sight of him happy infuriates me, much less the sight of him with his fiancée, I’m much better than I was than the last time you all were here. I’m better than I have been in years.”

“That is frickin’ fantastic, Belle,” said Maria Grazia, welling up a bit. “We need to frickin’ celebrate!”

“It would be nice to toast this with some truly superior champagne,” Lorna agreed.

Annabelle laughed, and on instinct, said, “Check the fridge. You never know.”

Lorna got up and tugged open the door. “Well, well, well.” She withdrew a magnum of Dom Perignon. “Too bad about that smell of fish. And what’s this?” She took out a striped ball and tossed it to Annabelle, who caught it and laughed.

“It’s a gentle reminder.”

Maria Grazia popped the cork, and Annabelle dug out a few glasses. They stood, and raised their glasses, and simultaneously toasted, “To us!” As they took their first sips, a deluge of metallic confetti, silver and gold, fluttered down from the ceiling, exuding their own light and flashing as they floated around the room. Annabelle merely smiled as Maria Grazia shouted inarticulately with joy, and both of them gaped in surprise as Lorna sat down hard on the sofa and burst into tears.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Keeping it loose was one thing, but ringing Annabelle about coming to meet his aunt when he was just about to meet her was another. He didn’t know why he had left it so late, except he had been getting nervous about hearing from Ireland about the commission, and he had really got stuck into his paintings, and he had to help install Kelli’s feckin’s panels … I’m not making excuses, he told himself indignantly. It’s just the way things worked out.

He eyed the disused storefront as he waited for Annabelle to pick up. Sure, she was a busy woman herself, she might not even be around, and he hoped that feckin’ Maeve wasn’t going to stand him up this time. She might really be out somewhere hugging trees, or liberating dolphins, or dancing down the moon —

“Hello? Hello!” Annabelle’s voice went from inquiring to indignant.

“Howaya, it’s Jamie. I was taking a page from your book, off on some mental side trip.”

“And you didn’t even think to send a postcard.”

“You sound like the aunt, who, oddly enough, I am just waiting to meet right now. Did you want to come meet her, or … ” he trailed off lamely. Right, he thought. This is the last person in the world to ring about something last minute.

“I can’t.” Well, at least she sounded chagrined. “I have to go interview Damien Hirst.”

“Oh. Wow. Too bad. I mean, that’s cool … ”

“Left it a bit late, didn’t you?” Annabelle asked, and Jamie winced. “Listen, I was a kind of wary of meeting a relative at this point, anyway,” she went on. “Regardless of the fact that it was more like a business discussion.”

“Fair enough, fair enough,” Jamie agreed. “Sorry.”

“No sweat.” There was a burst of siren-blare, and then she was back. “So. Are you on for the big pre-show cast bonding party?”

“Yeah, deffo. Em. So. Will I meet you there, or come collect you, or what?”

“How about ‘or what’?” Annabelle laughed. “I intend to make an entrance. Try to be on time.” She hung up, and Jamie put his phone in his pocket.

How’d she known that he was punctually challenged? And wasn’t he already half an hour late for Maeve?

Who really should be able to predict such behavior, in fairness.

He loped up Thirtieth Street, again — and again, not sure what he was doing there. Didn’t Maeve still have the flat — apartment — in Morningside Heights? Ah, sure, no matter: he was happy enough to be out and about in the fresh air, several big refinishing and retouching jobs sorted, and … and. And! And a gorgeous girl roaming about the edges of his mind, skipping in and out of his thoughts, moving in closer and closer, and hopefully, by Saturday night, moving in for the —

“You’re hopeless! Hopeless!” Maeve seemed to appear out of thin air to shriek up at Jamie, who, in normal circumstances, would have defended himself strenuously, if dishonestly, but the sight of his aunt was enough to smack his gob completely.

Her long black hair was nominally caught up in a braid, with hanks of it flying round her face. The face itself was looking gaunt, and as she was no more than a wisp of a woman, she couldn’t afford the loss of weight. If she had indeed dropped a stone or two, Jamie had no way of telling, as she was wrapped from throat to toe in a long black cloak.

“All right, missus?” Jamie inquired, worried, reaching out to brush the hair from her face.

She slapped his hand away. “You’ll be late for your own funeral!” she roared, and raced around him to dart up the street.

“What the? Auntie Maeve! Aunti — ” There was nothing for it but to chase after her, and try to take the case she was lugging off her hands.

“Leave it, leave it!” she panted, looking wildly up the avenue for a taxi.

Her panic was infectious, and Jamie felt his breath catch in his chest. “What is it? Where are you going? Home? Jesus, is it Da? Nobody rang me, it can’t be — ”

“It’s nothing to do with the humans,” Maeve muttered. “Not something you modern Irish folk want getting around, if you take my meaning.”

“C’mere, we’ll sit down, have a cuppa, we were meant to have a nice long visit, and here you are, getting all in a welter — ”

Maeve bashed him in the shins with her case. “I’ve no time for you now! You poxy late little bugger!” She thrust her hand in to one pocket after the next, as she ranted on. “The last Pooka has been made ready to help its human, and has been transfigured, and is entering its last phase, and we, the Flynns are implicated, and in fact, the only eligible fella of our line at this point in time is at the heart of it.” She scowled up at him hopefully.

“This is, er, kind of handy, as I wanted to ask you about a Pooka,” said Jamie gently, thanking God that Annabelle hadn’t come after all. “I mean, there’s this girl that has one, she says it’s only in the cupboards, ack!” He leant down to rub his other shin. What in the bloody hell had she packed in that case? “What? What’s wrong with ya?”

“You may be tardy, but you are not a complete simpleton.” Maeve thrust her small arm in the air and a taxi swerved across four lanes of traffic to slide to halt at her side. “Surely you recall those lovely, peaceful evenings round the fire, and the stories I’d tell ya ’til yees begged me to go on and on — ”

What Jamie recalled were dark shadows dancing on the walls, the rasp of Maeve’s voice as she scared the stuffing out of all the nieces and nephews with the tale of the Ban Sí that followed the Flynns and their kin through history, The Queen and her army of minions who exacted fierce pacts with his flesh and blood down the years, eons of mutual plotting and thwarting that were meant to culminate in the union of a Flynn and one of the Queen’s relations and —

“Here. I’ve no time for you now. I’ve got to be on the move.” She cast a quick look up and down the avenue, her green eyes deep with worry and what looked like sly amusement? Jamie couldn’t tell, she wouldn’t hold his gaze. She handily tossed the case that had just about broken his legs into the back of the cab, and thrust an envelope into his hands. “It’s all in there. All you need.” She reached up and cupped his face in her hands.

“Do not make a bollocks of this, you eejit.” And with that touching valediction, she nipped into the taxi and was off.

Jamie ran his fingers through his hair, and wandered off aimlessly. Every few feet he stopped, a realization just on the tip of his brain, and he’d stop, sure he’d retrieve the essence of what was troubling him — as if there wasn’t enough to be troubled by, fer feck’s sake! — when it occurred to him to open the envelope.

It was a short letter, a note, really, wrapped around keys. Jamie held them aloft, and a ray of sunshine seemed to dart straight out of the sky, illuminating them as Jamie’s mind flashed on that dream he’d had, the dream of the world’s most perfect studio in the back garden of —

“The house. In Dollymount,” he whispered, and opened that last fold of the note.

Maeve’s scrawl was recognizable, and as impatient as she had been in person.

“It’s time for you to do your job for the aul Queen, sure I only told you the story over and over when you were a wee fella. If you get all stubborn on me about this girl — you know who, that wee blonde one — I’ll kill ya. It’s very important!!!!! (This last was underlined emphatically twice.) Congratulations on the — (here was a thorough scratching out of text, and Jamie couldn’t read it) — never mind, don’t want to give it all away. Do not make a mess of things, it’s the same class of stubbornness that made a mess of things in the first place, and you can be an awful pig-headed git. Love, Aunt Maeve.”

That ridiculous story. That fairy tale. He shook his head, and wandered back uptown. “Ah, sure, it’s only an aul’ piseog, anyway … ” And he trailed off again, an uncomfortable feeling welling up in the pit of his stomach, and he suddenly understood Annabelle’s quirky little hang up about not liking feeling as though she was being watched.

Annabelle. He scowled. Just how much did she know about this carry-on, and how much had she chosen not to tell him?

• • •

Annabelle backed up the Damien Hirst interview she’d managed to transcribe in record time. It had gone really, really well, and she’d loved every minute of it. She loved that she’d told him that she didn’t like his work, it was risky and crazy and could easily have been ill-advised, but he’d decided that it was simply a matter of education, and they had a true dialogue, a real conversation and she felt absolutely confident in what she was sure would be a fantastic piece.

She loved the way that the stats on her blog kept going up and up, she loved her little desk, she loved Brooklyn, she loved her career (she’d love it even more if she had an agent) and she loved her friends and the weather and the way Jamie —

Whoops. She called up a file she’d started, deciding to commit her mental list of her good qualities to virtual paper, just in case she ever forgot herself again … which she wouldn’t, but still. Since she’d begun paying attention, the list had grown, and it seemed like a useful exercise. Maybe she’d write a self-help book about this after she’d done the Pooka handbook. Annabelle stopped, and looked around the living room. No physical sign of Callie now for almost a week.

Now too depressed to do up her list, she shut down the computer and fired up another batch of sage. She was choking with the stuff, but she was really worried, especially as she’d admitted defeat and was going to bring her Pooka back wherever she wanted to go.

“Did you hear that?” Annabelle said. “I said I’ll take you to Ireland!”

Silence. Perversely, she missed the annoying, pushy, troublemaking thing. It’s amazing, she thought, what a person can get used to.

“I’m going to try to book a ticket this week. There’s still a bit of time.” She went over to her Filofax to check off the days as she nattered away. “Kelli is throwing a pre-show cast bonding party this Friday. She’s still conspiring, about me and Jamie, even though she doesn’t have to. I should let her know. I know she has money to burn, but she’s not doing this party just to — ” She lost track of her counting and started over. It was approximate at best, anyway, it wasn’t like she’d made a notation, ‘Pooka demands to be returned to Ireland five weeks from now’.

“I’m going to wear the red dress. I’m going to kiss him.” She giggled like a teenager. “This whole thing is so ridiculous, but it’s really fun, too. Where are you? If you’ve gone, then it’s really rude of you not to have let me know. Thanks for the confetti — I saved a bit of it, I hope that’s okay.”

No response. “If you’ve gone on holiday, the least you could have done was — ”

A postcard fluttered to the floor at Annabelle’s feet.

“See? How much trouble was that?” She picked it up, a rather moody shot of the Cliffs of Moher in the driving rain, and flipped it over.

TEN DAYS TO GO.

Damn it! “Are you sure?” Silence. “You’d know better than anybody, I guess.” Annabelle rose and stuck the ominous message on the fridge with a magnet, and shrugged. “So, I just kiss Jamie on Saturday night. How hard is that going to be?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“So?” Lorna asked.

Annabelle looked up from her plate. At least when Lorna had lunch in, she had it in style. None of this eating out of a clear plastic deli box: a tablecloth had been produced and employed, and proper utensils and cloth napkins rounded off the illusion that they weren’t actually pathetic people sitting in an office eating at a desk.

“So what?” Annabelle forked up another chunk of spinach salad. Even the take-out was designer, she thought, and realized: I’m not really into this labeling stuff.

“So, Titian! What’s he like?” Lorna pushed her arugula around her plate, and poured them some more sparkling water.

“His name is Jamie.” Annabelle rolled her eyes. That vow hadn’t held, had it. “And you’re not supposed to be bugging me, remember?”

“I’m not bugging you, I’m just asking, and I didn’t think a strict ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ proviso had been declared. I’m still your friend, I still want to know things.”

Annabelle thought about it. “That’s fine. But I’m going to be watching you like a hawk.”

“So what’s he like?”

“What do you mean? Oh.” Annabelle squirted some lemon into her glass of sparkling water. “Don’t know.”

“He came over, made you dinner, by hand, and you didn’t sleep with him?” Lorna rolled her eyes. “Hopeless. Utterly hopeless.”

“I didn’t even kiss him.” Annabelle grinned. “Almost, but not quite.”

“How … chaste.”

They silently went back to their food, Annabelle gazing out of window. The day had gone cloudy, and she could see the weather rolling down from the north. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”

“You didn’t even make out?” Lorna would not be swayed from the topic.

“I have decided that I’m not going to go around just making out with people, or having one-night stands, or even sleeping with someone I’m dating before the fifth date.” Annabelle grabbed a number out of the air.

“Fifth date!” Lorna shrieked. “Has Maria Grazia finally brainwashed you?”

“Maria Grazia’s okay, isn’t she? I mean, she’s doing well with work and everything, I know, but she hasn’t had a relationship for … ” Annabelle did the math, “Jeez, eight years. No flirtations, nothing.”

“She hasn’t ‘shared’ with me,” said Lorna, pushing aside her half-eaten salad, which Annabelle immediately scraped onto her own plate. “I think when we were setting up you and Rodin — Jamie — she got all longing at one point.”

“Really,” said Annabelle. “That’s interesting.”

“Mmmm,” Lorna concurred. “She denied it, but I heard it. Longing. In her voice. From talking about authenticity or some nonsense.”

“Your cynicism is monolithic,” Annabelle chided, and gazed out the window again. “It’s definitely going to rain. I wish she’d meet somebody nice, someone monogamous, someone who was as talented as she is, someone who — ”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Lorna scolded. “Just because you’re all settled again doesn’t mean that you’re allowed to live vicariously through MG.”

Annabelle muttered into the last bit of her salad. “I’m not settled. Haven’t even kissed the guy.”

“Yeah, well, didn’t that monster thing say — ”

“She’s not a monster! She’s a Pooka!”

“ — That you were going to hook up with — you know, your — a — a long-termer.” The word ‘husband’ stuck in Lorna’s throat.

“Something like that.” Annabelle looked at Lorna, as fiercely groomed as ever, and yet, there seemed to be something going on beneath that atrociously expensive blow dry. She reached into her bag and handed Lorna a paper towel.

“Oh, lovely,” Lorna purred. “Just what I always wanted. Is it extra absorbent?”

“I am, I realize, ignoring a certain boundary that I set myself about distributing little bits of magic, but I thought you might like this.”

Lorna unfolded the towel, looked down at the confetti. “I thought they disappeared,” she whispered.

Annabelle realized she had huge issues around the idea of Lorna crying again. “Um, some of them fell onto my little altar, and they stayed.”

They sat in silence until Lorna’s quiet voice filled the room. “I was junior prom queen, if you can imagine it.”

She threw a few pieces of the confetti into the air, dancing silver and gold, and they hung suspended around her head, like a fragmented halo. She laughed and shivered. “Bizarre,” she commented mildly, and gathered them back up again.

“Junior prom night … the most exciting night of my life. Isn’t that pathetic?” Lorna tried to cover up emotion with a light laugh, and she, in turn, looked out the window. “Everything I have here, everything I’ve accomplished, it won’t match the night I had on my first ball gown, went out with the cutest boy in the eleventh grade, drove around town in a white limousine. A white stretch limo!” She laughed at the memory. “I’d forgotten about it and then the confetti … when they crowned me in front of the whole class, and a blizzard of the stuff floated down around me, and the boy kissed me, and the band played and everyone cheered, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” She secretly wiped away a tear. Annabelle looked down at her hands. You think you know people, she thought, but how can you, really.

“That’s so sweet,” she said, and Lorna laughed.

“Sweet,” she said dismissively. “Sweet,” she sighed.

Lorna’s intercom buzzed, breaking the moment. “Yes,” she snapped, to cover what she thought was an outlandish display.

Zoe’s voice quavered slightly. “Devon cancelled for two. Can he reschedule for four? You’re free.”

“No, this is third time this week. Tell him I can’t see him until next Tuesday at 3:35.” She snapped off the intercom and glared at it. “Something’s up with that guy.” At Annabelle’s inquisitive look, Lorna waved her hand, shelving it. “Politics. Who cares.”

Ah well, that moment passed, thought Annabelle. Lorna had exhibited sentiment, something she normally avoided the way that other people avoided catching infectious diseases. “Maybe you could go shopping with me.”

Lorna perked up immediately. “For?”

“Shoes.”

“What kind?”

Annabelle paused for effect. “Heels.”

Lorna gasped and grabbed up her purse. “Off we go!”

• • •

On a whim, since she had the whole rest of the day to herself and she refused to feel guilty about it, Annabelle decided to drop in to Maria Grazia’s storefront and show off her new shoes. Walking down Third Avenue toward Fifth Street, she speed dialed the number, humming along with the tune that came pumping out of the Sketcher’s store. Maybe she’d wander around the Strand Bookstore before she kidnapped MG, or run back up and over to the Union Square Market —

“Hello, this is Maria Grazia.”

“Hello, this is Annabelle!”

“Hey, you!” Her voice warmed considerably, and Annabelle was once again grateful that they’d all made up. “What’s up?”

“I was going to come over and drag you kicking and screaming down to Starbucks.”

“A coffee break sounds good, but I’m not giving those caffeine monopolizers another dime for their overpriced coffee. Seven dollars for a Frappacino! I refuse to support it — and that’s not even a grande! When I think of all those little ‘mom and pop’ coffee shops run out of business because of this conglomerate — ”

“See you in a few!” Annabelle hung up, and ducked into the nearest ‘Bucks.

Maria Grazia was still ranting as she bustled in, and back out again, which Annabelle nipped in the bud by telling her she liked her jacket. As they made their way across to the park, they linked arms and strolled at a pace that went well against the grain of the surrounding hubbub. Bike messengers swarmed the sidewalks, earning many a well-deserved curse and shaken fist, people hurried in and out of buildings and delis, and even the casual shoppers were negotiating the crowds like fullbacks.

“Isn’t self-employment great?” said Annabelle as they sat on a bench with their iced coffees, and watched everyone else rush by. Maria Grazia stretched her legs out and stirred up the four sugars she dumped into her cup.

“Oh, yeah. Even when I’m up until four A.M. doing work that should really be done by three underlings. Oh, for an underling! Just one!”

“I’m just happy not to be an underling anymore,” Annabelle mused, as she looked up at the darkening sky. “Do you know if it’s supposed to rain tonight? I really don’t want to have to wear a raincoat.”

“Don’t know,” Maria Grazia said. “What are you going to wear?”

“Well,” Annabelle sat up and reached for her shopping bag. “The red dress — ”

“Somebody means business!”

“And I’ve just been shopping with Lorna, and we got me these.” In her hand sat a beautifully formed black pump with an open toe and a thin, borderline stiletto heel. Maria Grazia growled suggestively, and a guy passing by on rollerblades gave two thumbs up. Annabelle laughed and tucked the shoe back in its box.

“That’s a departure,” said Maria Grazia.

Annabelle nodded. “I’m tired of being ashamed of my height. And Jamie’s pretty tall, so I won’t be towering over him or anything.”

Maria Grazia sat, silent. Annabelle waited for the inevitable plea for details. She heard MG start to sing to herself under her breath, as a way to overcome the perfectly natural urge to ask how things were progressing with The Irish Guy, and Annabelle took pity on her pal. “Look, I know I said what I said, and I meant it, but I don’t mind talking about this if I’m the one talking about it. Do you see what I mean?”

“Oh, okay,” Maria Grazia said lightly. “’Cos, you know, whatever.”

“But if you don’t want an update, that’s perfectly fine, too.” Annabelle sat back, annoyed. I know that I set that boundary, she thought, but this is different … isn’t it?

“Oh, for God’s sake!” shouted Maria Grazia, frightening some birds. “Tell me, tell me, tell me! Nobody’s perfect! Tell me everything!”

“There’s not that much to tell,” admitted Annabelle, and told her all of it anyway.

“It’s so cute, like he was going to come and pick you up at your house,” Maria Grazia cooed. Annabelle nudged her sunglasses down her nose, and removed Maria Grazia’s from her face. Shocked, MG grabbed them back, and shoved them back on.

“Just checking for longing,” Annabelle sat back and crossed her legs.

“There is no longing, nor is there yearning. Despite what any of our so-called sharp-eyed mutual friends may claim.” Maria Grazia tried to do that haughty thing that worked so well for Lorna, and never worked for her. “I am merely very happy for you and wish you all the best.”

Annabelle slung an arm around MG’s shoulders, and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Whatever you say, my friend.” She paused. “I brought Lorna some of that confetti.”

“That,” breathed Maria Grazia, “Was astonishing. So did stuff like that happen all the time?”

“No, it was mostly annoying. It figures, now that the time is almost up, Callie gets all sweet and starts distributing bottles of expensive champagne.”

“So what did Lorna do?”

Annabelle shook her head. “Well, the falling confetti reminded her of a happy memory from high school — ”

Maria Grazia snorted. “Nobody has happy memories from high school!”

“ — And she kind of cried a little, again.”

Maria Grazia shivered. “It’s not very nice of me, but I was so freaked out.”

“Me, too! And when it happened again, I thought, even when you think you know somebody, how can you really, ever? It’s like, how can you even really know yourself? It was so unexpected, but lovely, but ‘not Lorna’. Which isn’t fair, we’re all complicated people — ”

“I can’t talk about this at the moment. It really, really freaks me the frick out.” Maria Grazia patted Annabelle’s hand. “We must change the subject. So. We like The Irish Guy.”

Annabelle inclined her head. “We do,” she said, formally. “We like him, we know things about him — not that we can ever know everything about him — but we intend to get to know him better.”

“Between that dress and those shoes, you aren’t going to have much of a choice.”

Annabelle shrugged. “I am having all these expectations, and some nerves, and then I throw out the expectations, and get calm, and then it starts all over again.” She threw up her hands. “I’d like to have fun. Meaningful fun. Is that too much to ask?”

Maria Grazia’s reply was cut off by the ringing of a cell phone. The scramble that ensued revealed Annabelle to be the winner.

“Hello? Yes, speaking. Oh. Oh. Oh!” Annabelle grabbed Maria Grazia’s forearm and held on tight. “I would be, yes. Oh yeah, we got on really well — oh he did, did he? Uh huh. Uh huh.” Maria Grazia looked perplexed and Annabelle grinned and bounced up and down on the bench. “I see. Yes, my blog’s unique user stats are going up by 20% every week. Well, let’s meet. Next week? I’m out of the office at the moment, I’ll need to check my book. Very good. Thanks for calling — bye!”

“What what what?” Maria Grazia demanded as Annabelle continued to bounce even though the seat was really hard and it was beginning to hurt.

“Agent — agent — representation — book — money money MONEY!” She rose up and leaped onto the bench and let out a rousing “Woooo hoooooooooooooooooo!” — and even the most jaded New Yorker had to crack a rumor of a smile at the utter exuberance that one’s first big break can bring.

Chapter Thirty

Jamie perched on the windowsill, away from the gathering crowd, and frowned into his beer. He was brooding, and everyone knew it — actor-y types were especially hypersensitive and they had picked up on his ill-tempered vibe immediately. He glared down at the highly polished floor and then scowled up at the ceiling. The party space was about twice the size of his place and twenty times as clean. Gelled lights cast their multi-colors onto parquet floors, and candles in twelve-foot hammered metal stands burned in strategic locations, mostly flanking tables full of hors d’ouevres that would sit there until the techies showed. Kelli kept throwing him quizzical glances, but he ignored her.

I’m not a coward, he told himself. I simply don’t feel like explaining myself to some avant-garde off-off-off-off Broadway producer who conspired to throw some woman at me. In fact, he went on, to himself, it seemed that everyone, including his Aunt Maeve, who normally stayed out of this aspect of his business, was trying to tell him what to do as well, not to mention random supernatural creatures that were doing their best to stir the pot.

What I really feckin’ resent, he added, is the fact that I am completely crazy about this bird and I would be pursuing her under normal circumstances. Normal circumstances. And it didn’t help that he’d put two and two together and come up with feckin’ thirteen, by having finally remembered Maeve’s scary fairy story about the destruction of the wedding stone of the Queen of the shaggin’ Ban feckin’ Sí. That was the deal-breaker, the out-and-outer, the last straw. The last thing in the bloody world he intended, he swore, was to be manipulated into a relationship because of some friggin’ piseog.

He stared down the mouth of his beer bottle, and heaved a sigh. Nature had been taking its course, no worries, but between the meeting with his wayward clairvoyant Aunt, and the penny dropping as regarded Annabelle’s Pooka, he was feeling rebellious and irritated, which ran directly at odds with his desire to see Annabelle, get to know Annabelle, snog Annabelle —

Where the hell was Annabelle?

He looked up and saw that her two friends, the co-conspirators, had arrived. Lorna and Maria Grazia. They scanned the room with the air of professionals, used to casing a party in twenty seconds flat, and saw them make the decision to venture over toward himself.

He reckoned he could scare them away in under a minute.

“Hello,” said Lorna, extending her hand rather formally. “We met in the street.”

“Right,” Jamie grunted, not ill-mannered enough to refuse the hand.

“Maria Grazia Bevilacqua,” and another hand was extended formally, and duly shaken. “What can I get you?”

“Bass Ale.” He was overdoing the surly bit, and he got the impression they weren’t buying it. “Thanks.”

Lorna cut her eyes at Jamie, and then looked away. “Look at them. Actors. They’re all the same.” She shook her head. “I’m in — ”

“Public relations.”

“Yes. And you’re a restorer-slash-painter. Entertainment would be a great business if wasn’t for the so-called talent. But enough bitterness,” Lorna smiled like the cat who’d got the cream. “Have you heard Annabelle’s news?” Jamie shook his head no, and shrugged. She took her glass of wine from Maria Grazia, who had returned, and Jamie took the proffered bottle. “Jamie hasn’t heard Annabelle’s news. But let’s have the first of many toasts, regardless.”

“Cheers.” They clinked, and Jamie took a long, cold pull, and the conversation didn’t flag as so much as up and die.

“Cast parties,” MG moaned, trying to draw him out. “They’re all the same.”

“You’re an actor, yourself?” I’m not an awkward lout, Jamie thought to himself. Just an annoyed, confused, exasperated, mutinous lout.

“Oh, God, no. I’m a fashion designer. We met at the meeting, that extravagant dinner thing. I was supposed to be dressing the actors, but why in the world they needed me to hand out black leotards to a buncha mimes is beyond me.”

“Kelli likes to surround herself with free talent,” Lorna sniped, as Kelli fluttered by with a bouquet of flowers, terse nods for Lorna and Maria Grazia, and another inquiring look for Jamie.

Who continued scowling. What bloody time was it? Maybe he could sneak away before Annabelle got here? Cooooowwwwwaaaaard, sang a nasty little voice in his head, and he leaned back up against the windowsill.

He clocked Lorna and Maria Grazia, under the cover of scrutinising the room again, exchanged a series of arch looks. The noise level was growing as the techies had finally arrived, and their mass stampede toward the food had nearly lifted the roof off. The DJ raised the volume accordingly, and the lights began to spin when, as a nod to the high percentage of dancers in the room, the speakers blared the theme to ‘Flashdance’. A communal squeal of delight accompanied the swarm of bodies as the first of many impromptu performances commenced. Jamie, Lorna and Maria Grazia rolled their eyes in concert as smoke started to roll in from behind the DJ, and as Jamie opened his mouth to comment — well, he never got that far, and his mouth hung open like a fish’s because Annabelle had just entered the room.

“She’s trying to kill me,” he muttered; Lorna smirked, and Maria Grazia sighed, and they both disappeared into the thickly gathering smoke as Annabelle made her way toward Jamie. Techies dropped shrimp toast and dancing mimes missed steps as Annabelle … sashayed — there was no other word for it — Annabelle sashayed across the room, one high heel clad foot in front of the other.

Her hair bounced around her face, and it had a ‘fresh out of the shower’ look that immediately cast a tantalizing mental image of Annabelle in the shower into his mind. The red satin scrap of a dress she was wearing flashed under the disco lights — it clung to her curves without looking skin tight, and yet it revealed just enough leg, just enough cleavage, to be alluring — and she carried it off with a calibre of style and ease that was breathtaking.

Sheer black hose hugged long, curvy legs that ended in — Jamie felt like weeping. Shiny black heels with the little toe thing cut out, so he could see two adorable little red toenails peeking up at him. “Howaya,” Annabelle mimicked his accent, and stole a sip of his beer.

“Hey, how are you, how are you doing?” Jamie raised his voice and came down on his consonants like jackhammer.

“What?” Annabelle shouted, the DJ having upped the volume yet again, as the party had found its feet and the dance floor was packed.

He leaned in (she was wearing that scent again, bloody hell) and shouted into her ear, “Nothing! Bad joke!” He looked away from her inquiring gaze; the silence grew and grew; he knew he should be complimenting her on her (stunning) appearance, fetching her a drink, doing all the things he’d do under normal circumstances. But these weren’t normal circumstances. He felt his mood grow darker; he could almost feel her mood shift from sexy to sulky in the next heartbeat.

“Humph,” said Annabelle.

“What?” Jamie shouted.

“I said ‘humph!’” Annabelle shouted back.

“Let’s — we can’t talk in here.” Jamie grabbed her elbow, Annabelle jerked it out of his grasp, and walked back out to the landing. There was a smaller, quieter room on the other side of the stair, with more candles and more food and a few couches — that were already playing host to kissing couples. For feck’s sake, thought Jamie, don’t people even wait to get drunk anymore? Leading the way to a quiet corner — and following along behind her was going to kill him — he grabbed two more beers from a nearby drinks table. They clinked bottles perfunctorily, and Jamie couldn’t imagine how he was going to handle this, if he wasn’t just acting the biggest eejit going, and if throwing his love life into the lap of the fates mightn’t be such a bad idea. He hated to hurt her, she was such a sensitive type, and her heart had only recently been —

“So what’s your frickin’ problem?” Annabelle asked.

“Uh. What?” The kitten had turned into a tiger.

“Let’s get something straight, okay? I am, admittedly, a sucker for a good romance, the whole thing with the running into each other all the time on the street, and the thing with turning up at my house with knives and whisks — I really liked that. It’s the sort of thing that, when you’ve met someone you’re attracted to that kind of … cuts out the bullshit wondering and doubting and stuff. I was looking forward to tonight, and, you may have noticed, took some trouble with my appearance — ”

“You look — ”

Annabelle raised a hand and cut him off. “You blew that five minutes ago. If you’d like to tell me what’s on your mind, that’s great, if not, I’ve got no time for this, because to be honest with you, I only recently discovered that my ex-boyfriend, the one that dumped me rather abruptly, is in fact engaged to be married. I have, therefore, had it up to here — ” She raised an arm dramatically as high as it would go over her head, “ — with, with, with, no communication, withholding, blowing hot-and-cold douches.”

Hidden behind a couchful of groping couples, Lorna and Maria Grazia silently cheered her on.

“That’s direct,” said Jamie, playing for time.

“I really don’t have the patience for anything else.” Annabelle leaned against the wall, and wiggled her foot like it was paining her.

Jamie stalled by chugging down the rest of his beer.

Annabelle looked away, her high dudgeon depleted. “If you’re not interested, just tell me, okay? We’re adults.”

That’s funny, Jamie thought, I was only feeling like a fifteen-year old gurrier.

“I was wondering about your Pooka,” he said. “Like, what kind of Pooka it was. Exactly.”

“Exactly?”

“Whether or not it is in fact trapped in one of your cupboards, or in a closet, or … ?” He crossed his arms, and felt grim satisfaction at her apparent discomfort.

“What other kind is there?” She tried for an evasive shrug and a noncommittal laugh.

“The kind that shapeshifts. The kind that follows a person around, and makes all kinds of trouble for a person, the kind that needs a person to marry another person or else it will be resigned to the darkest realms of limbo or some such bollocks.”

“Oh,” she said, looking a little shifty-eyed. “That kind.”

“I finally met my auntie. The witchy one.” He went to take another drink, and finding his bottle of Dutch courage empty, put it on a nearby windowsill. “She’s heading for the West of Ireland, waiting for your Pooka, or waiting for whatever’s supposed to happen with your Pooka to … happen.” He shoved his hands on his pockets. “And then I remembered the story, the one she used to tell all the time. About the Pookas and the Queen of the Ban Sí.”

“Yeah, okay, I know that story. Dan Minnehan told me.” Annabelle moved restlessly, nervously, and put her half-finished beer on the sill next to his.

Her movement stirred the air and caused her lemony-limey scent to waft all over him and he thought he’d drop bloody dead right on the spot. “Wait. Dan Minnehan knew the story? But it’s a family story!”

“He said he had an aunt that had had the same Pooka problem. Maybe you guys are related.”

“Maybe we’re cousins!” Jamie couldn’t get his head around it. “But he’s — but — shite — the mother knows the genealogy business — but maybe — what a turn up!”

Annabelle tapped a foot and waited for Jamie to stop imaging his reunion with his long-lost, internationally famous cousin.

It was taking too long. “So,” Annabelle prodded. “So you remembered the story.”

“The business with the Queen and Pookas was, like, the main bit of the tale, but there was always this little part at the end that we used to torment each other about, when Maeve would say that one day down the road, maybe in our lifetime, a Flynn and one of the last Pooka’s people would marry to make up for the wrong done in years past. That when the last Pooka had to right its wrong, it would have to do with one of us.”

He decided to leave out the part where it had always seemed that Maeve was directing this epilogue directly to him, and how his sisters and brother and cousins had slagged him to death about it.

“So, you think that you have to marry me, is that it? That what’s gotten you all worked up?” Annabelle had raised herself to her fullest height, and looked him dead in the eye. She moved closer, and ran a finger down his chest to his belt buckle. This, he thought, is going to kill me. “Well, let me clear this up for you right now. My Pooka — Callie is her name, by the way — said that I’d only have to kiss, uh, somebody, and then she’d be portable again, or whatever, and I could take care of the rest of it. On my own.”

“I — I really, em, like you Annabelle, em, and I’ll kiss you if you want,” he stuttered. Her gaze was frigid, nothing like the look he’d come to know. “But the marriage thing, I mean, you know yourself, we’ve only just met, and to, to, to, to — ”

Annabelle stepped back. “Dude, listen, you’re no prize yourself.”

“Now, that’s not what — whatd’ya mean, I’m no prize?”

“Conceited, as if I was going to drop dead with joy at some kind of proposal. Cocky, acting as though you had to let me down gently or something — ”

“Listen to yourself, ya wagon, assuming that I was ever going to propose in the first place — ”

“A, a, a, cooking snob!” Annabelle was reaching and she knew it. “And — disorganized!”

“As opposed to so feckin’ organized that there’s not breathing space for a bit of creativity to rear its ugly wee head — ”

“I am creative! I am talented! I don’t need to wallow in some faux-artistic mud puddle of a mess because of some crackpot notion that neatness equals — ”

“And manipulative! Turning up in some dress designed to bleed every man in the room of reason, and smelling like, like, some bloody gorgeous lemon tree on legs, and … and … .”

In their fury, they had ended up nose-to-nose, practically chest-to-chest. Jamie ran out of gas and they stood there, face-to-face, angry eye to angry eye, eyes dark with fury and hurt.

“This isn’t the way I thought things were going to go tonight,” whispered Annabelle.

“No.” Jamie fought the urge to tease a few strands of touchably soft-looking hair out of her eyes. “I, I don’t know what to think.”

Annabelle brushed the hair out of her face. “There’s nothing to think. You’ve made yourself clear. I’ll save my Pooka somehow, by myself.” She took a deep breath. “Thanks for the dinner. It was nice.”

She stepped back, broke the connection. “I’m going to go dance. I love to dance.” She smiled, faintly. “Good luck with the council.”

“Your friends said you had good news?” But Annabelle shook her head, and turned and left the room.

Bereft was a word he’d always liked to come across in novels. He’d say it aloud, luxuriating in the ‘r’, sliding through the ‘f’, and hitting the ‘t’ like pebble out of a slingshot. First time, he thought morosely, that he’d ever felt like it. More beer, he decided. What else was a cowardly eejit of a man to do.

He was torn out of his reverie as Annabelle’s friends rose up from behind a couch like the wrath of God. What he had begun to think of as Maria Grazia’s pleasant and warm countenance was set like stone, and Lorna’s eyes were narrowed with such dislike they were practically invisible. She made a movement to go at him, but Maria Grazia held her back.

“Don’t waste your time, Lorna,” she said, never taking her eyes off of Jamie. “I’d say Annabelle has said it all. I’ve never heard her so fierce,” she went on, deceptively conversationally. “If anyone was thinking of making up of for being such an asshole, they’d have a lot — a lot — of work to do.”

Lorna tried to get at Jamie, practically swiping her nails at him, but Maria Grazia increased the pressure of her arm around her friend’s waist, and dragged her out of the room.

Jamie followed them out after decent interval and glanced in at the main party. Annabelle danced with two set builders and one wiry mime, and it was the image he carried with him on his lonely, rain-drenched walk home.

• • •

Annabelle locked the door behind her, and gratefully kicked off her shoes. It was only midnight, and there she was, back home, the dregs of her excited grooming littering the apartment. She began clearing up, half-heartedly, and stopped. She’d have plenty of time tomorrow. She sat down on one of her ‘dining room’ chairs, and drooped. The fun had gone out of the night fairly rapidly, and dancing with a series of burly techies and gay mimes had been only slightly entertaining. Lorna and Maria Grazia had given her space, after she’d asked for it, and she got the idea that they somehow knew what had transpired.

“I didn’t want things to move so fast either, you know!” All the things she could have said to Jamie, all the rational things that she’d been saying all along had gone right out of her head, and she’d thrown a major tantrum instead. Friends fight all the time, he’d said — she had hoped they were getting to be friends …

“So.” Callie materialised in the middle of the room. Annabelle was shocked by her Pooka’s appearance: she seemed aged and bent, wizened and crushed, her voice a pained rasp. “No kissing, I take it.”

“No. He figured out his part in the scheme, and he, he’s not interested.”

“Is that how easily you give up?” Callie croaked. “No wonder you needed me to get you on your path, no wonder you didn’t have any career to speak of, if it wasn’t for me, you’d still be moonin’ over that rotter of a banker — ”

Annabelle rose, angry all over again. “You said it yourself, ‘magic isn’t magic’! Time healed my broken heart, not all that hocus-pocus, and all those people called me for work because I am good at what I do, and I have a meeting with an agent because she saw my work and liked it, not because — ” She hesitated, unsure. “Not because you had anything to do with it. Right?”

Callie began to fade from sight. “You are on your path, and I seem to be on mine.” The Pooka’s voice became as faint as her presence. “If I had any power at all, it was only for the good. And I have no idea where it is that I am headed. I wanted only the best for you, Annabelle, my charge, my responsibility … my girl. And now … “ Her voice trailed off almost completely. “If you could find it in your heart to do me a good turn, there are seven days left. One week to save me from a fate over which I have no control. Annabelle!” Callie raised her voice in a plea. “Please! You’re the only one who can — ”

And she disappeared. Annabelle stood, useless, alone in her living room, a lump in her throat, guilt building in her heart.

Dammit. She might have to talk that Irishman again after all.

Chapter Thirty-One

That ought to cover it. Callie rolled onto her back, a sleek, healthy panther, and licked her paws smugly. Controlling humans of this soft-hearted sort was almost too easy for a Pooka of such infinite talents.

Any day now … any day …

Chapter Thirty-Two

Standing on the sidewalk in front of the building on West Thirtieth, Annabelle was about to shut the flip case for her phone and put it in her pocket; after two gleeful phone calls to Maria Grazia and Lorna, she was fighting the urge to make a third. She compromised, snapping the cover shut, but keeping it in her hand. She looked up at the facade behind her and smiled. What a difference, she thought, a little over sixty days can make.

She turned east down Thirtieth, and slowed a bit as she looked up toward the post office. Less than two months ago, she’d sent off yet another manuscript to yet another disinterested party; today, she turned away, head held high, the newest client of one of the city’s best agencies, officially on the working roster for Image/Art International. And, might she add, in the possession of a contract, which she would, after a considered perusal, sign, and in doing so take on an enormous and enormously exciting blog/book project.

The subject of which, coincidentally, was documenting Dan Minnehan and his farewell tour, which was taking place in Ireland.

She wouldn’t have to come across for a ticket after all — she had to leave on Saturday.

The second to last day of her Pooka’s free existence.

Damn it, thought Annabelle. I really am going to have to call Jamie.

• • •

I am really going to have call Annabelle, thought Jamie, as he hung up the phone. It hadn’t sunk in, the content of his recently finished call, and he tossed the portable handset onto a pile of newspapers.

Wasn’t it lunchtime? Why not eat some lunch? He opened the refrigerator and was greeted with an unusual sight. Neither hide nor hair of an edible object. He must be tragically distracted, he brooded, and he slammed the door shut. Slightly moldy bread and the dregs of some jam would have to do for now. He had, it appeared, exactly sixteen coffee beans, enough to make half a shot of black espresso. He turned the bean grinder on full throttle, and succeeded in drowning out his thoughts for a moment.

He should call Maeve, except she’d probably figure out that he’d blown it with the girl. Give the mother a ring, let her get down to the business of ringing half the country.

He’d gotten the funding. He’d gotten the funding! No, he was too preoccupied by the other business to really give a healthy whoop and holler.

Maybe all she’d wanted was a bit of a snog. But Jamie knew, in his heart of hearts, that it wasn’t going to be possible to stop there.

• • •

Annabelle paused to withdraw a small note pad from her purse. There was a lot to do in the ensuing days, and mental notes were not going to cut. I, thought Annabelle, love making lists.

Especially lists that have to do with travel and preparing to work on an international gig.

My God, she thought. I am going to be travelling around the whole of Ireland for a year. I am going to have to:

1 - Get my laptop serviced, just in case

2 - Sublet my place

3 - Do laundry

4 - Change money

…

Her mind wandered. She’d need a home base, probably in Dublin. Looking around at the humungous buildings surrounding her on all sides, she thought: I’d hate to move to Ireland and live in another city. Her mind wandered, and she had a vision of a tiny little house on the side of a hill, and the sea, and a horse. A horse? She’d never ridden a horse! She’d never so much as touched a horse in her entire life!

5 - Forward all her mail to Maria Grazia.

6 - Open an account in Ireland??

7 - Ring Ja —

She looked down at the phone that she was still clutching in her hand. He’d die if he knew about this! Dan Minnehan, she could almost hear him shout! Under different circumstances, she’d maybe have seen if it was okay to look up his sisters. Under different circumstances, she’d have called already. Under different circumstances, maybe they’d be celebrating tonight …

8 - New carry case for her Mac, and bigger bag with wheels for clothes.

• • •

He’d have to get someone in to the place. No way was he giving up this lease — and he thought he remembered hearing that a couple of cousins were moving over in August. Jamie went into the studio, and went right back out again. How in the name of God was he going to get all that sorted? Luckily, he had only to go over for a few weeks, sign some papers, bring Sinann … He went back in to the studio and stayed, his empty little espresso cup dangling from a finger, and he walked around and around his prize-winning work. When he came face-to-face with it — her — he knew that he had to give the girl a bell.

A long gloomy weekend had passed, and he had eventually managed to rationalize his churlish behavior, and then rationalize himself right back into more self-chastisement. If he hadn’t been so spooked, he could have had a pretty feckin’ fabulous night, if that dress had been any indication, and could have been able to talk to Annabelle like a human being, not some kind of Neanderthal tosser.

Sure she gave as good as she got, and he had a little laugh, a very little one, at his own expense. Disorganized, was he? He’d show her! He strode out toward his wardrobe, and pulled out a heavy-duty metal-framed backpack, and started throwing clothes into it. I’ll be packed and ready to go in no time!

• • •

Annabelle traveled a few more blocks, and paused again, on the edge of a planter near Sixth Avenue.

21- Call Jamie?

Nerves about the now-successful meeting, and guilt over Callie, from whom she had not seen nor heard all weekend, had pushed the Friday night debacle out of her mind. She had, at some earlier stage, agreed with everything he had said — in fact, had said it herself. However, it had royally sucked to have it aimed directly at her, especially when she was showing so much skin and practically crippling herself in those flippin’ shoes. Plus, it also sucked right now because she didn’t feel like calling him, even though she needed him, because he had acted like she was some kind of marriage-mad freak bent on dragging him down the aisle whether he wanted to or not.

21 - Call Jamie? She crossed that out, and scribbled over it a few times for good measure.

21 - Save Callie.

• • •

Just ring her! Jamie lay on his bed, staring as best he could out of the grimy skylight. The backpack lay abandoned on the floor. What was happening with that Pooka? He rolled over a stack of laundry he’d yet to put away, and then grabbed the lot and shoved it into his bag. There! Done! He ought to buzz the girl and let her know that he had seen to his packing already, ha, ha, ha!

I’m losing what little sense I have left, he thought, getting up off the bed and searching for the phone. He’d just had the thing ten minutes ago …

• • •

Annabelle ran across the avenue against the light, and was treated to a symphony of outraged honking. She panted a bit, and stopped, again, this time at the top of the stairway leading down to the F train. She flipped open the case of her phone again, and stared at the tiny screen, thumbing through the electronic phone book …

• • •

Ah, right, pile of newspapers. But where was her card? He patted the pockets of his jeans, and shoved around a few piles of papers on his kitchen countertop, and then saw it propped up on the stove … for some reason. I should probably ring her on the mobile …

• • •

No way, Annabelle decided, and erased the ten digit number that began with 718 —

• • •

Way to go, thought Jamie as he pressed the last number in the string that began with 917 —

• • •

Forget it. Annabelle shut her phone once and for all, and made her way down into the subway.

• • •

Feck’s sake. Out of coverage. Jamie threw down the phone, this time onto a nearby chair, and went back into his studio.

• • •

Arrrrrrrrgggggggggh! wailed a highly-cheesed-off Pooka, watching from a vantage point high in the ether. Never leave a human to do the job of a spirit!

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Oh, just one more. One measly little bottle more.”

“Lorna! I’ve got so much stuff to do tomorrow!”

“Maria Grazia, you agree with me, don’t you? One more, one eensy weensy bottle more … ” Lorna, pretending to die from dehydration, fell over out of sight.

“How did she end up behind the scenes?” Maria Grazia gave in and did one of the things that she did best, and signaled for waitstaff.

“I could have been an actress. I decided that I had too many brains.” Lorna was a bit tipsy; desperate to make up for that Dom P that Annabelle’s Pooka had provided, she’d left her Amex behind the bar of Nobu and let it rip. While she wasn’t feeling reckless enough to break the bank, the wine had flowed freely as they celebrated Annabelle’s big signing and her imminent departure.

Annabelle held her head in her hands. “I have so much to do tomorrow!” She looked at her friends, and wearily toasted, yet again. “To me, yeah, yeah. There are at least four key things, five, maybe, that I haven’t accomplished yet, through no fault of my own, I might add. Where’s my — “ She opened her little notebook. “Tecserve won’t have my Mac back until tomorrow, I have to drop the keys to my place off with one of Kelli’s mimes, I have to go see Kelli before I go, and I have to pack.”

That got Maria Grazia and Lorna’s attention. “You’re joking,” said Lorna.

“You haven’t packed?” Maria Grazia was so surprised she dropped her fork.

“I’ve been packing every day, but every morning when I wake up, my stuff, mysteriously, is all over the place!” Annabelle shoved her notebook back in her bag.

“Is it, uh, your friend?” Maria Grazia inquired delicately.

“Some friend,” Annabelle huffed. “More like a huge pain in the — ”

“Be nice to your Pooka!” Lorna roared. Heads turned. “She has been working terribly hard for you, and looking out for you, and doing lovely things like leaving incredibly nice bottles of champagne in your fridge and, and confetti and then there’s what’shisname, Goya — ”

Maria Grazia shoved some of the lobster seviche in Lorna’s mouth. Annabelle sank down a bit in her seat. “Okay, okay,” she soothed. “She’s a great friend and I’m sure she’s not deliberately trying to drive me crazy.”

Lorna nodded, satisfied, and Maria Grazia signaled again, pointing at the coffee pot.

“So what about Jamie?” Maria Grazia leaned toward Annabelle while propping up an increasingly wobbly Lorna, who wouldn’t be so drunk if she had actually eaten the dinner she’d ordered.

Annabelle shrugged. “He hasn’t called me, which would be his responsibility for acting as though I was some scheming … witch.” She looked out the window, out at the night, her last night in New York. For a while, she thought to herself quickly. Last night for a while, not forever … “Maybe I did come on a bit strong.”

“Well, he had it coming to him. But you do have some unfinished business.” Lorna glared at the cup of coffee that had materialized before her.

Annabelle turned her head from the window, and covered the street side of her face with her hand. “Speaking of unfinished business … ” and she ducked down a fraction again as Wilson entered the restaurant.

“Oh, shit,” Lorna howled, and Maria Grazia forced her to take a swallow of coffee. Annabelle stared straight ahead, the feeling of Wilson’s presence burning into the back of her head. “Where is he?” she asked Maria Grazia, whose eyes were imperceptibly scanning the joint.

“He’s over at the back. Alone,” MG added, anticipating the next question.

Annabelle turned her head to the left, and saw him reflected in a mirror hanging on the wall next to their table. There he was. Big as life. And, she realized, at the same table he’d chosen when they had dined here on their first real date. It had been two days after they’d met at the gallery opening, and she remembered that she’d been running late, but not on purpose, hadn’t intended to make an entrance, and she remembered the way he’d risen to his feet when she’d entered the place, and how —

Nah. Who cared what had happened? She smoothed out non-existent wrinkles in her sexy off-the-shoulder top, fluffed out her bob, and rose. Maria Grazia gaped, and Lorna sat back and stole a sip from her champagne flute, which she had hidden beneath the table. “Go on,” she growled. “Go get ’im!”

Annabelle stood and checked herself out in the mirror. “I intend to have a civilized conversation, Lorna. Relax.”

She turned and strode calmly over to where Wilson was sitting, tie thrown over his shoulder in anticipation of his meal, reading Newsweek magazine on his iPad. I, thought Annabelle, have always preferred Time.

“Hello,” Annabelle said, looking down at him. First expression: dismay. Second expression: sphinx-like, yet wary. He laid his tablet aside, and shoved back his chair.

Annabelle dropped down into the one across from him. “Oh, don’t get up. It’s so medieval.” That wasn’t true: I, she thought, actually like old-fashioned courtship rituals. Never mind; it sounded good. “I passed you in the street the other day. You were with your fiancée.”

“Ah. Winifred.” He cleared his throat.

“Yes. We’d met.” Annabelle raised an admonishing hand. “I’m not going to make a scene. I know how you hate them.” She smiled. “And I don’t have many questions, hardly any, apart from one: how long were you dating ‘Winnie’ when you were still actually dating me?”

Wilson looked over her shoulder, worriedly, at the door. He pulled his tie back over his shoulder, and smoothed it down fussily, playing for time. Annabelle leaned an elbow on the table, and dropped her chin in her hand. “I had asked you, remember? If you’d met someone else?”

“I believe you asked me if I’d met someone new, and strictly speaking I hadn’t, and not that it was any of your — ”

Annabelle hooted. “So slippery! No wonder you’re so good at what you do.”

“Bitterness isn’t becoming,” Wilson said, primly.

“Neither is lying or cheating.” Annabelle held up her hand again. “Trust me, I don’t sit at home going over and over the last things you said to me. I’m far too busy for that. But there are two things that have bugged me, the thing about a possible ‘other woman’ and the bit about me loving you more than you loved me?” She shook her head, and pushed back her chair. “I didn’t. Just to let you know, so you’re not laboring under some kind of conceited misconception. I didn’t. I was just much, much better at showing it.”

She rose, and Wilson’s stunned gaze followed her. “Congratulations on the wedding. I do hope that rock was insured. I really must return to my friends and continue celebrating my latest success.”

Lorna and Maria Grazia didn’t bother concealing the fact that they’d been watching like hawks, and they broke out into spontaneous applause as Annabelle joined them. She smiled and regally nodded her thanks.

“He looks even more uptight than normal,” jeered Lorna.

“And now he looks really, really confused,” laughed Maria Grazia. “‘I didn’t order a bottle of champagne!’”

Annabelle clapped her hands. “You didn’t!” Lorna smirked and winked.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Maria Grazia sat up and peered over Annabelle’s head. “Look who’s here!”

“Oooh, it’s that bitch — that diamondless bitchface!” Lorna tried to kneel up on her seat.

“Sit down!” Annabelle hid her face in her hands. “Don’t do this! I don’t want to — I don’t need to — what are they doing?”

Maria Grazia and Lorna took turns with the play-by-play. “Bitchface has seated herself — and she’s not too happy about that — ”

“‘And why are you sending back that perfectly fine bottle of champers, darling?’” Lorna simpered.

“‘Never you mind, Bitchface, just do what I tell you to do and I’ll marry you and knock you up and commence taking mistresses.’” Maria Grazia boomed.

Lorna’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Bitchface chastises Willy with less than a look — even I’m not that good — ”

“And he turns to beg the poor beleaguered wait person, yes, we’ve changed our minds again — ”

“He’s not moving fast enough for Bitchface — oh, my Lord!” Lorna gasped, suddenly sober. “She has just snapped her fingers at the waiter — ”

“Who is now carrying a full tray — ”

“He’s tripped — ”

“He’s — ”

Annabelle could have filled in the rest for herself, but turned to look anyway as a piercing scream filled the restaurant. A tray set with bowls full of some violently red-colored liquid — which didn’t appear anywhere on the menu — rained down on Winifred’s head, dripping down the front and back of her white linen suit, destroying it utterly. Wilson ineffectually patted at her with a napkin, and she smacked at his hand with more force than was necessary.

The waiter calmly put down his tray and walked away, toward Annabelle’s table. Passing it as he went to the door, he winked one merry hazel eye at Annabelle before going out into the street.

“Callie!” Annabelle grabbed her bag and ran out after her. She blew kisses to her friends, shouted, “See you tomorrow!” and was gone.

“That,” said Lorna, “Was worth the price of admission.” Winifred was now weeping hysterically and calling for the manager, and Wilson stood by, the rejected napkin dangling uncertainly from his hand.

“Talk about closure,” Maria Grazia said, and poured out another round. “Well, Annabelle’s back to … normal.”

“Wonder where I could get one of those Pooka things?” Lorna muttered into her drink, as she leaned up against Maria Grazia’s shoulder. Both put their feet up on the seat opposite and settled back to better enjoy the continuing drama.

• • •

Annabelle could just make out the back of the ‘waiter’ as ‘he’ moved briskly down Hudson Street. The balmy spring evening had lured quite a crowd to Tribeca, and Annabelle wasn’t keen to make too much of a spectacle of herself. Breaking into a trot, she started to overtake the ‘waiter’, muttering, “Callie Callie Callie Callie,” over and over and as the next traffic light threatened to change against her, she broke into a run and was just about to make it when —

She plowed right into Jamie.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, when he got his breath back. He steadied her, and she jumped up and down, trying to see over his shoulder.

“Oh, no, oh, no, he’s gone — she’s gone — damn it!” Annabelle felt the urge to stamp her foot. What a silly thing to do.

“Who’s gone? Oh.” Jamie let go of her, and he stepped aside.

“I haven’t seen her since, uh, Friday night, and she looked terrible, like she was — she looked awful.” Annabelle twisted the strap of her purse around and around her hands. “I have made such a mess of this! If I hadn’t had been so stubborn from the beginning, she wouldn’t be in such trouble! There I was, trying for years to make something happen, conjure up who knows what and when a thing, a real magical thing, actually presents itself and asks me to do it a favor, what do I do? I make a mess of it, and it’s become harder and harder for her to shapeshift and, she won’t make it back to Ireland, I just know it, and it’s all my fault!” And Annabelle burst into tears.

Jamie led her over to a stoop and sat her down. Saying nothing, he let Annabelle get it out of her system. She had her head down on her knees, and was mumbling at her feet. He patted her back, and she raised her head. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I feel like such a fool.”

Not for nothing did he have three sisters, most especially an older sister who used to tear up, much less sob, at the drop of a hat. He reached into his jacket and handed Annabelle a handkerchief. She sat up, and blew her nose thunderously. “Keep it,” he asserted, when she tried to hand it back to him, and they both laughed.

“Listen, Ja — ”

“C’mere, Ann — ”

“Oh, you — ”

“Go on, you — ”

They both fell silent, and eyeballed each other. Jamie shook his head, and Annabelle nodded at him. He shook his head again, she nodded, he opened his mouth, and Annabelle blurted, “I’m sorry I was such a brat. Last week.”

“You weren’t a brat. I was the biggest eejit.”

“You were. An enormous eejit.”

They smiled a little and fell silent again.

“I mean,” Annabelle began, and Jamie shut his mouth. “I agreed with everything you said, as I’ve said to myself over and over for the past week. I didn’t want to make some kind of instant life-long commitment to some guy on, on such short notice.”

“I’m not saying that I’m against, em, lifelong commitment or anything,” Jamie said, “I’m a bit of serial monogamist myself — ”

“Oh, me too!” Annabelle nodded vociferously.

“It was just the part about, ah feck it, I don’t know. Between your Pooka and my aunt, I felt … ” This conversation was a nightmare!

“Backed up against a wall.” Annabelle nodded again, sympathetically. “It’s not like I don’t like you,” she offered, tentatively.

“It’s not like I don’t like you,” Jamie did some vociferous nodding of his own. “I do, I mean, like you. A lot. In fact.”

“Wait’ll I tell all the girls in home room!” Annabelle joked.

“What’s home room?”

“Forget it.”

“Oh,” Jamie said. “Like kids in school, yeah, it’s sad altogether.” But they smiled at each other, and Annabelle folded up the hanky (a hanky!) and put it in her pocket. They sat in silence, companionably, and watched life go by. A soft breeze blew over from the Hudson, and Jersey glittered in the distance. Would it be a nice summer here? She’d never missed an East Coast summer in her life. She might even miss Thanksgiving. Weird.

The hand waving in front of her face made her laugh. “I always come back, have a little patience.” Annabelle turned to him, and sighed. Oh, well. Pooka or no Pooka, she would have liked to have gotten to know him better. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t coming back. Was it? But a guy like him wouldn’t be single for long, not in this town, and even if they kept in touch via email, it wouldn’t be the same, and it would dribble off, and then it’d be awkward if she tried to reconnect if she — when she came back, and —

“It’s especially weird to watch you do that when you’re looking right at me,” Jamie said, and narrowed his eyes. “Were you thinking about me?”

He had almost surprised her into admitting it. “I need to have some secrets.”

He looked at her keenly, and flustered, she looked away. “So. My news. I have news.”

“I was only going to ask.”

“I got an agent. I signed a contract last week.”

“That’s brilliant! Congratulations! So they get you work and whatever?”

“They’ve already go me work. Big money work. The pressure — ”

“Ah, you’re very good, you’ll have no trouble at all — ”

“Thanks. I’m excited but nervous, too. It’s normal, I guess.” It was exciting to talk about, but it made her nervous, so Annabelle looked up and down the street and changed the subject. “I was chasing Callie.” Okay, so maybe not the best choice, but time to get this out in the open. “She had shapeshifted into a waiter and dumped a trayful of something horrible on the head of my ex’s fiancée. She’s long gone now. I can’t believe she even made me run after her — oh.”

“She sure has a knack for throwing us, em, together,” Jamie said.

“I’m sure she’ll have unpacked all my bags again.” Annabelle stood. This is too uncomfortable, she thought, and we’re not getting anywhere, and it’s making me sad.

“Going somewhere?”

“I’m going to Ireland. For a year. That first big job, for the agency. I’m, uh, going on tour with a musician, writing about him for a book.”

“That’s massive, really cool. Hey. What musician? What musician tours Ireland for — ”

The penny dropped like a bomb. Annabelle watched the envy, disbelief, pain, and pride (Pride? Oh, man!) pass over Jamie’s face like a wave, and he was struck dumb.

“I’ll send you a postcard … ” Annabelle offered, and Jamie took deep breaths, pulling himself together.

“That. Is. Amazing. Janie Mac. When are you off?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” he stuttered. “Tomorrow? Night?”

Annabelle strangled her hands with her purse strap again. “Yeah. And I better get going. I guess.”

He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Em, can I meet you for a coffee or something? Before you go?”

Damn it! “Um, I have a lot to do — call me on my cell? I’ll be running around all day, I have to do some last minute, uh, running around.”

“You?”

“Yeah, well.” Annabelle shrugged, and turned to hail a taxi. “Even I couldn’t get it all together in less than a week.”

A cab pulled up beside her, and Jamie opened the door. Medieval looked good on him, she thought, and moved to get into the car.

“I hope I can see you tomorrow. Before you go.” He reached out and stroked her arm.

“Me, too.” She hesitated in the door of the taxi.

“Speak to you?” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Okay. Bye.” She touched him lightly on the chest, and leaned in a fraction —

And he leaned in a smidgen —

And they kissed each other, lightly on the cheek —

And as the cabbie honked impatiently, neither consciously felt the little spark, the burst of heat, the frisson of a glimmer of something big, much bigger than a harmless peck on the cheek would normally evoke. Neither knew it at that very minute, but as Annabelle’s taxi zoomed away, and Jamie turned to go (where the hell was he supposed to be going?) both would mull it over during the long, sleepless night ahead.

There’s nothing I can do, Annabelle thought, blindly staring out the window as the taxi sped toward Brooklyn.

• • •

Could I? thought Jamie. It’s madness. It’s bonkers. It’s insane …

But, sure …

Chapter Thirty-Four

Annabelle debated taking a taxi all the way home. Since she was as far uptown as she could be without being in the Bronx, it wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly. As lovely as it was in Washington Heights, it wasn’t precisely the place she’d have chosen to go to on her last day in the city, and if she’d known that the German mime lived all the way up here, she’d have met him for the key exchange in Midtown, at the very least. But no, Annabelle: a people-pleaser to the end.

She could take the Number 1 all the way to Brooklyn Heights, but then there was that twenty five minute walk home … and it was hot … and she hadn’t slept at all last night … and she’d been running around all day long … and … oh, the hell with it.

How quickly she was going to get a cab was another matter. She was practically in the suburbs, and taxi culture wasn’t really a part of the vibe on Broadway and 215th Street. She did a time check: 3:15 and all was well. Her flight wasn’t until 8:45, and she wasn’t planning on leaving the house until six, she hated hanging around airports, especially when she was nervous and anxious and excited … and disappointed that Jamie hadn’t called her after all.

She wandered to the curb, phone in hand, and rang her answering machine while she kept an eye out. Nothing. She yawned, and taking off her denim jacket, tied it around her waist. Leaning against a mailbox, she checked her list one more time. The laptop had been ready and she’d gotten a friendly send-off from the guys at Tecserve. She’d seen Kelli, still over the moon with the news that her play was moving uptown, all the way to Ninth Street, for an open-ended run. The German mime, Günter, seemed solid and reliable, and if she remembered correctly from the cast party, was a good dancer as well. She had her e-ticket, and now all she had to do was go home, pack again, and wait for Lorna and Maria Grazia to pick her up.

She checked to make sure that her phone was working by going over to a payphone and ringing herself.

I, thought Annabelle, am acting like a teenager.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, nerves, and worry about Callie, but Annabelle’s belly tingled deliciously at the thought of that silly little kiss on the cheek. Maybe she hadn’t gotten any sleep because of that harmless little peck. Maybe if they had just gone a little bit further, everything would be all figured out and sorted and she could go off to Ireland with a clear conscience.

Maybe if they had just gotten it over with, she wouldn’t have spent the whole day in a haze, wondering what it would be like, how it would feel, to kiss Jamie properly. If that tiny, inconsequential smooch was any indication …

“Callie, if you’re out there somewhere, would you mind sending me a taxi? I really need to get home.”

A yellow cab peeled around the corner of 215th Street and screeched to a halt beside her before she’d even had the chance to raise her arm.

The driver looked dazed, and turned on his meter by rote. He didn’t even blink an eye when Annabelle shouted “Brooklyn, Carroll Gardens,” through the plexiglass. As the taxi tore away from the curb, she leaned her head back against the blue leatherette seat and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, they were well into the hundreds, passing by Columbia University’s lovely campus. Ah, Columbia, thought Annabelle fondly, site of many a drunken revel and rebound. The taxi cruised down Broadway, not a red light in sight, and they were soon passing Lincoln Center, the great fountain in the middle of the square playing host to idling New Yorkers and weary tourists. She’d only been in the place once, with Wilson, to see some opera or something. She couldn’t even remember which one it was, or what she had worn.

That, she thought, is a very good sign.

Times Square. Annabelle leaned forward, watching the lights shift and change and blink and flash, watched the churning crowds gather at every street corner, waved to the people queuing at TKTS for cheap seats for Broadway shows, heard the dissonant sounds of competing buskers and smiled up at the big screen, currently playing Dan Minnehan’s latest video. Ah, coincidence, thought Annabelle. It’s a good omen, anyway.

The cabbie shifted over to Seventh Avenue, and as Annabelle gazed west, she could see flashes of the Hudson River, gleaming in the spring sunlight. Goodbye, Macy’s, she thought as they passed the retail giant’s flagship store. Thanks for not sending me too many nasty letters when I couldn’t pay my charge card, junior year in college!

Goodbye, Madison Square Garden, where that wrestler guy had taken her to a monster truck rally. What was I thinking? She laughed to herself. “What was I thinking!” she yelled out the window, causing a bunch of Knicks fans to holler back in her wake. She laughed again, and the cabbie didn’t even blink an eye.

“Brooklyn?” he asked, “Where?”

“Carroll Gardens. Brooklyn Bridge to Court Street.”

“Okay, lady. Okay.”

Bye, bye Chelsea, goodbye Village, and The Riviera Café and Film Forum and The Ear Inn, goodbye, see ya, goodbye.

Goodbye, Wilson, she mused, without sadness or longing or anger. Goodbye to Wilson and to the Annabelle she’d been when she was with him, goodbye to Connecticut and New England and all those stuck-up girls who had made her feel like an interloper and the banker guys that had tried to hit on her when they got loaded. Goodbye to all those boring company dinners and tiresome bowling parties and who knew what else.

And, to be fair, goodbye to all those boat trips and barbecues and the nice meals by candlelight in new and trendy restaurants in Soho and to slumming it that time on Ludlow Street in Max Fish, drinking Michelob and making out at the bar at four o’clock in the morning. Goodbye to all that, thought Annabelle, fondly, easily, and finally. Goodbye.

Canal Street: see ya! A circus of storefronts bursting with knock-off handbags and backpacks and watches and jewellery and sunglasses and DVDs and CDs and boom boxes and gym socks. Goodbye, Chinatown, and the roast ducks hanging in the window, and the little old ladies shoving all the youngsters out of the way, grappling for oranges at ten for a dollar, the fish stalls with their tanks of lobsters and slabs of silvery trout, the steam emitting from the endless array of lunch counters, restaurants, and noodle shops —

“Hey! I said Brooklyn Bridge!” Annabelle leaned forward and rapped on the glass.

“Manhattan Bridge, quicker, quicker,” said the cabbie, and Annabelle automatically deducted a dollar from his tip.

Oh, Brooklyn Bridge. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea, she thought, and added the dollar back. As much as she loved driving over the beautiful span, it seemed even nicer right now to have a good, long look at it. It rose gracefully out of the bay, and the setting sunlight that gleamed off of Lower Manhattan gilded it delicately. Goodbye bridge … We stayed up all night once, Lorna and Maria Grazia and I, along with a crew of new and nervous freshman the last Saturday before the first term began, stayed up all night and then walked from college to you and crossed you halfway as the sun rose and we all sat down, huddled together in the early morning chill, talking about everything we knew about life, which, at eighteen, wasn’t as much as we thought it was. Bye, bridge, Annabelle thought, and felt a pang of homesickness already.

For simplicity’s sake, she had the cabbie leave her at the corner of Union Street, and she slowly walked the half block toward home. I, thought Annabelle, am a bit of a homebody. I like having all my things in one place … and I haven’t a clue where I’m staying after the first few days, and if I’ll have to lug all my stuff with me everywhere we go, or if they’ll find me an apartment — flat — or something …

She locked her door behind her. It already seemed like she didn’t live there anymore. She’d reorganized her ‘office’ closet and packed up everything she could, including her desktop Mac, and in the process had discovered that she didn’t have as much stuff as she thought she had. Her framed photos and knick-knacks had been stored away, and her CDs had gone into Maria Grazia’s care. The bathroom was stripped down, and her towels were bundled into a box that now sat at the bottom of her bedroom closet. The hardest part was the empty corner that once was the site of her altar.

She’d lugged the broken-down sewing machine out into the street Thursday afternoon; by the early evening, someone had taken it. She’d wrapped up the candlesticks, and the other bits and pieces, but had tucked the altar cloth, the chunk of rose quartz, some incense, and a small ceramic bowl into her luggage. She could set up anywhere, really, and thought that would make a nice new age-y product: Porta-Shrine, the traveller’s sacred space in a bag! Why not?

It seemed pointless to moan that a Pooka who wasn’t even showing itself had yet again unpacked her bags. Annabelle stepped around the clothes and equipment that littered the floor and immediately tucked her e-ticket into her passport. She checked her phone again (nothing) and her email (nope) and figured it was time to let that go. If she was meant to see or hear from Jamie again, she would.

She sat down on her couch and started refolding her clothes. She picked up a sweater and the bulky wool still smelled of the sage she used to love to burn in this place. She held it to her face and breathed deep, and sat back. “Cal? I bet you can hear me. My flight is at 8:45, and I don’t know where you are, or what I have to do. I don’t know if you’re sulking or dead or what. I don’t see why we can’t make a try at loading you in my luggage or something. I have, technically, kissed Jamie Flynn and you are, technically, free to go.”

The silence that filled the flat was deafening. “Callie? I said I wished I could help you, and I know I didn’t do a very good job of it, but I’ll say it again: I wish I could help you. I wish I knew what to do. I wish I could just apologize for you, or take that necklace thing back for you, anything. If I could, I’d do it. I’d kiss Jamie Flynn properly if I had the chance!” She rose, and addressed the ceiling. “I would have liked to say goodbye in person, and to thank you in person too. I know you get all embarrassed and stuff, but I would like to say thanks face to face … ” Annabelle trailed off. I, she thought, am a sentimental sap. “If there is anything I can do, even at the eleventh hour, well, let me know.”

Annabelle went to check the bedroom, one more time. The closet was stuffed to the rafters on the left side, and she made sure that the boxes were well balanced and wouldn’t crash on poor Günter’s head. She’d left the right side clear, even though he’d assured her that he only had jeans, T-shirts, and leotards, and that they didn’t take up much space. She paused and looked at herself in the mirror that hung over her bureau. That’s me, she thought, I’m back. I may even be more ‘me’ then I ever have been before. She smiled at herself, and went back in to the front room to tackle the bags.

Everything had been packed up, and her luggage was very helpfully waiting for her by the door. Annabelle sat on her little couch and waited, in the gathering dusk, for the beginning that was right on the heels of this ending.

• • •

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here to see me off.” Annabelle kept hugging her friends as they prepared to get her and her bags into the car service Lorna had booked. It was a protracted event, as Maria Grazia was worriedly going through each case, ensuring that everything was in its place, and Lorna kept collapsing onto the little sofa.

“You got your ticket? You got your passport?” MG fussed.

“She’d shown it to you five times,” Lorna snapped, her eyes squeezed shut behind her dark glasses, in the grips of the most epic hangover of her life.

“I’m going to miss this place,” Annabelle said, as she gave up and sat down on a ‘dining room’ chair. Maria Grazia was going through her big backpack for the third time.

“You’ll be back before you know it,” Lorna wheezed.

“I — I don’t know.” Annabelle clutched her hands in her lap and fought the urge to say goodbye to her bedroom one last time.

“Oh, no, no you don’t, no projections or premonitions, please, and definitely not of an ominous nature!” Maria Grazia put her foot down. “Magical Pookas are one thing, but predictions of death and destruction are definitely not allowed.”

“No, nothing like that. I may want to stay on a bit, travel, I don’t know.” The plan was so new, it couldn’t even be precisely called a plan. Not at this point. Because, agent or no agent, how stupid would it be to move to Ireland permanently? Annabelle shook her head, and changed the subject.

“I hope Callie remembered to pack my toiletries properly. I had them all wrapped up in my underwear and tucked in shoes and things so they wouldn’t take up too much space. I double-checked her on the computer stuff, but I didn’t want to push it, in case she got insulted and unpacked it all again.” Annabelle sunk down a bit in her seat. “She was so high maintenance.”

“You’ll miss her,” Maria Grazia stated. “Now you have our phone numbers?”

“Maria Grazia! I know your phone number! All of them! Not even by heart anymore, they’re embedded in every strand of my DNA!”

“And you’ll call us when you get in, I don’t care what time it is, right, Lorna? Whatever time you get in, you call.”

“If you call me at any time that precedes nine o’clock in the morning,” Lorna groaned. “I will come over there and will bloody well kill you.”

“If you’d drink more water, you’d begin to rehydrate, and all the little cells in your body that are currently screaming in agony would relax and breathe once more.” Maria Grazia zipped up the backpack. “You call me, you leave a message, maybe the cell phone is best, but you call me, you hear me?” She leaned forward a fraction, and raised her voice. “You can call me, anytime, anywhere, if you need anything, honey, anything at all.”

“Stop screaming.” Lorna moaned.

“I’ll be fine. Maybe we should get all this stuff outside, wait for the car. Lorna looks like she needs some air.”

Maria Grazia picked up every single bag and hurried down the short corridor to the door. Lorna winced at the dull beam of sunlight that edged into the hall, and followed on behind.

Annabelle cast a last look around the place, already nothing at all like the home she’d built for herself, lovingly, over all those years, gently shut the door, and smoothly shot the bolt.

No going back now! she thought, and was suddenly overwhelmingly grateful that her friends were seeing her off.

Except that they weren’t there. Her bags were piled up on the bottom step of the stoop, and Maria Grazia and Lorna were nowhere in sight. Were they out of their minds? Leaving all her stuff, all her worldly goods, just sitting there on the street! Annabelle ran down the steps and looked up toward Court Street. She shifted the small carry-on bag she held, from one hand to the other, before putting it on the sidewalk, and fisting her hands on her hips.

“Some friends!” she huffed, and all of a sudden, the enormity of the job ahead, of the infinite variables of unpredictability, of the challenge of working in a foreign country, of being stuck with cantankerous old Dan Minnehan for an entire year, of having no place to live, nowhere to keep her things, no network of friends and support, no —

The hand on her shoulder snapped her out of her increasingly chaotic thoughts.

Jamie.

Annabelle was speechless.

“Now before you jump all over me for not ringing — ”

Speech was miraculously restored. “I was not going to jump all over you!”

“I saw it in your eyes. C’mere, I had news myself, and I didn’t get the chance to tell you.”

Annabelle frowned. “News? That you could have told me over the phone?”

“You’re very predictable,” Jamie grinned. “It’s adorable.”

I, thought Annabelle — I am not predictable! “Good news?” she asked grudgingly.

“It’s very good news.”

He waited, patiently. Oh, he wants me to ask him. “So?”

“I got that commission thingie, the council thing, and — ”

Annabelle whooped. “That’s fantastic!” She jumped on him in a great big hug. “All that money, and, and the prestige, and your painting! In public! Where everybody can see it!”

“Not everyone,” he protested, slightly mortified.

“Do you have to make a three year plan? Do they give you the money in a big bunch or do they budget it out over time? Do you have to check in with them, or do they pretty much leave you alone? When do you start? Is it like a school year, do you have to wait until Septem — ”

“Annabelle! That’s not important at the minute.”

“Well, okay.” Someone as disorganized as he is, she sniffed, probably found such forward thinking mind-boggling. “Thanks for coming to tell me. If that’s what you came here to do.”

“I didn’t get any sleep last night,” he said, and Annabelle’s belly did a giddy little boogie as Jamie peered down into her eyes.

“Me, neither,” she whispered.

“I don’t know if that little kiss on the cheek was good enough for yer Pooka?”

“She wasn’t around to tell me.” A car horn honked inquiringly; they ignored it.

“I — did you — it was like — ” Jamie took a breath —

Annabelle took a half a step forward. “Yeah, it was.”

“It was kind of — ” Jamie gulped.

Annabelle sighed. “Kind of — powerful … ”

Jamie took a half-step forward. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

They stood, staring deep into each other’s eyes, waiting; an impatient beep beep beep went unregarded.

“I — ”

“Maybe — ”

“No, go ahead,” Jamie said, grateful.

“No, you,” asserted Annabelle.

“No, go on,” Jamie insisted.

“No, no,” Annabelle persisted.

Jamie took a deep breath and prepared to say the thing he’d prepared all day —

Annabelle jumped in. “I told Callie that, if I had the chance, if it still mattered, and if she could still hear me, that if I, um, did get to see you again, if it was meant to happen, that I’d, you know, well, kiss you. I felt really guilty about the whole thing and she really has done a lot for me, whether I like it or not, but I do like it now, and I do like you, too, and, um, if you wouldn’t mind, if it didn’t bug you or anything, I’d like to … but if you don’t, I totally understand, believe me, the whole thing is ridiculous and out of proportion and silly and — ”

“Annabelle,” he said, cupping her face with his hands. “Would you ever stop talking for a minute?”

“Oh,” she murmured. “Okay.”

The moment before … Annabelle would always remember the moment before that first kiss. The moment before any first kiss, the second before the first touch, was always something special, a moment full of promise, of expectation, of heightened awareness, a moment that had had so many small moments leading up to it, moments that had seemed inconsequential, moments that all came together in that first intake of breath, that first touch of lips, those eyes fluttering shut reluctantly as the gap between the two, the lovers, narrowed and narrowed and disappeared.

Annabelle would always remember what it was like to raise her face to meet Jamie’s, the greenness of his eyes as he lowered his gaze to rest on her parted lips, the sights and sounds of the street dulling as their breathing hitched in unison, the way her hands slid around his waist and her fingers linked in the belt loops of his jeans, the way his hands stroked down her face and through her hair, the smell of him, soap and espresso and — charcoal? — and the moment that her eyes finally closed. But even closed, she could see him in her mind’s eye, could sense him all around her as every last thing in her consciousness fell away except for the feel of his mouth on hers.

“If that didn’t do it, nothing will,” he sighed into her hair, as they held the embrace.

“Oh, shit, I’m going to cry,” groaned Annabelle. She leaned back. “I don’t really cry as much as you probably think I do, I don’t, I swear, it’s been an emotional time for me and — ”

Jamie struck upon an effective way to stop the apologia.

Or not. “It’s just that there’s been a lot going on, as you know. And then here you are, seeing me off, and it’s so sweet, and what if we cross each other over the ocean, if you move to Ireland when I’m coming back, if I come back, I mean, I don’t know what I mean, and — ”

Jamie kissed her again.

“Oh, damn it.” Annabelle buried her face on his shoulder. “I think I might miss you.”

“Oh, very nice.” Jamie pretended to look put out. He couldn’t keep it up, and squeezed her, hard. “For someone who makes a living observing, you’re not very observant.” He pointed to her bags.

She looked down at the sidewalk. Next to her luggage lay a large — and apparently poorly packed — backpack. “What’s that?”

“It’s a rucksack.” At her narrowed gaze, Jamie shook his head. “You’ve no sense of humor, I’m thinkin’. I — I’m coming, too.”

“To Ireland?” Annabelle stared at him in disbelief.

“Em, yes.”

Annabelle stepped back and thought about it. There she went, he thought, away with the fairies, as almost every emotion known to womankind passed across her face. This wasn’t as good an idea as he thought, maybe, but how the hell would he have found her if he’d waited? Dublin wasn’t large, but it wasn’t that small either. He tried to imagine chasing her down via email, and he supposed he could have rung her agents but —

“Jamie!” Annabelle laughed, and wound her arms around his waist again. “I’m glad.” I, thought Annabelle Walsh, really like kissing Jamie Flynn.

She leaned forward, up on her toes.

“I won’t even ask how much your ticket cost,” Annabelle said, eventually.

“My brother-in-law works for the airline, so.”

“Oh, very nice.”

“Not as nice as … ” and he leaned down and whispered in her ear.

Annabelle blushed a furious scarlet, and couldn’t imagine what would happen when they actually slept together. She’d probably spontaneously combust.

Beep! Beep! Beeeeeeeeep! “Oh, the car!” Annabelle looked up (up!) at Jamie. “Lorna and MG were supposed to come with me, I don’t know, did they go to the deli or something, Maria Grazia was sure I’ve forgotten something.”

Jamie loaded the bags in the trunk, the driver slamming it shut rather temperamentally.

“They saw me and, em, scampered away,” Jamie replied, as they slid into the backseat of the Lincoln Town car.

“I love my friends,” Annabelle said, and Jamie snuggled her up against him.

Annabelle settled her carry-on bag onto the floor. “I just hope all that was good enough for Callie. She changed the rules on me so many times.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Jamie grinned and they set about doing some revision.

“C’mere,” he said, eventually. “Do you want to live with me in Dollymount?”

“Are you out of your mind or what?” Annabelle shouted without thinking.

“Don’t mind the ego,” Jamie grumbled.

“On minute you won’t even kiss me for a good cause because you think it means we have to — we’re going to — arrgh!” Annabelle ran her fingers through her hair. “Oh, sure, why not? If your sloppiness tortures me too much, I can always move out.”

“Are you serious?” Jamie was gobsmacked, especially as he hadn’t had the idea until two seconds ago.

“Right, okay, yes, what the hell. It’s completely crazy, it’s way too fast, and it’s quite possibly doomed to disaster,” Annabelle smiled. “But we’ll never know until it’s too late.”

“Ah, sure, feck it, why not?” And if that kiss, Annabelle thought, isn’t good enough for that pooka, then nothing is.

The bag at Annabelle’s feet began to rock and wobble all over the floor. She stamped on it quickly, and Jamie stared in disbelief. “Is that? Is it — she — ”

“Umm hmmm,” Annabelle murmured, and edged the bag closer to her feet. “Just act natural.”

“Natural. Right.” Jamie stared at the bag, which vibrated a bit, as if shivering with excitement, and then it calmed down. To an unknowing observer, it looked like any normal item of carry-on luggage.

Annabelle reached down and pulled it onto her lap. “Keep quiet,” she muttered, “Or there will be hell to pay!”

“Never a dull moment,” Jamie quipped, and as the car sped toward JFK airport, he and Annbelle joined hands on the handle of the bag, a bag that, if you knew what to look for, was looking very — very — satisfied with itself.

EPILOGUE

Standing on the edge of the placid lake, Annabelle breathed deeply, the carbon monoxide-free oxygen almost an assault on her lungs. The air was still, and the sun miraculously shone down on the vividly green hills that ringed the body of water. She’d only been traveling with the Minnehan crew for a week and a half, but she well knew that a moment in pure, undiluted sunshine was not to be wasted. If the weather doesn’t kill me, she thought — and then stopped thinking as a perfectly formed daisy was tucked behind her ear.

Annabelle linked hands with Jamie and kissed him ‘thank you’ for the flower. She squeezed his hand, and they moved along the path toward a private spot around the bend.

“It is completely gorgeous here,” she said, taking in the beautiful vista of blossomed trees and fiery yellow furze bushes. “Hey! We should have brought a picnic!” She glanced up at him, feeling naughty. “Or at least a wee blanket? See that little place up ahead off in the trees?” And she leaned up and whispered a plan into his ear that she wished she’d thought of an hour ago.

Jamie stiffened, and put a restraining hand on her arm.

“Not getting all prim on me, are ya?” She leaned back and glared at him.

He nodded toward a clump of trees ahead, and she turned to look. “Come on out of there, Maeve,” he called. “Sure, I can see ya plain as day.”

Out of a thin stand of birches, Maeve grudgingly emerged, her right hand in the pocket of her anorak.

“Howaya,” she grunted, as if lurking about in a grove of trees was a work-a-day affair.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” Annabelle arched a brow. “Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?”

Jamie stared at Annabelle. “You’ve met?”

“Don’t ask.” She put her hands on her hips, and turned to Maeve. “So? It’s all right, then?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, chicken.” Maeve stood as tall as she was able, which wasn’t very.

“Did she make it?” Annabelle demanded. They’d emptied that suitcase as soon as they’d gotten to Dollymount, to find — nothing out of the ordinary. Not taking any chances, Annabelle had left the thing out on the back step all that first night, and in the morning, the case was gone. Jamie had freaked out, but she’d just shrugged it off. It was par for the course, in fairness. “Is Callie safe?” Annabelle peered down at Maeve, whose black hair had been cut to a far less otherworldly length; minus the billowing cloak, she looked the way anyone’s auntie might look.

“Everything’s grand. You did well.” Maeve went on sternly. “Although you certainly cut it a bit closely there. But you showed good sense, leaving that case alone. I might be able to get it back for ya. Can’t vouch for the state it’ll be in.”

“No, you’re all right.” Annabelle shuddered to think. “And the stone thingie?”

Maeve cocked her head at Annabelle, and smiled coyly. “So, you’d like to have a wee look at the marriage stone of the Queen of the Ban Sí?”

After weeks dealing with a celtically mythological supernatural being, Annabelle was not about to be intimidated by somebody’s auntie. She looked around the lake, trying to remember if she’d noticed any standing stones the last time she’d been here. “Is there a circle nearby? I hadn’t noticed.”

Maeve withdrew her hand from her pocket.

In her palm sat a small stone.

Jamie and Annabelle looked at it.

“That’s it?! After all that!” Annabelle thought.

Maeve shoved her hand under Annabelle’s nose. “Look. See what you can see.”

Annabelle looked closer and saw that there were infinitesimal cracks running over the tiny chunk of limestone, an incalculable number of fractures that traced all around the surface. As she continued to gaze at it, she sensed that the number of shards that the piece had broken into was bordering on the endless, and the idea that her Pooka had been the last one, the very last one? Well, she couldn’t get her head around it.

“May I?” And Maeve nodded, flattening her palm further as Annabelle ran a finger over the top of the stone.

A great gust of wind blew up around them, from nowhere, and a sound very like the humming chime that the hazelnut had made at Annabelle’s touch swirled around them almost visibly. The wind blew and blew, and the sound rose and rose, and the sunlight, already bright and hot, shot in sparks off the now churning lake. Jamie grabbed Annabelle’s arm, and she laughed with joy, as a crescendo of sound and air and light built and built and built —

And stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

“So, well done, missus, and keep that nephew of mine on the straight and narrow.” Maeve casually flipped the stone into the lake, and headed away down the path.

She turned back and winked at Jamie and Annabelle. “Sure, it was only an aul’ rock.” She sauntered off, whistling, leaving them to stare down into the water.

“She’s really all right, once you get to know her,” Annabelle mused, and moved to follow her down the path.

“But — but — the stone — it was — is it — that was magic, like!” Jamie was apoplectic, and Annabelle linked her arm through his, and patted his hand.

“Magic isn’t magic,” she soothed, and led him away from the lake.

“What the feck is that supposed to mean?”

Annabelle sighed. “Let me try to explain, but it may take a while. Years, maybe.”

She grinned up at him and he kissed her on the tip of her nose. Making sure the daisy was safe and sound, he said, “I’m listening … ”

About the Author

Susan Conley moved to Ireland for twelve months — fourteen years ago. She studied at Trinity College Dubiln and gained a master in Irish Theatre Studies, parlaying that into a career as a journalist, covering diverse topics, from theatre and the visual arts, to pop psychology and beauty products.

She blogs at www.brightandbeautyfull.com, where she writes about her books and her favorite products (intensive scalp treatments and eyebrow definers are currently top of her list.) She is also the published author of Drama Queen and The Fidelity Project, and is currently working on two new novels, one of which is a sequel to That Magic Mischief. Follow her on Twitter @SusanEConley!

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Secrets by Lynn Crandall

Life After Death

Lillie J. Roberts

Avon, Massachusetts

This edition published by

Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com

Copyright © 2013 by Lillie J. Roberts

ISBN-10: 1-4405-6557-0

ISBN-13: 978-1-4405-6557-1
eISBN-10: 1-4405-6558-9
eISBN-13: 978-1-4405-6558-8

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123rf.com; Jupiterimages Corporation

For my beautiful daughter, and two wonderful sons, for my husband who tolerates clicking keys in the middle of the night, for my friends who’ve provided so much support (both near and in cyber space … especially Lea, Blanche, Linda, and Amy), for all my author friends who provided guidance on my road to publication (you know who you are … and I thank you so much), for my dad and mom, for my sisters, brother, and all of my extended family … but most of all, for my own sweet Grams, who always believed in me and still does (and for sharing her addiction to romance with me). I love you all.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

About the Author

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

Acknowledgments

I want to say thank you to Crimson Romance for taking a chance on a debut author, for providing guidance, and to my editor, Jess Verdi, you have taught me so much and I hope that speaks volumes for your own ability. Thank you all so much.

Chapter One

“Oh, crap!” Chelsea’s feet skated on the slippery surface. She reached out to catch herself, but in grabbing the curtain, she also yanked the cord. The hairdryer bounced against her knuckles before hitting the water, and she froze for a stunned second.

Her nose filled with the stench of burnt flesh and crisping hair. Her heart stuttered, pain tore through her chest. She fell from the tub and landed with a hard thud, her eyes bulging. She clutched at her phone and attempted to draw one last breath, 911 becoming her focus. “I … I … need … ” she choked out as her phone slipped from her grasp. Then her world spun away, maybe forever.

Chelsea Karmikel had died twice in her life, and now, at twenty-three, she’d died a third time.

• • •

Chelsea hated the hospital and hated the patronizing tone of the doctors even more. “Are you sure it’s safe? I won’t have a relapse … or … or something?” Chelsea asked the doctor. Physically, she felt great, other than the burns, the soreness … alright, she felt like death warmed over, but that’s what happens when you toss your blow dryer in the shower. Mentally, however, she thought she was losing it.

“Just call if you have any problems, Ms. Karmikel. And make an appointment with your family doctor.” The old doctor scratched his chin, avoiding her eyes. “Odd, there’s no brain damage, your autonomic responses are great, but we still can’t explain … Well, you never mind. You’re going to be just fine.” He patted her hand condescendingly, like she was some senile old lady, before backing from her room. “Nurse, please have Ms. Karmikel’s neurologist give me a call.” The door eased closed. What was that about? Was her hardwiring fine or not?

She didn’t have a death wish, just lousy karma. Three times she’d knocked on death’s door and three times she’d escaped. What was the saying? Three strikes and you’re out? Maybe this was her final strike?

This last time though, something different happened. And she remembered it, really remembered it, the whole damn thing, like some nightmare out of an old black and white movie. The doctors and the nurses, the way her body looked, but not felt. The scratch of surgical instruments, the stinging scent of sterile antiseptic, and the sounds of voices echoing far away. The dark figure who’d stood in the corner, watching and waiting.

Turmoil greeted her waking hours, and she wasn’t sure if she was insane or brain fried. But now her ears buzzed incessantly, almost the same as voices.

• • •

The old rambling farmhouse in Taylorville, Illinois was the only home Chelsea had ever known. She shivered, wishing someone waited to welcome her besides Grendel, her tabby cat. Her grandmother wanted to move home — why hadn’t Chelsea taken her offer? Maybe living alone wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She screwed up her face and chewed a fingernail. Did she really want to be here?

“Hey, lady?” The cabbie chomped a wad of gum. “We at the right address? You getting out?” He watched her in the rearview mirror. “’Cause the longer we sit here, the more you gotta pay.”

Chelsea glanced at the meter — fifty dollars and change — and the change was jumping higher with every passing moment. “Yeah, it’s the right place.” She fingered the door handle. “Thanks.” She shoved three twenties through the tiny hole between her and the driver, and opened the door. Before it slammed closed, the cabbie roared off, leaving a trail of dust behind.

She glanced up at the house. Was it just bad luck? Or was it something else? Sparrows filled the yard, hunting moths and grubs. She shuddered; there was something about sparrows that always gave her the creeps. Messengers of the dead, her great-grandmother had always said. They squawked at her intrusion, then paid her little attention. At least the sky had cleared.

She walked on the balls of her feet, her souls still tender. Thick bandages covered the tips of her thumbs. A black spot marred her right shoulder blade where the electricity had exited her body. Her skin tingled with a bee-like buzz, tremors quaked through her body. It was all supposed to go away in a few days — at least, that’s what the docs said. But none of it explained the nightmares that haunted her in the hospital, of people she didn’t even know. She hoped it would all go away now that she was home.

Chelsea unlocked the door and stepped inside the white two-story house. A picket fence guarded the front yard and maroon shutters stood like sentries at the windows — she’d always been safe here. “Grendel? Here kitty, kitty … ” she called softly. “Grendel?” The small yellow cat tumbled down the stairs to happily twine around her legs. She scooped the small cat up and buried her face in her purring neck. “Hi, baby.” Grendel responded by mewling loudly and pushing out of Chelsea’s grasp.

Her lips curved into a smile. “Are you hungry?”

Grendel blinked her strange cat eyes before scurrying to her bowl.

Chelsea coaxed her feet to move a few steps, but the buzzing worsened and the whisperings came to her ears, the same as in the hospital.

She cleared her throat, and shook her head. “Don’t be a baby, Chelsea Karmikel,” she chided herself. “Grow up! You’ll be fine, you heard what the doctor said.”

She determinedly continued toward the kitchen. She jerked open the pantry and grabbed a can of tuna. The buzzing increased in volume, more piercing, as the can opener churned. She covered her ears. “I wish this noise would stop!”

Grendel hissed, pulled back her ears, and the fur on her spine spiked in a curved arch.

Puzzled, Chelsea reached for her two-year-old tabby. “What’s wrong with you?”

She stepped towards the cat, but it was too late — Grendel skittered off, sliding across the hardwood floor to land under the couch where she lay growling.

Chelsea sat the tuna on the floor. “Well, when you get over whatever set you off, your tuna’s ready … silly cat.” She headed for her bedroom and the disastrous shower.

“Damn,” she said, as she entered her bedroom. “I forgot to stop and pick up a new blow dryer.” Hers had burned out when it hit the water. She peeled off her jeans and blouse, wincing as she brushed the tender places, leaving on her bra and panties as she turned back down the hallway to the spare room. There was an ancient dryer somewhere.

A pounding on her front door pulled her up short. Chelsea snatched her great-grandmother’s faded afghan and wrapped it around her body. She tiptoed down the stairs, cracked open the door, and peeked through the chain lock. Ozone still filled the air from the chilly morning rain.

“Can I help you?” She lifted her eyebrows at the young uniformed officer. She looked around — the birds had vanished, leaving behind only silence. Where had they gone? She shrugged her shoulders. Strange.

“I hope so, ma’am.” The man removed his cap. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Umm … I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” It was an odd request, but then again this was a week of oddities. Still, she didn’t open her door to just anybody. “Do you mind letting me see your identification?”

“Oh, sure.” He fumbled and flashed her a badge. “Sorry, I haven’t had to do that in a while.”

Reassured, she laughed, embarrassed. “No problem, can’t be too careful these days. As far as I know, there haven’t been any problems around here. So unless your car’s broken down or your radio is out, I don’t see how I can help you, officer.” She smiled. He was kind of cute.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” He smiled back. “I need you to get a message to my wife, Nicole.”

“Oh.” All the cute ones were taken. “I’m sorry, but you seem to have mistaken me for someone else. I don’t know Nicole, Officer … ”

“Sorry, I thought you’d know me. I’m Officer Davies, Brenden Davies.”

“It still doesn’t ring a bell.” His uniform didn’t look familiar — she didn’t think he looked like anyone local. In fact, now that she looked, he didn’t have a radio. Instead, an old-fashioned walkie-talkie was clipped to his belt. Did they still use those?

“Let me bring you my phone,” she offered. “Just one moment — ”

“No, I need you to do this for me. Here’s her phone number.” The young officer rattled off a number. “Please, just call her for me — now if you can. I’m afraid she’s worried.” He looked so lost, Chelsea’s heart went out to him.

She slid the chain free and opened her door wider. “Alright,” hesitation in her voice, “if you can give me a minute? Why don’t you come in?” There was no need to give the old farmers fodder for gossip. She’d seen Officer Davies’s ID, he was probably safe.

“Thanks,” he said, twisting his cap around in his hands. Chelsea could read the signs — he was nervous or scared, maybe both. Again, odd.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.” But he didn’t relax. If anything, his face grew tenser.

She hurried up the steps as fast as her tender feet allowed, and came back moments later in a pair of boy’s grey sweatpants and a pink Dylan tee. Her feet she left bare. “Okay.” She opened her cell phone. “Nicole, right?”

“Right.” He smiled, relief apparent on his face. “Thanks for doing this, you don’t know how much you’ve helped. If you can just tell her I’m fine, and I’ll see her soon.”

“Wouldn’t you like to tell her yourself?” She held out the phone.

“Oh no, I can’t image how, you know, and besides, I don’t want to scare her.”

“Okay … but if it was me, I think I’d rather hear it from you. Did something happen this morning?”

“No, I just want to let her know I miss her.”

“Sure … ” She smiled in confusion, but she dialed the number and relaxed when it was picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” An elderly voice came over the phone.

“Hi, my name is Chelsea Karmikel, would Nicole be available?” She looked at the young officer, and he nodded with a smile, and she smiled back at him.

“Speaking,” the voice returned.

“Nicole Davies?” She looked at the young officer, and doubt filled her voice.

“No, not anymore. Nicole Radley.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Relief flowed through her body. “I meant to ask for Officer Brenden Davies’s wife, Nicole.”

“This is Nicole Davies. Nicole Davies Radley.” The voice became adamant.

Embarrassment colored Chelsea’s voice. “Oh, sorry. I guess I misunderstood.” She laughed. “Officer Davies is here at my home, and he wanted me to call his wife, Nicole, to let her know he was fine and he’d see her soon.” Chelsea glanced over at the officer, and he winked at her. She walked in a small circle, her own nerves showing. She began to shiver; it felt like the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. It was probably just the electricity, though, some kind of residual side effect.

“I’m sorry, I … I … I don’t understand. My Bren died in ’62, in a pile-up out on Highway 29. Who is this? You say there’s someone in your house?”

Chelsea swung around to face the young officer, but he was gone. The front door stood open, only his wet footprints remained, and they were rapidly evaporating.

“I … I’m sorry. I must have gotten it wrong. Please forgive me.” She ended the call, and looked down as the cell phone slipped from her fingers. The buzzing had finally stopped.

Chapter Two

Chelsea walked over to the front door and brushed her fingertips across its grainy surface. It was icy cold, and it caused her to shiver harder. She gave it a little shove and it squeaked closed. She rested her back against the door surface and slid down to the floor. Then she started to laugh and laugh. She didn’t know if she’d ever stop.

“What the hell’s happened to me?” she demanded to the empty house once her laughter subsided, her cheeks damp with tears. “What the hell’s going on?” She shouted into the quiet, her voice breaking, her lower lip quivering. Grendel poked her head from under the couch. She’d growled and hissed the whole time Officer Davies stood inside the house. She slinked over to Chelsea, and rubbed her furry body over her legs. “Well, now you come out. You could have warned me.”

Grendel looked at her cross-eyed.

Chelsea lifted Grendel to her lap, and rubbed her ears gently. “Do you know what’s going on?” She lifted the cat’s face to hers, rubbing noses, and sighed. “No, I guess you don’t. At least you had sense enough to hide.” Which is exactly what Chelsea wanted to do right now. Hide from the world and pray for a better day tomorrow. She locked the door, picked up the purring cat as her prickly tongue tickled Chelsea’s hand, and carried her up the stairs. Tomorrow she’d buy a new blow dryer. Her shower could wait. She was exhausted; sleep was the only thing she wanted. She fell into bed, taking Grendel with her. She needed the warmth of the small cat’s body more than anything else. Within moments, she was asleep.

• • •

In Chelsea’s dream, Great-Granny was still alive and rocking in her favorite chair, the one now sitting in the corner of Chelsea’s bedroom. Her round lensed glasses perched haphazardly on the end of her nose, reflecting tiny bits of moonlight that seeped in through the open window. Her soft gray curls moved with the mild breeze lifting the curtain. Antique combs stuck in a random fashion kept her thick mass of cottony gray curls from spilling over her shoulders. Great-Granny nodded and smiled at Chelsea’s stunned face.

Chelsea rubbed her eyes, but Great-Granny remained, just the same as when she used to rock Chelsea’s bad dreams away. But Chelsea knew Great-Granny wasn’t there, not really. This was just a dream.

“Child, come mere to your old granny, let me hold you.” She opened her pale arms wide and wrapped them around Chelsea. Great-Granny’s flesh was soft as down; peace came from her touch.

Chelsea was ten years old last time she’d seen Great-Granny alive. The old woman had lived to a ripe one hundred and five years before deciding to make her peace.

And now she was here. Chelsea wanted to pinch herself. It felt so real … and, at the same time, unreal. How could Great-Granny be here, in her bedroom? The rocking chair screaked back and forth as Chelsea slipped to her knees and rested her tired head on Great-Granny’s worn knee. It was cold against her cheek, but welcome just the same. If only it could be real.

“What’s the matter, little one?” Great-Granny smiled her knowing smile. “What’s scarin’ you? Come on now.” She put a chilled hand under Chelsea’s chin and lifted her face until their eyes met. “Cat got your tongue?” Together they smiled, and Chelsea lowered her head back to Great-Granny’s knee.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Chelsea whispered, knowing this was all a dream, a wishful hallucination, probably to be forgotten by the morning.

“Why, child, there’s nothin’ the matter with you. You’re just got the change comin’ on is all.” Great-Granny’s gnarled fingers brushed through Chelsea’s auburn curls. “Been happenin’ to our family since time started. Kind of late for you, child, but you’ll see, it’s all gonna be fine.” Great-Granny pursed her lips and gave her knowing laugh, her bright blue eyes twinkling with knowledge, belying her years and those that had passed since her death. “It’s all about who you are, darlin’.”

“I don’t understand. What kind of change? Maybe I don’t want change.” Chelsea felt childish — and maybe she was.

“Now, child, we’re not always given the choice to make.” Great-Granny gently admonished, then she smiled again. “It’s all gonna be okay, child, you watch. You hush now, it’s time for you to get some sleep.” Great-Granny nodded, gently rocking the chair and humming a tuneless lullaby. Chelsea’s eyelids grew heavy and when the dream became sleep again, it was with Great-Granny’s fingers combing through Chelsea’s hair as she covered her shivering body with the afghan that always rested across Great-Granny’s knees.

• • •

Chelsea awoke with a start the next morning, wrapped in her great-grandmother’s old afghan, sitting in the rocking chair, tired and kinked. She rubbed her cricked neck, then her bleary eyes, before they widened. She glanced around — when had she gotten out of bed? Why the rocking chair? No wonder her neck felt like it’d leaned the wrong way all night. She unfolded herself from the chair. Then she remembered the dream, Great-Granny’s touch … it had all seemed so real.

She could still hear the old lullaby Great-Granny used to hum after she’d had a bad dream, and when she lifted the aged afghan and pressed it to her face, it carried the faint scent of the black licorice Great-Granny had always kept in her apron pocket. Chelsea hadn’t tasted black licorice in years. It was their secret treat, shared between Chelsea and her great-grandmother.

She shook her head. It hadn’t really happened.

It couldn’t, could it?

Chapter Three

If Chelsea hoped clarity would arrive with the early morning light, she was sorrily mistaken. Her ears still buzzed, louder than before. Strong coffee only made her jumpy, her eyes were fuzzy and gummy with the lack of sleep. The buzzing had grown to a quiet roar, making her as crazy as she felt.

She bent over the table, her chin rested in her palm as she watched Grendel devour her breakfast, and she wondered, not for the first time, what was happening to her life.

The paper on the table was three days old, but she folded back the edge and headed for the want ads. Great-Granny’s inheritance wouldn’t last forever. Chelsea’s eyes searched, scanned, always on the lookout for that perfect job. The one where she could put all of her great people skills to work. Ha! Like that was going to happen. Her last job had been as a social worker, but with the cuts to the State’s budget, the job had vanished, along with her income. Now, she was left with a degree in Sociology and little else.

Her finger drifted down the list. “Dishwasher?” She glanced at her hands with her burned thumb, imagined them red and chapped. “Nope.” She continued down the page. “Truck driver?” She couldn’t even drive a stick, let alone shift through eighteen gears. “Nu-uh. Pre-School Teacher … ” At least it put her degree to work, but she was having trouble taking care of herself. She tossed the paper in the recycle bin. The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts.

“Hello?”

“Is this Chelsea Karmikel?” a strong male voice asked, but she’d been fooled by a man yesterday. Today she wasn’t taking any chances.

“Who’d like to know?”

“This is Brad Rearden of Rearden, Rearden, and Lyle.”

Oh. Alarm bells went off — an attorney with a name she did recognize. “What can I do for a group of lawyers, Mr. Rearden?”

“I’m not an attorney, Ms. Karmikel. I’m a private investigator working on a holding for my family.”

“Then what can I do for a private investigator, Mr. Rearden?” She sighed into the phone; this wasn’t on her to do list for today.

“This has to do with a property held by one of our clients. She named you specifically in her will. It’s taken me six months to track you down.” He too sighed. “Can you come into our offices in downtown Springfield sometime today?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but why not?” She threw her hand in the air, her day was getting better and better. The need for moral support ripped through her, and Grams was back from Florida. “I’m visiting my grandmother later today. What time did you have in mind?”

“Let’s say around two this afternoon? It shouldn’t take too long, I just need to verify some information.”

“What kind of information?” she asked, wondering.

“We’ll talk at two.” And the line rudely disconnected in her ear.

Chelsea turned to Grendel, who was twisted, preening the fur on her hind legs. “Well, looks like I get to go downtown today. Think Grams will want to tag along?”

Grendel stopped licking long enough to share her uninterested stare, then returned to the task of washing.

“A lot of help you are,” Chelsea grumped, and thought, I really am nuts, even the cat thinks so.

If she started hearing answers, she was committing herself.

• • •

After her shower in the guest bath (she was avoiding her own), Chelsea drove into Springfield. Grams lived in a small house near Washington Park, but she always called the farm her home. This was their in-town house, hers and Chelsea’s granddad’s. Grams had lived alone since his death.

“Well, will you look what the cat dragged in?” Grams looked over Chelsea’s appearance and ran her fingers over the top of Chelsea’s curls, which were rough and scraggly, fried on the ends. “Don’t tell me this was an experiment with the straighter that went really badly.” Grams’s sharp eyes locked with Chelsea’s. Chelsea knew her grandmother could smell a lie a mile away — she needed to tread carefully.

“Morning to you too, Grams.” Chelsea bent slightly to hug the older woman’s shoulders. “I need to go shopping and I have an appointment today at some attorney’s office. Wanna come?” Looking into Grams’s face was like gazing into a mirror, if not for the years, the same as it had been with Great-Granny. Three peas in a pod, Great-Granny had always said.

“Why, I guess so … Seriously, what did you do? Why’s an attorney need to see you?” Grams propelled Chelsea into the kitchen, tapping her small foot on the tiles. Brewing tea filled the house with the pungent scent of orange peel, Grams’s favorite flavor.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Chelsea shrugged her shoulders, inhaling the comforting scent. Memories of childhood and family gatherings skipped across her memory. “Do you know anyone who can trim my hair? I’ve burnt the ends.”

“No kidding.” Grams watched her edge away. “Let me call Hildie, her daughter’s usually in her shop about now. She’ll trim it up. What the heck did you do?” Grams asked again.

Chelsea cringed and tried to explain the last few days of her strange life.

“And you didn’t call me?”

“There really wasn’t any point. I’m fine. The docs say there’s nothing to worry about.” Chelsea smiled but Grams’s temper was at a slow simmer, and Chelsea knew she had to try a different tactic. “You were visiting Mom and Dad in Florida, and if I would have called you, it would have been the same as calling them. There was no need to scare everyone. It was just another one of my freakish accidents. Sorry, Grams, really.” Chelsea looked contrite, and Grams calmed slightly.

“You’re trying to give me more gray hairs.” Grams patted her steely hair — it couldn’t get much grayer, and they both laughed, breaking the tension.

“Um … Grams? How would you feel about moving back out to the farm?”

Chapter Four

The Rearden family law firm was one of the most prominent and well respected in central Illinois. Chelsea gazed up at the billboard, proclaiming the firm’s 100th birthday. A portrait of Abraham Rearden filled the rest of the space, the founding father of the prestigious firm. He had a handlebar mustache — Chelsea wondered what his descendant would look like with the same curling whiskers, and she started to giggle. Brad Rearden appeared stern in the photo supplied on the firm’s website.

“What?” Grams asked, missing the billboard.

Chelsea pointed up at the skyline. “I was wondering if the handlebar mustache was a family characteristic?”

Grams rolled her eyes as Chelsea giggled once again.

She’d Googled the Rearden family firm; no sense going into the lion’s den unprepared. The firm specialized in criminal justice, accidents, medical malpractice, and on occasion, estate management for the rich and powerful. Their massive office building was rivaled by none — it ate up an entire block of real estate in downtown Springfield. Not that the family wasn’t philanthropic — it donated space to various charities.

Chelsea and Grams continued down the sidewalk to the double glass doors with the monstrous R&R symbol emblazoned upon them. Lyle must not be an important part of the equation. They headed to the second floor. All the offices were glass cubicles, and Brad Rearden’s wasn’t any different. They peeked through the glass — his secretary was the only thing visible, slightly hidden by a short wall leading to the space housing her desk.

Chelsea pushed open the door, and ushered Grams inside the glass cube. “Hi, I’m Chelsea Karmikel. I have a two o’clock appointment with Mr. Rearden?”

The blonde secretary raised her sharp gaze, eyeing her up and down, judged and weighed, or at least it felt like it. “Mr. Rearden’s been expecting you. You’re late,” she replied coolly. Chelsea wondered if her lunch had spilled down her purple tee.

“Only by a couple of minutes. Parking wasn’t easy to find.” She hitched a fist on her hip.

“Fifteen minutes, and we validate with the structure across the street.”

“Well, nobody bloody told me.” But the secretary gave her a condescending lifted eyebrow that said otherwise.

“Please, no explanation is necessary. We make our living waiting for people like you to keep their appointments.”

Chelsea’s face reddened. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to inconvenience anyone.” Why did she feel it necessary to explain herself? Her temper bubbled just below the surface; already she didn’t like Brad Rearden or his snooty secretary.

The woman led her to a well concealed door and opened it. “Mr. Rearden, Chelsea Karmikel.”

Chelsea clasped Grams’s hand, pulling her along into the office.

“I’m Brad Rearden, Ms. Karmikel. It’s nice to meet you.” But his dry voice said otherwise, and when he looked at her, it was with a coldness she’d done nothing to earn. Even from behind his desk, he was a tall man. And handsome. Chelsea guessed that when he was happy, his stormy hazel eyes would light up, his happy laugh lines crinkling beneath his olive tan. Dark hair fell in waves to brush his shoulders and muscles rippled beneath his chambray shirt — this man was no stranger to hard work. He stood and stretched across his wide desk, offering his hand. His grip was warm, sure. But he dropped her hand almost as quickly as he embraced it. A look of bewilderment replaced the coldness for a brief moment.

“Mr. Rearden.” Chelsea pulled back her hand, an odd sensation tingling up her arm. She brushed it down her pant leg, wiggling her fingers. “This is my grandmother, Lara Karmikel.”

“Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk, and he nodded a smile to the older woman. “Mrs. Karmikel.” When his gaze fell on Chelsea, it hardened once again.

Chelsea gazed around the office, which was bigger than it appeared to be on the outside, then back at the man who stood waiting for her to sit. What had she done to provoke his dislike?

“Do we know each other, Mr. Rearden?” Chelsea asked.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” was his subdued reply as he gazed at the papers on his desk.

“Then why do you look like I’ve already left bad taste in your mouth?” She stepped closer to his desk, hand on her hip, temper at a slow boil. “If you’ve never met me before, why do you and your secretary act like I’ve done something terribly wrong?”

“Because, Ms. Karmikel, you’ve taken advantage of someone I loved.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “Someone I’ve been very close to, and yet, I had no idea what she was going to do until after her death.” He screwed up his eyebrows. “Do you even know who I’m talking about? Do you even care?”

First Chelsea’s face paled, then it warmed. “Look, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Why don’t you enlighten me?” Damn it! Who the hell did this guy think he was? Acting like she’d done something wrong. She gritted her teeth. With his holier than thou attitude, impossible demeanor, his unadulterated dislike, was he for real? She seethed, turning around the room before returning to stand in front of him.

“Please.” He gestured toward the chairs.

She leaned on his desk. “I’ll sit when I’m ready. Thank you very much.”

He shrugged his wide shoulders and continued. “My Aunt Deloris met you while you were in the hospital, recovering from some accident.”

“You’ll have to more precise, Mr. Rearden, I’ve spent more time recovering from accidents than I care to admit.”

“You were a young girl, she thought you’d been abused, your face bruised, nose broken. She was a nurse, she helped revive you. She’s told the story so many times, I feel like I was there.” He sighed, rubbed his forehead like he was in pain.

Chelsea’s face colored again, and she swallowed and waved her hand dismissively. “Just another of my freak accidents. Why would your aunt be worried about a girl she met ten years ago? I can assure you, I wasn’t abused. I stepped in front of a baseball bat on the down swing.” Her color deepened to a bright red. “I should have been watching where I was going.” She fidgeted, uncomfortable, his eyes boring into hers.

“It wasn’t so much your condition, but your words that stopped my aunt cold. She’d seen children far worse than you appeared to be, I can also assure you.”

“Then what’s the problem? Why call me to your office?”

“You really don’t know?”

“No, I really don’t.” He was wearing thin on Chelsea’s nerves.

“You haven’t kept in contact, you don’t remember my aunt?” he asked again. Was he trying to rattle her?

“How else can I say it? I’m sorry, I don’t remember your aunt, or too much of anything if you really must know. But, please, share what you think I should remember.”

“You told her my uncle was going to die.”

“Ridiculous!” Her face paled, then she scoffed. “I did no such thing!”

He went on like she hadn’t spoken. “She managed to save Uncle Mick that day, but she always claimed it was you.”

“This is all so silly. It must have happened some other way. I did not know your aunt. I did not say anything about your uncle, whom I don’t know either.” Her voice rose as she became adamant, peering at him with disbelieving eyes, but he still went on with his story, ignoring her words.

“My uncle passed first, about two years later. His heart gave out on him. My aunt passed six months ago. They didn’t have any children — she always claimed that her patients gave her life enough joy, along with my brother and me.” His face reflected the sadness the loss brought.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rearden, I truly am.” Her voice lost some of its hostility and she sank down in the chair next to her grandmother. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I wish I could remember your aunt, I really do, but I don’t.” She gathered herself and nudged her grandmother. “I think we should probably leave. Regardless of what you think, I am sorry for your loss.” She picked up her bag, preparing to make her escape.

“Are you sure you haven’t been in contact with my aunt since your time in the hospital?”

“No, I haven’t spoken to anyone from that time. I didn’t know anyone cared. Why should I?” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rearden, you’ve done nothing but confuse me.” She felt physically ill; what she really wanted was to get out of his confining office before she embarrassed herself. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He stared, his eyes crystal hard. “You really haven’t been keeping in contact?”

“No.” How else could she convince him? “I couldn’t begin to tell you the names of nurses or doctors, except for our family physician. Maybe you should talk to Dr. Millard.” She stood and offered her hand to the man who clearly despised her. He ignored her again, glancing down at his desk.

“She always said you were gifted. You gave her back my uncle’s life. If you hadn’t spoken to her, she would’ve lost him that day.”

“Believe me, I’m a klutz, more clumsy than average, but gifted? No. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She shook her head, sinking back down into the chair. She might as well let him get his whole story out. She sighed in resignation.

He picked up a frame from his desk — a woman and man smiled back from the picture. “She doesn’t look familiar to you?”

Chelsea shook her head, catching her lower lip between her teeth. She didn’t want to say she didn’t recognize the beautiful dark hair woman he obviously loved. “I’m sorry.”

He dropped the photo back to his desk. “That’s too bad, Ms. Karmikel. She left you her entire estate.”

Chapter Five

Chelsea felt the blood drain from her face, and the room spun quicker as his words sank into her confused brain. No wonder he was so angry. “What?” She rose quickly from the chair, nearly knocking it over, and took several halting steps backward. “No. No, I … I don’t understand. It’s out of the question! How could she leave her estate to a total stranger? No, I don’t want it.”

Her grandmother saw Chelsea’s pale face and reached for her hand. “Chelsea?”

“What the hell is going on?” she asked for the second time in as many days. Her face prickled like she was being shot with electricity all over again, and dizziness swamped her. She reached out a hand to steady her stumbling steps before collapsing to the floor.

“Chelsea!” Grams leaned over her for a moment, then turned back to face Brad Rearden. “Get me a glass of water!” she snapped and patted Chelsea’s cheek. “She just got out the hospital and you dump all of this on her? All this nonsense to do with your aunt? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just ask? Where’s my water!” she nearly shouted, anger fighting with panic as her voice cracked.

Brad jumped up and fetched a glass from a nearby pitcher. “Here,” he said nervously.

Grams grabbed a tissue, and patted a little of the water over Chelsea’s pallid cheeks. Chelsea groaned and pushed her grandmother’s hand away. “Here, take a little sip of water,” Grams said. “There, you’re fine.” But Grams’s stormy eyes found Brad’s own widened ones.

“Grams, I’m okay.” Chelsea sat up, head still swimming.

“I didn’t know, she never said,” he stammered.

“Why would she? We don’t know you. Here, give me a hand,” Grams demanded.

Together, they helped Chelsea back to her wobbly feet. “I’m fine, really, it’s just been a rough couple of days.” She dropped down into her chair.

“What were you in the hospital for?” Brad Rearden asked.

“Freak accident, nothing to worry about.” Chelsea put a hand to her spinning head.

“You seem to have quite a few accidents, Ms. Karmikel.” He looked her over skeptically.

“She was electrocuted, knocked her blow dryer into the shower,” Grams explained, but when she said it, it sounded all that much more silly to Chelsea’s ears.

She would be the first one to admit grace wasn't her middle name but not in front of Brad Rearden. He was insufferable. “Grams! Over share!” She glowered at her grandmother who had the decency to look apologetic. “Really, it was nothing. Sorry about that, I’m just a little over tired.” She waved away Grams’s words, and turned her withered gaze back to Brad Rearden. “It has nothing to do with you. Look, Mr. Rearden, I’m sorry, I don’t remember your aunt, and I obviously can’t accept any inheritance. I don’t want it. You keep it.” She smiled with the same coldness he’d greeted them with before she tugged on Grams’s arm. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

“Ms. Karmikel, maybe you should rest for a moment. Honestly, I meant no offense.” He came around his desk.

“Too late, Mr. Rearden, but I think you already know that.” She looked him over like he was some six legged insect, letting him feel the weight of her stare. “It’s obvious you thought I was the kind of person who preys upon those unable to protect themselves, especially the kind and innocent, which you are neither. Now, if you’ll please move, we’ll get out of your way.” She tapped her foot and made to step around him when he didn’t move fast enough.

“Please take my card. We can talk about it again.” He shoved the card into her hand.

“Fine, I have your card,” she muttered, stuffing it into her pocket, gathering her grandmother. “But I don’t want or need anything from you. I certainly won’t need to talk to you again,” she said coldly. “As I said, keep the inheritance, and leave us be.”

“I’m afraid it’s isn’t that simple, Ms. Karmikel,” he called as they exited his office.

“Call my attorney. I’m done here. Mr. Landon Marcus, he’s in the book,” she called over her shoulder. “And Mr. Rearden,” she turned back with an icy stare, “stay away from me … and my grandmother.” She gave him a diamond hard glare as she slammed his office door.

Chapter Six

Brad Rearden stepped from his office to meet the gaze of Sally, his secretary. “Well, I guess she told you.” She covered a smile. “I think we might have misjudged her.”

He stared at the door, wondering what had happened to his well thought out plan. “I think you might be right.” He went back to his office and sat behind his big desk. She couldn’t be what she seemed, she couldn’t be innocent. He’d built up an image of someone not at all like the real person. “Damn, I’ve let myself do it again! I’m a fool!” he said out loud to the empty office.

Sally heard his exclamation and whispered, “Yeah, boss, I guess you are. Maybe we both are.”

Brad stepped back out of his office. “Sal, can you send me the information on the Karmikels? I want it on my laptop.”

“Sure, not a problem.”

He shook his head and gave a tired sigh. “And I guess get her attorney on the line.”

“Right away … and boss?” She looked at him as he ran a hand over his head.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll send her some flowers with an apology for your … attitude … okay? Maybe it will help her cool off.”

“That’d be great, Sal. Maybe I’ll seem less of a heel.”

If he’d ever felt like a bigger cad, he couldn’t remember it. Sometimes he couldn’t help himself, he leaped before he looked. If she hadn’t acted so damn saucy when she came in, then so innocent … maybe he could have controlled himself better. He didn’t even know her, hadn’t a clue what made her tick, and already she was pushing his buttons … in all the right ways … from her auburn curls, sapphire eyes, and damn it to hell, her pert nose, not to mention the attitude. He felt himself redden — he really was an idiot.

Sally called to him. “Mr. Marcus is on line one.”

Great. He picked up the line. “Landon, you’re going to be getting a call.”

“Already had one,” Landon Marcus returned. He was an older man, handling mostly estates. “Chelsea Karmikel doesn’t like you.” He chuckled. “She had a few choice words for your … um … profession. Son, I don’t know what you did, but I’d steer clear of her if I were you.”

Brad rubbed his tired face. “I wish I could. Should I send her check to you?”

“Hey, don’t put me in the middle of this. Just hold off for a few days. Call me then, okay?”

“Sure, I guess a couple more days isn’t going to matter, one way or the other.” Brad looked down at the drawing he’d started on his notepad: Chelsea Karmikel’s eyes.

“Let her calm down, she always had a temper to go along with the hair. Lara too. Lara’s mother, Bee, was the same way.” Landon chuckled. “It’s a wonder you still have your head attached.”

“Yeah, I got that impression too.” He thought about how feisty her grandmother had been, protecting her cub, and it brought a smile to his face. His impression was that Chelsea Karmikel was cut from the same cloth. “Alright, I’ll call in a couple of days. Thanks, Landon.” He eased the phone back onto its cradle.

“Sally?” he called.

“Yeah?”

“Can you get me Chelsea Karmikel’s address?”

Chapter Seven

Chelsea glanced at the car radio. Five o’clock. Great, downtown traffic was going to be an unholy bitch. Fan-tastic. Usually the little yellow Chevy Aveo matched her personality: sunny and friendly. Right now, not so much. She glanced over at Grams. “So are you coming back to the farm or not?”

“Well, since you asked so nice … ”

She winced at the tone she’d used with her grandmother. “Sorry, I’m worn out and scared.”

“What do you have to be scared about?” Grams touched her hand, reassuring her.

“I didn’t tell you everything.” Chelsea squinted out the window. “I had strange dreams in the hospital, more like nightmares, or maybe it was something else.” She sighed tiredly. “I don’t know anymore. And yesterday … ” She swallowed, refusing to meet her grandmother’s eyes. “Yesterday, I think I talked to a ghost.” She laughed abruptly. “Yeah, I’ve so lost it.”

Grams twisted around, her blue eyes focused on Chelsea and the truths she was revealing.

“There’s more about what happened in the hospital, or maybe I should say … about dying.” She laughed again this time in disbelief, not daring to look at her grandmother, not with what she was about to say. “This is beyond belief, I know it’s not possible.”

Grams studied Chelsea, then turned away, but not before Chelsea got a glimpse of the knowledge that shone in Grams’s eyes.

“Are you okay?” Chelsea stole a quick glance. “What is it?”

“I’m fine.” Grams cleared her throat. “Maybe I can help you. I probably should have said something earlier, but we were all hoping … and when you didn’t, we thought … ” It came out as a jumble and Grams exhaled sharply. “I should probably start at the beginning, tell you what I know … I mean about what your Great-Granny used to be able to do … and maybe what you can do too.”

Chelsea slowed the car to a crawl, her heart hammering against her ribs. “What are you talking about, Grams?”

Grams twisted the wedding band around her third finger, her nerves filling the small space inside the car, creeping across Chelsea’s skin like tiny ants, increasing her own nervousness.

“We’ll talk about it when we get home. We should have had this conversation a long time ago, but your parents … well, we didn’t want to scare you.”

Chelsea pulled up in front of the house on State Street. She stared at her fingers, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “What could Great-Granny do, Grams?” She turned to give her grandmother the full weight of her stare.

Grams reached across the small car and hugged her granddaughter. “Come on, help me pack. We have a lot to talk about.”

Grams hurried through the packing and Chelsea dragged the suitcases out to the car.

“Do you remember all those people that used to visit Great-Granny?” Grams asked as she slid back into the car.

“She always said it must have been her magnetic personality.” Chelsea’s lips lifted in the first smile since leaving Brad Rearden’s office.

“Well … ” Grams grinned. “That may have been true. But it might not have been the whole truth.”

• • •

A bottle of white wine sat between Chelsea and her grandmother. Chelsea lifted the glass and took a sip. Grendel wrapped herself around Chelsea’s legs, and she bent to pick her up.

“Tell me what I need to know, Grams.” Chelsea ran her fingers through the small cat’s fur, settling her nerves. She twisted the glass’s stem in her other hand, swirling the sparkling liquid.

Grams looked down her nose at her granddaughter. “It wasn’t me that got electrocuted and then tried to hide it. Had unusual dreams and ghosts visiting, and didn’t bother trying to talk to her grandmother. No,” she shook her head, “it wasn’t me.” She looked at Chelsea and sniffed. “I thought we were closer than that.” Chelsea heard the hurt in her grandmother’s voice.

Grendel yowled at her as if agreeing with everything Grams was saying.

“You’re right, I should have called you. But I was afraid you’d bring Mom and Dad home. There’s no need for them to leave Florida, Mom’s happy there. It was just another silly accident. Chelsea the klutz.” She glanced away and drew an uneasy breath.

“Tell me about the dream,” Grams said as she too sipped the sweet wine.

“Odd that you wanted to talk about Great-Granny, because the dream was about her. She told me I was changing, but not to be scared, and that it’s been happening in our family for as long as anyone can remember.” Chelsea stood and walked around the table, wine glass in her hand. She thought about everything the dream revealed. “When Great-Granny started talking about the changing, I knew I was losing it. I mean, changing into what? A freak? She said one day I’d understand and I was going to be fine. I woke up with her scent all around me.”

“Ah … ” It was all Grams said.

“Ah? What does it all mean? Do you have any idea how crazy I feel? It all felt so real.” She came back around to the chair, and sank down to rest her head in her upturned palm.

“Before we start on that, I need to know what happened in the hospital.” Grams gazed hard into Chelsea’s dark blue eyes. “Apparently there’s more you didn’t tell me.”

“I don’t recall everything before the hospital, but after I remember all too well.” Chelsea closed her eyes and tried to relive the sensations, the crackling snap as she slammed back into her body. “It’s like I was there, but wasn’t. Everything got bigger, brighter, larger than life.” She squeezed her eyes tightly together, memories of death surrounding her. “I smelled the antiseptic, heard the sounds of the emergency room, but my body wouldn’t move. And I wondered if I’d died, wondered if this was how my life was going to end. A stupid blow dryer falling into the shower.” She took a bigger sip of the wine. “My attention was focused on the doctors and nurses hovering over my body. I heard them calling out orders, but I couldn’t feel them. Then, all around me, it brightened even more, and the world narrowed down to a shaft of light.” She choked on the words, but she couldn’t turn them off once she started.

“All the sounds fell away, it was deathly quiet, and something pulled on me like a puppet. When I stepped towards the light, it felt like there was a hard rubber barrier. There was something I wanted to see, someone who waited for me. The barrier was just starting to give when I heard a voice saying it wasn’t my time.” Her eyes gained a far away focus. “It was like the rubber barrier pushed back, and I snapped back into my body. When my body could move again, I fought with the doctors and nurses to leave me alone.” She rubbed the goose flesh on her arms. “Everything hurt all over, my head felt like a soccer ball.” Chelsea gulped what was left of her wine, picked up the bottle, and filled the glass again.

“There was something else there too, something scary, something dark. It was away from the light, but I could feel its tug on me, it wanted me too.” Chelsea trembled.

Grams stood to walk around the table and wrapped her arms around Chelsea to rock her. “But you’re fine now? No after effects?”

She rested her head on her grandmother’s shoulder. “Just scared is all.”

“And the ghost?” Grams asked as she came back to her seat.

Chelsea’s eyes grew darker when she spoke of Officer Brenden Davies. “His wife thought I was some kind of nut or a crackpot. He died more than fifty years ago.” Her throat was thick, her voice broke on the words. “I swear to you, he was standing right by the front door.” She pointed to the living room. “But when I turned around, he was gone.” She’d walked a complete circle, and slid back down into the chair.

“I can’t believe all this is happening,” Grams said, her face pale in the early evening light.

Chelsea wiped her eyes and sniffed. “I’m going freaking crazy.” A laugh bubbled up and out of her throat. “Or are you going to tell me different?”

“Everything is fine.” Grams picked up her hand and rubbed the chilled flesh between her own.

Chelsea gazed up into her grandmother’s blue eyes and asked, her voice soft. “What is that I don’t know, Grams?”

“Those people who came to visit Great-Granny wanted her help. Usually, they’d just lost someone, and everyone knew what your Great-Granny could do, she was so gifted.” Grams’s voice was whisper quiet. Her eyes gazed back into the past. “We never knew until they showed up on the porch and asked for help. Great-Granny helped them the best she could to get on with their lives.”

Grams glanced away, cleared her throat. “Sweetheart, what Great-Granny could do … the gift … well, it can skip generations. There have been strings of seers in our family, and then there have been dry spells.”

The gift? Seers? Skipping generations? What the heck did that mean? “Grams, what are you talking about?”

“Honey, I can’t do what Great-Granny could do, and neither can your daddy. We were hoping neither could you.” Her fingers found the band on her third finger, and the ring slipped easily around in a circle. “When you were three, and nearly died, Great-Granny had a vision. She said you’d be a great seer, even better than she was, and she was very powerful, but she could only help the families, she could only hear the whispers. Offer the hope of the light.”

“Grams, are you feeling okay?” This time Chelsea picked up Grams’s hand and held it limply in her own. All the color had bled from her grandmother’s face.

“Great-Granny helped those families accept a loss. You, Chelsea … you can talk to those who are the lost. You can do so much more.”

“Grams … ” Chelsea wanted to run away, hide. Nothing made sense anymore.

“Now, wait a minute, let’s talk about this before you come unglued. Think about what’s happened to you.”

“Yeah, hallucinations, daytime nightmares.”

Grams’s face grew stern with a look that Chelsea remembered all too well, the one that dared her to say another sarcastic word. “Seers can help the living leave the dead to their next lifetime, and in your case, you can help the dead, the ones who have become lost, those who are scared or who can’t move on.”

“So, the dream I had about Great-Granny … She was really there? Officer Davies, or his ghost anyway, stood at the front door of our home. It’s all true?”

“It would seem so, now wouldn’t it?” Grams lifted her glass, only a single drop of wine swirled in the bottom. “It’s our family heritage.”

Chelsea leaned back in her chair. “Family heritage. Okay, let’s say I believe all this is true and for some reason, I’m one of the lucky few. Why me?”

“Sweetheart, I just don’t know.” Grams shrugged. “I wish I had the answers.”

Chelsea blanched. “I don’t want talk to the dead, I don’t want see them. What if I don’t want any of this?”

“Honey, it’s not your choice. Just think about all those people you could help.”

And she did. Could any of this be true? “Cripes, Grams, can’t you just tell me I’ll be okay after I seek medical help, maybe psychiatric? New medications? I live in a borrowed house, without a job, and I just asked my grandmother to move back in with me because I’m afraid of the dark. And now you want me to believe in ghosts too?”

“That about sums it up.” She smiled at Chelsea, brushed her fingers over the soft skin of her granddaughter’s cheek. “The gift usually makes itself known in adolescence. I guess you’re a slow starter, one of the lucky ones after all.”

“Well, I don’t feel so freaking lucky. Why didn’t this start when I was thirteen then? After my accident? If all this is true, why not then?” Maybe, Chelsea thought, I need a room with a twin beds on the psych ward — one for me, the other for Grams … ’cause we’re both nuts.

Grams shrugged her delicate shoulders. “Maybe your body or mind wasn’t ready to accept all this yet. Who really knows? When you didn’t have … well, you know, visions … . when people didn’t come looking for help, I thought there wasn’t any reason you ever needed to know. Maybe Great-Granny’d been wrong. When those abilities never materialized, I thought why tell you if it wasn’t going to affect your life.” She shrugged again. “I guess I was wrong.”

Chelsea glanced at her grandmother, saw the truth glistening in her eyes, and thought, I wish you’d been right.

Chapter Eight

Brad opened Chelsea Karmikel’s file and paged through the basic information: unmarried, twenty-three years old, born in Decatur, Illinois to mother, Sandra, and father, Jonathan, both living in Florida. She had an older sister, Teresa, twenty-five years old, married to David with two children, Veronica and Oscar, all living in Michigan. He paged down further and found Chelsea’s address: Rural Route 4, Taylorville, Illinois … a farm girl. He printed the page.

He shoved the mouse away as he stared at the information. He’d made an ass of himself; he knew it, she knew it. Now, how to make it better? If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was not admitting when you were wrong. And, damn it, he’d really screwed up this one.

He pushed away from his desk. “Sally, I’m leaving for the day,” he called.

“Okay, but you have an appointment with your brother at five-thirty … ”

“ Bloody hell.” He wanted to make a quick exit, not spend time being grilled by Sam, trying to figure out Aunt D’s will. And how to get around her bequest to leave everything to Chelsea Karmikel. “Can you get him on the phone?”

Sally stuck her head in his office and whispered, “I could, but he just walked in the door.”

Brad shook his head. It was just like Sam to show up early in case he tried to slip away. “Let him in.”

Sally held the door open and smiled in Sam Rearden’s direction, avoiding his eyes, making sure to step away when his hand reached out to brush her arm. Brad knew she only tolerated Sam’s presence because the man was his brother. She disdained even his smallest touch — he just didn’t know why. “Is there anything else I can get for you before I take off?” Sally made eye contact with Brad, letting him see her discomfort.

“No, I’m fine. You go home and enjoy your family.”

“Okay. ’Night, boss.” She sidestepped around Sam one more time to close the office door.

“Sam.” Brad held out his hand, and his brother grasped it. Without thinking, Brad wiped his brother’s touch away — maybe Sal was rubbing off on him. He pointed to a chair, but Sam shook his head. “What can I do for you?”

“I think you know why I’m here. Did you speak with this Chelsea Karmikel?” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and walked across the floor.

“Yeah, I think you know I did. She came in, we talked.” Brad sighed. This wasn’t going to end well, he could already feel it.

“So? Do you think she’s been in contact with Aunt D? Can we handle this thing outside of court?” Sam took a wide, defensive stance, his anger apparent on his face.

Brad scrubbed his face with his hands — he was tired of dealing with this already, and it was such a small amount to worry about, anyway. He glanced over the paperwork on his aunt’s house, with the adjacent field, it was only worth two hundred grand tops, maybe a little more. Small change for the family’s bank accounts. But Sam wasn’t seeing this, and for the life of him, Brad couldn’t figure out why … unless there was something he wasn’t privileged enough to know.

“Chelsea Karmikel hasn’t seen Aunt Deloris in more than ten years, hasn’t been in contact with her. Hell, she didn’t even remember who she was.” Brad opened a drawer and pulled a sheet of paper out, looking over the information. “She seems pretty decent.”

Sam stared at his brother stupidly, like he couldn’t understand him. “Who cares?” He threw his hands up in the air. “She doesn’t deserve to inherit something that shouldn’t belong to her!” Brad could feel Sam’s fury as it filled the space between them. “Why can’t you just fall in step, go along with what the family wants, what I want, just this once?” His shout echoed across Brad’s office.

“Chill, Sam.” He couldn’t understand his brother’s anger, but maybe that was the problem between them — they had grown too far apart, neither cared about the other’s feelings. “Look, you asked me to find out what I could about Ms. Karmikel, and I did. I can’t with a clean conscious let you go after someone simply because you don’t want her to inherit what you think of as yours. I can’t for the life of me figure out why you want it, anyway. You were never fond of staying with Aunt D. You never cared for a life outside of the city.” Not like Brad had — he’d loved the summers spent growing under Aunt Deloris’s guidance. He hurt because D hadn’t confided in him, but she must have had her reasons. He knew one thing — he was tired of the family politics. This was why he distanced his company from them; family politics didn’t gel well with a legitimate enterprise. “Why is this so important to you?” He rubbed his hands across his tired face. This day would not end.

“Because, damn it, that piece of property has been in the family since the turn of the century!”

“Yes, and Uncle Mick and Aunt D bought it from the family with their own money. If you’re that concerned, offer to buy it back from Ms. Karmikel. It’s a small house on a few acres — what’s it worth, two or three hundred thousand?” Brad shook his head in disbelief at this conversation. “Please, the family has that in petty cash!”

He couldn’t understand the importance of something so trivial, not when his aunt was dead. Shouldn’t they be grieving, instead of trivializing? Her loss was like an ache deep in his soul.

“Deloris’s bank account has maybe ten grand after expenses,” he said. “Not worth the trouble to keep it. I don’t understand why the family’s so concerned.”

Sam glanced down at the floor, shifting his eyes away from Brad — a sure tell there was more going on than Sam wanted to admit.

“Shit!” Brad threw himself back into his chair. “You better make this freaking damn good, because if you used me … damn it, I’ll kick your ass!” He jumped up from his chair, coming face to face with his brother.

Sam smiled that snake oil smile of his, the one he’d used when they were kids and Brad was going to take the blame for whatever Sam did, the one that juries were so susceptible to. It made him good at his job.

Brad and Sam were polar opposites in every way. Sam was the younger brother, smaller, harder, wirier than Brad, blond and tanned. Brad’s own look was dark and rugged, his hair in perpetual need of a trim, with an easy smile that wanted to tug his lips.

Sam was the same all their years together, Brad realized, he merely grew slicker with age. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Sam tried to keep the peace. “Calm down, okay? It’s not that bad. It has to do with a geological survey.” Sam took a step back, putting distance between him and his brother.

“So the property itself is worth little. You couldn’t give a good damn about it, but the land, it might be worth a fortune, and you’d like to keep that information just between us boys?” Brad raised an eyebrow, and Sam nodded.

“Did Aunt D know?” Brad watched his brother. “She did, didn’t she? She went outside the family, made sure her will remained the way she wanted it.” He paused. “You know, D and I were close, and she didn’t even tell me what she was doing. I have to think there was a reason for that. She trusted me, but I bet the family worked on her. She chose a different path, and I followed her in her footsteps.”

“If this is what Aunt Deloris wanted, and there wasn’t any harassment or deception on the part of Chelsea Karmikel, and I don’t think there was, then I don’t see how you can get around it.” But Brad knew that might not be true — all it takes is a judge who sees things from his family’s wealthy point of view. And Sam was surely aware of that fact as well, though he still seemed to be set on settling the matter out of court.

“Can’t you see beyond what you want, and maybe see what I need?” Sam said. “That property was supposed to come to us. It was supposed to be ours.” He pointed to Brad and himself. “Do you understand what that means? Can’t you use some of that charm of yours to help us both out?” Sam grinned up at his older brother. “Or are you afraid you might get a little dirty?”

“Get out, Sam, before I do something I might not regret.” Brad stared into his brother’s hard gaze.

“This is reality, brother, this is how real life works.” Sam held out his hands. “Face it.”

“I’m done.” Brad walked across the room and opened the door. “Get out … get out now.”

“This conversation stays between us,” Sam said, eyeing his brother.

“I won’t be party to taking advantage of anyone,” Brad grounded out. He left the door open, walked back to his desk, and grabbed his case. “This is why I didn’t want to be involved. Don’t you get tired of this crap?” He gestured to the room around him. “Don’t you ever want to call it quits?”

Sam looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “But you can see the family’s point, right?”

“That’s it? That’s your only response?” Brad shook his head. Why did he bother? “Count me out, Sam.”

“You’re not going to see Ms. Karmikel again, right?” He eyeballed Brad. “If need be, we can let the courts handle it.”

Right, and that would be so fair to Chelsea Karmikel. “Good-bye, Sam. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” Brad stormed from the office.

What had he gotten himself involved in? The fools. They could cost him his license, and they didn’t even care.

Brad entered the small lounge next to Sally’s desk, and glanced up to see Eddie, Sam’s best friend and co-hort, picking his fingernails with the pointed edge of a pocket knife. He sat, tipped back in one of Brad’s office chairs, balancing on two of its legs. The chair slammed to the floor as Eddie’s black eyes found Brad’s.

“Eddie.” Brad acknowledged with a frown. Eddie Vinner. What Eddie and Sam had in common Brad couldn’t understand. Their parents frowned on the friendship since its beginnings, Eddie was not country club material. Sam said Eddie took care of ‘things’ for him, and Brad had to wonder about that too, he was sure Eddie’s morals were loose, there wasn’t much the man wouldn’t do, if the price were right.

Eddie gave Brad a sneering grin, “Brad,” then he snickered. “How’s it hangin’?”

Brad ignored Eddie’s question and continued across the room. “Make sure you leave everything where you found it.” He turned, glaring over his shoulder. “Not like last time.”

“No problemo,” Eddie said with a laugh in his voice, his eyes moved over Brad, leaving him with the feeling of a reptile sizing up its next meal. Eddie raised his hands, “See, nothing up my sleeves.”

Brad left, shaking his head and curious how Sam found the man’s friendship appealing.

• • •

Brad exited the building, cursing as he entered the parking garage. He loosened his tie and then the button holding the collar tight to his throat. “Evening, Carlyle,” he called towards the tollbooth.

“Evening, Mr. Rearden.” Carlyle buzzed the gate, and Brad climbed the stairs to the fourth level to retrieve his Jeep.

As he left the garage, he headed south on Jefferson, to Clear Lake, and then out on freeway, IL29. The Queen CD filled the car with Freddie Mercury’s powerful voice, and the music seeped into his senses, unwinding him after his ordeal with Sam. Why did he let his brother get to him? Or the rest of the family, for that matter? He’d never be a family lackey. Damn! This was the last time he let his PI credentials be dragged into the family business. He’d paid his dues, served his time in the Springfield PD. Now he was supposed to be free to make his own decisions, not bow to family pressures.

Chapter Nine

Taylorville hadn’t changed much from Brad’s beloved childhood memories — skinny dipping in the lake and taking in a few movies in the old Roxy, a one-screen theater with crappy seating. Aunt D’s place was just down the road between Edinburgh and Rochester.

The Karmikel house was a big old farmhouse — worn, but well tended. Flowers filled the yard and big oaks guarded the lane. It looked like a place Chelsea Karmikel might call home.

“Why have I come all this way?” he asked himself. “Just to see where she lived, then turn around and go home?” He felt foolish, yet he needed to have a look inside her life. Needed to try to understand her.

“Why would Aunt Deloris, one of the least gullible people I’ve known, put such stock in her? Why’d she leave everything to someone who claims to be a total stranger? Why would Chelsea Karmikel refuse to take what D had obviously felt she owed her?” He didn’t understand any of this. His Blackberry buzzed with a text from Sal.

“The Karmikel file is complete, but there wasn’t much more available. No tickets or suits, she attended college at Eastern Illinois University before returning home. Her family history is as clean as well. Let me know if I can do anything else.”

He tossed the phone. Why the hell had he driven all the way out here? His family, that’s why. They’d use him up if he wasn’t careful. He thumped his fist on the steering wheel and glanced over at the house one more time before he pulled away, easing over the gravel, and headed toward home.

Chapter Ten

Chelsea saw the Jeep from her living room window, but didn’t think much about it. Lots of people end up lost out here in all the farm fields.

Grams followed Chelsea into the kitchen. “Did you see who was in that car?”

Chelsea opened a can of tuna and poured the contents into Grendel’s bowl. “Nope, I didn’t even look.”

“I think it might have been that private investigator. Kind of looked like him to me.” Grams lifted her eyes to Chelsea’s face.

Chelsea’s temper re-bloomed into full blossom, heat flooding her face. “Nope, wasn’t him,” she denied. “Or, at least, it better not have been.” She angrily stomped around the kitchen, slamming a pot onto the stove, then grabbed the spaghetti noodles and sauce to make dinner. “Are you sure it was him?” She turned to Grams, a grim frown on her face.

“No, can’t say I’m positive, I only saw him for a few minutes. But I swear it looked like him.”

Chelsea added roasted garlic to the sauce and wiped her fingers on a dishcloth, growing angrier by the second. “Where’s that card of his?” She searched her jeans pockets, then snatched her bag and began pulling out items, finally upending the bag to spread the contents across the kitchen table. “Damn it, what’d I do with it?”

Grams reached into the pile and lifted a card from the mess. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

Chelsea gritted her teeth, it was right there on top. “You know it is.” Grams dropped the business card into her waiting palm. “He better not have been spying on me!”

“Now, you don’t know he was spying,” Grams tried to soothe her. Grendel, who must have decided since Grams was home to take her side on every issue, meowed her agreement.

“What else would he have been doing? Coming to ask me for a date?” Chelsea seethed.

“Now, dear, you never know, maybe he was.”

She gave her Grams a death stare. “Yeah, and I’ll rip his head off for that too!”

Grams covered the smile threatening to lift her lips. “I think the lady protests too much.”

“I haven’t even started.” Chelsea grabbed her cell phone, and marched to her bedroom, banging the door closed. The picture frames shook, threatening to crash to the floor.

She flung herself across her bed, dinner forgotten. “Bastard!” she yelled aloud to the empty room. “Thinks he can just walk right into my life! Thinks he can do whatever he wants!” She glanced at the card, mouth compressed in a tight line. Angrily, she punched the numbers into the keypad. He answered on the second ring.

“Rearden,” came his stoic response.

“Mr. Rearden, this is Chelsea Karmikel!” she grounded out. “Were you just sitting in my lane? Spying on me?” Her voice rose higher. “I can’t freaking believe this! This is harassment — you do know that, right?” She paused for a breath, her tirade weakening. She could feel the tears starting to burn her eyes. Damn it!

“Ms. Karmikel, please, I was just … Hell, I don’t know what I was doing!” Brad bit out. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. Please accept my apology.”

A soft sob escaped her throat, she hated crying, and hated that he was listening.

“Chelsea,” his voice softened. “Please, Chelsea. I’m sorry, don’t cry.”

“I … I’m not crying. I’m cooking, and … the … onions are stinging my eyes,” she lied — sort of. She hoped Grams was keeping the kitchen from burning down.

“Please,” he sighed, and she couldn’t tell if he was still driving or not. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Honestly, I’ve made a mess of this whole damn thing. I came to apologize, but lost my nerve. I’m a weakling I guess.”

“I guess you are.” But for the first time since her life had turned topsy turvy, she felt like smiling. She sniffed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your head off. It’s been a rough couple of days.” She hitched a breath, her temper flagging. “You took me by surprise in your office this afternoon.” She remembered the dislike rolling off him in waves. “And I’m sorry I don’t remember your aunt.” A few more tears threatened to leak. “She must have been very nice, a good person.”

“Aunt D and I were kindred souls, the black sheep of the family.” She could feel the smile in his voice. “It caused me trouble more than once.” Then his voice grew serious. “I just want you to know, I don’t usually do this. I don’t usually drive to strange women’s houses … not that you’re strange. I mean, I don’t usually I stalk women either … I’m making another mess.” He sighed and Chelsea smiled at his discomfort.

She laughed. “Nice to know it isn’t just me.” She relaxed a little as his deep voice resonated within her.

“Look, why don’t we start over.” He paused. “Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?”

“Are you sure you want to do that, Mr. Rearden? I mean, I really could be some gold digging bimbo out to steal your aunt’s money.” She wasn’t quite ready to forgive him yet.

“I don’t think so. I should have never thought so. Aunt D was smarter than that. I was letting family politics color my judgment. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

She grinned into the phone. “Okay, Mr. Rearden, we’ll try it your way, a new beginning.”

“Great, I’ll pick you up tomorrow, around six?”

“It’s a date.”

Chapter Eleven

Chelsea couldn’t believe her ears, couldn’t believe the words that had spilled from her lips. She stared at the cell phone resting in her palm. What she’d thought was going to be a battle of wills, turned about to be something … different. She bounded from her bed, in search of her Grams, who was trying to salvage supper.

“Well?” Grams looked at her expectantly. “Did you tell him off?”

“I started to … but then it all came undone. He started apologizing, and I was so mad I started to cry. Then he was apologizing all over again. It was a mess.” She dropped the phone onto the counter and stared at it, suddenly a foreign device. “I think I just accepted a date for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Well, that certainly puts things in a new light, now doesn’t it?” Grams stirred the spaghetti sauce, adding more garlic and basil, filling the house with a delicious scent.

“Yeah, I guess it does. Maybe he’s not so bad after all.”

“I know he’s damn sexy,” Grams said.

“Geez, Grams! You’re not even supposed to notice that!” Chelsea laughed, her face warming with embarrassment.

“Sweetheart, I’m old, not dead.”

• • •

The following day, a bunch of lilac colored carnations arrived with a note — another apology from Brad Rearden. Chelsea tried to dismiss the fact that he’d been thoughtful enough to try to make up for his unkindness. After all, she didn’t need a man’s approval to feel good — but secretly, she was pleased.

But it did nothing for Chelsea’s nerves later that evening, except set them on edge. “Grams, why did I agree to have dinner with a man I barely know? One who decided my character even before we met?” She dropped into one of the chairs, her nervous fingers smoothed her blouse, she ran her hands through her auburn curls, and stood to pace before sitting again, all while sighing .

“Will you settle?” Grams demanded. “It’s only dinner, not a lifetime commitment.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking! How could I agree to go out with the man?” Chelsea shook her head. “I’m my own worst enemy.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad, and he apologized. Besides, he was only trying to look out for what he thought was his aunt’s best interest. He was close to her, you can’t fault him for that.” She shook Chelsea’s hand. “You’d do the same thing for someone you loved.”

“I know,” Chelsea said. “It’s just … I don’t know. I guess it’s just nerves.” She didn’t want to admit she liked Brad Rearden, felt an attraction to the man. She squeezed her eyes in disbelief. What had she gotten herself into?

• • •

Brad’s nerves showed as he smoothed his hair in the rearview mirror. He looked at himself before he opened the door and asked, “Good lord, what am I doing here? Maybe this isn’t a good idea. She’s going to think I’m crazy, especially if I keep talking to myself.” He inhaled a deep calming breath before striding up the steps to her house. “Damn.” He sighed and hesitantly lifted his hand to knock on the door.

• • •

Chelsea opened the door and immediately found herself relaxing. “Hello, Mr. Rearden.” Her traitorous cat, who’d commiserated with her only the night before, fell in love at first sight and began to twine around his legs. “This is Grendel.” She reached down and picked up the cat to rub her velvety ears. “After one of my favorite stories, Beowulf. She was supposed to be a he, but she had us all fooled.” She gazed into Grendel’s cat-slit eyes. “Weren’t you? But her name stuck, and she’s been Grendel ever since.”

“She’s a lovely little lady.” He too rubbed her ears. “Nothing like the monster who maimed and ate the townspeople in the poem.”

“Not many know the story of Grendel and Beowulf.” Chelsea looked at him with new eyes.

“Are you kidding? My aunt and I read it together.” He smiled, and Grendel purred into his hand. “And please, call me Brad. ‘Mr. Rearden’ sounds like we’re not going to be friends.”

Chelsea grinned at him; now he wanted to be friends. “Come in, say hello to my grandmother. And thanks for the flowers, it was very kind of you.”

He followed her into the house, smiling his greeting to older woman. “Nice seeing you again,” he said with real warmth in his voice. “I feel I must apologize, Mrs. Karmikel. I meant no offense yesterday. I hope you can forgive my bad manners.”

Grams blushed like a schoolgirl and smiled back. “Never mind about that, you were just doing your job as a nephew. I imagine you run into some unsavory customers now and again.”

“But it’s no excuse for my attitude. Sometimes I leap before I look.” He gave her an easy smile, and it went a long way to earn a place in Chelsea’s good graces. “Well, we need to go if we’re going to have dinner before midnight.”

Chelsea leaned into Grams, and hugged her. “You’ll be okay?”

“Go on now, I’ve been living by myself for more years than I want to think about.” But Grams hugged her back. “You’re young — go, live, have some fun,” Grams whispered in her ear and kissed her cheek. “Me, I’m taking Grendel and we’re going to bed.” She scooped the little cat up in her arms and turned toward the stairs. “Goodnight, sweetie.”

“See you in the morning, Grams.”

Chapter Twelve

Chelsea twisted her nervous hands together before dropping them into her lap. The restaurant Brad had chosen was popular, but the seat groupings created a sense of intimacy — your own little world inside of the bustling one.

“Mr. Rearden, why did you want to take me out this evening? I told you, I have no desire to accept your aunt’s estate.” Her voice was soft, but she knew he could still hear her.

“Please, call me Brad.” He smiled at her, taking one of her hands that now rested on the table. “I believe my aunt wanted us to meet. It was D’s style.” He laughed. “She’s trying to guide my life, even from the grave. I don’t know why yet,” he winked, “but she was a smart lady. She wouldn’t have left you her estate without a reason. It’s yours as far as I’m concerned.” He became more serious. “I should have never let family politics color my judgment.” His eyes filled with pain. “Aunt D was the only person I was close to, who understood me. I’m going to miss her.”

“Then why don’t you keep her house? You’d know her wishes better than a stranger. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you enjoying what she left behind.” She stole a quick glance at him between her lashes. She shifted her hand and entwined his fingers with hers for a moment before releasing them.

“We can discuss business later. Right now, I want to see what my aunt saw. I’m baffled by her story of your revival, and I don’t understand why she wanted to bring us together, but in my gut, I know this was her plan. She knew I’d check out your background. She knew we would meet.”

“Believe me, I’m nothing special.” Chelsea lowered her eyes, avoiding his gaze, because there was something special about her, if she believed her ears and eyes and what her grandmother had told her. She sneaked a peek up at him.

Brad’s own eyes held mysteries as he gazed back at her with a new thoughtfulness. “Oh, you’re something special, alright, I just haven’t figured it out yet. But I will. I’m in the finding out business.”

“You know, you try to be hard as nails, but you have a soft spot for your aunt.”

He lifted his eyebrows, then a grin spread across his face. “I guess I don’t hide my emotions as well as I thought I did — or maybe it’s just you?”

Chelsea’s face heated to a dark red. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I only meant that you don’t hide your love for your Aunt Deloris — it’s refreshing.”

His eyes glowed with the mention of his aunt. “Aunt D made the world better for me.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “It’s only fair that I try to see what she discovered.” His calloused hand covered Chelsea’s.

The waiter brought their food and for a few moments, silence reigned. “Why do you need to understand me?” Chelsea asked , peering up to find his eyes resting upon her. “Can’t you just accept the fact that somehow your aunt had a moment of tenderness for a young girl, a momentary lapse in judgment?”

He looked away. “No, I can’t. Because I’ve discovered more information, something my family wanted to keep private, something they hid even from me. They couldn’t trust me, and they were right, I wouldn’t, in good conscience, have lied.”

He met her eyes again. “There was a geological survey made of the property, and it had some promising results. That’s why my family wanted to hang on to the property so bad. It wasn’t because of loyalty, love, wanting to preserve Aunt D’s memory. It was all about money they really don’t need.” His disgust was written all over his face. “That's why I just can’t let it go. Aunt D wouldn’t want me to. Regardless, the property is yours.”

Chelsea’s eyes widened, her face paled, she was sure he could hear her heart pounding against her ribs. “But … I … it doesn’t make any difference. I didn’t know your aunt, so I can’t accept her generosity. I can’t.”

“It does matter, don’t you see?” He again picked up her hand. “It was important to Aunt D, so it’s important to me.”

Chapter Thirteen

At that moment, with the innocence shining in Chelsea’s blue eyes, a longing filled Brad’s. He wanted to crush her against his body, protect her from the people who wanted to take advantage of her. Capture her lips, taste the tip of her tongue as it peeked out to swipe across her enticing mouth. The feeling was so strong, he dropped her hand. He had to look away, swallowing back a response that would have exposed his newfound desires. He needed to occupy his hands before they found a way to occupy themselves. His fingers wandered over to hers, brushing against them as he jerked them back, as if she were too hot to touch.

“Let’s finish dinner, then we can talk some more about it. Your food’s getting cold.” But he had no desire to eat, only to consume her. He forced the food to his lips, but it tasted like cardboard.

“I’m not hungry,” Chelsea said. “Would you mind if we just get out of here? We can have coffee at my house.”

“Good, because I’m not hungry either.” He threw enough bills down on the table to cover the tab as well as a generous tip. “Come on,” he held out his hand, “this isn’t what I had in mind after all.” He suffered the burn of her touch as he pulled her to her feet, ushering her outside and toward his Jeep. As he was opening her door, another car pulled up next to them, sexier, sleeker, a Porsche 911. Sam. Brad shook his head. Just what he needed.

The window eased down, and Sam leaned out. “Brother.” He smiled coldly, his icy eyes focused on Brad. “Why didn’t you call, we could have made dinner a foursome.” Brad looked into his brother’s car. A pretty young blonde gazed at him from inside.

“Sam,” Brad returned just as coldly. “We’re just leaving. Enjoy your dinner,” he smiled, “and your lovely companion.” The small blonde in the passenger seat smiled before seeing the frozen look from her date, and her smile faded away.

Sam turned back to Brad as he made to leave. “Wait, you haven’t even introduced me to your date. My, you’ve been hiding her all to yourself.” But his cold eyes said he knew exactly who she was.

“Ms. Karmikel, my brother, Sam,” Brad said.

“Nice to meet you,” Chelsea replied, but Brad saw Sam’s gaze flick over Chelsea like that of a striking snake, like she was a tasty morsel to be swallowed whole.

Chelsea must have seen it too — she visibly shuddered. “Can we get going?” She looked away from the leer in Sam’s eyes, and into the warmth of Brad’s gaze.

“Right.” He helped her into the Jeep, then slammed the door and turned to face his brother. “I want you to leave Ms. Karmikel alone. Do you understand?” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

“Yeah, sure I understand. But you could have told me how good looking she was, then maybe I could understand her irresistible draw; you just can’t leave something like that alone.” Sam shook his head, his stare brushing over Chelsea’s face, then he turned back to his date. His finger trailed down her cheek, leaving a red streak, and she pulled away. Sam dropped his hand and turned back to his brother. “I wouldn’t mind having the sweet Ms. Karmikel for dinner either.” But when Sam looked at Chelsea again, Brad saw the hatred glowing in the deep recesses of his brother’s diamond-hard glare.

He leaned down into Sam’s car. “If I catch you bothering her, you’ll be sorry.”

Sam laughed. “Right, I’m so scared.” He pretended to shudder.

Brad leaned closer. “You should be.” It was more than a threat, it was a promise. He came around to the other side of his Jeep and climbed in beside Chelsea. “We’re out of here.” Gravel flew as the Jeep sped from the parking lot.

“So, I take it that Sam and you don’t get along?” she inquired.

“I wish I could say that was true — it’s more like me and my whole family don’t get along.”

“But you work for them?”

“That was only for Aunt D … and I wish that had gone differently. I don’t work for Rearden, Rearden, and Lyle. They asked me to find you, to do them a favor, and talk to you. I did. It’s done. I have an office in their building, I pay my rent. That’s the extent of our business relationship.” He smiled over at her. “I should probably look for new digs, I’m not going to be very popular.” His face grew more serious. “I knew there was more to it, so it’s my own fault. I guess it’s the whole jumping in feet first problem.” Again he smiled as he watched the road, but he stole quick sideways glances.

“So, you up for some coffee?” She smiled back.

“Sure. In a for a penny, in for a pound.”

“What?”

“Oh, just something Aunt D would say.” He headed back toward the Karmikel home.

Chapter Fourteen

When Brad and Chelsea entered her kitchen, the scent of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies assailed their senses. Grams must have expected them back.

Chelsea stomach rumbled and her cheeks tinted with color. “I guess I’m hungry after all,” she said, embarrassed. “Have a seat.”

“No, let me help you.” He opened the fridge. “You have eggs, provolone, sliced ham … not as good as fresh baked, but it will work.” He grinned, and his strong muscular legs ate up the distance the large kitchen provided. “Where are your skillets?”

“In the pantry.” She pointed. “What are you doing?”

“You’re hungry, I could eat. I made you miss your dinner, so I’m going to make you one of my world famous omelets.” He grinned and ducked his head. “Well, maybe not world famous, but they’re pretty damn good, even if I say so myself.”

Chelsea tipped her head and laughed. “What can I do to help?”

“Nothing. Sit, have some cookies.” He pushed the platter towards her. “No, I take that back — you can make the coffee. My coffee stinks.”

“That I can do.” Soon the kitchen was filled with new scents: hot coffee, toast, and melted provolone.

“I hope we don’t wake your grandmother.” Brad took her hand, leading her to the table.

“Don’t worry, as long as we clean up, she’ll never know.” It was a harmless lie — Grams would be all over her in the morning.

He heaped their plates with the eggs. “Dig in.”

Chelsea took a bite and rolled her eyes. “Mmmm … You’re right, this is delicious. So, tell me about being a private investigator.” She watched him from between her lashes, stealing glances much like he had on the drive back to her home.

“It’s interesting work. Sometimes dangerous, but not most of the time. It’s missing persons, insurance work, and tracking down something for someone. Once in a while, it’s finding out if one spouse is cheating on the other, but not often, it’s not what I got into the business for.” He lifted his glass of juice to his lips, and she watched him take a drink, wondering what it would be like to taste his lips. She shocked herself with the thought — where had that come from?

“What do you mean, sometimes it’s dangerous?” She looked away, over his shoulder, out the window. She thought she saw a shadow. She shivered, maybe it was from the electricity or maybe not, but the buzzing was back in her ears. Her eyes wandered to the window again as she put a hand to her ear.

“Sometimes someone doesn’t want to be found, or the thing I’m looking for has been stolen, you know, and that person doesn’t want to give it up.” He smiled, and followed her eyes to the window. “Is something out there?”

“No. Just shadows, a trick of the moonlight.” She looked uncomfortably away from the window, and back to his hazel eyes. His passion made the blue speckles in his eyes pop into her line of focus.

“You want me to take a look?” he asked, and began to push his chair away.

“No, it’s not necessary. It was nothing. Who taught you to make omelets this good?” She touched his hand, halting his motion.

“Aunt Deloris. I spent many of my summers at her house.”

“She must have been a pretty great lady.” She said quietly.

“She was.” He replied just as quietly and the silence lengthened.

“Would you like to go in the living room … talk, listen to some music, watch a movie?”

“No, I think we should clean up this mess, so I stay in the good graces of your grandmother.”

“You cooked, I’ll clean up.” But, then the shadow flashed past the window again, over his shoulder. Her heart raced.

“Go, find us a movie to watch, it’ll take me five minutes to slip the dishes into the dishwasher.” She pushed him from the room, her heart in her throat. “Go, please.” She opened the dishwasher and picked up the plates to hide her shaking hands.

“Are you sure?”

Her lips stretched into a tight smiled and she nodded.

Chelsea slid the dishes into the washer, then pulled the curtain aside and peered out the window. At first, there was only the pitch black of the night, branches moving with an unfelt breeze. Then a dark figure moved in the gentle wind, clinging to the shadows. Chelsea strained closer to the window, remembering the shaded presence from the hospital. She shivered, pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders. The figure stretched out a hand to her, a ghost-like shimmer glistening in the darkness. Chelsea rubbed her eyes and looked again. Maybe she really was losing it. But the figure grew more intense, and gestured for her to come outside.

What the hell of going on now?

Chelsea retraced her steps and leaned against the dishwasher, telling herself it was just her imagination. But she knew it wasn’t. She crept over to the backdoor and propped it open with her hip.

“Is someone out here?” she whispered, but there wasn’t any response. Only the creaking of the branches and the whisper of the leaves in the trees. Locusts rubbed their wings together, filling the darkness with a life of its own. Goosebumps prickled her flesh.

“Who are you? Why are you standing in my backyard?” Chelsea grew bolder, pushed her hand against the screen, and leaned further out. There was a strange sensation as the locusts fell silent, as if listening for a response as well.

“Chelsea Karmikel?” The figure remained hidden in the shadows. “Is that you? You’re all grown up.” Chelsea couldn’t see who was in the dark, but she could feel the shift in the cool air; the breeze became bolder, drawing her closer. She leaned further out, straining against the darkness to make out the figure.

“Yeah, I’m grown up. Who are you? What do you think you’re doing out here?”

The figured shifted as Chelsea spoke. “I haven’t seen you since you were a little girl! Why, you’re beautiful!” The figure stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Deloris Rearden, we met a long time ago when you were just a girl.”

Chelsea’s world began to spin. She sank to the ground, causing the rear door to slam.

“Chelsea!” It was the last thing she heard before her head met the concrete and her world went black.

• • •

Chelsea awoke, stretched out on the couch, a chilly cloth covering a knot on her forehead. Both her grandmother and Brad watched over her. What was going on now?

She looked around. “What’s the matter?” She rubbed her face groggily, then hissed as her fingers brushed the lump.

“Why don’t you tell us? I heard the door slam. I went to check and I found you lying on the patio, passed out. Does this happen often to you?” Brad sat across from her, his tanned face wearing a new seriousness. “Your grandmother heard the door slam too, and came down to check it out. So what happened?”

Grams sat beside Chelsea as she lay on the couch. “Honey, do you feel okay?” She lifted the cloth from Chelsea’s face to examine the bruise, then laid the back of her hand against Chelsea’s cheek. “You don’t feel warm.”

“I’m okay, really.” She brushed her fingers over Grams’s hand. “That’s weird. Two times in as many days. Wow. That’s probably some kind of record.”

“Chelsea?” Grams asked.

“Passing out like that. I’ve never passed out ever before, but since I met you — ” her wide blue eyes found Brad’s narrowed ones across the room, “ — I’ve done it twice. And let me tell you, I feel like a real twit.” Her face reddened as she thought about it and it made the knot pound all that much harder.

“Maybe I’m just worn out, getting electrocuted can do that to a person.” She laughed uneasily. She knew what had happened, but she wasn’t about to say anything while Brad Rearden was in her living room. “Maybe I should go to bed. I guess I’m overtired.” She stood, but the room wanted to tilt, and she stumbled before regaining her balance. Brad’s hand shot out to steady her.

“I’m so sorry I keep doing this to you, Mr. Re … Brad.” She smiled up at him. “I’m afraid I need to cut our evening short. But I had a great time.”

“I’m sorry too. Are you sure you’re okay?” He watched her carefully, and Chelsea had a feeling he knew she was lying.

“Yeah, I’m fine. More embarrassed than anything. A few ibuprofen and I’ll be as good as new. But you have to admit, I leave quite an impression. You’ll remember this date for a while.”

He grinned at her. “That’s true, you’re unforgettable.” He moved to the front door.

“Here, let me walk you out.” She opened the door and hoped nothing but the night waited outside for them.

“Not necessary.” He turned to her grandmother. “Nice seeing you again, Mrs. Karmikel, next time I hope we’re not scooping Chelsea up off the ground.”

Chelsea felt her face color. “I hope so too.” Then she touched his arm. “Just the same, I’d like to walk with you.” She waited a moment before meeting his eyes — the blue specks were even brighter than before. “I’m okay, really.”

“Alright, but be careful.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Call me if you need anything.” He peered into her eyes. “Anything.”

She saluted, but then felt silly. “Okay, I will,” she spoke with a new shyness.

She leaned into him as he led her to the car. “I really did have a good time,” he said, “even if you passed out … again.”

She laughed. “Always leave a lasting impression. It should be my motto.”

“You did that before you fainted.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek and tipped up her chin, then brought his lips down on hers in a hungry kiss.

The moment his lips touched Chelsea’s, a fire lit in her stomach and burned throughout her body. The kiss deepened when she stepped closer and his arms tightened around her. She broke away from the kiss with her heart pounding. Definitely not what she was expecting from a first kiss.

“Don’t scare me like that again.” He brought her forehead to his lips, and gently kissed the bruise. “Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll try to,” she whispered, then pushed up on her toes and kissed him again before he could slide into his Jeep.

“We’re going to do this again, the right way. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said as the Jeep’s engine roared to life.

Chelsea waved good-bye, went back into the house, and leaned back against the front door.

“Alright, young lady,” Grams said sternly. “You better start talking.”

Chelsea frowned and headed for the back door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Grams called after her.

“There’s someone I need to see, I only hope she’s still here.”

“What do you mean? Who’re you going to talk to in our backyard?” Grams asked, baffled. “Chelsea?”

“Deloris Rearden,” Chelsea muttered to herself, insanity reigned foremost in her thoughts.

Chapter Fifteen

Chelsea eased the rear door open and stepped outside. The night hadn’t changed; the locusts once again continued their creepy song. She inhaled the scent of lilac and tried to relax. Her eyes searched through the growing shadows until she found herself face to face with Brad’s aunt, Deloris Rearden, in the flesh, or maybe it was in the protoplasm … whatever. She lingered close to the back patio, waiting for Chelsea’s return.

“Mrs. Rearden? Deloris Rearden?” Chelsea asked in a choked voice as the figure came into focus. “Is that really you?” The figure appeared to vaguely resemble the dark haired woman in the photo on Brad’s desk.

“Well, of course it’s me. Who else would I be?” she asked as she came closer.

“Why are you here?” Chelsea asked.

Deloris Rearden stepped closer, forcing Chelsea to take a step back. “Chelsea, are you okay?” She reached out a tentative hand. “Oh, you better put some ice on that.”

“I’m fine. Why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?” She really was going to have to believe all of this, wasn’t she?

“Was that Bradley? Do you know him?” Deloris Rearden smiled with pride. “He’s grown into a good, strong man, like I always knew he would.”

“He’s very nice, I like him. So, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” Chelsea asked once more.

“He was always there for me, he’s like my own son,” Deloris went on as if Chelsea hadn’t spoken.

“He loves you too, Mrs. Rearden. He’s talked about you.” She gave up and went with what Deloris wanted to talk about. Maybe you can’t rush a ghost.

“That’s why I’m here, Chelsea, I need you to help him.” Deloris smiled serenely.

“Me? What do you think I can do?” Chelsea’s mouth gaped open. It wasn’t every day you got to meet the dead aunt of a private investigator, maybe boyfriend material, who wanted your help and who’d left you her estate.

“It has to be you.”

“Why?” Chelsea asked.

“Why does it have to be you?” Deloris repeated back to her.

“No, I mean yes, but why did you leave me your estate?” Chelsea looked at the dead woman with incredulity.

“So you could help my Bradley.” She smiled at Chelsea, as if she should know what she needed with all of her inborn knowledge. “It all comes back to you. Because I knew you were special, and Brad would have never understood, he’s so stubborn, I had to make him search for you.”

Chelsea looked at Brad’s aunt, then shook her head. If you’re going to have conversations with the dead, she thought, you can’t really expect it to make all that much sense. Then again, maybe that’s why it didn’t make sense. Dead people don’t talk. And she was utterly, truly, completely insane.

Deloris laughed. “Chelsea, I’m real, go ahead, touch me.”

Without thinking, Chelsea reached out her hand to touch the woman standing before her. Deloris Rearden’s chilled flesh felt real enough. Chelsea jerked back her hand with a shiver. “Before I go completely crazy, why are you here? Why me?”

“Do you know my Bradley’s family?” Deloris asked, her eyes following Chelsea as she turned to pace. “They’re not all good people. That brother of his, Sam … I know I should love him. But he’s nothing like his brother, there’s something growing inside him … ” But she didn’t finish her thought. She faded for a moment, then came back into focus and started again. “I should have been on guard, but I wasn’t, it’s my own fault. You know, Sam was the sweetest little boy.” She seemed to drift away again, her image shuddering, if that was possible, and turning greenish. Then she beamed. “I knew you could help my Bradley, no one but you.” She wandered a little further away before Chelsea caught her attention again.

“But how do you know that? Why me?” Chelsea asked. She had trouble taking care of herself, and now a dead woman wanted to save her nephew. She needed saving herself. And what did Brad need saving from, anyway?

“Because, sweetie,” Deloris Rearden stepped closer and reached out with her chilly fingers to cup Chelsea’s cheek, “you’re the one with the power.” She stepped toward a glowing on the horizon. Her voice became dreamy, and she turned one last time. “I know you don’t believe me … I’ll be back to … ”

Just then, Grams leaned out the door. “What are you doing out here? You know I can hear you talking to the dark, don’t you?”

Chelsea turned. “One minute, Grams, and I’ll be inside.” She turned back to face Deloris, but she’d vanished. No evidence that she’d ever been there except for the ghost of an image left imprinted in Chelsea’s retinas and the feel of Deloris’s chilled touch upon her cheek. She rubbed at the spot where the ghostly fingers had rested.

“Grams, you’re not going to believe what I’m going to tell you,” Chelsea whispered into the darkness.

“Yeah, well, try me, sweetie.”

Chelsea backed away from the darkness and into the house. “I need a stiff drink and I need to talk.”

• • •

Chelsea climbed up on the step stool, retrieved the bottle of Jack Daniels her father received two Christmases ago, and broke the seal. Dad liked a whiskey sour to ring in the New Year, but it had been forgotten until this moment. She poured two generous portions, sliding one across the table.

“Grams, what else did Great-Granny tell you about her gift because right now, I’m not feeling so blessed.” She tipped the glass back and swallowed the burning liquid. She grimaced; she wasn’t usually a drinker, but this was way weird, even for her.

“What happened, Chelsea? Tell me what’s wrong.”

She lifted her eyes to her Grams’s frightened ones. “I just had a long conversation out on our patio.”

Grams sipped her own drink with a cringe. “I think I might need a little liquid courage right now too.”

“Deloris Rearden, Brad’s aunt, the one who left her estate to me?” Chelsea watched as Grams’s face paled. “I kept seeing a shadow flash by the kitchen window. When I went out to see what was causing it, she stepped out of the shadows. She was real, Grams, I touched her.” Chelsea swallowed the last few drops in the bottom of her glass. She leaned her elbow on the table, rested her tender forehead in her hand. “What am I doing to do?”

Grams picked up the bottle and poured another dollop into Chelsea’s glass. “What did she want?”

“It was bizarre, Grams. She said she wanted me to ‘help her Bradley.’ That’s exactly what she said. Said his family wasn’t all nice people, and I think his brother, Sam, scared her. Hell, he’s as creepy as they come, he scares me too.” She flung back the liquid, it didn’t burn as badly this time. “What am I going to do? What the heck is going on?” She didn’t know if it was the work of the alcohol, the bump on her head, or something else altogether, but even her body buzzed.

“Well, did she say anything else?”

Chelsea glanced at her grandmother with disbelief; obviously Grams didn’t perceive the problem as Chelsea did.

“I don’t know, Grams, I’m going to bed, my head’s achy and I’m tired.” She stood and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “Don’t worry about this mess.” She gestured to the kitchen. “I’ll take care of it in the morning.” She pulled Grams to her feet. “Come on, you too, it’s way past our bedtime.”

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning arrived with a booming headache. Grendel rubbed her head along Chelsea’s cheek, and meowed with the need to be released from the bedroom. “Hey you, not so loud … ” Chelsea groaned as she held her pounding head in both hands. Never again would she down glasses of Jack in rapid succession, she vowed. Especially after a night spent talking to ghosts.

She crept down the stairs and entered the kitchen, expecting to find Grams. Instead, she found Deloris Rearden waiting patiently, sitting at her kitchen table.

Chelsea gasped. “Mrs. Rearden? What … Why … How come you’re here? Wasn’t last night enough?” She went through the motions of making coffee, and her hands shook as she wondered where Grams was.

She spun around, hoping the visage of Deloris Rearden would be gone, but she wasn’t. In fact, she was folding napkins left from the night before. “Sweetie, why don’t you sit down, we need to have a heart to heart.” She smiled at Chelsea, and patted the chair next to her.

Chelsea stumbled to the table, grabbed ahold of the back of the chair, and slid into it with a quiet thud. It wasn’t often that a dead lady asked for help, and she felt obligated — Deloris Rearden had left Chelsea her estate after all. She shook her head, making it pound harder. What the hell was she thinking?

She spoke, barely louder than a whisper. “Last night, what did you mean by ‘you have the power’?”

“Just exactly what I said. You can save him, help him, you’ll be there for him. He’ll need your strength to face everything.” She nodded her head, and stretched across the table, touching Chelsea’s fingers with her icy hand. “It’s going to be okay, you’ll find your place. You only need to ask him.”

Chelsea lifted her eyes from her hand to find herself alone. The only sound was the gurgling coffee pot and Grendel’s growl from the living room. Grendel was going to have to get over having ghosts in the house — it seemed like it was going to be a common occurrence. Chelsea’s hands shook as she picked up her cell. She rummaged inside her bag until her fingers found the card, and slowly she dialed the number.

“Hello?” came the sleepy response.

“How did your aunt die?” Chelsea asked quietly. She didn’t know why she hadn’t asked before.

“Chelsea?” Brad asked into the phone, more alert this time.

“Do you know? Have you checked into how it happened? Lord, what am I saying, of course you’ve checked.” Her head began to clear as the alcohol bled from her system to reveal a stark clarity. “What did you find out?”

“Why? Chelsea, what’s the matter?” He was starting to sound bewildered and annoyed.

“I just need to know, please,” she begged. “How did your Aunt Deloris die?”

“She slipped outside. There’s a pond on her property. If appears that when she slipped, she hit her head on a boulder hidden beneath the water. She drowned out there, all by herself.” He said it like it was the last thing he wanted to relive. “Why? Why did you need to know?”

“There wasn’t any evidence of foul play? No evidence that someone was there with her?” Chelsea held her breath. She really liked Brad Rearden, and now she was probably alienating him with all her weird questions.

“No, no evidence of anything but an accident. What’s this all about, why the questions?”

“Could you come out to the house today?” she asked, but hurried to add, “I’ll understand if you don’t want to. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

He sighed. “What the hell, I don’t have anything pressing, and now I have to know what’s going on.”

She began to relax, listening to the timbre of his voice, his deep tones working on the knots forming in her stomach. For some reason, his voice calmed her, drew her in like a moth to a flame. “Great, why don’t you come for dinner? It’ll make up for cutting our evening short last night.”

“Sounds good. And Chelsea? You better have some answers to my questions too.”

Chapter Seventeen

Chelsea raced up the stairs and knocked on her Grams’s door, poking her head inside. “Grams?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

“I am now. Who were you talking to?” Grams asked.

“Just now? Brad on the phone,” Chelsea said, and smiled.

“No, I mean before the call.” Grendel followed Chelsea into the bedroom, and leaped up on the bed, demanding Grams’s attention.

“She was back again this morning, Grams. Deloris Rearden. And I think I know what she wants.” Chelsea sank down next to her grandmother, resting her head on Grams’s shoulder.

“And what would that be?” Grams brushed her fingers through the soft wisps of Chelsea’s curls.

“I think someone hurt her, someone caused her death,” Chelsea whispered, almost to herself.

“You mean, someone killed her.” Grams grew quiet.

“I don’t know, and I’m almost afraid to find out. Brad’s coming over for dinner. Better get up, sleepyhead. I’ll make us breakfast.” Chelsea scooted out of Grams’s bed, carrying the cat with her, shooing her out the door. “I’m really glad you’re here, Grams. Thanks for everything, for helping me, for believing in me.”

“Sweetie?” Grams called. Chelsea turned back to the door. “Hildie wanted me to head over to her house today — it’s our canasta night.”

“You’re not going to be here?” Chelsea asked, her face falling.

“I can, if you want me to be.”

“No, you go ahead, have fun with your friend.” She smiled. She could handle Brad Rearden on her own — she hoped.

• • •

“So, I had another look at the reports surrounding my aunt’s death,” Brad began as they finished the Caesar salads and baked salmon they’d had for dinner. The scent of fresh cut lilacs mixing with the aroma of mocha coffee filled the kitchen, a gentle breeze stirred the open window’s curtain in a quiet flutter. The sun sank closer to the horizon in the evening sky. “Other than the accident, there’s nothing to be found.” He lifted his eyes to catch Chelsea’s. “Why did you ask? I’ve wondered all day.”

“Who found your aunt? Since she drowned, someone had to find her, call the police.” She looked away; his eyes were too probing.

“It was a neighbor. After Uncle Mick passed, she joined a card club — they look out for each other. When she didn’t make it to the card game, one of her friends drove over to check.” He glanced down at his folded hands. “Now, I’ve answered your questions, how about answering mine?” His eyes followed her movements as she stood, paced around the room, and ended up standing in front of the fridge, moving the magnets around.

Chelsea swallowed, and looked over her shoulder to meet his eyes. “I don’t know how to say this.” She glanced up at the ceiling, trying to find a way to put it into words, praying silently to Great-Granny for strength.

“Something happened to me … hell, even I don’t believe it.” She swallowed, and her cheeks pinked. “When I was electrocuted,” she began again, “it caused this thing that some of my family members are able to do … “ She picked her fingernails, avoiding his eyes. “It seems that it tends to skip generations, some have it, some don’t. Everyone thought I was one of the lucky ones who didn’t have it, until that day.” Her eyes moved over his face, taking in his high cheekbones, his slightly crooked nose, the laugh lines surrounding his hazel eyes.

Brad peered at Chelsea. “I’m still lost, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

She inhaled deeply, and released a huge sigh. “That’s just it, it’s impossible to believe.”

“Hey, just slow down and tell me.”

She paced a few circles around the table, his questioning eyes following her. “I can … ” She looked away from his eyes. “Cripes, this sounds crazy to say … I can … I see dead people.” She squeezed her eyes closed and waited for his laugh or his curse, because that’s what she would have done.

“You mean like in The Sixth Sense?” Brad asked, closing his own eyes.

“Kind of, well, yes, exactly.” She opened her eyes.

He pushed away from the table, his face pale. “You know, if you wanted me to leave you alone, why didn’t you just say so? Just tell me to leave you the hell alone. No, you have to come up this some asinine story … ” His anger showed on his face, but she wasn’t surprised, it was what she expected. “I can’t believe you! So, what? You’ve spoken with my dead aunt? Is that it? Is she here now? Can you see her? Aunt D, if you’re here, rattle the table!” he shouted to the empty room.

“You … ass!” she shouted at him, her eyes full of daggers. “Do you think this is easy for me? That I wanted to tell you … any of this?” She waved into the clear air as she stormed around the kitchen, seething. “Do you think this is how I get my jollies?” She opened drawers, then slammed them closed, jangling the flatware, more pissed at herself than she was at him. “Here, let me rattle the table for you!” She grabbed the table, shaking it with all her might, making her head throb harder. “There! Happy now?” The bruise on her forehead became angry, and she touched it gingerly.

His eyes narrowed, his lips formed in a hard flat line. “What the hell did you expect? Me to jump for joy, to believe every word because it fell from your lips?” He looked at her lips, and she remembered their kiss. She knew he was remembering it too. “What do you want from me?” It was almost a whisper.

“I don’t expect anything.” Chelsea slumped back into her chair, eyes closed. “I’m sorry I bothered you. You can leave now, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind.” Steel filled his voice. He grabbed her hand, dragged her to her feet. His fingers wrapped around her upper arms. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?” And then he kissed her, hard, bruising her lips.

The sad part was that Chelsea wanted Brad to kiss her, to hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay. That he believed her, that this wouldn’t destroy their budding relationship, because without meaning to, Chelsea had come to like this man. But, he also needed the truth, if he couldn’t deal with that, then to hell with him.

She pulled away, wiped a hand across her lips. “No, I don’t care what you think, frankly,” she spat out. This wasn’t what she wanted to say, any of it, but how could she take it back now?

Just then, Chelsea heard Deloris Rearden’s whisper in her ear, as if she were still in the room with her. “Make him understand.”

She shivered and jerked away. Her arms were suddenly icy as if the coldness of a grave had embraced her.

Brad dropped his hands from her arms. He rubbed them as if to warm his chilled flesh, and stared in confusion at her. “What’s wrong with you? You’re as cold as a January day.”

“Nothing, there’s not a damn thing wrong with me. Why are you still here?” She backed away from him. “Leave, don’t bother me again.”

“Fine, I can do that.” He left without looking back.

Chelsea turned away from his retreating back, fat tears rolling down her frozen cheeks. “I have to get out of here.”

• • •

Brad sat in his Jeep, fuming over the confrontation. He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. What the hell was the matter with him? He wanted to understand her, not piss her off. He really seemed to excel at that. Damn it! Why did everything have to be so hard with her? He started the Jeep, then looked back up at the house. The curtain shifted, then fell back into place. What? Now she was watching him, to make sure he left? He turned the car back off. He shook his head, what was he doing?

• • •

Chelsea fled from the house when Brad’s Jeep started. She stalked across the backyard, to the field behind the house, rubbing her arms, chasing the last of the chill away. “Arrrggg!” she shouted, aggravated, to the cornfield. “Who the hell does he think he is?” She stomped near the field in the dimming light, kicking away clots of dirt thrown by the spring planting. Her hands fisted at her sides, her temper at a boil.

She swung back, seething, anger filled her steps as she stormed around to the front of the house. At the same time, Brad was striding to the door. They met on the sidewalk.

He grabbed her and his hands tight on her arms. “What are you trying to pull?” Then he crushed her body to his and captured her lips in another hard, punishing kiss.

She broke away and rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth, wiping his kiss from her swollen lips. Her temper blossomed, challenging him to touch her again.

His hazel eyes blazed. “Don’t.” Then he grabbed her again, kissing just as hard, but softening until Chelsea felt herself responding, her traitorous body wanted the bastard.

Chapter Eighteen

His breathing came hard and fast, and he leaned his forehead against her own. “Why do you have this effect on me? Please make me understand … you can’t mean you talk to dead people, like in ghosts.”

Chelsea shrugged from his arms. She wished he could believe her. But she’d botched the news in her own supremely efficient way. “Do you want to come back in?” It was a soft voice that asked the question.

He hung his head. “Yeah, I guess we need another do over. Let’s pretend none of this happened.”

“I can’t do that, have a ‘do over’, pretend it’s not real.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I can’t because I wasn’t telling tales, or lies, or craziness. It’s the truth. And you can’t — or won’t — believe me.” She turned away to trudge back to the house.

He called out after her, his voice holding a hint of panic. “Wait. Damn it, just wait.” He walked up behind her, turned her back to face him, and lift her face to meet his. “I can … I can try … ” His eyes searched hers. Tears glistened on her cheeks, trailing down to her chin. “Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need.” He cupped her face in his hands, and his thumbs caressed the bruised skin below her eyes, brushing away the tears, but it only made her cry harder. His lips claimed hers in a soft kiss, his tongue brushed her seam until she sighed in surrender, allowing him entrance, and he tasted her. He scooped her up, his lips never leaving hers, and carried her back to the house.

It was Chelsea who broke the kiss. “What are we doing?” She pressed closer to his body, and she brought her lips to his again, tasting him as he had tasted her.

“I don’t know.” He shook his head and lowered her to her feet. “I think maybe I should go.” But his arms curved around her body, claiming her, denying what his lips said. Chelsea could see the want in his stormy eyes, his need to touch her, to feel her.

She nodded, but caught his hand as he made to release her, and drew him further into the house. When they got to the stairs, he stopped her. “What are we doing?” he asked her this time, his eyes begging with stark need.

“I don’t know.” It was her turn to answer. She pulled him up the stairs, pushed her door open, and tugged him into the room. “I don’t know, but I want to find out.”

“I don’t know if this is a good idea … ” He pulled back, an internal struggle crossing his face. “Damn.” He stepped forward again to entrap her lips.

“I want … ” She fingered the collar of his black t-shirt, traced her hands down his well muscled chest, sliding to the waistband of his jeans. She jerked his shirt free and pulled it over his head. Her eyes filled with the expanse of his tanned flesh. A soft brush of hair formed a T down the middle of his abdominals that trailed lower, beyond where her eyes could see. She lifted up on her toes, and stole another kiss.

His calloused hands ran up and down her arms, wrapping around her to crush her closer. “I’ve wanted to do this for ages. You offer something missing from my life, Chelsea.” He caressed the soft fabric covering her breasts, and his fingers found the flesh of her stomach, slowly pushing the fabric out of the way. She lifted her arms, and he tugged the loose blouse over her head, messing her curls. “Damn, you’re beautiful.” His eyes became hazy shadows as they devoured her.

He pushed her back until her legs brushed the comforter, and she tumbled onto the bed. She smiled up at him. He leaned down over her, making her catch her breath, and robbed her of another kiss. Their tongues danced together, exploring, tasting. He captured her face in his hands, grazing his thumbs across her cheeks which filled with soft color. She claimed his thumb between her lips, drawing his eyes to their full red richness. Chelsea pulled him closer until they were stretched out on the length of her bed.

She settled back against the pillows, heart still pounding, and reached across the bed to her iPod. “Hey Jude” filled the small room as Paul McCartney sang. “You like the Beatles?” she asked. She needed to slow down, think about what she was doing, but she didn’t want to, she wanted to feel. Her heart throbbed in her ears; she could taste it in her throat. His fingers traced the soft cup of her bra, and every once in a while, he stroked the pink edge of her areola, causing her body to tingle.

“I love the Beatles.” He pushed up on his elbow, and brought his lips to the tender flesh above the lacy cup, placing small kisses. “And Queen.” He kissed her again. “And David Bowie.” His fingers brushed over the lacy material, lifting it to touch the satiny skin beneath. “Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Jackson Brown too.” He left another kiss, closer to the edge, pushing the cup down ever so slightly, the tip of her rosy bud exposed.

She squirmed away, and stood to look down over his hardened body. “I’ve never had anyone in my bedroom before.” Then she realized how stupid that sounded. “I mean, I’m not a virgin, it’s just I’ve never done this before.” Her face flushed pink, and she thumbed the lock on the door. The bedroom had darkened to shadows. She wriggled out of her jeans, and when she came back to the bed, leaning over him, nothing but her bra and panties remained.

“Here, let me help you,” she said, fingering his fly, and he stopped her hand.

“Chelsea, playing’s fine, but if we go any further, I’m not sure I can stop.”

“That’s good, because I don’t want you to.” And she eased the zipper down, sliding the jeans down his thighs, calves, and to the floor. He dragged her back up on the bed and into his arms.

Chapter Nineteen

Brad’s gaze met Chelsea’s — she held him like a delectable fly trapped within a gossamer spider’s web, and he didn’t care, not one little bit. How did the poem go? “Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly. And he thought, yes, yes he would, even if it meant he was trapped. His hands moved over her smooth flesh, and he gathered her in his arms, pulling her tight against him. “You’re killing me, you’ll be the death of me yet.”

“Not if I can help it.” Chelsea smiled, and stretched up to meet his lips. “I refuse to speak to you if you go ghost on me.” She laughed at her own joke. “The ghosts be damned.”

Brad’s heart pounded harder as his hands begged to touch her. Her scent filled his senses, lured him, embraced him, sweet, fresh, like a spring evening. He inhaled her honeysuckle scent.

The night broke across the sky and moonlight crept through the blinds to give him glimpses of her creamy flesh. She twined her hand in his and brought it to her lips for a gentle kiss. She pushed her fingers through the silky softness of his hair, letting it slip through her fingers. He leaned over her, trapping her lips in a lingering kiss. Chelsea clung to him, and he no longer cared about her weird ability or apparent insanity.

He came up on his knees, her body snug between them, and peered into the oceanic depths of her eyes. “I could get lost in your eyes. The deepest blue I’ve ever seen.” His finger softly traced the contours of her face. His eyes raced back and forth over her flesh. His hands dug into the length of her auburn hair and lifted her head closer to his, and he breathed a sigh as he seized the cherry redness of her lips. Her head dropped back, and he tongued her lobe, kissed down the length of her neck, then lower to find the sweet hollow between her breasts.

He stood, taking her with him, her back against his chest. He danced her across the room and she brushed her hands over his thighs. His hands reached around to cup her, his expert fingers peeking beneath the delicate lace covering, and she moaned. Brad’s heart hammered as his lips worked their way lower, and his hands lifted the lacy cups. Chelsea twisted around and his lips stroked the edge of her areola peeking from beneath the lace, his heart racing with fresh desire.

Heat blazed between them and Brad felt the burn of her flesh, but he no longer cared. If this was death, he could accept it. Chelsea’s finely shaped fingers traced over his biceps, across his flat abdominals to find his maleness, making him harder. His hands curved around her ribs to release the clasp holding the lace firmly to her body. It slipped easily away, meeting her jeans on the floor.

Brad stepped back to admire the sight before his eyes. Only a tiny vee of lace left to conceal Chelsea’s softened core. He held out his arms and she stepped into them. “You’re a feast.” To prove his point, he lowered his mouth to her ruby peaks, marbleizing them with his touch. One hand stroke her back, the other pushed the satiny lace aside, and entered the soft opening at her core. Chelsea stepped in closer, demanding more.

“Lie down with me.” Brad’s eyes wandered over her body, ravenous for another taste of her creamy flesh. He walked her backward to the bed. Together, they fell across it.

Chelsea pushed him back into the pillows, straddling his body. She kissed down his chest, her tongue encircled his tiny buds, evoking a sharp intake of breath. She stole a glance up to his eyes. His hand cupped her cheek and she smiled. She continued to the waistband of his boxers, tugging him free of the constraining fabric, leaving him bare. Her agile fingers wrapped around his hardness, guiding it to her lace covered vee. She slid back and forth over his arousal, until he grabbed her hands, the pleasure almost painful.

“I have condoms in the drawer.” Chelsea waited for him to locate the condoms. “Here, let me. Dayglo. My sister sent them as a gag gift.” She warmed the condom between her hands, tearing open the package to reveal the turquoise colored condom. She rolled it over his length, letting her hands move back and forth before releasing him.

He lifted her, and covered her body with his own. His fingers were impatient, ripping the lacy vee from between her thighs. She guided his demanding mouth back to her rosettes, and he tasted one, and then the other, groaning as he tugged on the reddened sensitive peaks. She caught her breath, her eyes found his and a mixture of need and desire flowed over them.

“Brad, I need … . I want … ” she nibbled her lower lip, “ … all of you,” Chelsea begged as his hand slid between her thighs and his finger entered her. She fisted the sheet into tight balls as he circled her tiny bud until he felt every pulse of her heartbeat.

“I need to feel you close around me.” Brad nudged her thighs further apart, and guided the tip of his maleness to her soft center. He entered her core with deliberate slowness, stretching her wider, and she tipped her hips forward to accommodate more of his hardness. He filled her gently at first, easing every inch into her body. When he was buried as deep as he could go, he pulled back, nearly leaving her empty.

“No, please … ” she bit out, and she pushed herself over his long length.

It was more than his patience could stand, and together they found a frantic rhythm, each taking and giving until there was nothing left. Their bodies twined together, crashing into the waves of desire, each cresting, so close. A tender warmness filled him, making him want to cradle Chelsea closer, to make the heat last, to wring every last drop of desire from her body. A cry fell from her lips, and she wrapped herself tighter around him, quaking with relief. Brad stroked her with renewed gentleness, bringing her again and again, until his own release was found, his throat raw from ragged breaths. Each panted with exhaustion, and Brad fell across her body, his limbs trembling from both the exertion and the strength of his release.

“Will it always be like that?” Brad thought aloud, bringing a throaty laugh to Chelsea’s lips.

“I hope so! That was … I’ve never … ” She colored with embarrassment. “There have been few lovers in my life.”

He silenced her words with another hungry kiss. Though he’d just had her, he wanted her again, all that much more. He would never be sated.

Chelsea sighed, gazing up into his stormy hazel eyes. She smiled, surely seeing fulfillment in their depths. He eased onto his side, arms and legs draped over her body, unwilling to release her, and he snuggled her closer. She nestled her head upon his shoulder. He played with her auburn curls as each regained their breath, heartbeats returning to normal.

“I can’t let you go. I won’t,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “I don’t care … about any of it.” He bent to kiss the top of her head, and his eyes drifted closed, spent.

Chapter Twenty

A mist surrounded Chelsea, and she flung her hands out in front of her, attempting to push through the foggy stuff. Whispers rang in her ears, and her hands clasped around them to stop the noise, her eyes too clouded to see. Where was she? The fog deepened and she began to panic.

“Is anyone there?” she called in a quivering voice. She stepped backward until her back met a rough surface, hard and cold, grainy like cement. Her fingers scraped along the surface, she stumbled around the space, but couldn’t find a door or window … maybe she was in a basement?

She called again. “Why am I here?” The air shifted around her, the hard surface evaporated, and she stumbled, falling backward, before she caught herself. The first touch of icy coldness brushed the length of her leg. She sank down to the ground, and scooted along it, looking for an escape, her fingers investigated the slippery surface with nothing solid to grab ahold of. Chelsea wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them closer to her body. She was chilled to the bone, whether from the atmosphere or her own cold dread, she didn’t know.

Then before her, a light glided through the fog. It came closer and she realized it was a candle, flame flickering, held by a disembodied hand, until a pale visage came into focus. The flame blazed in her irises. She brought her hand up to shield her eyes.

“Girl, what are you doing here? This is no place for the living,” a voice croaked from the figure, rusty from disuse.

“Who are you?” she whispered, eyes squinted against the brightness.

“I’m the Watchman, the crosser of souls, and you shouldn’t be here … unless … are you ready to release your soul?” He stared greedily upon her body.

Chelsea hugged herself tighter. “Where am I?” she whispered, and again she felt the brush of a cold touch, more than a single hand.

The figure brought the candle closer, and she could see his craggy face. “You’re in the Inbetween, girl, the place where unclaimed souls come to find their way, after they escape their mortal existence.” He laughed insanely. “Are you trying to leave your mortality behind?” Again his greedy gaze explored her body and his gnarled fingers reached out as if to touch her. “Only one other living soul has come here … a long time ago now. But here you are, and if you’re not careful, here you’ll stay.” He leaned in closer and his crazed eyes crept over her body. His tongue swiped out, licking his pale lips to leave a glistening slickness. He cackled and waved the candle, and the icy touch fled in its wake. “They’ll be drawn to you, they want what you have. They’ll try to take you. You must leave.” His insane eyes rolled in their sockets, his head swiveled around.

“Sure, just show me how, point the way.” The whispers grew louder now, she could feel the air shift as the others began to creep closer.

The figure looked down upon her and flung his head back to release a gasping laugh, long stringy gray hair flowing out around him like a billow of smoke. He brought his mad eyes back to her face. “Girl, I show the way in, not the way out, you’ll have to discover that for yourself. Same as she did.”

Chelsea had no idea what he was talking about. She only knew she wanted out.

Now, the brush of many fingers drifted across her quivering flesh, attempting to cling with excited need. The whispering roared to fill her ears, like sandpaper scraping over already sensitive skin. She clasped her hands over them in an attempt to keep her waning sanity.

“No!” She felt herself being drawn into a crowd of hands, poked, prodded, flesh tested for firmness. “Please, someone help me!”

“There’s no help for you now, girl,” she heard as the candle’s glow moved further away. “They have you now, you’re theirs.” His mad laugh resounded in her ears. “If perchance you find yourself free, watch out for the others, the terrible darkness, greedier than these poor souls,” he warned before his light drifted farther away.

As the crowd of coldness surrounded Chelsea, she fought, but they were too strong. Fingers enclosed her throat, her nose, caressed her lips, slithered over the bareness of her arms and legs. The last thing she heard was a piercing scream, her own, before she was pulled under, her body no longer her own.

• • •

“Chelsea!” Brad shook her with the force of a small quake. “Chelsea! Damn it, wake up!” Her skin was pale, feverish to his touch. What was happening to her? He gathered her body close, rocked her, his quavering fingers pushed damp curls from her forehead. “Please, Chels, come on, wake up.” Her body began to twist and jerk, her lips opened, but her eyes screwed tighter shut.

“What’s the matter, baby, please let me help you,” he whispered against her ear.

“No one can help me now,” she murmured from parched lips as tears fell from her closed eyes.

He rested his forehead against hers, and spoke to the unseen forces of her nightmare. “You can’t have her, I won’t let you take her.” He pressed her closer. “Leave her alone!” His wild eyes roamed over her body, knowing he couldn’t let her go.

“She’s mine!” he shouted to her empty bedroom.

• • •

As Chelsea collapsed under the press of souls, she heard her name being called from a great distance. “I’m here, I’m here!” she called back, but the voice didn’t come closer. “It’s no use,” she cried to herself. “I’m lost. No one can help me now.” She lost consciousness, only to come awake at the same time. She opened her eyes to the sound of Brad’s hoarse cry.

“She’s mine!”

“Okay, I’m yours,” her voice croaked, and she licked her dry lips. Her throat felt raw, like she’d been screaming.

“Chelsea!” Brad squeezed her, relief apparent in his voice. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. “Cripes, you scared me,” he whispered.

“It’s okay, it was only a dream.” She sighed from within the safety of his arms. “It’s gone now.”

“Yeah, but will it be back?” he asked, and she shuddered.

“I hope it never happens again.” Her flesh quivered all over her body as she buried her head deeper in his chest.

Chapter Twenty-One

Chelsea watched him dress. She didn’t want him to leave, but she didn’t want to stop him either. She sat in Great-Granny’s old rocker, feeling the comfort of the unseen surround her.

“How soon will your grandmother be back?” he questioned, not meeting her eyes. They’d talked about his leaving — he didn’t want to leave her either, but he had to, if only for a few short hours.

“She’ll be home in a couple of hours. I’ll be fine,” Chelsea reassured him.

He stopped, and squatted down in front of her. “Has that ever happened before? Slipping away into an afterworld?” He cupped her face with his strong hands, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones, his eyes a storm of colors, never wavering from hers. They’d been avoiding the nightmare since she told him about it. “I can’t leave like this, I have to know you’ll be okay.” His eyes sought reassurance in her own. She smiled weakly and nodded.

“Afterworld” was the only way Chelsea could describe it, a place where souls waited to be crossed over, or … well, no one said what happened to those found unworthy. Did they stay there forever? If that was the case, there would be some very desperate souls trying to escape that prison. It was horrible. The Watchman had claimed others waited in that hellhole of darkness, ready to consume those who refused to move on. All good reasons to never visit there again.

Chelsea’s breath caught for a moment and she thought, I don’t want to lose him. But what if her weirdness drove him away? Then Brad leaned in with a gentle kiss, and rested his forehead on hers, waiting for an answer.

“No, never, I didn’t even know any of this existed before a few days ago.” She gathered him closer for a hug. “Grams might know something, or maybe she knows someone who does. She and my Great-Granny were very close. Great-Granny would have shared her secrets, especially after … ” Chelsea hadn’t told him about her great-grandmother’s prediction.

“After what?” Brad leaned back.

She gathered her knees onto the rocker and wrapped her arms around them to pillow her head. “When you get back, I think I’ve told you enough of my weirdness for one day.” She smiled, catching his hand. She couldn’t believe he was coming back. That he was willing to try to believe. But when you’ve see with your own eyes, it’s hard to deny.

“I only have to get my laptop, cell charger, a few changes of clothes. If I didn’t need some of the files on my laptop … ” He’d said he wanted her to come back to Springfield with him, but she had things to do too. And one of them was waiting for Grams to return — they needed to have another talk.

He stood, bringing her with him. “I won’t be gone long. Don’t do anything stupid or brave or anything while I’m away.” He winked and dropped another quick kiss on her lips. “Stay away from the ghosts.”

“Count on it.” She walked him outside, and he bent and kissed her one more time.

She watched until she could no longer see the jeep.

• • •

“I don’t know, Grams, it was horrible. I couldn’t get away, it didn’t feel like a dream,” Chelsea said between bites. “If Brad hadn’t been here, if he hadn’t called me … ” She shuddered. “I might have been stuck there, in that place, the Inbetween.”

Her grandmother shook her head. “I don’t remember Great-Granny ever talking about anything like that. But she always said there was more to this world than Heaven and Hell. She talked about souls, saying those who couldn’t accept death became the lost, but she helped the families so they could move forward. It’s not only the souls who can become lost.”

She paused for a few moments, thinking. “There used to be a woman, Great-Granny insisted we visit her … She lived all the way out in the woods. Rowena. Her family didn’t believe in city life, even what we have here. The police tried to force her family to send some of the children to the local schools. The next day, they were gone, uprooted, moved deeper into the wilds.”

“Great-Granny said the souls were drawn to Rowena. She was one of the gifted. We drove for hours looking for the family. We finally found them in the Sangamon Valley River Basin. I could call a few old friends, see if they’re still live around here? Maybe this Rowena knows what I don’t.”

“It’s a plan, anyway, more than I had before.” Chelsea stood, starting to clear the table. “Brad’s coming back tonight, he’s going to stay here for a while, at least until we get things sorted out.”

“Do I need to make up Teresa’s old room, or will there be other sleeping arrangements?” Grams looked pointedly at her granddaughter.

“I … um … Geez, Grams, I’m a grownup.” But her face reddened.

“I know, honey, like I said, I’m old, not dead.” She winked. “But I’ll make up Teresa’s room anyway.”

• • •

“Bradley, I put you in the bedroom next to Chelsea, it used to be her sister’s. Tomorrow, I’ll replace the curtains and the bedding. Pink’s probably not your color.” She smiled.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Mrs. Karmikel. I just need a place to set up my laptop.” He carried his duffel bag into spare room, dropped them to the floor. “My, it is a little pink.” Even the carpeting was a shade of rose.

“Like I said, I’ll try to dress it down a little tomorrow.” She chuckled, but grew serious. “Thanks for taking care of Chelsea. She’s very important to me.”

He smiled back at the older woman. “Me too.” And she was. He didn’t know how it had happened in such a short time, but it had. He was willing to fight for her, to keep her with him.

“Funny how that happened, didn’t think you two were going to get along.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Funny.” But he didn’t think it was funny, not at all. Chelsea Karmikel was his.

Chapter Twenty-Two

That night, after the house settled, Brad opened Chelsea’s door to find her waiting, sitting cross-legged on the bed, shorty pajamas covering her torso and thighs. Heat rushed through him as he took in her appearance, drenched in soft moonlight.

“It took you long enough.” She sprang up from the bed, and came up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him in close. “I missed you,” she whispered, lips close to the soft skin on his neck.

His arms came around her body, lifting her from her feet as he squeezed her tight, eyes closed. “I missed you too.” He sighed. He could relax now that she was back by his side. He bent to brush a soft kiss across her lips. His body wanted more; it was a battle to prevent giving in.

“Hey, we need to talk.” Brad pulled back. “What we talked about this morning?”

“Oh, that.” Chelsea eased out the breath she’d been holding. “What did you want to know?”

“Well, you started to tell me about your great-grandmother. Want to finish it?” He lifted her face to his, but couldn’t resist the cherry ripeness of her lips. His kiss lingered longer than it should have.

“Okay, since you asked so nicely.” She caught her breath and smiled, pushing a few strands of auburn curls behind her ear. “Great-Granny was ‘gifted,’” she shook head, “if you want to call it that … more like ‘cursed,’ in my opinion. She had this premonition that I was going to be a seer, just like her. Well, not exactly, she said I was going to be powerful seer, more powerful than there had been in a long time.”

He nodded. “And?”

“Well, Grams waited for me to … you know, start seeing dead people or for the gift to come, but nothing ever happened, so she thought it never would. She didn’t bother telling me about it, she didn’t want to scare me or worse, have me think my entire family was crazy.” She ran her hands over his chest. “Is that enough for you? Have I totally freaked you out with my family’s weirdness?”

“Honey, ‘freaked out’ and I parted company a long time ago, and I’m still here.” He lifted her chin. “I figure if Aunt Deloris believed in you, I can too. We were the same, she and I.”

“So, happy now?” Chelsea peered up into his eyes, watched him as he thought about what she’d revealed.

“I am.” He gathered her in a hug. “And thanks for letting your Grams stick me in a room that looks like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol exploded in it.”

“Teresa is way girlie. Hey, I tried to get her to let you share my room — this is a concession to propriety.” She laughed as her feet left the floor again only to touch down a few seconds later.

He smiled as his hands fingered her camisole, finding the soft skin of her belly. His hands stroked her ribs. “I’m feeling a little proprietorial right now. You’re mine, all mine.” He flashed her a quick grin. “Did you talk to your Grams today? Tell her what was going on?”

She nodded and told him what Grams had said about Rowena. “She’s going to try some old contacts, see if the family’s still in the area. Maybe she knows more about this than we do.”

“It’s a place to start.”

“She’s going to make calls tomorrow.” Chelsea stifled a yawn. “I need some coffee.”

“I’m exhausted too.” He stretched, pulling her back toward the bed. “Time for bed. I feel all proprietorial again all of a sudden.” His fingers flitted over the shorty pajamas.

Chelsea laughed, stepping back. “Hey.” But then she grew serious. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“What? Are you tired of me already?” His eyes were soft as he gazed into her ocean blues.

“No!” She shouldered him playfully. “I’m just … I don’t know.”

Brad tipped her chin up to force her gaze back into his eyes. “What? You can tell me. Don’t hide from me.”

Her eyes filled and she blinked tears away. “This sounds stupid.” She laughed even as a tear trailed down her cheek. “I’m … afraid, you know, to go to sleep.”

“But you don’t have to be,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’ll be right here, I won’t go anywhere. Come Hell or the Devil, I’ll be right here.”

“I’ve thought about it all afternoon. What if I fall asleep and end up in that place again? What if I can’t get back out?” Her fists bunched the soft fabric of his black t-shirt, panic filling her eyes.

Brad pulled her tight against his chest, her fists between them, but he felt her heart begin to race. He brushed his hands up and down her arms, tried to calm her nerves. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

“How can you promise that?” she whispered, burying her face in his chest. “How can you know?”

“Because.” He lifted her gaze to his eyes again. “If I have to, I’ll come in after you.” He knew she saw the seriousness in his eyes, heard it in his voice. “Besides,” he lips quirked into a smile, tension broken, “you’re not getting off that easy. No escape, no surrender.” She relaxed as she leaned her head onto his chest, and the steady beat of his heart grew faster the longer he held her.

Brad wasn’t kidding when he said he would do anything to protect her, even from her nightmares. It scared him that she was vulnerable, and he didn’t like being scared.

“You’ll stay here with me? All night?” Chelsea stole a glance up at him.

“Yep, not going to go anywhere.” His strong hands rubbed her back, and she relaxed further.

“Let’s go to bed.” She tugged his body, leading him to the bed, the ties at her shoulders slipped, the ribbons of her top coming undone.

His eyes feasted on her soft flesh even as she drew him nearer.

• • •

Chelsea drove while Grams navigated. “They’re supposed to be still in the Sangamon Valley area, right off of twenty-nine. The school has to send tutors to help with the home schooling. Take the first exit to the Sangamon River, follow it till the road ends. It’s on foot from there.” Grams glanced up from the written instructions, while Chelsea watched for the exit.

“How far in do we need to go?” It was early, but the hike might take a bit. She wanted to be home before dark.

“Not far, according to the tutors.” Grams glanced back down at the instructions. “According to this,” she held up a crude map, “less than a quarter mile. There aren’t any real addresses out here, but it’s grown into a compound since Great-Granny visited. I don’t think we’ll have a problem finding them.”

They drove as far as they could before abandoning their car. “Are you sure you’re okay with walking?” Chelsea gazed at her Grams, but she didn’t show any signs of wearing out.

They turned onto a well-worn path. “I’m fine. Shouldn’t be much further anyway.” They walked a bit more, moving farther into the river valley. “I’m thinking … ” Grams turned, “I remember the sound of the river. The house was somewhere right around … here.” They walked through a thick verge of trees, and together they stared at the compound. What was once one house had grown to a hodgepodge of homes linked together by walkways. Near the main house, the sounds of children could be heard. They knocked on the door.

A young child opened the door and backed away. “Grandma! There’s someone here to see you.”

There were sounds of scurrying around, doors closing, shushing noises. Rowena slowly made her way to the front of the home. Her hair was a steel-wool gray, worn loose around her shoulders. Her tired flesh showed age beyond her years. The old fashioned duster hung baggy over her shoulders and around her hips, white gloves covered her hands, reminiscent of Jacqueline Kennedy. Chelsea knew this woman had seen life hard.

“We don’t need no more Social Services. The kids have been going to school, check your records. What more do y’all want?” She leaned into the doorway, blocking the rest of the house from their sight.

Grams held out her hand. “Rowena?”

Rowena squinted. “You. You came here with that old lady. The one who wanted to talk about my visions.”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s been a long time.” Grams’s smile widened. Rowena’s gloved hand grasped her offered one.

“Heard she passed on, she was a real nice lady. Y’all wanna come in? What’s it been — ten years, fifteen?” She held the door open and they stepped inside. “It’s okay, kids, they ain’t with the state. Go on now, go outside and play.”

“Closer to twenty I think.” Grams smiled, and shook her head. “Where did the time go?”

Children appeared from doorways, slinked along the walls, and out the door.

“Sorry ’bout that, it’s nothing against you. They ain’t used to strangers.” Her faced paled for a few moments, and she stopped to catch her breath.

“Oh, it’s alright, we don’t blame them.” Grams waited for Rowena when she stopped. “You need to be careful around strangers these days.” Grams glanced over at Chelsea. “Rowena, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Chelsea Karmikel, Chelsea, this is Rowena Brown.”

She looked Chelsea up and down, then stuck out her hand. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Excuse me?” Chelsea asked, sure her ears had heard wrong. She let her hand slip into Rowena’s gloved hand — it was oddly warm and friendly.

“Said I’ve been expecting you. The spirits told me you’d be coming. Always trust the spirits.” She nodded, and pointed toward the sofa. “You’re the one the old lady talked about, said if you ever came to explain things to you. You see, the spirits only want to be helped or to help, depending on your view, and theirs.”

“Great-Granny talked about me with you? Did you know, Grams?” Chelsea turned to her grandmother.

She shook her head. “I helped Great-Granny find the place, sat with her while she talked to Rowena, but they talked in private too.”

Chelsea wished she’d been there, wished she’d been old enough. But she would have never have understood anyway, she still didn’t understand. It was so odd to find out her great-grandmother had had this other life, one she’d known nothing about, and that she’d talked about Chelsea with a stranger. “Can I ask you something? I mean, it’s going to sound kind of strange.”

Rowena looked over at Chelsea and grinned. “Like what I do ain’t strange enough.” She chuckled. “Yeah, go ahead.” She eased the gloves off her pristine hands, pale and finely boned. The rest of her body looked hard worked, but her hands told a different story.

“I had this really weird dream, only maybe it wasn’t a dream. In it, there were all these hungry souls. And a Watchman who was supposed to guide them, show them the way. He called it the Inbetween.” She shivered with the recollection. “Have you ever heard of anything like that? I have to say, it scared the bejesus out of me.”

“Girl, if you were there, you’re lucky you got out. No place there for the living. No place at all.” Rowena backed away. “It ain’t no place I want to visit, not ever.” She crossed herself. “The good Lord willing.”

“How do you know about it?” Chelsea asked.

“Why, girl, from your Great-Granny. Don’t you know nothing?” Rowena looked at her with bewildered eyes.

“No, apparently not.” Chelsea raised her questioning eyes to meet Rowena’s startled ones.

“When’d you start having your intuitions?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“Just a few days ago. I got electrocuted and all this started. Why?” Chelsea glanced over at her Grams, wondering why Rowena was so adamant.

“Should have started much earlier. Probably why you got sucked into that place. Bet you died too. You got to leave. I don’t want nothing to do with that place.” Rowena stood, tried to usher them back out and away from her home.

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t want to go there either,” Chelsea pleaded. “Please, I need help to understand this!”

“No, girl, you don’t understand,” she whispered. “I got kids here. I got … ” She paused, looked around. “One of the kids, she’s got the visions too. I don’t want her finding out bout that place. I don’t want her scared. Right now, it’s all like a game to her.”

Chelsea looked her in the eyes. “No one else has to know, but I need help … I can’t … ” Tears prickled Chelsea’s eyes.

Grams held out her hand to Rowena. “If you can help … I don’t know what else to do, who else to see.”

Rowena relented, fidgeted a little, then sighed. “I want you to meet her, and if one day, she comes to you … I want you to help her, just like I’m going to do with you. You’ll be the only one who can. Take her in, help her learn the right ways.” Her face paled further to a leaden ashy gray, and she placed a hand on her side. “I fear my time is almost over, I might not be here to help her much longer. You have to promise me.” Her gray eyes held resignation. “But, even if you say no, I promised the old woman. I’ll … I’ll keep my word.”

Chelsea reached out to touch her hand, but Rowena jerked away. “I just wanted to thank you. You have my word, I’ll do whatever I can to help her.”

“Sorry ’bout that. No one touches my hands ’less they want a reading. I don’t want to read you, not yet.” Rowena shivered, and rubbed her hand down her faded duster before pulling her gloves back on. “Your life force … it’s not what I expected.” She eyed Chelsea, then turned to the door, and leaned out. “June Mary, you come see your grandmama right now, you hear?”

A freckled face young girl with indistinct dishwater colored hair in a dress one size too big stepped into the house. One shoulder was bare where the too large dress had slipped. “You want me, Grandma?”

“Yes, baby, I want you to meet someone. This is Chelsea Karmikel, and her own grandmama. She’s like you, baby, she talks to the spirits.” Rowena glanced over at Chelsea. “If I’m not here, Chelsea here, she’ll help you if she can. You remember that, if you need help, you get ahold of Ms. Karmikel. You understand?”

June Mary’s eyes grew round and she nodded her head. “Yes, Grandma, I understand, I won’t forget. Ms. Karmikel.” She held out a hand shyly.

Chelsea touched the ends of June Mary’s fingers. “Nice to meet you.” The girl smiled.

“Good. Now, you go on, go play. You’re a good girl.” She patted the young girl’s head, and she ran back out the door. “I’ll get it all written down and give it to her mama. I thank you. It puts my mind at ease to know someone else is here.”

Grams patted her leg. “You got a long time left here. It’s all going to be okay.”

Rowena smiled back, and clasped Grams’s hand. “The docs say I got a cancer, first it was just my lungs, now it’s in my bones. They want to do some treatment, but it ain’t gonna fix it, just make my time a little longer. God’s gonna call me home and there ain’t nothing nobody can do about it. I’ve made my peace, and now I don’t have to worry so much.”

Chelsea smiled at Rowena. “You’re strong, maybe you’ll beat those docs, they don’t know everything.”

“Nah, I can feel it, taken hold of me. Sometimes it feels like the Lord is looking over my shoulder.” She clutched her hand to her chest. “It’ll get me, but not before I can pass my knowledge on to you.” She smiled back at Chelsea. “My family knows, we’ll give the blasted devil a good fight.”

Chelsea nodded.

“Now … ” Rowena sat down, thoughts flitted across her features. “There’s more to this than the spirits, helping them and the people who lost them.” She shook her head and coughed a little. “I don’t much like to talk about it, but let me tell you what I know about the Inbetween and the Nevernever.” She paused, and looked Chelsea squarely in the eye. “The Inbetween, it’s not so bad I guess, not when you know there’s worse. The Watchman, he’s crazy as a bugger, but without him, those souls might be lost forever, and if they get lost, it opens them to … well, the other place.”

“And my Great-Granny told you all about this?” Chelsea asked.

Rowena nodded her head. “She said she visited in her dreams too. That old Watchman was crazed then, I don’t imagine he’s change much with time.”

“Oh, he’s crazy alright.” Chelsea nodded. “And scary as hell.”

Rowena paused and shook her steely gray head. “But if the Inbetween gets ahold of a live soul, especially one like ours, it wants to take it, squeeze the life right out of it, smother it. It’d be like a shining bright light. Living souls, they have a glow. Yours will be even brighter.” Her eyes darted around the room, and she whispered, “But there’s another place, and it’s evil.”

Chelsea bit her lip. She’d never been the religious type, but after visiting the Inbetween, she was pretty sure Hell existed, and now she was being told there was somewhere worse.

“The Watchman’s supposed to gather the souls to him. He’s supposed to cross them, guide them on their journey. Sounds like you interrupted his job.” She grinned at Chelsea. “I imagine he was right cross about that.”

Chelsea stood and wandered around the room, some would call it a parlor. Most of the furniture was made of juniper and rowan, some looked like second hand purchases, some homemade. Everything was worn and well used, but lovingly maintained. It was all important to the owner, and each told its own story. “You could say he was upset. He left me to the souls. So much hunger, so much pain. I wanted to help them, but didn’t know how. It was all I could do to get away. I almost didn’t,” she whispered.

“The only way is to get them to follow the Watchman’s light. Some refused him, think they can return to the living.” She watched Chelsea move around the room, picking up knickknacks, looking at pictures. “You seen any ghosts?”

Rowena’s boldness took Chelsea by surprise, and she almost dropped the small glass thimble she held in the palm of her hand; it looked like Peter Pan’s kiss. She placed it back on the table. “I’ve seen a few since I left the hospital.” She swallowed, twisting her hands. “One was a police officer, and one … well, she was the aunt of a friend of mine.”

“Did they meet violent ends?” Rowena continued to watch Chelsea, eyes narrowed.

“The police officer did, he died out on Route 29, he wanted me to call his wife, tell he’d see her soon, and he was okay. The other was a drowning victim, she was alone when it happened. She slipped and knocked herself out, drowned in her own pond.”

“You be careful with those spirits, foretellers of the future. Help them if you can. And your friend, she probably didn’t die from an accident — it was probably by someone else’s hand.” Rowena sounded so sure, it made Chelsea take a step back.

“I’m having my friend check into it. When she came to me, she said something that … well … ” Chelsea shuddered, but didn’t finish what she was thinking — what if she was wrong?

“And then you dreamed of the Inbetween? Did anything happen before it? I mean, besides the visions starting,” Rowena wondered out loud.

“Not really, but I’ve been afraid to sleep since.” Chelsea pinked a little and laughed. “I’m afraid it will happen again.”

“Girl, you got to rest, can’t let it scare you. Can’t let your fears control you either. Besides, all you have to do is wake up.” Rowena smiled at her like it was easy.

“Yeah, sure.” Chelsea gave a hollow laugh. “Have you ever tried to escape a bad dream? It isn’t so easy, believe me.”

Rowena chuckled. “Well, you can always sleep with a partner.” Her eyes danced mischievously.

Chelsea’s cheeks pinked again. “I’m thinking about that too.”

“That’s about all I know of the Inbetween.”

Chelsea glanced up. “What about the other place? It’s worse?”

“The Nevernever, it’s the other place.” Rowena blanched. “It’s a very bad place. I don’t even like thinking about that place, not at all, and you shouldn’t either. Don’t dwell on it, girl.” She coughed again and her face turned a sickly shade of pasty gray.

“Are you okay?” Chelsea asked, concerned all the memories, all the talking about the improbable had brought Rowena discomfort.

“Just the pains. Need to take my medication. It comes and it goes, more coming than going these days.” She reached across the table to a small shelf. “Could you get me a glass of water? The kitchen’s right through there.” She pointed passed the living room and down a hall.

As Chelsea made her way to the kitchen, she heard murmuring behind her. She turned, but no one was there. She peeked back at Grams and Rowena, they sat where she’d left them, sitting several feet apart. It couldn’t have been them either. She looked around the room and hall, then she shrugged. With everything going on, her imagination was in overdrive. Or at least she hoped it was only her imagination … Her life had turned into a nightmare and she was afraid it was going to swallow her whole.

Chelsea returned with the water, and Rowena took a small sip, swallowing her medication.

She waited a few heartbeats while her pain receded. “Now, the Nevernever … ” Rowena started and drew a ragged breath, her hand shaking a little as she ran it over her face.

“Look, if you don’t want to talk anymore … ” The murmuring was back. Chelsea looked around, pushed her shoulder up against her ear.

“No, I made a promise. I need to keep it while I can. Come, sit down. Let’s finish this.” Rowena pointed to a chair, and Chelsea sat, waiting to hear what she had to reveal, but the murmuring grew louder.

“Do you hear that?” she asked the older women.

“Hear what, honey?” Grams asked.

“It sounds like voices from another room.” Chelsea started to feel paranoid, like someone stood, watching, over her shoulder. She twisted around and checked just to make sure. “Do you mind?” She pointed to the other room.

“No, you go right ahead.” Rowena frowned. “But there’s no one here except me, you, and your grandmama here.”

“Oh, must be my imagination, or maybe my brain is really fried.” She laughed, embarrassed.

“Girl, it’s fine, go check, it’ll let you rest,” Rowena urged her.

Chelsea rose to her feet, and left the room while her grandmother watched. She checked the small bedroom to the left, a bathroom to the right, and the murmuring grew louder. She clasped her hands over her ears. “Please stop!” And it did.

She returned to the living room. “It was nothing, you’re right.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Grams inquired.

“Yeah.” But Chelsea shook her head and she sat on her hands. She couldn’t make them quit shaking. “Go ahead, tell us what you were going to say.”

Rowena gazed at her long and hard. “You heard it, didn’t you?”

“I heard something, but it’s gone. It’s okay now.”

“Then why are you shaking so bad?”

Chelsea looked down at her quivering arms. Even her stomach felt jumpy.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

“It’s the afterworld, it’s calling you. Could be a spirit, could be … well, it could be anything.” Rowena coughed again. “I better get on with it.”

Chelsea frowned — the murmuring was back. “Please, I think whatever is in the afterworld doesn’t want me to talk to you. The murmurs, they’re back. It sounds like so many voices, all talking at once.”

“They don’t want you to know what you’re up against, dirty buggers.” Rowena took a breath and coughed again. “The Nevernever is a place where lost souls get trapped. They’re souls unable to move on for some reason. Either they’re holding on to their mortal existence or being held to the mortal world by something.” She shivered. “Not all things in the afterworld are good, some things are bad, very bad. If they get ahold of you, you’ll never escape them. No waking up, no more living.” Rowena coughed again, harder this time.

“The Nevernever is a place where the dark things stay, they can drink in the energy of the lost, eat their light, absorb what’s left of them. There’s things in the Nevernever that can murder what’s left of the soul, never to be reborn, never to reach that place where others have found peace. It’s horrible being used up by those things, to feed their sickness.” Rowena winced, and a shudder shook her body.

She took another sip of her water before she continued. “It’s like an addiction, those dark things that live off other souls’ energy,” she said. “They encourage your nightmares. Fear drives them, they’ll squeeze every last drop of it from your body, they’ll try to pluck it right out of your thoughts.” Her gloved hands reached out to snatch an invisible foe from the air. She turned, reached for Chelsea’s hand with her gloved ones. “If you ever find yourself with those things, the only thing that might save you is good memories, the happiest ones in your life. You listen to me, girl. You make sure you remember.” She shivered. “To be trapped there is a fate worse than death.” She coughed again, this time with a longer spasm before she could catch her breath.

Rowena wheezed, “I think that’s all I can tell you. The rest you’ll have to figure out on your own.” She moved closer to Chelsea, resting her hand on her knee for a moment. “I wish there was more, I wish I could stay longer, make sure you’re okay. But the Lord has other plans for this old body of mine.” Rowena coughed again, moving away, her head fell back against the sofa, exhausted.

Chelsea opened her bag, removed a small card, and scribbled on it. “Here, take this card. It’s a friend of mine’s, Brad Rearden, but I put all my contact information on it. If you can’t get ahold of me, call him. He’ll be able to put you in contact with me or my lawyer.”

Rowena took the card, and held it to her chest. “I’ll make sure June Mary’s mama keeps it safe.”

“It’s not only for her. If you need anything, anything at all, you call me.” Chelsea smiled at the older woman, afraid that the doctors were right. She dropped down to eye level and took Rowena’s gloved hand between her own. “Thank you so much for everything. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“Girl, you listen to this old woman, and take care of yourself. Your Great-Granny be’d right proud of you.” She cupped Chelsea’s face. “You’re the spitting image of her, you know. If you need anything else, I’ll be hanging around here a while longer. I’m not done yet. Maybe I’ll get to do a reading for you.”

Chelsea laughed. “I don’t know if I want everyone to know my secrets, or even if I want to know them. But we’ll see, maybe someday.”

• • •

Brad watched Chelsea walk circles around the room, talking about everything Rowena had told her.

“What if I can’t do this, and there’s no place left to find the answers?” Her eyes showed how scared she was.

Brad caught her hand, stopping her momentum. “You need to relax, come here.” He spread his legs, and she sat between them. He lifted her hair to the side, bent her head forward, and ran his fingers up and down the length of her neck. “You’re all knotted up.”

“I know, but I can’t relax, I can’t … .” she yawned even as she spoke. “That does feel … wonderful.”

He massaged her neck, and she sighed, her head nodding. “You’re going to make yourself sick, worrying about all this.” His fingers moved lower, along her spine. Brad leaned in and pulled her back to sit on his lap, then he gathered his arm beneath her legs and stood. “Bedtime for you.”

“But you’ll stay?” She asked sleepily, her hands groping to entwine his neck. Her head rested in the hollow made by his throat and his shoulder.

He bent his head, softly kissing her lips. “For as long as you’ll have me,” he whispered.

But Chelsea already slept.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chelsea watched as Brad drove away. He had to work, and to do so, he had to return to Springfield. But he promised to return in the evening. Grams was going to have another canasta night, so she wouldn’t be home until the next afternoon.

Chelsea stood in the living room. She could hear the buzzing again, like bees stuck in her ears. She knew what it was now, but she wondered who was coming to visit her. She wanted to ask, but she felt stupid talking to the air.

“Is anyone there?” Silence filled the room as she stood looking around. Grendel came out from under the sofa and twined around her legs.

“There you are, you’ve been hiding. I thought you liked Brad.” She scooped up the cat and carried her to the kitchen with her. She filled her bowl and set it on the floor. “Silly cat.”

“Can I pet your kitty?” came a soft voice, and Chelsea spun around, hardly noticing that the buzzing had stopped.

Before her stood a little boy. She dropped down on her knees in front of him. “Hi, I’m Chelsea.” She smiled as she reached out into chilled air around him. “I don’t know if Grendel will let you pet her or not. She’s kind of skittish, you know.” She grinned again at him and he smiled back. She took his chilled hand in her own. Together, they stroked the cat’s soft fur while she purred, eating her tuna.

“She’s funny.” The little boy laughed. “So soft.”

“What’s your name, little man?” Chelsea asked quietly while they stroked the cat. “Why are you here?”

“My name’s Bobby, and I’m eight and three quarters.” When he smiled again, she noticed he was missing a front tooth, and Chelsea caught her breath. No one had said anything about little kid ghosts.

“I was wondering … ” he said, his eyes never leaving the soft fur of tabby cat’s body. “I was wondering if you could call my mom. Tell her where I am, and that I’m okay. She cries all the time now. I don’t want her to cry.” Bobby looked at Chelsea, his eyes brimmed sadness. She could only nod her head.

“Were you in an accident?” she asked gently.

“Nope, I was in the hospital. I’ve been sick a real long time, but I’m better now. I feel fine.” He smiled up at her. Kids were so quick to rebound, even from heartache, even from death.

“Who’s your mommy, sweetie? What’s your last name?” She reached out, finger combing his short brown hair away from his forehead.

“It’s Kolwalski, Robert Daniel Kolwalski. My mom’s name is Cindy. Can you call her for me?”

“How about we see if she’ll come here? Are you from around here?” she asked quietly.

His eyes grew wide. “I don’t know. Where are we?”

“Taylorville, Illinois,” Chelsea told him.

“I think we live pretty far away.” He stood straighter.

Chelsea’s heart fell, she was going to have to try to do this over the phone. “Do you remember your phone number?”

“Sure I do, I’m not a baby, I’m a big kid.”

“Sorry, I forgot.” Chelsea smiled and he recited his phone number.

She picked up her cell and called the number. It rang without an answer. She looked over at the boy beside her. “Maybe she couldn’t get to it in time, I’ll try again.” She pushed redial, and it rang twice more before a watery voice answered. Chelsea cringed. It was the last thing she wanted to do, invade someone’s personal pain.

“Mrs. Kolwalski?” she enquired.

The watery voice cleared itself. “Yes, may I ask who’s calling? I don’t recognize the number.”

“Ma’am, my name’s Chelsea … ”

“Look, if this is a sales call, I really don’t want to talk to anyone.” The phone clicked in Chelsea’s ear.

She bit her lip and pushed redial again.

“Please leave me alone.” Chelsea could hear the tears in the woman’s voice. “I’ve … I’ve had … ” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry, I just can’t talk right now.”

“Ma’am, I know about your loss, that’s why I’m calling.”

“Who is this again? Do I know you?”

“No ma’am, I’m sorry, you don’t. I wish you did, it would make this easier. I just wanted to call and tell you how sorry I am.” Chelsea didn’t know how to tell her that her son, Bobby, stood in her kitchen.

“Thank you. Now, I really have to go.”

“Ma’am, there’s one more thing.” She decided to just jump in and say what she had to say. “Bobby wanted me to call you. He said you’re sad all the time now. He wants you to know he’s fine, he feels all better now. You don’t have to worry about him anymore.” She smiled at the boy as he watched her face. “He wants you to take care of yourself and he loves you. He wants you to be happy again.”

Bobby nodded and smiled his toothless grin.

“Mrs. Kolwalski?” But there wasn’t any response. “I’m going to go now, Mrs. Kolwalski. Bye.” Chelsea pushed end. It had taken all of twenty seconds to place the call.

“I hope that helps your mom.” She dropped back down on her knees, bringing them eye to eye. “If you need anything else, you know where I am, okay?”

“Okay, thanks for letting me pet your cat. I gotta go now. See you later,” he called before he walked away, vanishing into thin air as he left.

Chelsea’s eyes spilled over with tears. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. He was just a baby.

Grendel stared up at her, her cat eyes wide, and she mewled. Chelsea picked her up, and said between the tears, “You’re a good kitty.” She stroked her velvety fur, and the little cat purred, and that’s how Brad found them, sitting on the sofa, Chelsea crying over the tabby cat and Grendel letting her.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“What happened?” Brad asked, taking the cat from her hands. Grendel meowed up at him. Chelsea’s emotion still flooded the room.

“I … I … ” She looked up to find his eyes. “I had company today. A little boy.” Her lips quivered, her voice breaking. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I want to do this.”

Brad picked her up and carried her to her bedroom. He undressed her and slid the sheet over her body, then he climbed in beside her. He pulled her into his arms, brushed her hair back for her tear-stained face. He kissed her eyes, puffy and red, and her shiny nose, then her cheek, raw and chapped. “Sweetheart, talk to me, tell me all about it. I tried to call, but you didn’t answer your cell.”

“His name was Bobby and he was almost nine. He wanted me to call his mom.” Tears leaked from her closed eyes and rolled down her cheeks, wetting the pillow. “I called her, I talked to her, and I hung up. It was the hardest thing I’ve had to do in my whole life. I don’t think I can do it again.”

He rocked her. “You did a good thing. You helped a little boy, and you helped his mother. Maybe she won’t see it like that for a while, but you did.” But the tears still leaked, so he started to hum one of his favorite songs. “Fat Bottom Girls” by Queen.

Chelsea quieted as she listened to his voice. Then she sobbed out a laugh. “‘Fat Bottom Girls’ is the best you can do?”

Brad laughed too. “It’s been an ear worm all day, the last song I heard before I got out of the car.”

“Poor you,” she said, and she kissed his cheek. “I feel better now. Thank you.” Her eyes grew heavy, and she curled up against his warmth. Her breathing became slow and regular.

Brad stared up at the ceiling above Chelsea’s bed, wondering if he’d made a wise choice, but then he knew he had. Chelsea was his and whether it was really ghosts or something else, he didn’t know and he didn’t care, but he knew he couldn’t give her up.

• • •

Grams called the next day to say she and Hildie had decided to take in a movie, so she was staying an extra day. Chelsea listened to her voicemail and smiled. She was glad Grams had such a good friend. She liked seeing her grandmother with that young, carefree look, it was good for her. She dropped the phone to the counter and started breakfast. Brad was still sleeping, and she planned to surprise him.

Soon the scent of bacon and eggs filled the house, and Brad stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, led by his nose. He yawned. “Morning.”

Chelsea gazed over at him, his hair was squished on one side, the side she’d lain on. “Hi.”

He opened the fridge, grabbed the juice. “Want some?”

“That’d be great.” Chelsea watched him moved around the kitchen. He was comfortable, he looked like he belonged there, in her home.

“Breakfast will be done in a few minutes.”

“Do I have time for a shower?”

“If you make it quick. Otherwise, I can’t speak for the bacon or guarantee you anything but the memory of what it smelled like.”

She wrapped her arms around him, pushed up on her toes, and kissed his cheek.

“What’s that for?” he said while pouring the juice.

“For helping me, for not running away like I have the screaming memes.”

“Well, I have an ulterior motive.” He laughed.

“Yeah, right.”

“I do. Want me to prove it?”

“Only if you want breakfast to burn.” Chelsea grinned at him.

“Can’t have that. S’okay, it can wait until after breakfast.” His eyes danced evilly. “Be back in a few minutes.”

While he was gone, she thought about everything that had happened the day before. She’d been truthful when she said she didn’t know if she could do the whole ghost thing — she still wasn’t sure. But today she felt better about it.

Brad walked back into the kitchen, hair combed and wet. “Any bacon left?”

“Sit down.” She laughed, and scraped eggs onto his plate while he piled on the bacon. “You know, that was for the both of us.”

He put back a piece. “There, happy?”

She picked up several more from his plate. “I am now.”

He stood, capturing her lips in a hard, fast kiss. Then he kissed her slower, gentler, sweeter. “I needed to do that.”

She smiled at him, gave him back a piece of bacon. “Me too. Grams won’t be home until tomorrow.”

Brad picked up his plate and started out of the kitchen.

“Hey, where’re you going?”

“I’m having breakfast in bed, want to join me?”

Chelsea grabbed a couple bites of egg and a piece of bacon, then she followed him.

She sat on the bed, watched him eat with slow deliberation, savoring every bite.

“Mmmm … this is so good.” He stopped and kissed her full on the lips. “And that is too, almost like taking a bite of fresh ripe fruit.” He grinned and took another.

“Are you done?” she stood and picked up his empty plate, setting it out of the way.

“I am with breakfast.” He wrapped his strong arms around her body, pulling her to his chest and nudged her head aside, planting small kisses down the length of her neck, along the bit of flesh that peeked above the collar of her t-shirt.

Chelsea sighed. She could get used to this. He tugged the belt loop on her jeans, and together they sat down on the bed, Chelsea between his legs, her back to his muscular chest, his arms wrapped her waist. Desire coiled around them, waiting to be born.

“Wish I’d been here yesterday,” he said quietly, his fingers working the soft flesh of her neck.

“No, you don’t.” She rolled her head with pleasure even as her voice grew thick, but she swallowed the sadness away. “If you’d been here, you would know I’m as crazy as I’ve been saying.”

“You’re not crazy, just slightly bent.”

She laughed as his lips grazed her neck. “Bent?” she asked as she let her head tilt to the side to give him greater access.

“Yeah, but not broken.” He nuzzled her neck again. “Mmmm … almost as good as breakfast.”

Chelsea let her head fall back to his chest, and he moved her t-shirt to the side to nibble on her shoulder. A breeze sifted through the curtain, cooling her face, and a bird song drifted to her ears. She groaned when his hands cupped her breasts under the soft fabric of her shirt, brushing across her already sensitive rosettes.

His kisses became more demanding, one hand slipped under her bra, and he rubbed the little bud, bringing it to life.

Chelsea turned into his arms to find his lips and drank her fill, her legs wrapped around his middle. He loosened her legs and stood, eyes burning. “My turn.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Brad undressed her, gently lifting her arms to pull her t-shirt over her head. He cupped her breasts together, placing kisses on each of the soft mounds, and in the hollow between them. He went down on his knees, moving his hands over her ribcage, and he drew her close, kissed her rounded belly button. His fingers released the button, then the fly on her jeans, and eased them over her hips, placing a small kiss above the satiny vee of her panties. He urged her back upon the bed, pushed her jeans lower, twisting to leave feathery kisses on her inner thighs.

Already Chlesea’s heart was racing. “Brad … ” she began. “Brad … ” And he lifted his eyes to gaze at her. He was so tender, it stole her breath. She bit her lower lip to keep everything she wanted to say from tumbling out.

He lowered her jeans past her knees, and left a soft kiss on each kneecap. He lifted one foot, and then the other, pulling the jeans free from her body and left them to pool on the floor.

Chelsea tried to sit up, but he pushed her back in the pillows. “I want to help you too.”

“Let me, this is my time.” It was all he said.

He started with her souls of her feet, worked the muscles and flesh with his expert fingers. He massaged her calves with the same care, up to her inner thighs, and he spread them wider. He lifted one leg, dropped it over his shoulder, and massaged her thigh until it was like putty. He lowered her foot to the floor and lifted her other leg to perform the same dance with his fingers before releasing it.

Chelsea whimpered. “Oh my, it feels so good.” She twisted, but he stopped her movements.

“You have to hold still, or I won’t be able to finish. And I want your whole body relaxed.” He spoke softly, his voice showed his eagerness.

She shivered with anticipation. Chelsea’s life had held few lovers, but none of them equaled Brad.

“Your back is next.” And it was all Chelsea could do to roll over, her body humming with the feel of his masterful fingers. He eased his hands over her upper thighs, cupped her cheeks, massaged the muscles. His thumbs found the small indentations on her lower back, and while his fingers squeezed the pliant flesh, his thumbs moved up her spine. He worked her vertebrae, pressuring them enough to feel good, but not hard enough to hurt.

“You’re so tight. Relax, let your body feel everything. Let your body go,” he encouraged as he continued to work.

His hands encircled her ribs, massaging back to front, brushed up over the soft cups on her bra, making Chelsea shiver. He eased its clasp open and folded the straps to lay flat against the comforter. He teased her with soft circles, goose chills broke out over her flesh, she felt almost feverish.

“I can’t take much more, I need … ” Chelsea called to him, but Brad ignored her soft pleas.

He worked higher, first her shoulders down her arms to her fingertips and then back up. His fingers danced over the muscles of her neck, and then he pushed them into her mass of curls, massaging her scalp.

Chelsea sighed as he worked. “That feels exquisite, almost sinful. Don’t stop.”

Then he started over, but instead of fingers, his lips took their place. He kissed the small indentations on her back, the lines of her ribs, her shoulders, then to the tingling flesh of her neck.

He eased her over to face him, her body like Jell-O in his hands, her chest rising and falling rapidly with need. His slipped the straps of the lacy cups from her arms and gazed at her body — it glowed blossom pink from his expert work. He sank back down to his knees, and pulled her satiny panties free to find the small bud so sensitive to his touch. His thumb circled the little bud, bringing Chelsea to life. His fingers slipped to the soft opening and caressed the moist folds to keen vibrancy. When Chelsea was shivering with need, his lips replaced his fingers to leave gentle kisses that grew more demanding. His tongue grazed the small bud as her fingers laced through the soft brush of his dark hair between her thighs until she twisted and shook with release, until she was begging him to take what he desired. Then he lifted his eyes to meet her hungry gaze. He draped her with his body to cup her breasts, forming them with his lips.

“Fill me, take me, I need to feel you inside me,” she pleaded with him.

“Be still, I’m not finished yet,” he whispered against the ruby peak of one breast, snared within his kisses and then took the other, marbleizing it with his tongue, teeth, and lips.

A moan spilled from her lips. Chelsea lifted her hands to surround his head, to pull him closer, but he trapped her hands with his own, holding them above her head. His lips slipped over the flesh of her abdomen. He kissed the quivering flesh of her ribs, over her tummy with just enough extra flesh to give her curves vivaciousness. His tongue dipped into her belly button, before tracing back up to the swollen tips, made redder by his ministrations.

He released her hands with a groan, and stood, breathing hard. He watched her body quivering with need. “You’re glorious.” His eyes feasted on Chelsea body. She opened herself up to him, offering what she could give but his eyes said he wanted more, he wanted all of her.

She sat up on the comforter, and reached for his body. He leaned over her, and she pulled his t-shirt free and over his head. He smelled of her shampoo and soap mixed with spicy male, and she inhaled it deeply. She fingered his zipper, and he stood to remove his jeans along with his boxers to reveal his hardened maleness.

Chelsea eased back and pulled him down with her. She picked up his hand and placed it between her breast. “Feel my heart.” It pounded under her ribcage. She placed her hand on his chest. “It’s the same.” His heart raced under her fingertips.

“How could it not? Have you seen yourself?” he asked, and together they glanced into the mirror over her dresser to reveal the heat of their flesh.

Chelsea reached across her bed, to the small table beside it. Her condoms were seldom used, but they’d found a new life. “We have to buy new condoms.” She smiled, revealing a bright yellow one.

“Why bother, I plan to use the entire box,” he said with an easy grin on his lips and a promise in his eyes.

She watched him as he bent to drink from her ruby tips, and her fingers rolled the condom over his lengthened manhood. His own fingers explored the soft center at her core and she tugged his head back up to meet her lips.

He eased his body over hers. Her hands guided his hardness to her softened opening. He gently pressed into her, filled her, stretched her wider, and they melded together as one. He held himself above her, gazed into her eyes, now a deep oceanic blue, and rocked back and forth, easing in and out, only to push deeper. “I want to feel you, all of you.” He leaned in to steal a kiss.

A sigh broke from her lips, and she bit her lip. “Then do it, feel me.” She pushed up to meet his thrust, bringing him deeper within her body.

“Yes, Chels, rock with me,” he bit out, his breaths becoming harsher, his need growing more apparent with each stroke. Brad’s eyes scorched her flesh, and as sweet as it was for Chelsea to be taken with tenderness, it was sweeter to feel the burn of his desire. Their rhythm became more frantic as his gaze fell into Chelsea’s, and she realized she was his — his lover, his mate — as he was her’s, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

A cry fell from Chelsea lips, and she clung to his body, a life preserver in a sea of desire. Brad stroked her body once, twice, three times more before escaping into his own release, encased deep in her body.

His limbs shook as he lay beside her, drawing lazy circles on her belly. Life returned to normal in their bodies. He grinned up at her, seeing what her eyes revealed. Tenderness filled his voice, “I want more. I want more than your body, I want your thoughts, your feelings, all of you.”

Chelsea snuggled closer, her fingers brushed over the short hairs on his chest as they relaxed into each other.

“Want to take a ride?” He smiled at her.

She leaned up on her elbow, and watched him warily. “Where do you want to go?”

He grew serious. “It’s okay if you’d rather stay here, but I want to take a run out to Aunt D’s. I want to look around. I remembered something, and it doesn’t feel right.”

“Okay, I’m game. When do you want to go?” She glanced at the clock, it was still early.

“In a little bit.” He gathered her close. “How many condoms are left?”

“No more.” She laughed. “You’re going to kill me.” She guided his questing mouth to her own. A moan of renewed desire escaped them.

“Yeah, but it’ll be a sweet death.” He whispered against her soft lips, before capturing them with more kisses. There wasn’t any hurry. Aunt D’s house wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Brad’s Aunt Deloris had lived in a small white clapboard house trimmed with blue shutters and shingles, surrounded by acres of farm fields. The main floor opened into a breezeway patio with a widow’s walk balcony attached to the upstairs. Amish curtains were visible on the windows with small slanted blinds. An outside cellar held the house’s foundation.

A stepping stone walkway encircled the home, each of the four starting points led to its patio. A brick barbeque grill sat off to one side of the patio, a small overhang provided a modicum of shade with a wrought iron leg poking out from its concealed shadows. The patio led to a small screened porch, thick with plants. Ivies and honeysuckle graced the rear entrance almost hiding a small gnome, just like the old legends claimed they liked. A butter churn stood like a guardian at the door, wild flowers spilled from the top and down the sides.

“You grew up here?” Wonder filled Chelsea’s voice.

“I spent every summer until high school, then it was harder. You know, you remember high school, it was socially unacceptable to spend all my time here. But, D understood, she always had a place ready for me. After college started, I was only able to come back once in a while, on the weekends and a few holidays.” Brad gazed over the property. “It was more a home than my parents’ house ever was. Wealth and power aren’t everything.”

Chelsea followed his gaze. “It must have been fantastic for you.” She could imagine a younger Brad, scuffed and dirty, running through the farm fields. “I love it. It’s such a beautiful place, so peaceful.” It made Taylorville feel encompassing, crowded almost. She turned around, taking in the sweep of the land. In the distance, rolling hills could be seen. “It must be a true representation of how your aunt felt about life, what she cherished.” Her fingers wandered through the wild flowers, stirring their scent into the air.

“Yes, it was, and it still is. Now it’s yours. I hope you treat it with the same degree of love Aunt D did.”

Brad stuck his hand inside the mess of flowers. “D’s secret hiding place.” He smiled, a rusty key dangled from his fingers. “Want to take a look inside?”

“Yeah, I’d like to see where she lived.” Chelsea smiled, curious about the woman who meant so much to him, and she followed him into a well lived-in kitchen. The walls were painted butter cream yellow, and soft rugs covered the old congoleum floor. It was warm and welcoming; she could understand how a younger Brad would have loved to spend his summer days here, and how his Aunt Deloris would have spent her winter nights, bundled in the comforting warmth the little house seemed to exude.

“It’s very nice, so homey.” She walked across the room — there were notches in the kitchen door frame. She bent to take a closer look. “Brad aged three … Brad aged six … Brad aged ten … Brad aged fifteen.” That was where the notches stopped. On the opposite side, there were other notches, Sam’s, but his stopped at age ten. She turned and looked at Brad; he stepped closer and ran his fingers on the roughened surfaces.

“My mother refused to let Sam come anymore after the age of ten. She said she missed having at least one of her sons close by. Sam never complained, he didn’t care for the farm anyway.”

Chelsea leaned into him. “That’s too bad, it would have been wonderful growing up here, if only part of the time.” She smiled at him and turned to the other notches. “Why to only fifteen?”

“When I turned fifteen, I told Aunt D I was a full grown man. D laughed at me, said I still had a ways to go.” His fingers rubbed the last notch. “I guess she knew what she was talking about.” The notch wasn’t even eye level. “She was the one I came to whenever I needed to talk. She always listened, even if she didn’t like what I had to say.”

Chelsea reached for his hand. “She loved you too.”

“What I want to see is probably in the attic. Want to come up?” He tugged her hand.

“Sure, what are you looking for?” Chelsea followed him up a short flight of stairs into what appeared to be a small parlor or home office — the second level of the home was smaller than the first. He reached over his head and released a thumb latch, and eased a dusty set of stairs down.

“Doesn’t look like anyone else has been here in a while. I hope that means the photo albums are still up there, and not hidden in some drawer in my mother’s office.”

He started up the steep steps with Chelsea following him. “When Aunt D and Uncle Mick bought this property, she took loads of pictures detailing the outlying areas, the beauty of the prairie.” He smiled. “She showed me the pictures so many times, I think because she loved this place so much.”

“So what you want to see is in one of the photo albums?”

“Yeah.” They’d reached the top of the steps and entered a short attic, not bigger than the space below. Chelsea brushed the dust from her hands. Brad pointed. “You start over there, just set aside any albums you find. I won’t know which album might have the pictures I want to look through.”

Together they moved boxes, some filled with clothing, some mementos from vacations, memories and pieces of a happy life. Dust bunnies couldn’t begin to describe the layer of dust on the floor, their footprints made it easy to see where they’d already looked. Chelsea opened an antique trunk and the scent of cedar filled her nose. It was a hope chest, maybe in which a younger Deloris stored her precious memories. Chelsea moved some of the ancient linens still stored inside and found what they’d been searching for.

“Brad … ”

He moved across the room to see what she’d found. “I don’t remember there being so many of them.” But he smiled, touched Chelsea’s cheek, and kissed her lips. “Thanks, I would have been looking all day.” He brushed her nose. “You’ve got a smudge right here.” He kissed the tip of her nose too.

She picked up the albums and opened the first pages, pictures of people she didn’t know, places she’d never been. Brad reached down inside the trunk and retrieved the remaining albums. “Let’s go back down. We can hunt through these, I hope she kept the pictures.”

Together they carried the albums to the living room, spreading them out over the carpet. It was another welcoming room — photos of Deloris and Mick together from vacations sat on the tables. A younger Brad smiled with Sam in school photos and happier times. Several more of Brad’s family sat on shelves. Once, love was shared here.

Chelsea gazed at a picture of the two small boys, arms looped around each other shoulders, Brad and Sam, dark and light. They appeared so happy, so carefree, mugging for the camera. The younger boy looked nothing like the Sam she’d seen in the parking lot a few days before. What had happened to him? Where was that happy little boy?

A small wooden plaque Brad won in the third grade hung from the wall. “Best Short Story: Bradley Rearden” the inscription read. Chelsea walked over, examining the plaque. “She must have been very proud.”

“I didn’t know she still had that.” Brad joined her and reached for the plaque.

She stopped his hand. “No, leave it. It’s supposed to be there.”

More photos lined the top of a small upright piano. “Do you play?” Chelsea asked.

“Aunt D tried to teach me, but chopsticks is about my skill level.”

Chelsea sat down on the bench, plunked a few notes from “Yesterday”. “My mom insisted I learn, but I didn’t keep up. Too busy, but now I wish I had.”

Brad leaned back against his aunt’s sofa. He opened the first album. Deloris and her family when she was a child. He opened the next, a wedding album, Deloris and Michel dressed in wedding white. In the next he found images of farm fields, a stream stretching into the distance. “I think this one is the one I need.” Brad’s excitement grew as his fingers moved over the old photos. He grabbed Chelsea’s hand, striding toward the kitchen where the light shone better on the faded photos.

“See, she took pictures of everything.” He spread the photo album across the smooth wood of the kitchen table. “She said it might be the only thing left if some big corporation moved in one day, bought up all the land, threw up some housing development.” His eyes wandered to the window, and he gazed out at rolling landscape. His voice caught and he had to swallow away its thickness before he continued. “I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

He continued to flip the pages until he came to the ones detailing the rear of the house, and a small pool of water, the pond where Deloris met her death.

Carefully, he eased back the paper arrows holding the pictures in place and then stood, pulling Chelsea up with him.

“Come on, I want to see the pond.” He opened the back door and led her outside.

“Are you sure you want to go out there?” Chelsea’s eyes echoed the pain visible in his own.

“I need to have a look around, see if my suspicions are true. Something isn’t right. I can feel it in my gut. I’ve been avoiding it since Aunt D died … and I shouldn’t have. D knew this place like the back of her hand, so how had she fallen? If the medical examiner had claimed a heart attack or something … but there was nothing.” His eyes looked over the fields surrounding the backyard. “Something’s not right,” he said again.

Large white oaks provided shade, and in the distance, over the pond, a weeping willow stood watch, its graceful branches murmuring back and forth in the slight breeze. The small pond sat almost hidden amongst the floral cornucopia. A fat goldfish scooted through the water, searching for insects. Somewhere close by, locusts buzzed, waiting for the coming night; a toad croaked out its warning song.

It must have been a favorite spot; there was a cleared place that would have been perfect for a picnic. A small statuette of Tom Sawyer with a fishing rod leaned lazily on the bank, hiding an aerator to keep the water fresh. Lilies sprouted along the water’s edge.

“There.” Brad pointed, and a small boulder poked the tip of its head out of the water. “Aunt D was supposed to have slipped, fallen in the water, and somehow hit her head.” He stepped closer, scanning the bank of the small pond. He felt around until he found an indentation in the Earth, then moved away the brush trying to take over the diminished expanse. It was a small space, maybe six inches wide — something hard had rested there many years for the soil to hold its impression.

Brad’s eyes blazed, and he gestured from the pictures to the rock. “It’s been moved.”

Chelsea leaned in to get a better look at the photo. There was a small boulder sitting close to the edge of the bank — its broad surface looked similar to the one now resting at the bottom of the pond. “I don’t know. It could be the same one.”

“It is the same one, I know it. I spent my summers here, running through these fields.” He gestured to the open fields around them and smiled sadly.

“Maybe your aunt had the boulder moved or something.” She took his hand. “Or maybe it just fell in on its own as the bank wore away with time.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But maybe not.”

“What are you saying?” She glanced up at his calculating eyes.

“I think … I think someone moved the rock on purpose.” Chelsea watched as he moved around the pond. The moment it clicked for him shone on his face.

“I think,” Brad looked around at the pond, “Aunt D came out here, and somehow that boulder got pushed into the water. The question I’m wondering about is if it happened before or after.”

“Before or after what?” Chelsea asked.

“Before or after Aunt D died,” Brad said quietly.

“Brad, let’s think about this for a minute. Do you know how strong someone would have to be to pick up that rock?” Chelsea played devil’s advocate, and pointed at the pond. “What do you think happened from there?”

“I don’t know, I need to think about it some more. But something smells bad about the whole scenario.”

“If it wasn’t an accident … ” She paused. “How do you prove it, who would you suspect, what proof do you have other than one or two old photos?” She watched his eyes come to the same conclusions she had. “I don’t know if your suspicions are right or wrong, but it’s going to be difficult to change minds that are already made up.”

“Okay, I’ll admit it’s thin. It might not even be the same rock.” He scratched his chin while he thought. “I’m going to call a buddy of mine. He runs a forensic lab, maybe he can answer a few of my questions.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chelsea rested her head against the back of the seat. It was starting to throb, and her ears ached. The buzzing grew louder than before. She squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing the back of her neck.

Brad slid into the seat next to her. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I will be when I get home, take a couple of ibuprofen, and sleep for a bit. My head is killing me and the buzzing is louder today.”

“Buzzing? You’ve never mentioned a buzzing before.” He watched her with concerned eyes.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing.” She wanted to be home before confronted by whatever soul was going to beg for her help this time, and she didn’t want to worry him more. The buzzing softened to a whisper. If she listened hard enough, she could almost make out words but it made her head pound harder. She’d never asked for any of this. Yet, here she was, trapped, an unwilling vessel to the afterworld.

“We’ll be back to your house in a few minutes.” Brad reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. Concern colored his features as Chelsea felt herself grow more pallid.

“I’m okay, it’s just a little headache. I’ll be fine.” But her head pounded harder the longer she denied the whispers. She closed her eyes, and let the whispers in. Her head swam; she’d never hurt like this before. She was new to all this, maybe it was normal, but the throbbing … She put her hand to her forehead and gritted her teeth. She strained to listen. There was only one voice but she still couldn’t make out the words. “Stop the car.”

Brad pulled over to the side of the road. Chelsea opened the door and hopped out. She gazed around at her surroundings, and wandered away from the road, toward an indiscriminate figure standing by what was left of an old house, worn by the indifference of time. What remained of the paint peeled off in big chunks, it had been a long while since someone had lived there. She heard a car door slam, and Brad called to her.

She turned to the sound of his voice. “I’m fine. I want sit here a minute.” She gestured to the steps before the fallen porch. “I just need a little fresh air.” The gentle breeze carried her words and cooled her aching head. She tried to place the scent assailing her senses: rotten eggs. She scrunched her nose in disgust. Brad strode across the highway to join her.

Chelsea covered her mouth and nose. “Do you smell that?”

“Car exhaust fumes?”

“No, it smells horrible, like sulfur from chemistry class.”

He shook his head. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just give me a few minutes.”

He leaned against an old porch post. “Are you sure you want to stay here?”

“Why?”

His eyes roamed over the space. “It’s so desolate, unfriendly. I don’t like it.”

Chelsea shivered, peering up into Brad’s eyes. “No, I don’t like it either, but I’m about to have a visitor. Are you sure you want to stay here? This might get freaky weird.”

He shoved his hands in pocket. “I’ll stay.”

As she sat, the figure approached her, becoming clearer. She felt the brush of chilled air that she now associated with those who were determined to seek her out, but the stench grew stronger too. “Hello,” she said to the farmer in the faded overalls and tried not to inhale too deeply.

Brad gazed around, he lifted his shoulders. “Cripes, this is strange.”

Chelsea hushed him.

“Miss, I was wondering if you knew where I could find my wife.” The old farmer pulled on the worn bill of his threadbare cap. “This is our farm, but I can’t find her anywhere.” He reached out to Chelsea, but she pulled further away — he seemed different from the others somehow. The thought struck her as funny — when had dealing with the dead become her new normal? He reached out again, but she avoided his icy touch. Even the air around him seemed frozen. Without thinking, she reached up to cover her nose and mouth, and had to stop herself.

“Sir, what’s your name and your wife’s? I’ll do my best to locate her. How long since you’ve seen her?” For as long as Chelsea could remember, this farm house had sat empty, bits and pieces falling away, barely a place to stop in the middle of the highway. It always struck her as a lonely place, waiting for the owners to find their way home as it deteriorated with time.

She glanced around the landscape, and caught the gaze of the old farmer upon her. For a moment, his features changed, grew harder, his mouth widened, and she imagined row upon row of razor sharp teeth. She blinked, and his face returned to normal. He looked sad, a little lost, and he reached out toward her arm again. She scooted further away, going up another step.

“I can try to find her, but I really need her name.” She rubbed the spot on her arm where his fingers would have met her flesh.

The old farmer nodded his head and stuck out his hand, “Name’s Peter Wallace, ma’am, Pete to my friends.” Chelsea let her fingers brush his. His frozen flesh touched hers like a slithering reptile, and a great weight fell over her. It was harder to breathe, her head swam with dizziness but it lifted as soon as their fingers parted. Exhaustion swept over her and she moved with stumbling slowness.

“Helen asked me to wait for her, and she’s never come. That’s her name — Helen, Helen Wallace. Don’t know how long it’s been anymore, time seems to all run together now.” He wandered further away, stood in the middle of the road, not quite as faded as he was before. But as the space widened between her and the apparition, peace settled in her body, though the fatigue remained. Chelsea relaxed — to any passerby, she was just enjoying a break from the long car ride, sitting in the sun.

“I’d be much obliged if you could find her for me.” He walked further away. “It’s been a long time.” He vanished as he strode away, but his grin captured Chelsea’s attention. It promised something more and its presence made her tremble.

The buzzing had stopped, her head no longer pounded. She stood in the afternoon sun, the sounds of insects and cars the only noises that reached her ears, the scent of spoiled eggs gone. Relief flooded through her. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Your visitor’s gone?”

She nodded.

“You’re right, that was freaky weird.” Brad rubbed his hand across his worried face as they approached the car. He started the car as she slid in beside him.

“Just what I need, someone else who wants my help.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“What did you see out there?” Brad asked as the Jeep ate up the distance back to the Karmikel house.

“An old farmer, looking for his wife. Thanks for staying with me out there, that farmer gave me the creeps.” She rubbed her arms. “Do you think your secretary might be able to check into the old farm, maybe find out where the family went?” She watched him drive; he was so confident in everything he did, his hands so sure. Even when they were looking at the photos. If he could, he’d figure out the puzzle surrounding Deloris’s death, and maybe that’s what his aunt really wanted.

“Sal’s pretty good. Give me the name and I’ll have her check it out.” He stared at the road. “Hey, thanks for coming today. It meant a lot to have you there.”

“I wanted to. I hope it gave you back some sense of peace.” She folded her hands in her lap. “And I hope you can live with whatever you find,” she whispered to herself. She had a feeling it wasn’t going to work out well for any of them, his aunt included.

• • •

Chelsea yawned and stretched her tired muscles, exhausted by the day’s events. “Hey, I’m beat, I’m going to lie down, join me later if you want.” She smiled at Brad, kissed him goodnight, and headed for her bed. But no matter what she did, sleep denied her. She tossed and turned, unable to shut off the thoughts filling her mind. She waited until she heard Brad’s steps on the stairs, and crept into Teresa’s old room. Grams had stopped by sometime during the day while they were out, and true to her word, the pink sheets and bedspread were gone. In their place were dark blue sheets and a matching comforter. The curtains were no longer bright pink but a shade of maroon that complimented the sheets.

“Hi,” she said as she came into the room. “I can’t sleep. Can I stay in here tonight?”

He yawned tiredly and stood to stretch. “Sure, I was coming to you.” He smiled at her, pushed back the comforter. “Climb in.” He pulled off his clothes and joined her.

She lay down next to him, her head on his shoulder, and she listened to his quiet breaths, the steady beat of his heart. Soon the soft sounds of Brad sleeping came to her ears, and she smiled. She lifted up on an elbow, and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. She gazed into his worry free face, the soft crinkles around his eyes more visible than before. She leaned down and stole a soft kiss and he stirred, murmuring in his sleep before settling again. He was so serious when he was awake, but watching him sleep revealed another side. The years peeled away, and she could see the young boy reflected in the pictures.

She lay back down, and finally sleep came.

• • •

Chelsea was so warm, so comfortable. She stretched languidly and her hands reached up over her head, twisting in the sheets. The sun beamed through a window, basking over her skin. It was only when she reached for the man who slept beside her that she sat up and wondered where she was.

What had started out as warm, sensuous, almost too good to be true turned into something dark, treacherous. The warmth bled away and darkness smothered her, until a pitch black coldness greeted her. She clamped her hands over her ears as whispers filled them. She whimpered, fear crowding in around her. Where was she? Where was Brad?

Her shaky fingers lifted from her ears and the sound became louder and stronger, a rage in her ears. Her eardrums felt near to rupturing. Her eyes widened, her lungs filled with air, and right before she started screaming, it dawned on her where she was — and it was exactly where she didn’t want to be. What had Rowena said? Just wake up and she’d escape? She opened her eyes, pinched her arm, screamed into the darkness, but she didn’t wake up. Or maybe she was awake, and this was her new reality. Then the laughter crawled across the flesh.

She drew her knees up to her chin and rocked back and forth, watching and waiting, the comfort of the warm bed gone. The decibels of the whispering increased until it became a high pitched whine. It sounded angry, outraged, and she was afraid it would come closer. She waited for the first touch of icy cold fingers, the hands that were greedy for her warmth. Chelsea felt the souls drawn to her, those souls trapped in the Inbetween, waiting for the Watchman to light their way. Dread skittered through her body with the first tendrils of the icy fingertips.

“Please, someone, help me!” she cried into the darkness. “Brad! Are you there?” There was no response. “Someone, please, I want to wake up,” she whispered, her hands shaking as she covered her face.

A flame flickered, and the Watchman gasped his laugh before the flame hissed and suddenly went out. But it left only one glow in the darkness. Chelsea became the beacon. Chelsea became the light that glowed in the forever night.

“I told you to stay away. I told you not to come. Now you have to pay.” It was the Watchman’s voice, wheezing in response. “They’re waiting for you now, girl.” He cackled wildly.

She begged before the Watchman retreated. “Please, I didn’t mean to come here and don’t want to be here. Can’t you help me?”

“No help for you now, girl. They’ve got you and they’ll keep you.” Only the moans of the lost souls could be heard, drowning out her sobbing.

Again she screamed into the piercing darkness. “Someone help me!”

“It won’t do you any good, you know.” A voice growled from the darkness, not the Watchman. It was deeper, darker, closer to her, and she flinched away. With the voice, the moans of those souls who had come to surround her drifted away. The touch of icy hands fled from her body. A horrible feeling of loss settled over her.

“What are you?” she asked, terrified of the answer.

“Not who are you, but what?” the growl mimicked, and a mirthless laugh followed. “I think you know.” The voice drew closer. “Come on, think, what’s your worst nightmare?”

Chelsea squeezed her eyes tight, refusing to think of anything that would give this creature comfort. “What are you?” she repeated, calming herself, preparing to fight.

“We’re the things in the dark, the things you dreaded the most when you were a child.” The voice caressed her with angry need. “Remember what scared you the most?” It slithered over her flesh, needing to feed, like a vampire from some old horror movie.

Chelsea remembered the nightmares from her childhood, the ones that used to bring Teresa running to her room. She remembered the monster who lived in the dark.

“That’s what you are,” she whispered as she scooted away, finding herself trapped in a corner she didn’t know was there.

It laughed, and she covered her ears. “That’s right … you know where you are, what we are. Get ready to join the Nevernever.” A throaty laugh followed, and Chelsea felt the viciousness the sound revealed. “Now … you’re mine.”

Chapter Thirty

Why was this thing so desperate to possess her? Chelsea cringed away from those inhabiting the dark with her. She hid away her darkest fears, the demons from childhood, the monsters from her nightmares. She filled her thoughts with light and good, with the brand new memories of Brad. Her heart lifted. The way he touched her, the way he made her feel. It warmed her. She thought about her childhood, the happy memories, until heat flowed from her body. “You can’t take me, I’ll never be yours. I don’t belong here.” And she thought of Brad’s arms as they surrounded her, his lips as he tasted her. “You’ll never have me. I’ll be free.” She smiled triumphantly, hoping she was right.

“It won’t do you any good.” The voice glided closer. She felt the first coiling touch of its icy hands. She smelled the putridness of its stinking breath. It had lived off the lost for too long. “Think whatever you what, be whatever you need. We’ll still have you … in the end.” Laughter filled the space to surround her, it licked across her flesh. A fiendish desire flared all around her. “And if we can’t have you, he’ll take you. He’s worse than your nightmares.”

Chelsea struggled against the Nevernever’s grip, trying to pull her in. The only man in her life was Brad. Then the old farmer’s face drifted into her thoughts and new terror took hold. She fought it, let her desire for life flood through her.

Another presence surrounded her, a warm caress and the velvety touch of Great-Granny’s wrinkled hand found its way into hers. “Remember what I told you, child. And what Rowena told you too. Remember, child, happiness will protect you. The dark things live off fear.”

Suddenly, the darkness seemed a little brighter. Chelsea heard Great-Granny’s whispered threat. “Get back you bastard, you can’t have her.” And somehow, she felt the darkness take a step backward.

Great-Granny’s loving touch lingered over her flesh like a breath of a sigh. Her fingers tightened around Chelsea’s own. “I won’t forget, Great-Granny.” She smiled and the hand vanished, but the presence stayed hovering over her, offering guidance.

The warmth and comfort of Brad’s love flowed over her, replacing the sick feeling of loss that tried to steal her. Great-Granny’s touch remained near her, and Chelsea knew she was loved. Her lips curved in disdain. “You’ll never have me.”

She screamed with everything in her heart, with everything that was good in her life. Until she felt the rough hands shaking her, heard the voice calling her name, smelled the spicy scent of male. When she opened her eyes, it was Brad that took possession of them. She was back in his bed. Tears wetted her cheeks and she pulled in Brad closer for a taste of his lips. She craved him with the every last fiber in her being. Her voice croaked, “You found me.”

Brad shuddered as he gathered her body nearer until she was so close, she felt like a second skin. “I need to make sure you’re real, to feel you, flesh to flesh.” He buried his face in the scent of her hair and stripped her of her lilac nightshirt, pulling her back to his chest. The warmth of his body began to replace the cold dread that had tried to take her.

Brad had sworn to keep her safe, but how could he? Could he stop the things that wanted to drag her away?

“You can’t keep letting them in,” Brad said, his voice hoarse. “You’ve got to try to stop them. You have to fight them. You’re stronger than they are. Always remember that.” His hands rubbed up and down her arms. “You’re the strongest person I know,” he whispered close to her ear. “Don’t let them take you.”

She snuggled in closer, the heat of his body replacing her fear, and she knew he was right, but it still didn’t give her the answers she needed. She would have to visit with Rowena one more time. She only hoped the woman was strong enough to help her.

• • •

Grams drove while Chelsea watched from the window. She was too wound up to drive, to sit still, too nervous not to speak. “It was too horrible. It felt like death, like I’d lost everything important. And I thought maybe this time I had.” She trembled, seeing it all over again. “It doesn’t help having it on instant replay every time I close my eyes.” She’d told Grams about Great-Granny’s visit to her nightmare, about the Nevernever, how she’d prodded Chelsea to never give up, to never surrender. That if she hadn’t come … Chelsea shuddered … the darkness might have taken her.

Grams reached across the seat, sharing her warmth with her touch. “It’s going to be okay, honey. It’s going to have to be. I wish Great-Granny were here to help guide your journey. She would know what to do, where to turn, whom to seek out.”

They followed the twisting path back to the compound and Chelsea knocked on the same wooden door. It was opened by the mother of June Mary. “Can I help y’all?”

Chelsea offered her hand. “Charlotte? I don’t know if you remember me but my grandmother and I stopped in the other day to talk to your mother.”

“Oh sure. You’re that lady who’s going to help my June Mary. What can I do for you?” She leaned against the doorway and screwed up her eyebrows to watch them warily.

“I was wondering how Rowena is today? Can I talk to her?”

“Mama’s not very good today, had to give the kids a day off school. I might have to start teaching myself.”

“Well, could you ask her if she’ll see us? It’s kind of important.” Chelsea twisted her hands together. This was her only choice, her only chance.

“If she’s not asleep. I’m not waking her for anyone — she’s gotten weaker since you were here.” She grudgingly opened the door wider and allowed them into the house. “Wait here while I go check.”

She disappeared into one of the doorways off the hall and returned quickly. “She says she’ll talk for a minute. But you mind to be careful of her. Don’t tire her out. She’s not feeling herself today.”

“We’ll be careful,” Chelsea promised and Charlotte led them down the hall, easing the door open to reveal a shadow of the woman they’d visited a few days before.

“Charlotte, come mere, help me sit up some.” Rowena motioned Chelsea closer. “Come on in here, I ain’t dead yet. Don’t look so scared. I’m not going to break, havin’ a bad day is all.” She motioned to the edge of the bed. “Plant yourself here.”

Grams and Chelsea came further into the room. It smelled of disinfectant, and the distinct scent of death lurked in the corners. Chelsea smiled at Rowena and gingerly sat on the edge of her bed. Grams sat in the chair across from it.

“You look really tired,” Chelsea said. “Maybe we should come back another time?”

“Girl, let me help you while I can.”

Chelsea sighed. “I got pulled back in again. At first it was the Inbetween, and I knew where I was, how to get out. I saw the waver of the candle’s flame. But then it changed, I think the dark things from the Nevernever interfered, tried to get a hold on me.” She shuddered. “They almost succeeded.”

Rowena looked uncomfortable. “I told you they’d come for you. You have to be careful, now more than ever before. They know you, they want you.”

“How do I keep them out? How do I stop them from entering my dreams?” Chelsea wrung her hands together.

Rowena’s gloved hands found Chelsea’s, covering them with gentle strength. “If they’re coming in your dreams, you have to close them off. You have to make it harder for them to get in.” She shook Chelsea’s hands. “You have to focus, you hear? You have to focus.”

“How do I do that? How can I make it harder for them?”

“You listen to me, Chelsea Karmikel, and you do exactly what I say.” Rowena’s tired worn gaze found Chelsea’s eyes. “You have to make a mental wall between you and them. Impenetrable. If you don’t, they’ll take you. Maybe next time forever.”

Rowena dropped Chelsea hands, panting for breath, exhaustion sweeping her features. “You … have … to … start a ritual.” Rowena eased back into the pillows, her face a shade grayer, but her breathing grew steadier. “There’s herbs you can use to help you fight. Most can be found around here, some you can buy. I’ll send one of the kids out to look. Call Charlotte for me, girl. I have a little bell, but the tinkling is awful.”

Chelsea stood, and motioned to the woman standing nervously outside the room.

“Yes, Mama?” Charlotte stepped in.

“Go get Paul, send him out to look for some church steeple and windflowers, probably some in the fields behind the house.” Rowena coughed, and a red stain covered the tissue she brought to her lips. Charlotte rushed to bring her a glass of water. “Have June Mary cuts some balsam boughs and a patch of the sage, bring them here to me.”

“Yes, Mama.” Charlotte’s eyes were worried, but she closed the bedroom door.

“Paul’ll bring the plants. You take them home, dry them out, place them around your home, in all the rooms. If you need more, you’ll know what to look for. The church steeple will help prevent the darkness from taking hold. The windflowers are for luck, we can all use some luck.” Rowena smiled at Chelsea. “The balsam boughs you can bind together, hang over your doorways, front and back, put a sprig in your bedroom. Make the sage into a smudge stick, let its smoke touch the four corners of your home.” She took a pained breath and continued. “Two more things, and you should have these in your kitchen. Vanilla and basil. You can mix the two to make a sachet, put it close to your bed. If nothing else, it’ll make your sleep sweet.”

Rowena glanced up at Chelsea. “All this will help, but you have to help too. You have to clear your mind, focus on the good, keep it in your heart. Put up a brick wall, make it the toughest stuff you can think of, and if you feel them, recite a nursery rhyme, something sweet from your childhood. It makes it harder on the bad — if it can’t get in, maybe it’ll give up.” Rowena smiled. “It’s the best you can hope for and all I can tell you.”

Then Rowena pulled herself a little straighter, seeming to gather her waning strength, and peeled the gloves from her finely boned hands. She held out her elegantly shaped fingers to Chelsea. “Now, before you leave, let me see into your tomorrows.”

Reluctantly, Chelsea reached out, and the electricity zinged from Rowena’s palms to hers. “Wow, does that happen with everyone?”

Rowena drew a harsh breath. “No, not everyone, just the powerful ones. Girl, you got a lot power. You have to learn to use it and to trust yourself. Dig deep, it’s there waiting to be found.” Rowena griped Chelsea’s hands tighter, almost painfully, and her eyes glazed over. “There’s trials ahead for you. You’ve made a good match, he can help you, but you have to help him too. The future wants you, but the past calls too.”

A fine sheen of sweat covered the woman’s brow, and she grimaced. “The bad wants you too, it’s so strong. I can feel its draw, oh, it hurts, it wants you so bad. Wait! There’s someone else who desires you too. He wants your life. He’s been infected. Watch out for yourself and your love. He’ll try to take you both.”

Rowena’s hands started to shake, her eyes remained hazy, unfocused. “You need to be careful, and if all else fails you, keep the truth in your heart. It’ll save you in the end. If you can’t, the dark might steal your light.” Rowena dropped Chelsea’s hands, falling back against her pillows, her breathing labored. “I’ve helped you all I can now, girl.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Chelsea set about drying the herbs. “Kitty?” she called to Grendel. “These aren’t for you to chew. You leave these alone.” Grendel blinked up at her and slinked over to hide herself. Chelsea continued to bind the balsam branches, adding a little of the windflowers to make year-round wreaths, one for the back door and one for the front. Then she followed the rest of Rowena’s instructions, placing a short sprig of balsam in each of the bedrooms and burning the sage to all four corners.

Grams found Chelsea in the kitchen. “I’ll fix supper tonight. Is Bradley coming back this evening?”

“He said he’d be back, but probably not until late. I don’t know how long he’ll be able to keep this up. Driving back and forth, trying to work. He needs to be in Springfield.” She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but it was true, and the truth was painful for both of them. She was keeping him from what he needed to do, and she didn’t feel good about it.

• • •

Chelsea sat waiting up for Brad in Teresa’s old room, which was becoming more and more his. His clothes hung in the closet, rested in the chest of drawers. His razor and toothbrush sat in the bathroom, waiting for his return, his spicy male scent clung to the sheets. Chelsea lifted the crisp fabric and inhaled his scent into her lungs. He still used her soap and shampoo, and she liked the way the scent filled her senses, his own unique maleness combining with the freshness of springtime. She’d never be able to rid her senses of the scent, nor did she want to.

She relaxed when she finally heard his footfalls.

He smiled when he found her sitting cross–legged in the middle of his bed, wrapped only in the sheet.

Chelsea sprang from the bed and flew into his open arms.

“I could get used to this kind of welcome.” His arms squeezed around her tighter. “How did it go today?” Brad’s hands wandered over her soft flesh; where his fingers traveled, tingles followed.

“Honestly, it scared the hell out of me.” She turned in his arms. “It was more than I expected, but I feel like there’s so much more that I need to know … . and so much more we need to talk about.” She pulled him from the room.

Chelsea told him most of what Rowena had relayed, but she left out the part where Rowena read her touch. Some of it was too personal, and some of it she didn’t want to reveal yet — it made her too uncomfortable, too vulnerable. She took his hand and walked him around the house, the sheet flowing out around her like a Roman toga. She showed him where the herbs were hidden, some in plain sight. But wherever the small bundles rested, it brought an unequaled peace to that part of the house.

Brad sank down on the sofa, and drew Chelsea down beside him, she fidgeted beside him. “So, what’s left?” He watched her eyes. “What do we need to talk about?” The rest of the house was quiet, their heads close together, gently whispering.

“Are you hungry? Grams left a plate in the oven.” She brushed her lips along his jawline.

“I am, but if you keep that up, and it won’t be food I’ll be craving.” He smiled at her near nakedness, and she disentangled her body from his, dragging him along with her. She needed to let him go, but that didn’t mean she wanted to stop touching him or that they couldn’t share the night.

“Food first, talk later.” Chelsea led him to the kitchen and pushed him into a chair. She turned the stove to warm, then settled between his long legs to lean against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around her middle.

He rested his chin on her shoulder. “So talk. I’ll listen.” His lips played with her earlobe, which made it difficult to concentrate.

“Stop, or I won’t be able to talk.” She squirmed with a laugh, and rubbed her shoulder against his chin.

“Seriously,” he held her more securely, “what’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to interfere in your life.” She couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes, because if she did, she’d never say the words. “I’ve taken it over, you’re living at my home, you have to drive forty-five minutes just to go into your office.”

He grew quiet as he listened to her rehearsed speech.

“I don’t want you to resent me.” She shrugged her small shoulders, made smaller by his presence. A single tear slowly trailed down the curve of her cheek.

He lifted her from his lap, and turned her around to face him, his stormy hazel eyes catching the glistening trail left by the lone tear. “Don’t you know why I’m here? It’s not out of responsibility. It’s not because of some obligation. I’m here because this is where I need to be, right now, at this time. I meant it when I said you were mine. I won’t have it any other way.”

The oven beeped, and Chelsea stood and removed the plate. “I don’t want you to look back someday and think you wasted your time on some crazy lady, because, these days, that’s what I’m starting to believe. I’m totally one hundred percent certifiable.”

He watched her for a few moments before a grinned creased his face, and he barked a laugh that brought a smile to Chelsea’s lips. “The only time I think you’re nuts is when you try to scare me off, or when you try to reason why you are the way you are. You really will drive yourself crazy thinking about that.” He pulled her back down onto his lap, buried his hands in her hair and drew her face closer to his so they were almost nose to nose. “I don’t want to be anywhere else. Okay?”

“Are you sure?” She worried her bottom lip “I mean, I want you here, but … ”

Brad pulled her in to meet his lips in a hard kiss, stopping her breath, stopping her words, swallowed by need.

• • •

“Peter Wallace was a farmer. You already knew that having done … well … whatever you do when you see a ghost.” Brad pulled the plate closer to him, and took a bite. His eyes drifted to where Chelsea stood — he could make a meal of her right here and now. But first he wanted to share what he’d found out about the old farmhouse, and the family that used to live there. “What was really strange to find was that he and his wife Helen died in a car crash forty years ago, not a half-mile from their home, right on that same stretch of road where we stopped. An overfilled grain truck pulled into traffic and on top of their car. Their car was mangled, they died instantly.” He remembered the photos, nothing he wanted to see twice.

“Huh … that is strange. I thought his wife was … well, you know … living. He didn’t seem to know she was gone. She paused. “I’m not going back there.”

Brad glanced across the table at her. “I thought you were getting into helping … the ghosts.” It was hard for him to think of ghosts as real. In fact, he still had serious doubts.

“Peter Wallace … ” She rolled the name off her tongue. “He didn’t feel right when he approached me, and for a minute, I could have sworn … ” She bit off what she was going to say. “It’s craziness or nonsense, I don’t know.” She heaved a tired sigh. “He tried to touch me three different times.” She rubbed her arms. “They can’t help it, they’re drawn to the light and warmth of my body. I understand that now, but he wouldn’t stop until I let my fingers brush his. He tried to linger, and it seemed like he grew stronger for a moment when he made contact with my skin. When he did, I felt a wave of exhaustion hit me, like nothing I’d ever experienced before.”

“So, what? Do you think he was, I don’t know, trying to steal some of your warmth?” He gazed at Chelsea and saw the fear that exploded in her eyes.

She stumbled back across the floor, the look of terror washed over her features. “No, it’s not possible!”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Brad jumped up from the table as Chelsea began backing further away, as tears poured from the deep blueness of her eyes. Her back hit the fridge, and she slid to the floor in a messy heap, knees drawn up to her chin, twisted in the sheet, her whole body vibrating with fear.

“Chels?” He stepped closer, but she back further away, squeezing closer to the cool surface of the refrigerator. He squatted down on the floor. “Chelsea? Baby, tell me what’s wrong. Talk to me, sweetheart.” Brad’s voice contained a new softness, he reached out, his fingers brushing her arm.

Chelsea sat, shivering on the cold hard floor, her hands shaking as she tried to rub the remembered touch of the old farmer away. She kept whispering, “No! No!” Her eyes lost their focus.

The Nevernever had found a way into her living world. It wasn’t possible, or it shouldn’t be. They would be coming after her now, Rowena was right. They’d taken a taste, and they wanted more.

How do you stop the Nevernever when it can sneak in to your life?

Before she started screaming, Brad wrapped her in the strength and warmth of his embrace. He lifted her, carrying her back to the table, and sat down where he held her trembling body.

His heart pounded against hers, sharing her frenetic need. “It’ll be okay, Chels, it’ll be okay. We’ll find a way … .” His arms folded themselves tighter around her body, but she shivered harder.

“You … you … don’t know. They’re here.” She bunched her hands in his shirt, burying her face in his chest. The rows of spiky teeth, the open maw created by its mouth, the way it pulled in her warmth, sucking it out of her body, the exhaustion left by its presence. It was all enough to drive a sane person crazy, and she was well past the point of no return, ready to fall into the endless abyss of insanity. At this point, she welcomed it; anything was better than her reality.

She sat up straighter and clutched his hands. “You have to promise me … promise me that if I tell you not to come back, you won’t. If I ask you to take Grams back to her house, you’ll stay with her, watch over her. I’m afraid. If they can’t get me, they might try for anyone I’m close to. I can’t risk you, either of you.” She remembered Rowena’s words.

“It’s not going to come to that. We’ll find a way, we’ll figure this out.” He rocked her, rubbing her back in slow easy circles.

“Promise me.” Chelsea became adamant, determined to hear his oath.

“I promise,” he said quietly, but his eyes said differently.

• • •

For the next two days, the ghosts stayed away, the nightmares were held at bay. Life returned to normal — or as normal as it had been since Chelsea electrocuted herself in the shower — with one new addition: Brad. He became her silent strength, when she wanted to hide, he forced her to face the daylight. At night, he made sure the monsters stayed in their fairytales. Only, it really wasn’t true, anyway, was it? The monsters did exist, and if Chelsea wasn’t careful, they’d get her.

On the third day, all hell broke loose, and it had nothing to do with ghosts, the Inbetween, or the Nevernever. It was Grams, tired of walking on eggshells. “I said to get your ass in gear. We’re going shopping,” she yelled down the hall, while Brad smirked from across the room.

“You put her up to this!” Chelsea whispered, her eyebrows drawn together. She just wanted to be left alone, to hide in her room. Maybe if she stopped disturbing the force or whatever the hell it was, it would quit messing with her too.

“I didn’t,” Brad said, “all I said was you needed to get some fresh air, a change of scenery. Maybe change out of your sweatpants, and that t-shirt … we can probably burn the t-shirt.” He raised his eyebrow as he plucked at the offending shirt.

She stared down at the Beatles t-shirt. Abbey Road was her favorite album. “Don’t even think about it! It’s my favorite! Besides, a little soap and water and it’ll be fine,” she said, and she realized they were both right — a little soap and water, and maybe she’d be fine, or at least feel better.

She couldn’t hide from the world. Sooner or later, it would come looking for her anyway. “Fine! I’ll get out of the house. I haven’t been to the mall in a while. And you can go to your office, check on Sally. You haven’t been in a few days, she’s going to forget what you look like.” Already she was starting to feel like her old self, and she stuck out her tongue. Then she laughed, and grinned back at him.

• • •

She and Grams hit all the stores and Chelsea decided she’d been overreacting. Brad deserved some time to do his job and Grams deserved to be treated to a girls’ day out. Neither of them should have to put up with Chelsea’s sorry attitude.

They grabbed lunch at the café and decided to make appointments for manicures.

“Sorry, Grams, I’ve been a giant pain!” Chelsea said as they waited for their manis.

“It’s okay, sweetie, but just so you know, payback’s a bitch.” Grams grinned. “And I have the photo albums to do it.”

“Don’t you dare!” Chelsea threatened, but she smiled and knew she was loved.

She bought a new T-shirt to replace the one Brad threatened to burn. At Victoria’s Secret, she twisted and turned in the mirror. “Oh, these are cute, but … a lot more of me is showing than is covered.” Embarrassed, she regarded her reflection in the mirror before deciding it was worth the extra money.

As they climbed back into Chelsea’s little car, she turned to Grams and hugged her. “Thanks, I needed someone to force me to face the world. If I could stand up to Julie Martin in second grade, I don’t need to hide now.”

Grams hugged her back, and chuckled. “Better thank that boyfriend of yours. He cares more than you think, little girl.” She patted Chelsea’s cheek.

Hildie was waiting for Grams when they got back. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Hildie and I are going to the movies, then we’re having pizza. I’ll be home sometime tomorrow.” Grams grinned at Chelsea, waving her fingers as she walked out to Hildie’s car. “Maybe you and Brad can have a date night too.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Chelsea returned her smile and waved to Hildie and Grams, watching them leave. “I think I know just what we need.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

When Brad returned to the house, he found it dark, the only light coming from fragrant candles. Lavender votives covered the mantle, flickering pale flames. “Come and find me,” a scrap of a note said.

The trail led up the stairs to the bath, where more candles flickered as he heard the quiet sounds of water lapping in the whirlpool, soft music playing in the background. He pushed the door open to find Chelsea, almost asleep, her head nodding with the force the bubbles made by the whirlpool. “Hi,” Brad called softly, and her droopy eyelids opened and she smiled up at him.

“Want to join me?” She held out a soapy hand, inviting him.

He went down on his knees beside the tub and picked up a cloth, squeezing out orange bath gel. The fragrant scent filled the space, and he reached into the water. He lifted one shapely leg, and leisurely washed in small circles up and down, then the other, finally kissing her toes. “Is there room for two?”

The water splashed as he sank in behind her, and steam gathered around them. He lifted her head to rest against his chest. “Did you have fun shopping today?” She slipped further into the water and he rested his cheek on the top of her head for a moment. “You needed to get out of the house and your Grams needed to spend some time with you.”

She reached up behind her and tugged his face down as she twisted up, kissing him full on the lips. “It was great, just what we both needed. Thank you for suggesting it. And you’re right, I’ve been letting my fears control me, it won’t happen again.”

“That’s my girl.”

His hands found her arm, and repeated the small circles with the cloth, leaning her forward to wash her back, then he cupped the water to wash away the suds.

She turned to face him, and held out her hand. “My turn.” She wiggled her fingers for the cloth.

She came up on her knees, her breasts glistening in the soft light of the flickering flames, water dripping from the rosy tips of her nipples. She rubbed the cloth across his flesh, his eyes never leaving the glowing orbs while her nimble fingers worked their way all over his body.

When she leaned up to pour water over the soap, his hands captured her slippery waist, pulling her teasing breasts in close, and he tasted her ruby rosettes, taunting him with their softness, with their perkiness. He teased and tugged them, hardening the rosettes with his tongue. A moan escaped her lips. His fingers worked their way across her slick flesh, and slipped inside her.

His lips tugged on her tender peaks as his fingers moved in and out of her wet folds, finding the small bud of sensitive flesh. He watched as the first waves of pleasure flowed through her body, and she caught his hand to slow his movements.

“I think I’m finished here, are you finished?” she murmured.

“Almost … ” But he continued his exploration.

When her body quaked with the waves of release, he captured her hand, wrapping it around his maleness; it throbbed with its own need.

He brought his hand up to wander along her jawline — his fingertips rubbed her full lower lip with its cherry ripeness — and he leaned forward, drawing her down to him until he could capture her lips in a hard kiss. “I’m only getting started. It might take me all night to finish here.” He smiled, and his lips went back to her rosettes, but his eyes never left her lower lip, watching it quiver with growing need.

She pulled him in closer to her body, watched him with her fevered eyes, and stole one last quick kiss before standing, water splashing from her body. She offered him her hand. Together they stepped out of the tub, letting the bubbles drain away, and she led him down the hall where more candles filled her bedroom and their moist bodies gleamed in the wavering light. On a small table, chocolate covered strawberries and sweet white wine waited for them. Chelsea lifted a glass to sip and offered it to his lips. He pushed the glass away — instead he tasted the wine from her lips with his own. He held the glass once more to her lips, and she drank, then he sipped greedily at her lips. She bit the end of a ripened berry, juice dripped down her chin, and he leaned down to lick the droplets away.

“The best part of the berry.” He smiled, and took it from her hand and rubbed the juice over her rosettes, and licked them clean. “I’ve never eaten strawberries this way before, I wonder why?” He brushed the pulp of the fruit over her buds, then bent to steal the sweetness again. The juice trailed toward the vee between her thighs, his tongue founds those tiny beads too. He pulled her back toward the bed. Chelsea finished the strawberry with the juice of the ripe berry clinging to her lips. His tongue flicked out and captured the droplets before they could fall.

Chelsea fingered one of the multi-colored condoms, glimpsing him from between her lashes.

“Come here,” his deep voice rumbled, his eyes feasting on her body, and she stepped closer, her hand finding his hardness, rolling the condom over and around him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, his body throbbing with every heartbeat. His hand closed around hers, moving back and forth, mimicking the movement of their bodies when they came together. His length grew harder still, until he was close to bursting.

He pushed her back onto the bed, and she guided him to her soft center, the tip hovering over her opening.

“Please, I want to feel you inside me.” Her eyes became a sea, and he fell, lost inside her oceanic depths as he pushed to fill her soft core. His fingers brushed over sensitive peaks, eliciting a muted groan. He pushed deeper, her body moving with his, encasing his manhood.

“Yes.” He slowly pulled back out, then pushed every inch back in just as slowly, until they found a rhythm of giving and taking.

“I can’t take any more. Please … I want this, I need this.” She pushed herself over him as the waves of pleasure came harder and faster. “Yes!” she screamed, wrapping her legs around him, holding him inside her, as he continued to stroke with greater urgency, his hands fondling her softness, brushing over the redness of her rosettes. He stroked one last time before his release tore from his lips.

Chapter Thirty-Four

They lay beneath the sheet, his fingers made lazy circles on her back, her head rested on his shoulder. She hid her face. “I’ve never done that before, not the candles, the bath, the wine, or the strawberries. Do you want one? They’re great.” She brushed her fingers over the velvety tee of his chest hair, tickling his flesh.

“I’d rather taste it from your lips.” He smiled as he looked down at her. “Or from other places.” Her face flamed to a soft pink, and he threw his head back with a laugh. “Now you get embarrassed?”

“I told you I’d never done anything like that before.” She hid her face again.

He lifted her chin, and looked into her blue eyes. “That’s what made it so special, it was only for me, it was all mine.” He kissed the end of her nose. “But we should probably get up and put out the candles before the house catches fire.”

“I know,” she sighed sleepily, “but it’s so warm and comfortable here.”

“And it will be again, as soon as the candles are out.” He sat, and pulled her up with him. She reached for her robe, and he slipped jeans over his nakedness. “I don’t know why we bothered, we’re coming back to bed.” His eyes lingered, hungry for her body. He just had his fill, and yet he wanted more of her, needed to have more of her. How had it happened, he wondered. How had he fallen so completely in love and not known it?

She pinked again and stepped closer, running her hand over his bare chest. “If you say so.” She giggled. “You’re the one who’s supposed to go to work tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I’d rather hold you all night long than sleep a wink.” His lips grazed hers, lowered to her neck, and to the soft hollow between her shoulder and throat. “Who knows, maybe I don’t have to go to work.”

“Yes you do. I’ve changed your life enough without keeping you from your job.”

But if he could have frozen the moments and repeated them over again, he would have because nothing quite felt like making love to Chelsea’s body. He nuzzled her neck, pushing her head further aside, and nibbled at the tender flesh.

“Candles?” she said, though her eyes were closed and she reached over her shoulder to brush her fingertips over his stubble-covered cheek.

He sighed and released her only to pick up her hand. “Right, the candles.”

They made their way through the house, talking softly, laughing, putting out the flames, some of them already gutted, drowned by the wax.

In the living room, when Brad realized Chelsea wasn’t answering back, he turned and caught her pale expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked as he gazed over her features.

Chelsea swallowed and took a step back. “There, I saw a flicker from over there.” It was then she heard the buzzing, someone or something was looking for a way into her world.

Chapter Thirty-Five

She turned and looked around the room. “There! There it is again.” Her heart beat erratically within her chest. She felt herself being pulled toward the shadowy presence, and tried to stop herself from stepping closer.

“I don’t see anything, are you sure?” Brad stepped toward where she pointed.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Chelsea backed away. “Please leave me alone, please,” she begged to the shadowy outline.

“Chels, what can I do? How do I help?” His fingers slipped into hers, he pulled her closer, hiding her behind his body.

She shuddered, let her hair fall to cover her face, let him be the barrier between her and the unknown. Then she sighed. “Brad, move out of the way.”

“Chels … ” he started.

“I can’t hide, I can’t let all this,” she gestured to the world around her, “I can’t let it control me, keep me afraid, keep taking away my life. I have to face it.” She tried to smile for him. “Besides, what if it’s someone like the little boy … what if it’s someone I can help? I can’t turn my back on someone like that, freaked out or not. I have to try.”

Brad squeezed her hand, and let her go. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” He leered at the shadows, but they were only shadows to him. “I’ll be close by,” he said quietly, kissed her forehead, and turned toward the kitchen.

She could hear him opening the fridge, putting a pan on the stove, just loud enough to reassure her. She stepped into the shadow. “Is anyone there?” But no one answered. “Who is it?” she asked again to no reply. “Okay, last chance, then I’m going too.”

A voice squeaked from the corner, and a girl not much younger than Chelsea stepped into the dim room. Light brushed her features, and she stepped deeper into the shadows, hiding her face. “Hi … I didn’t know if you were for real or not. You really can see me?”

Chelsea smiled and reached out her hand. “I’m Chelsea Karmikel, and you are?”

The younger girl gave a slightly crooked grin. “Unbelievable.” A coolness brushed over Chelsea’s fingers, and she got a better glimpse of the girl’s face. It was battered and bruised. “I’m Angie Blackwell. I don’t know if you can really help, but some of the others … ”

“What?” Chelsea asked.

“Some of the others said that there was someone who could see us. Someone who could help us.” Angie stepped closer. “I was afraid to come, but someone has to make it stop. There are others and there’s going to be more.”

“Make what stop?” Something gnawed at Chelsea’s gut, something bad.

“The bad man, the one who did this to me. Don’t ask me to say his name. The darkness might hear.” She glanced over her shoulder before she stepped into the full light. It was worse than what Chelsea imagined. Her lower lip was split, her left eye blackened, swollen closed. Even the sick little boy, Bobby, appeared healthy when he’d come to see her. Why would this apparition be so damaged? Why didn’t she look like she had before death took her?

“Who did this to you?” Chelsea questioned in a whisper, horrified. She reached out her fingers to brush Angie’s face, but the girl stepped back.

“Don’t, I’m so scared!” She visibly shook, terror showed in her features.

Chelsea’s voice broke. “Let me help you.” The horror of what one human being could inflict on another astounded her. “Why do you look this way?”

“This,” Angie let the light brush her features, “this is why I came, I can’t move on, I can’t heal until he’s stopped.” She stepped further into the light. “Someone has to make him stop.” Then she backed into the shadows as if afraid something else might come after her too. “You know who I’m talking about, right? You know him. Don’t let him fool you.” She warned. “If he can’t get to you, maybe his friend will.”

“What are you talking about? Who do I know?” Chelsea asked, baffled. She didn’t know anyone capable of this kind of violence.

“You know.” Angie’s eyes pleaded, and she turned again as if to look for something in the darkness. “I’ve said too much now. But I had to come, I had to see, if you can … you have to stop him. Because he’s coming for you too.” Angie headed back into the shadows. “And maybe even your boyfriend.” Her voice became a whisper, then she fled into the pitch blackness, vanishing from sight.

Chelsea stood in her living room, a growing sense of dread washing through her. Who could have done this? Who did she know? Who could be coming after her? Why would they want to hurt Brad? What the hell was happening now?

Grendel growled and slinked out from under the sofa; every hair on her small body stood on end. She looked at Chelsea and then into the sea of darkness where the girl had vanished. Chelsea met the cat’s gaze, but when Chelsea bent down to pick her up, she hissed and danced away. Chelsea’s heart rose to the throat — something else still stood in the darkness, just out of her sight, but not out of Grendel’s.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chelsea stood there, watching the shadows, waiting to see if something else might step forward. The trembling started in her thighs. She wanted to turn and walk away, but she couldn’t. When her knees started to bump together, it shocked her into backing from the shadowy darkness. She hid her hands in the pockets of her robe — if she didn’t, Brad would see, he would know. She didn’t want to weird him out any more than she already had. The shaking would stop in a few moments, and if not … well, she’d come up with something then.

When she knew she wouldn’t shake apart in front of his eyes, she walked toward the kitchen. Warm scents of toast and eggs filled the air, not that she was hungry, not after her latest encounter.

“All done?” Brad raised an eyebrow, and watched her sit at the table.

“Yeah, just someone else who the world’s abused. Someone who needs help.” Chelsea pushed her hands through her curls, resting her forehead in her hands. She stared at the wooden surface of the table. What was she supposed to say? Someone bad was coming after her? The gnawing in her gut grew, and she started to feel physically ill.

“And?” Brad asked. “Are you going to tell me? Maybe I can help?” He came over to where she was sitting and massaged her neck. Chelsea sighed; what he could do with his fingers was exquisite.

“It’s nothing.” She made herself smile up at him. She couldn’t tell him what had happened — pretty soon he’d be running away, and she wouldn’t be able to blame him. “I’ll figure it out.” She put a hand over his and squeezed. “It’ll be fine.” She’d have to learn to be a detective too. After all, that was what they made Google for, wasn’t it?

“Okay, let me know if I can help. Hope you’re hungry.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her hair, made curlier by their shared bath and heat.

“Starved.” She forced another grin, but it felt fake. When he placed the plate of food in front of her, her stomach flipped, she almost gagged, but she forced herself to take a bite. “Mmmm … ” She pretended to relish every bite, but it tasted like sawdust to her. She didn’t know if she’d ever truly be hungry again.

• • •

Chelsea yawned and stretched, before lifting up on an elbow to kiss Brad. “I’m exhausted. Are you going to be up long?”

“No, just long enough to go over this report. You go ahead, sleep, it’ll do you good.” But he pulled her closer to his side.

“Okay.” She closed her eyes, waiting for sleep to take her. Brad, true to his word, shut the light off and wrapped his arms around her middle, sighing, and his warmth seeped in. She was able to relax at last, but sleep stayed stubbornly away. The conversation with Angie Blackwell played over and over again.

The house settled and still, Chelsea lay silent, listening to the soft even breaths as Brad slept beside her. No matter what she did, the last words uttered by Angie Blackwell stuck in Chelsea’s head. The way Grendel had hissed at the darkness. The scene picture perfect in her mind’s eye.

Every brush of the branches outside her bedroom window, every chirp of the crickets, every shadow that passed through the moonlit night caused new panic to stir. She wriggled carefully from Brad’s arms, though she was loath to leave the safety of his warmth and comfort. She jostled the bed as little as possible as she slipped silently from the security of Brad’s embrace, while his steady breaths continued. She crept from the bed, tying the belt of her robe snuggly before entering Teresa’s old room, now Brad’s office. His laptop provided a guiding light, and as quietly as possible, she tiptoed across the darkened room. She jiggled the mouse, waking the computer as she sat in front of it.

“Angie Blackwell” filled the Google search bar. Within seconds, the computer screen streamed information at her, most of it useless since she didn’t know Angie’s address or place of birth, or even her birth name. Was Blackwell a married name, maiden? Was her given name Angela, Angelina, Angel? Or maybe Angie was a nickname for something else entirely. She didn’t know. Chelsea paged past the entries asking if she wanted to find Angie Blackwell, until her eyes came across a news listing. She read it carefully, and then read it again before she clicked on the entry, unsure if she really wanted to find out what she needed to know.

“Angela Blackwell, age 20, was found beaten to death in the alley behind a local restaurant,” the article read. “She attended Northwestern University where she was a sophomore. The police are investigating her death, but refused to comment at this time. Her family is asking for anyone with information to please contact the police … ” The article went on, but there really wasn’t any need to read further. Chelsea recognized the name of the restaurant, recognized the pretty picture of the smiling young college student, and she knew why Angie Blackwell looked familiar, where she’d seen her before.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” The words came quietly from behind her.

She spun around to see Brad standing there, waiting as she cringed. She’d been so engrossed, she hadn’t heard him enter the room. He’d read the article from over her shoulder.

“When I saw her in the living room, I had this gnawing feeling. I couldn’t place her, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her either. How did I know her?” She took a step closer to him. “I had to find out about her, find out how where I could have possibly seen her. It wouldn’t leave me alone.”

He stepped in front of her. “Is this why you didn’t want to tell me? Why you wanted to handle this on your own? Angie Blackwell, she was Sam’s date on that first night.” He watched her as he spoke.

“Brad, it doesn’t have to mean anything.” She picked up his hand, but he pulled further away. “Her face was so battered. It scared me, so far all those who have sought my help look like they did before death came, regardless of the circumstances, and when … ” Chelsea swallowed.

“What? What is that you were afraid to tell me?” He dropped down on his knees in front of her, his hands wrapped her cheeks, his thumbs brushed the soft skin under her eyes.

“This … ” She hated using the word ghost. “Angie Blackwell … she said that whoever hurt her … she said he might try to hurt me.” She swallowed again. “And maybe you too.”

Brad’s hands turned icy, and he dropped them from her face. “No, she’s mistaken, it can’t be.” He shook his head. “No.” He backed away, and Chelsea stood to follow him. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“But you saw him, she was in his car. We saw them both. We have to check it out.” Chelsea reached out to him, and he stopped, dropping his head forward. “Maybe it was someone else who hurt Angie, anything could have happened.” Chelsea’s face filled with fear as his eyes grew harder.

“Of course, you’re right. I have to find out. I have to know. There’s only one way to do that.” He glanced up, and it wasn’t with gentle care.

“Look, let me help you. Let me see if I can get Angie to come back. I’m not sure how, but maybe I can talk some more with her,” she pleaded.

“Have you ever tried to call one of them back to you?”

“No, but I can try. I can … I don’t know. Something.” She sounded desperate, even to her own ears. “Your Aunt Deloris came twice, when she realized you might need someone else’s help. Maybe this is part of what she was hoping I could help you with.”

He thought for a moment. “I have to go into town tomorrow. You’re right, I’ve been ignoring my work. I have to talk to Sally, I have to have her check on some things.” He turned to her, picked up her hands. “Come back to bed, okay?”

“Would you like me to go with you tomorrow? Maybe there’s something I can do to help?” She reached out to stroke his cheek. “I’ll go in with you.”

“No, I have to do some checking. It’ll be okay, it’s all some kind of mistake.” But he held her hand over his heart, and it thudded heavily.

It felt like goodbye.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Brad left early the next morning. He didn’t say if he’d be back, he hadn’t talked to Chelsea much at all after seeing what she’d found. He’d just held her, and it was all she needed. She held him back just as tight and hoped it was all he needed too.

Chelsea hadn’t talked much either, afraid to ask what he thought, or if he’d be back soon, afraid of what his answer might be. She watched him drive off, her heart breaking with every mile that carried him further away. Tough days were ahead, and she knew he was going to do something he thought would never happen. He was going to have to investigate his own brother.

• • •

Grams came home in the late afternoon. She found Chelsea upstairs in Teresa’s old bedroom. Brad had packed all of his belongings — his toothbrush, his razor, all of it was gone, and it didn’t bode well for their future together. She already missed him, she already felt like crying.

“He’ll be back, sweetie,” Grams said.

“I know.” Chelsea smiled at the older woman, so like her. “He just needs a little time and space. It’ll all work out. And if it doesn’t, well then, it was never meant to be.” Chelsea moved into the hall, and back to her own room. What she knew, what came from her lips, did little to help the sick feeling deep inside her. The place where her heart rested, even as it was breaking. “I’m going to lie down. Would you like me to cook or do you want to?”

“You go ahead, sweetheart, I’ll call when supper’s ready.” Grams headed to the kitchen. “I’ll fix your favorite.”

Chelsea lay down on the bed, picked up the pillow from the other side, and inhaled deeply. It smelled of spicy male, her body gel, and shampoo. It smelled of Brad. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but no sound left her lips. What if he didn’t return? What if he tried to hide from her? What if he couldn’t take her as she was? Then her tears were unworthy.

• • •

Brad drove without seeing, almost by instinct. He pulled his cell from his pocket and dialed his office.

“Rearden Investigations,” Sally answered.

“Sal, can you do me a favor?” Even to him, his voiced sound defeated.

“Sure, boss. What do you need?” He heard the shuffle of papers, crisp over the phone.

“I need you to check something for me. And I need it done quietly, like I don’t want the rest of my family to know I’m checking.” He hated keeping secrets, and if what he thought was true …

“Got it. On the QT.” Her voice revealed her curiosity.

“I want you to check into the background of Angela Blackwell. Look for a connection to anyone in our family.”

“Okay … but wasn’t she … ?”

“Just do it, Sal, I’ll tell you all about it later. I’m heading in, see you soon.” He disconnected the call. He still couldn’t believe he was doing this. If had been Angela Blackwell at the restaurant with Sam, why hadn’t the police spoken to him? Or to Brad for that matter. His name had been listed on the reservation.

He dialed back into his office. “Sal, one more thing, can you get me a copy of the police report?”

“Yeah, but it’s gonna cost you.” She twisted around in her chair; the creaking came over the phone. “He’s going to want Bulls’ tickets.”

“Deal. Just get the report if you can … ”

He thought about his brother, and their childhood. How could Sam go so terribly wrong? What had happened to him that hadn’t happened to Brad? When he reached the office building in Springfield, he went in the back way, through the freight elevators. He couldn’t deal with his family right now, especially if what he suspected was true.

When he entered the office, Sally was speaking in quiet tones, the fax was working, the other line was ringing. Just another busy day in the life of private investigations. He didn’t answer the other line, he let it go to voice mail as he stopped to pick up the fax. The police report. He stopped by Sally’s desk, mouthed “thank you.” She gave a small smile and winked at him.

He read through the first few pages. “Son-of-a-bitch,” Brad swore under his breath. His suspicions were well founded — Sam wasn’t even mentioned in the report, it didn’t even indicate he’d been at the restaurant. He flipped through pages, his eyes searching for the investigating officer’s name.

“David Randall. No wonder Sam’s name wasn’t mentioned.” His fingers thumped the pages. David Randall was an old family friend.

He sighed, and rubbed his tired forehead. He hadn’t slept much after reading the news listing Chelsea had found on the Internet. Now, he was worried about what she thought. He wasn’t his family, but he had bent to their will on more than one occasion. But never again. If what he thought happened really had, Brad would turn his brother over to the police himself. Even if it meant he had no place to call home. Then he realized something else: Chelsea had become his home. She was all he really needed.

“Sally?” he called, and he heard her chair scrape across the carpet.

She stuck her head inside his office. “Yeah, boss?”

“Could you get my father on the phone?”

“Um … sure. If that’s what you want.” She started to back out of the office.

“Wait. Is there something else?”

“Look, I asked my friend if there was any connection between what happened at the restaurant and the Rearden family, and he told me I didn’t want to go there, if you know what I mean.” She looked at him pointedly. “He kind of suggested that we let this one go.”

“Let this one go?” He thumped the report laying open on his desk. “Let this one go? Have you seen the pictures, Sal? Have you read what happened to that girl? How can I let this one go?”

“I never said I agreed with him, but you know the investigating officer was pressured into looking the other way. He’s a good cop, but he owes your family. So do you.” She shook her head. “And don’t look at me like I’ve grown a second head. I’m only saying what needs to be said.”

Brad glanced at his clock, it was still early morning, nine o’clock, yet his head pounded like he’d already worked a double shift. In all of his twenty-eight years, he’d never felt this apprehensive, this afraid of the truth. But he needed information, and he needed it quick — why not go to the root of his problem? “I know, Sally, sorry I snapped, but I can’t let it go. See if my father’s available, I need to talk to him.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

His father answered his private line with clipped tones. “Rearden,” was his only response, even though he knew it was Brad calling.

“Dad,” Brad answered.

“Bradley, what can I do for you?” Not how are you, why don’t you visit your mother more often, or how’s life in general.

“Something’s been brought to my attention, Dad, something to do with Sam.” He waited, breath held. Sam was always their father’s favorite, he never did anything wrong. Maybe that was the difference — Brad had never done anything right.

“What is it you think you know, Bradley?” His father’s tone spoke volumes, like he was sick and tired of Brad already. But it mostly said, whatever Brad thought was wrong.

“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Dad? Have you been waiting to see if I could figure this out? Or had you hoped to sweep the whole sorry business under a rug?” Brad barked out a harsh laugh. “There are some things money can’t buy. Silence is one of them, at least not from me.”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Dad, she was just a kid. Do you even remember her name? Angie Blackwell? Did you see the pictures? Do you know I saw her with Sam the night she was killed?” All came out in rapid succession.

“Bradley, son, why don’t we have lunch, we’ll discuss this like adults.” His father’s patronizing tone grated against Brad’s frayed nerves.

“What’s there to discuss, Dad? What’s there to figure out?”

“You didn’t even know this girl. She dumped Sam at the restaurant, left with someone else. Ask your brother if you don’t believe me, or the maître d’. Both have been questioned. Come on, son, come to lunch and we’ll talk it through,” his father cajoled in his best lawyer’s voice.

“How come Sam’s name isn’t even mentioned in the police report? Or mine? How much did it cost, Dad?”

His father’s voice contained a new hardness. “You think I’m going to let our family and our firm’s name be dragged through the mud? What good would that have done?”

“How can you sleep at night? How can you live with even the possibility?” Brad was dumbfounded.

“The police investigated this, and they didn’t find any reason to continue in this vein. There was DNA evidence connecting the whole thing to someone else, some unknown party.” His father’s tone was losing its patience. “Can’t you let this go? Can’t you do something for your brother instead of trying to pull him down?”

“Pull him down? He’s the youngest associate with the firm, he manipulates everyone, and he’d still be in law school if you hadn’t bought his way out.” Brad still wondered how his party happy brother had passed the bar, but the juries loved him. “Angie Blackwell doesn’t have to worry about being pulled down. She doesn’t have to worry about going to school, or work, paying her rent … She doesn’t have to worry about anything anymore, Dad, because she’s dead.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Bradley, your brother didn’t do this. How can you even think it?” His father had gone from cajoling to angry in a matter of moments.

“Because, I saw him with her. I know she was alive then. And wasn’t afterwards. I have a sick feeling, Dad … ”

“Sick feelings don’t mean shit, Bradley.” The phone slammed in his ear.

“Maybe not.” Brad dropped the phone back into its cradle when silence filled his ear. “But how can I live with the possibility?”

• • •

Brad left his office, and wandered through the streets of downtown Springfield. How could he go back and face Chelsea with everything she knew?

He walked until he found himself back at his office, and suddenly he knew what he had to do. He’d do exactly what he would if a stranger had come to him, and in a way, isn’t that what had happened? Through Chelsea’s gift? He would do a thorough investigation, like his head was telling him to do, and he’d let the chips fall where they may.

He strode with new purpose through his office. “Sally!”

She scurried from her desk. “Yes, boss?”

“Start a new file, labeled A.B. Investigation. It stays inner office, hardcopies filed here only, under lock. Computer copies encrypted and sent to my laptop alone. I want copies of Angela Blackwell’s phone records, interviews with her friends and neighbors, and their phone numbers. Maybe they’ll tell me something they wouldn’t or couldn’t tell the police. I want to know how often she walked her dog, if she had one. Understood?” He eyed his secretary and continued to his desk. “The police still show it as an open file — they’re investigating her death, I’m just going to put some time and effort into helping them along.” His voice took on that hard clipped tone of the street smart cop he used to be before he’d saved up enough money to go out on his own. Not that he’d needed to, but to use his family’s money, even the funds bequeathed to him, meant he was beholden, and that he couldn’t tolerate. “But none of my family should be made aware of what we’re doing here.”

“Sure, I’ll get on it right away.” She smiled at him. “Brad … ” Sally rarely used his given name, she liked keeping their relationship professional. “If it counts for anything, I think you’re doing the right thing.” She quietly closed his office door as he reached for the phone.

“Thanks, it means a lot.” The empty office echoed around him, but it still felt good to be acknowledged. Then he picked up the phone and dialed the one person who would understand his need even better than he did, who knew he’d come to the right conclusion, even if he didn’t want to: Chelsea.

• • •

“Hi,” she said as if only one person would be calling her.

“Hi,” his deep tones replied. “I’m sorry I left so quickly this morning. How can I make it up to you?”

“You don’t have to do anything but come back.”

“I can do that. See you tonight?”

“Sure. See you soon.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The next morning, Brad grinned across the kitchen table at Chelsea. “Alright. You wanted to be a detective … detect. Sometimes a fresh set of eyes is just what a case needs.” He laid out all the information he and Sally had accumulated. “My investigation has only just started, but the police had already completed most of the groundwork.” He opened the file, a gray envelope was attached to the inside. “Here’s a copy of the police report.”

She fingered the envelope. “What’s in here?”

“Crime scene photos. If you need to see them.” He started to pry the clipped edges.

She covered his hand with hers, stopping his motions. “I don’t, at least not now.”

“When I spoke with her roommate, she said Angela was tight with a boy named Rick. Maybe that’s who she left the restaurant with.” Brad pulled his laptop from its case.

“She left with someone besides your brother? That’s kind of good news, isn’t it?” Chelsea asked.

“It could be. I talked to the detective in charge of the investigation, he claimed Angela didn’t leave with Sam. Here’s the video from the restaurant, it confirms Angie left with someone else.” Brad fed the DVD into his laptop. The restaurant came into focus. The first view was of the front exterior, then it leapt to a side view, then the rear exterior. It switched every fifteen seconds between shots, creating a jumpy picture of the passage of time.

Brad picked up a second DVD, and fed it into the laptop. “This is the interior shots.” They watched together for several moments, the camera swept over the diners, finding Sam and Angie, the only sound was a resounding static, too much noise to capture their conversation. When the camera captured Angie’s upturned face, she scanned the restaurant, as if waiting for someone. In the next shot with Sam and Angie, she was standing and there was a young man with his back to the camera. The next shot showed Angie’s and the man’s backs as they exited the restaurant. The young man’s face was never displayed.

“Well, that helped a lot.” Chelsea played back the frame of Angie and the young man. “You can almost see his face.”

“It supports what Sam told the police, and why they didn’t investigate him any further. Not that they would have anyway, not when my family applied the right financial pressure.” He sighed. “This leaves us back at square one.”

“All I know is what Angie told me, that the person who hurt her might try to hurt us too, and we knew him, she specifically said him.” She looked up from the video. “So you think she left with this Rick?”

“I haven’t a clue. The police have searched for him too. Her family’s seen the video, they said it might be Rick, but from the back, who can be certain? They didn’t know his last name and neither did the roommate. Angie was secretive about who he was.” He ejected the DVD from his laptop. “Do you have any idea where to go from here?”

“Nope, do you have anything else?”

He opened another file, removed a few slim sheets of paper. “About a week later, the body of an unidentified man was found matching this man’s height and hair color, all of his identification was gone.” He pointed to the still of Angie and the young man. “Not that there was a lot left to identify. His face was mutilated, his body cut open, his hands removed. There was enough forensic evidence to suggest he was still alive when the torture started, though probably not for long.”

Chelsea shuddered. “That’s more than I wanted to know.”

“All part of being a PI.” Brad picked up her hand. “That’s it for this case.” Brad gathered up the reports, the photos, and the DVDs, dropping them all into a manila envelope, pushing the clip closed.

“But for the next case … ” He stood and walked into the living room, and Grams followed him back into the kitchen. He was carrying two large shopping bags. “I need help with this too.”

Grams sat across from Chelsea at the kitchen table, while Brad emptied the contents of shopping bags, seven photo albums in all.

“Are these the albums from your aunt’s house?”

“Yes. I need to find more with the pond in the background. I can’t take something as thin as ‘I remember from when I was a kid’ to the DA, or trying to place something from a single picture. I need something more.”

Chelsea pushed one of the albums in front of her Grams. “Okay, we need all the help we can get. Start with this one, and we’ll keep going until we’ve looked at them all.”

Grams opened the pages, and stopped immediately. “This is your Aunt Deloris?”

It was an album filled with recent pictures. “Yep, that’s Aunt D. Why?”

“Del was part of our canasta group. She was a friend of Hildie’s, I didn’t know her very well. I had no idea that our Del was your Deloris. I’m so sorry.” Grams’s eyes showed her shock.

“Wait, your friend Hildie?” Brad questioned. He flipped through the police report, located the name of the person who found his aunt. “Constance Jackson?”

Grams grinned. “Yeah, that’s Hildie. She’s named after her grandmother, Constance Hildegard Jackson. She always hated Connie, but Hildie, it fits her personality.”

Brad’s eyes moved back and forth over the report. “Would Hildie be willing to come out to the house, take a look around with us?”

“I’ll give her a call.” Grams went to the phone and spoke to Hildie briefly. “According to Hildie,” she said after hanging up, “Del spent part of every day sitting on the bench out by that pond, no matter the weather. She doesn’t think there’s any way Del slipped and fell.”

Chelsea glanced at another photo of his aunt’s property, this one taken during the Spring, out by the weeping willow. It was a shot of humming birds busy at a feeder. Sure enough, there was a bench in the background. “Brad?” Chelsea glanced over at him. “Where was the bench when we were there?”

“Not by the pond, that’s for sure.” Brad pulled the album closer to him. “There wasn’t any place to sit when we were there.” He glanced between the two women. “I need to visit Aunt D’s house again, today.”

“I’m coming too,” Grams said. “We can pick Hildie up on the way. She doesn’t live far.”

“That’ll be great, Grams.” Chelsea squeezed her hands.

Brad pulled Grams to her feet. “Thank you.” He wrapped her in a warm hug. “If you hadn’t been here … ”

“You would have figured it out on your own.” Grams squeezed him back.

• • •

Hildie and Grams tromped through the back of the property, toward the place where the bench had rested for years. “This is where it sat.” Grams and Hildie stood where the bench should have been — the grass was shorter from being trodden down over time.

“It has wrought iron legs, and a wooden seat. It was starting to splinter, Del said she was going to replace it. But it was still here the last time I was … I mean, before she missed canasta night.” Hildie looked around, like the bench might be somewhere close by. “I’m sure it was here when I found … Well, the last time I was here. I remember resting on it while I waited for the police. Have you looked around, seen if someone moved it?”

Chelsea and Brad glanced at each other. They’d seen an old bench the day they found the albums.

“Come on, back this way.” Brad led them back through the trees and flowerbeds to the screened-in porch and patio. There, sitting under the overhang on the patio in an almost hidden corner of darkness, was an old bench, worn with age, weathered by the elements, the ivy already starting to creep up its wrought iron legs. Brad pulled it partially out of the corner, throwing the light over the worn wood.

“Is this the bench?” He turned to Hildie. He felt guilty — if he had visited his aunt more often, he would have known she’d placed a bench out by the pond, he would have known it was missing.

“Yes, that’s it. The wood is broken around the edges.” She picked at the tiny pieces of wood. “It would pinch if you sat on it just right. Del had an old quilt covering it.”

Brad stuck his hand back inside the flowers and pulled out the hidden key. He stepped into the house, and a few moments later came back out holding an old quilt. “Is this the quilt?”

“I think so, turn it out, so I can see the underneath side.” Hildie slid her glasses onto her nose.

“See, there’s where the splinters snagged the material.” She leaned down, bringing her face close to the wooden part of the bench. “There’s a bit of fabric stuck in the wood.” She pulled out a short strand of thread. It could have matched the quilt. Maybe.

Brad placed the quilt on the wooden seat; it fit perfectly, falling into place like it had been its home for many years. He looked closer at the bench, down the legs. Dirt covered the feet. When he went around the back, a red rust stain flowed down the back of the bench.

He felt sick to his stomach. Maybe the stain wasn’t rust, maybe it was something else completely.

He caught Chelsea glance, and she stepped around to have a closer look. “Was there anything on the back that could have rusted all over it? Or maybe it sat under something?” she asked Hildie.

“Not that I ever saw. It was always by the pond, and there isn’t anything out there except the pond, old oaks, and the weeping willow. I don’t know how it got here. Someone must have moved it.” Hildie looked around their little ensemble as if trying to piece together the truth.

“Maybe something else happened.” Brad’s face was grave with their latest find. This could be the place where his aunt had been bludgeoned before being dumped in the pond to drown. “I’ll make a few calls tomorrow, I’ll have a friend come out to test this stain, make sure it’s just rust.”

They started back around the front of the house, only to be met by the one person neither Chelsea or Brad wanted to see.

Sam was casually strolling around the house, whistling a tuneless song, hands hidden in his pockets. He stopped short as he came around the corner and saw the four of them. “What are you doing here?”

Brad gazed at his brother. His tailored suit fell in a neat fit. He appeared to not have a care in the world. Could he really be a sociopath?

“Chelsea has every right to be here. As soon as the will is probated, this is her property.” He watched his brother’s stance become uneasy. “What are you doing here, Sam?”

“I left something last time I was here. I just came to look for it.” Sam’s gaze fell over the small group and landed upon Chelsea with a sneer. “I’ll just take a quick look, and I’ll be on my way.”

“When were you here? I didn’t think you were fond of Deloris’s little farm.”

“Oh, it’s been a while, just thought maybe I’d come by, see for myself.” Sam grinned that oily smile of his. He was lying, Brad knew it.

He stepped in front of Sam. “Why don’t you tell us what you’re looking for. Five sets of eyes are better than only one.”

“That’s okay, maybe I’ll check again at home.” Sam turned to leave.

“Sam?” Brad called after him as he moved back around the house.

“Yeah?” Sam turned to look back over his shoulder.

“This is Chelsea’s house now. If you're going to be here, you need to let her or her lawyer know.” He smiled at his brother. “If you don’t, it’s called trespassing.”

Sam grinned. “Only you would try to pull something like this. The will is going to be challenged, you know it, I know it, even your little girlfriend knows it.”

“Now why would someone want to do something like that?”

“Bye, Bradley. Oh, Dad was looking for you.” Sam smirked like he’d delivered a punishment. He climbed back into his car, and gravel flew as he spun away from the house.

Brad peered at Chelsea. “Something tells me someone needs to stay here tonight. Are you up for it?” He smiled. “I don’t trust Sam as far as I can throw him.”

She picked up Brad’s hand. “Sure, why not. It’ll give me a chance to get to know your Aunt Deloris. Grams, can you stay with Hildie tonight?”

Grams and Hildie looked at each other, and she smiled. “It’ll be a movie and pizza night. I wanna watch Twilight.” They were like two little kids turned loose from Mom and Dad’s ever watchful eyes.

Brad tossed the keys to his Jeep to Grams. “You take my Jeep, we won’t be needing it. Call us in the morning, we’ll all have breakfast together.” He hugged her tiny frame. “Thanks for being the detective we needed.”

Grams pinked and smiled back at him.

Hildie turned to Brad. “I’m sorry about your Aunt Deloris, she was a good person.”

He smiled at her. “I know she was. Thank you for checking on her and for being her friend.”

Chapter Forty

Brad found fresh linens, and Chelsea called the local pizza guy for delivery. The electricity and cable still worked — Brad’s family hadn’t wanted to leave the house with the unlived-in look that invited problems. So, with a little work, the house stood ready, waiting for visitors.

“Tell me something about Aunt Deloris?” Chelsea lay on the floor in the living room, propped up on her elbows.

Brad smiled. “Well, she had such a big heart.” He laughed. “One time this big mountain sheep dog wandered up to the house. He was run down, more dead than alive.” His brow wrinkled while he remembered. “He was dirty and smelly, soap and water wouldn’t have hurt him. He showed up while I was visiting during summer break. Aunt D said he just needed a good home and she needed someone to talk to. They were going to adopt each other.” Brad’s eyes looked into the past. “This dog was massive, his tail could clear off the table in a single swish, and she’s talking to the dog, and he’s listening. And they both looked like they were smiling. She called him Mac.

“She wouldn’t think of calling the pound, said Mac just needed someone to love him, and D did, she loved him. He slept next to her bed, wouldn’t have let anyone hurt D, that’s for sure. It broke her heart when he died. He lived with her for ten years. I think Aunt D could bring anything to life — or at least help it survive.”

Chelsea watched him tell his story, watched his eyes light up when he talked about Deloris. “She sounds like such a good person, I really wish I’d had an opportunity to get to know her.”

“You would have liked her. She was a little crazy, but all the best ones are.” He smiled.

• • •

Night fell, and as the stars glistened overhead, they sat outside on the screened porch. The sounds of crickets and the buzz of June bugs hitting the screens replaced the distant sound of cars that moved along Route 29. An owl hooted from one of the old oaks, hoping for dinner.

Brad lifted Chelsea’s hand to his lips. “Bedtime.” He led her inside and up the stairs to the small bedroom — every few steps, he leaned in and kissed the fullness of her lips. Slowly, he undressed her, making it a sensual act as his fingers moved over her body, each touch a caress. Soon, her clothes draped the room as he danced her from one side to the other. He stood gazing at the feast her body provided. “How did I live so long without you?” he questioned, a storm brewing in his hazel eyes, one of passion.

Chelsea stepped in closer, tugging his black t-shirt over his head, her fingers on his zipper when he captured her body, pulling her snug against him. The soft brush of his hair hardened her already sensitive rosettes. He groaned as his mouth found them, and they formed sweetly to his tongue and lips. “I can’t get enough, it’s never enough.” He sighed as his lips moved from one soft mound to the other, then back again. His fingers found her soft center and encircled the tiny bud at her core.

“Brad, as much as I want to … ” Chelsea’s body softened to his touch and her voice hitched as she bit her lower lip. “I didn’t bring any condoms.” She brushed her fingers over his chest, eliciting another groan. Her lips found his and she claimed a lingering kiss.

He stepped back and grinned with mischief, reaching into his back pocket to remove three of her dayglo condoms. “Did I ever mention I was a Boy Scout?”

She released a throaty laugh. “My, you do come prepared — and ambitious.” Her fingers tugged his zipper, and his jeans followed her clothing.

“Come here, let me love you.” He smiled at Chelsea. “You do know I plan to keep you, right? You’re mine. I love you.” He captured her lips once more, his tongue plundering her mouth, tasting her sweetness.

She took a step back, and he gazed upon her nakedness. His hardened maleness became a throbbing pulse throughout his body.

Eyes downcast, she grinned back at him. “I love you too, and guess what, Mr. Rearden? I plan on keeping you too.” She giggled and wrapped her hands around him, moving them back and forth. She dropped to her knees, her blue eyes bored into his hazel depths as her lips replaced her hands. She kissed his tip, licked down his length, then took him between her lips.

“Chelsea, you’ll bring me too soon.” He brought her back to her feet and took her lips in a hard, hungry kiss. His hands shook as he tore open the condom.

She held out her hand and he dropped the condom into her waiting palm, bright blue this time, and she rolled it over his length, pushing him back toward the bed. “Lie down.” She straddled his body, her core touching the tip of his shaft. Then she slid over him, taking him deeply, only to rise a few seconds later to perform the act all over again.

“You are going to kill me.” He sighed, resigned to his fate.

“But remember, it’ll be a sweet little death.” She grinned down at him, taking his length again.

“Enough!” He laughed and pulled her beneath him. He stroked her with gentleness until she begged him for more. Then his thrusts became longer and deeper as the need to have all of her drove him. Each stroke brought them closer, each wave crested higher, until release tore from Chelsea’s lips and her body shook around him. He stroked her twice more before letting himself go, letting out a cry of his own. “Sweet Gee-sus, what you do to my body,” he said with wonder.

“So surprised?” She laid her head in the hollow of his shoulder as he came down beside her.

“I shouldn’t be. Every time with you is better than the last, leaving me to crave more.” He grinned as his lips stole one last kiss.

• • •

Chelsea tried to sleep. She rested close to Brad, absorbed his warmth and strength, but sleep wouldn’t come. She crept from the bed to a little sitting room which had probably been a small bedroom at one time. When Chelsea couldn’t sleep, reading often helped, and so she searched for a book to occupy her, so her mind could slow down and match her body’s pace.

She stepped inside the small room and found a modest desk — inside she found a thin book. She propped her bare feet up on the secretariat, and leaned back in the floral chair that sat before it. She thumbed through the pages, catching little phrases of words. It was Deloris Rearden’s diary.

“March 10, 2009 … I’ve been thinking I could use a vacation … California? Florida? Alaska!” Chelsea continued to read, slipping silently through the pages of time, catching little glimpses of Deloris Rearden’s life.

Chelsea rested the book against her chest, and listened to the sounds of the house. It was then she heard the whisperings … the telltale sound of someone waiting for her to see them. In that moment, Chelsea’s life settled into a new lucidity. This was her life, and if she could, she’d help anyone who needed her. Acceptance.

“Who’s here? Let me see you.” The shadows shifted, and the onetime owner of the home stepped forward.

“Why are you here?” her voice called.

Chelsea’s face grew warm. Here she sat, in the woman’s house, and the visage of the woman stood before her. “Hi, Mrs. Rearden.”

“Yes?” She vaguely smiled in Chelsea’s direction. “You look familiar, do I know you?” Deloris’s eyes no longer focused, she was lost, maybe she’d stayed Earthbound too long? “You’re helping him. So good of you. It’s going to be so hard on him.” She looked in the direction of the bedroom and her feet followed her gaze.

“Mrs. Rearden? Do you mean Brad?” Chelsea took a step toward Deloris.

Her gaze drifted back to Chelsea. “Bradley was always such a good boy. Nothing like his brother Sam.” Her eyes grew wary. “Those two were so sweet together, I can’t figure out what happened to him … ”

It was the second warning Deloris had given Chelsea. “Can you tell me what’s going on? What’s going to be hard on Brad?” She drew Deloris’s attention back to herself.

“When the truth comes out … ” Deloris’s vague look began to wander. “I don’t think I can come here again, I’ve stayed too long. I’m so tired. The light grows brighter. It calls me.”

“Then follow it, Mrs. Rearden. Let it lead you to whatever comes next.”

“But I have to make sure Bradley’s okay.” Deloris twisted the edge of her faded blouse, growing more anxious.

“I’ll take care of him, I promise. You have my word.”

Deloris wavered. “Yes, I think my time is finished here. The light wants me. I have to let it take me.” She melted away before Chelsea’s eyes. “Help him. He’s all I have left.” The words echoed through her.

Chapter Forty-One

Chelsea looked across the room to find Brad watching her. “Who are you talking to?”

She held his gaze, bit her lip. “Your Aunt Deloris, but I don’t think she’ll be coming back.”

“What did she tell you?” Brad came across the short space.

“She was more vague this time. I think she was losing her focus, she was unclear, distracted. She said I was to help you. The future is going to be hard on you, and you’ll need my strength. Basically what she’s been asking me to do from the start.” Chelsea reached out for his hand that hung limp at his side. “It’s a promise that I intend to keep.”

“Did she say what happened to her?” He closed his eyes and tightened his jaw.

“No. She was confused, but she told me to not trust Sam. He isn’t like you.” She sighed. “I think she was afraid of Sam.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. That’s if I had a choice in believing any of this.” He remained standing with his eyes closed.

“You don’t believe me?” Chelsea wondered out loud. “Then why are you here, why are you bothering?”

Brad opened his eyes. “Never think I don’t believe you, that I don’t believe in you, because I do. I’ve seen too much for it not to be. But it all sounds so unreal, no one else is going to believe it.” He leaned back, against the wall. “It’s just all so fantastical.”

“It is, but I’m starting to realize my Great-Granny was right. It’s all going to be okay. I’m only changing into someone that can help where others can’t. This is going to be my life, somehow, my destiny.” She lifted his hand to her lips. “As I hope you’re going to be.”

“I want to be, that and more.” Brad’s fingers brushed the line of her jaw. “I know it’s all true — if I ever had any doubts, they’re gone.”

“Why? Why do you say that?” Chelsea watched the emotions flit over his features.

“I just had a dream about Aunt D. In my dream, she looked like she did when I was a kid. She seemed happy. She said you were a good person, you were going to help me, and Sam had done something bad.” Brad dropped his hands and turned away to pace the small room. “I think Sam killed Aunt D.”

Chelsea drew in a harsh breath. “Did she tell you that?”

He looked back into her eyes. “No, she didn’t have to. I think he confronted Aunt D with the geological survey, and she must have done something to make him see red. Maybe she laughed at him — Sam hates to be laughed at, has for his entire life, even when he was a little kid.”

“But that doesn’t mean he killed her.”

“Yeah, but if she was sitting out by the pond, and if he was so mad that he was able to drag that boulder up and smash it into her head, the rust on the back of the bench would be … ”

“It would be blood,” Chelsea finished for him.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” His eyes were downcast. “Then he threw the boulder into the pond, destroying any evidence left on it.” His lips trembled with the emotion glowing in the depths of his eyes. “Then I think he dragged her body to the water — or maybe she really did just fall. But he’d have to make sure.” As he spoke, his face became paler. He clenched his hands. “It wouldn’t have been hard. She was a lightweight, but strong. She had to be unconscious for him … it’s too unimaginable, he couldn’t have.” He whispered to himself, lifting his trembling hand to his forehead, and shook his head. “She’d have been weakened, but the water might’ve shocked her awake. I don’t know, I can’t even think it … Did he look into her eyes while he held her down?” He squeezed his eyes tight. But it was too late — for Chelsea and him, the mental image had been given birth, and blazed across their consciousness.

“The medical examiner’s report said there weren’t any signs of a struggle, that’s why they assumed it was an accident. No one willingly drowns. But it must have felt like an eternity, as she gazed into his eyes, watching the little boy she’d known and loved all her life … kill her.” Brad drew a halting breath.

Though the house was warm, Brad’s hands had gone icy cold. Chelsea rubbed them between her own. “I hope it didn’t happen like that. No one is that cold blooded.”

But Brad continued. “Then I think he dragged that old bench up to the house, planned to get rid of it. But there wasn’t any rush, until I found you, until we started to figure it out.” Tears filled the corners of his eyes. “He came here yesterday to dispose of the bench, but we were already here and put a kink in his plans.” He closed his eyes again, and a solitary tear leaked out. “I think he did it, I think it happened that way. But I can’t prove it, and I don’t know where to look for the evidence, besides the bench. Stan’s firm works independents, he’ll have someone who’s thorough and who knows what to look for. I want the bench tested, the boulder pulled out of the pond. I think Sam did it.” He grew more sure as he stared into Chelsea’s eyes.

“And I think he killed Angie Blackwell because she left him at the restaurant, alone. She embarrassed him, he’d want to get back at her. Maybe he didn’t mean for it to go so far, maybe he didn’t do it himself, but I think he made it happen.” Brad shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but something’s broken inside his mind. He’s not right, maybe he’s never been right.”

Chelsea pulled Brad into her embrace. “He’s not the same little boy I saw in the albums. He was carefree, laughing, his life was good. You could see it in his eyes. If it’s like you think, something happened to him. Something bad.”

Brad squeezed his eyes shut. “But what could have happened? Why?”

Chelsea brushed her fingers across his cheek. “We’re just supposing. Maybe it wasn’t him.”

“But maybe it was.”

When Chelsea had first entered the small drawing room, the sky had lightened with first pale pinks and purples of dawn. Now the room was bright. She glanced over at a small clock on Deloris’s desk — it was almost nine o’clock.

“It’s morning. I don’t think I could have gone to sleep anyhow.” She yawned.

“I’m going to make a call. Do we need to worry about breakfast?” He walked back into the bedroom and dug out his phone.

“No, I couldn’t eat, now not.” She wandered to the window that looked out over the back side of the property.

“Stan. Hi, Brad Rearden,” Brad said into the phone. “I’m fine, yeah, the business is great. Sure … ” He listened some more and laughed at what Stan said, then he cleared his throat. “Hey, I was wondering … Can you get some of your people out to my aunt’s place? Just past Springfield. I’ll be here all day.” The voice on the phone talked and Brad listened. “Thanks, buddy, it’s been hard. In a couple of hours? That sounds great. I owe you. I’ll text you the address.”

As Brad ended the call, Chelsea backed away from the window to sink down on the bed.

Brad dropped the phone next to her. “What’s wrong?” His eyes found hers.

“I think someone’s out there. And I think it’s Sam.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Brad moved to the window, peeled aside the curtain, and peered outside. “Someone’s out there, alright, I can see their shadow moving. Did you see Sam?” Brad spoke quietly.

“No, it’s just a feeling. I don’t know, maybe it’s someone else, but it feels like him.” She shivered. “I wish we hadn’t let Grams and Hildie take the Jeep last night, it’d be nice to get out of here right now.”

He turned to Chelsea. “You stay here, I’ll head down, see what’s going on.”

“No way. I’m not staying here by myself. I’m coming too.” She picked up his hand.

He smiled at her and stole a quick kiss from her lips. “Okay, but stay out of sight, just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“Just in case you’re right.” They slipped back into their jeans and t-shirts and made their way back to the kitchen and out the back door. They stood on the screened porch, and looked over the patio and backyard. Brad took another quick kiss. “Stay here.” This time she listened.

He crossed the patio and stepped around the corner, out of sight. Chelsea heard his voice rumble. “Sam?”

There wasn’t any response, but then Chelsea smelled the smoke. From her hiding spot inside the screened porch, she crept to the slatted side that extended out onto the patio.

Brad called again. “Who’s out there? Sam, is it you?” There was a scuffling, followed by a shout of pain. “Sam, what the hell are you doing? Stop, you can’t do that! Stop it, damn it, stop!” There were more sounds of scuffling and grunts as Brad struggled over something.

Chelsea squinted between the slats and leaned closer. Her view was hampered, her ability to help limited. Anxiously, her fingers tried to pry the slats farther apart, her nail ripping down to the quick, she silenced a whimper. Her pounding heart rested somewhere in her throat as panic swept through her. She wanted to scream out, to cry for help, but who would she call? How could they help? The chill of icy cold dread seeped into her bones and over her goose pebbled flesh. She’d only just started to love Brad, would she lose him already?

Chelsea stepped closer, catching a quick glimpse of the side of a face, wild beyond recognition, the sounds of the struggle still ringing in her ears. Then she heard a wet thwack, along with the heaving of an exerted breath. The sound of a soft sigh came next as if the air was being let out of a balloon, followed by a heavy weight hitting the ground. Her lips formed the word “Brad” though no sound escaped her throat.

She stepped from her hiding spot, seeing what Brad and she had most feared. It was Sam, his face sweaty and smeared with dirt as he gazed upon the ground. He strained to pull something heavier than himself. He dragged it, scraping it along the terrain toward the back of the property.

The bench Brad had wanted tested sat in the corner under the overhang of the porch’s roof. Flames licked across its wooden surface. Chelsea panicked, picked up the old quilt from where Brad had dropped it the previous night, and dowsed the fire. Most of the bench was saved.

She crawled between the shrubbery, keeping low. The flowerbeds were harder to maneuver, and in some places, they were crushed by the heavy weight being dragged across them. Finally, Sam’s bent form came back into view.

He was bowed and sweating. He cursed, dragging an arm across his forehead. “Damn it! If you’d only listened, if you’d tried to help me instead of that girl you find so attractive, taking by rights what’s already ours! And you, all but giving it away! You’re full of yourself! Now look what you’ve caused!” Sam swung his foot back and kicked his heavy load.

Chelsea crept closer and saw what he was dragging. Brad. Her fist flew to her mouth and she stifled a scream. She watched Sam kick Brad again before tugging him forward, the pond coming into view.

Brad’s head dangled from side to side as he bumped and scraped along the ground, toward the water where Deloris Rearden had met her end.

Chelsea bit her knuckle to keep from calling out; tears stood in her eyes. “Brad,” she whispered. And she moved deeper, weaving through the trees, getting closer to the pair.

“I don’t know why you couldn’t just leave all this alone! Why you had to stick your nose in where it didn’t belong!” Sam growled out, and he grunted, pulling Brad nearer to the water’s edge. “But no, you were always Deloris’s favorite. You just had to snoop around!”

“And that stupid girl, you had to drag her out here. You’re going to give away potentially millions of dollars, because of what? You got laid?” he shouted and once again, he kicked Brad’s body.

“You’re an idiot, you’re only getting what you deserve.” Sam shook his head. “Look what you made me do. This is all your fault! Just like Deloris!” He grunted as he dropped Brad’s body beside the small pool of water. He was heaving from his exertion.

From the front of the house, Grams’s voice called out, “Brad? Chelsea? Are you decent? Ready for breakfast?” There was a short pause. “Chelsea?”

Chelsea’s heart raced with a whole new kind of panic — Grams couldn’t be here, not now! She glanced up toward the house, worry twisting her stomach.

“Now, who’s that?” Sam’s hate filled eyes roved over his brother’s face. “Who the hell else did you bring out here?” He kicked out at Brad’s body again, wiped his forehead on his sleeve, pulled his shirt straighter, and tucked it into his pants where it had come loose. “You wait right here.” He bent down and patted Brad’s cheek with a laugh. “I’ll be right back.” In his hurry to get to the front of the house, he missed Chelsea completely.

She followed, remaining out of sight — Sam couldn’t know she was here, that she had seen what he’d done to Brad. But she also knew to stay close enough to Sam to make sure he didn’t harm Grams and Hildie. She hid in the bushes, close enough to hear their conversation.

“Hello!” Sam called out with a grin, waving, as he made his way around the house. “If you’re looking for Brad and Chelsea, you just missed them.”

“We have Brad’s Jeep. Where’d they go without it?” Grams asked with disbelief in her voice.

“They said something about heading into town. They wanted breakfast, and since no one’s stayed here in a while, the kitchen’s bare. They decided to walk.” He leaned against the front porch.

“Are you sure? It’s about five miles into town,” Hildie said, and looked doubtfully down the road. “We didn’t see them on our way in. Surely they didn’t get that far.”

Sam gazed down the road too. “They’ve been gone for a while, but you might still be able to catch them.”

“That’s strange, we told them we’d be by in the morning. We planned to have breakfast together.” Hildie glanced over at Grams suspiciously.

“What can I say, young love is impatient.” He laughed a little sarcastically. “Maybe they just wanted to be alone.”

“Why not take your car?” Grams raised her eyebrows.

“You got me. I offered.” Sam gestured to the Porsche. “Look, ladies, I’m kind of busy here. Do you think we can talk after Brad and Chelsea get back? I’ll have them give you a call.”

“I don’t understand why they didn’t just call us. We could have come earlier.” Grams walked closer to Sam. “Why wouldn’t they call?”

“I really don’t know, but I am busy.” Sam motioned back to the lane. “Bye now.”

As Sam waited while Grams and Hildie climbed backed into the Jeep and drove away, Chelsea sped back to Brad as fast as her legs would take her.

Chapter Forty-Three

Chelsea raced over to where Brad lay, motionless. She felt his forehead, then his carotid pulse. It was strong; he was only knocked out. “Thank the heavens.” She bent down and brushed his lips with a soft kiss.

She spoke in a hushed voice, stealing another quick glance over her shoulder. Sam was still out of sight. “Brad!” She lifted his head to her lap, but when she pulled back her hand, it was covered in blood. Her hand shook. “Oh my God. Brad,” she whispered, “please wake up!”

She gently lowered his head back to the ground and hurried to the small pond, scooped up water in her cupped hands, and turned back to where Brad lay. She splashed the water over his face, causing him to cough. Slowly he blinked his eyes and squinted. “Chelsea?” Brad held his hand over his eyes, blocking the sun’s rays. “My head’s pounding like a sledge hammer. What happened?”

“Sam’s what happened! He’s around the house,” she uttered, her voice thick, and she dropped to her knees, a fat tear rolling down her cheek. “Come on, Brad, get up!” She whispered harshly. “Come on, before he gets back.”

“It was Sam?” Brad asked, disoriented. “Why are we at the pond?”

“There’s no time, Brad, get up! Get up now!” She roared in a loud whisper. “He’s coming back, he going to kill you. And me too if he catches us.” She shoved him, tried to push him up into a sitting position, and pulled on his arms, struggling to get him to his feet. Tears rolled off her chin. “Sam is insane.”

“No, he’s not. Or at least, I wasn’t, until I met you.” Sam’s voice came from behind her, and Chelsea’s head snapped around. “Brad, Brad!” He mimicked. “Get up before Sam catches us!” He continued in a falsetto voice. “He’s going to kill us!” His voice grew harder, and he grinned wickedly. “At least Deloris didn’t whimper and cry — she just died. Kind of like what you’re going to do.”

Chelsea glared over her shoulder to see him sauntering toward her. His deep brown eyes almost glowed, and maniacal need shone in their depths. “Damn. Now, I have to start all over.” He bent down and retrieved a small hammer hidden in the flowerbeds. He must have dropped it on his way to the front of the house.

“No. Look, Sam, if you want the property, it’s yours. I’ll give up all the rights. I don’t want it.” Chelsea tried to pull Brad with her as she backed away. “Let us walk away and it’s all yours. No questions, no authorities.”

Sam grinned, bouncing the hammer from hand to hand. “Yeah, sure. And as soon as you’re out of sight, you’ll be calling the cops. No, thank you.” He stepped nearer, leering at the pair.

“No, I promise, no police.” She took another step backward and tugged Brad’s arm.

Sam threw his head back and laughed until tears rolled down his face. “You really must think I’m stupid. But it’s you that’s stupid, bitch.” His lip lifted in a sneer and he lunged, just missing Chelsea as she ducked, and he gave a bloodcurdling scream.

Brad reached out as Sam came closer, shoving him backward. He stumbled, but it was long enough for Brad to hurry after Chelsea and push her out of the way. She hit the ground, and Brad placed his body between Sam and Chelsea.

“Sam, you don’t have to do this, we’ll get you help,” Brad cajoled. He edged forward with his opened hand held out. “Come on, give me the hammer. Mom and Dad wouldn’t want you to hurt anyone else.”

Brad’s words momentarily halted Sam in his tracks. “Mom and Dad? Ha! Like they care! Mom hides her head in the sand, and Dad, he’s a total freak, a sick bastard! You don’t know, you didn’t have to stay in that house! You could run to Aunt D!”

“Sam, what are you talking about … ?” Brad continued as he stayed in Sam’s path.

“You really didn’t know?” Sam’s sarcastic voice took on a new note of disbelief. “You really are stupid.”

“Tell me now, Sam. Tell me what I’ve missed, let me help you.” Brad pleaded.

Sam threw back his head again and chortled a sickening laugh. His eyes fell on his brother. “The late night visits, the other boys, Dad’s secret club.” Sam’s eyes lost their focus for a moment. “When he stopped letting me come to the farm, you never even questioned it. I couldn’t wait for the school year to start, for him to become distracted by … other things. For me to grow bigger, stronger, more like you. For him to forget about me like he had about you.”

“Mom said … .”

“Mom was just as bad!” Sam yelled. “She hid from what she didn’t want to see, just like you did!”

“No, Sam, I really didn’t know … ” Brad hands dropped to his sides. “If I had … ”

“What!” What would you have done? Called the cops? You think I didn’t?”

Brad stared at his brother, he stepped closer. “I would have tried to protect you … to make it stop.”

Sam uttered a guttural rumble. He growled with the injustice of his life, he no longer listened to Brad’s words. “But it all changes now!”

Sam swung the hammer in a wide arc, moving so quickly that a breeze glided over Chelsea’s sweat slicked skin. He smiled wildly, his eyes gleamed with feverish need. His growl grew to a roar. “You never knew? More like never cared! I hated you for that!”

“Then let me help you now, I can do that for you. Please let me,” Brad begged his brother.

“Like hell you will! Everyone will know, everyone will see.” Sam’s eyes moved back and forth, he spoke to himself. “No, you just need to die, no one needs to know anything.” Sam jabbered, no longer making sense, lost to both Brad and Chelsea. “Don’t worry about leaving your girlfriend behind, she won’t miss you for long, I’ll take care of her too.” Then he smiled almost serenely, “you get to stay together after all.” Sam’s eyes rolled and he laughed with the hammer raised, and he grunted with one final swing.

The birds fell silent as did the gentle breeze that had rustled in the willow’s shifting leaves.

• • •

Chelsea listened to all Sam’s revelations with growing dread. His sanity was gone, there was nothing left to save. The air vibrated around her, the buzz of a million bees filled her ears. Her hands raised to cover them as a thousand fingers of anxious need sought the air surrounding her. She tried to make herself smaller, closer to the ground. She heard the wheeze of the Watchman’s laugh as if in happy anticipation.

Chelsea’s eyes went dark for a moment, and when she widened them, she found herself existing in the two places at the same time. The Watchman’s mad gaze followed the struggle with Brad in the foreground, making a grab for Sam as he slipped by. The cold souls reaching out, but not for her.

Sam’s momentum carried him down the small incline, and he toppled head over heels to the shallow pond. He screamed and there was a wet thunk. His body lay still with the water lapping around it.

The faded form of Peter Wallace stepped from the Inbetween’s darkness and reached out with his frozen hand, a cloud of icy air engulfed it. He stretched open his maw in a wide yawn, displaying the rows of razor sharp teeth. But when his hand reached out, it wasn’t to steal Chelsea’s soul light, but another’s, Sam’s. She heard the whisper of the Watchman’s words, “the Nevernever has him now.”

“Your light would have made a filling meal.” Peter Wallace’s visage leered in Chelsea’s direction, “but the lost one’s madness calls me, quenches my needs.” The dead eyes in face of the man grew round and black, his pointed fingertips sank deep into Sam’s flesh and jerked back to reveal the glow of sickly yellowed light. Peter Wallace licked his lips and his jaw dislocated like the mouth of a gorging snake, surrounding the fluttering light, swallowing it whole. The Inbetween faded as Chelsea’s scream echoed through the farm fields.

The gentle sounds of busy insects and the wind came back to life as the weeping willow’s branches leaned over the pond to cry.

• • •

Brad leapt to the edge of the water. “Sam!” He attempted to lift his brother’s face from the water, to feel for a pulse, but Sam’s eyes were glazed, life had left them. Bubbles emptied from his nostrils, and his last breath escaped his body. Brad let him slip back into the water, and Sam’s head lolled back and forth in the rippling waves made by his intrusion. A small puddle of blood formed on the water’s surface to surround his head, floating and dispersing around the edges.

In the pond where Deloris had met her death, so had Sam met his.

Chapter Forty-Four

“I’m so sorry, Brad.” Chelsea sat beside the pond, her arms wrapped around her knees. She’d told him what had happened, what she’d seen.

Brad looked down at his brother, and shook his head. “He set the bench on fire, the evidence is lost. I’ll never have proof that Aunt D didn’t just slip and fall.”

“Sam did burn some of it, but I threw the quilt over it. I don’t know if any evidence is salvageable, but the bench isn’t burned. Maybe that’ll be proof enough. And we’ll always know the truth.” Chelsea stood and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around him.

“I better call the police and my parents. Lord, what am I going to tell them? What do they deserve to know?” He dug his phone out and dialed 911. “Could you send someone out to Rural Route One, just south of County Road 23? There’s been an accident, and my brother, Sam Rearden … he’s killed himself.” Brad’s voice broke on the last of it.

A few moments later, Brad ended the call. “Sheriff’s already on his way,” he said, pressing end on the phone. “Seems your Grams and Hildie had already called and reported something strange going on over here. Were they here this morning?”

Chelsea nodded and told him what had happened.

He gazed down into the deep blue of Chelsea’s watery eyes and pulled her in closer. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for it all.”

Chelsea buried her face in his chest. “It’s not your fault. Sam was so abused, no one knew the horrors he went through. What he said about your father … ” She shivered as her voice trailed off. What do you say to someone whose life had been changed so much in a few horrific moments, whose brother just tried to kill him … someone he was supposed to love and who was supposed to love him back?

Brad squeezed his eyes closed tighter and hugged her closer. She held him as silent tears fell.

Chelsea privately hope that the things in the dark remained unseen, didn’t come to visit her nightmares — there was sure to be plenty of those, and Sam would have a starring role, one of the lost way before death came for him.

Arm in arm, they walked back to the house.

Within a few moments, the police sirens sounded in the morning air announcing the sheriff’s arrival.

• • •

After Brad and Chelsea relayed the story of what had happened to the sheriff, the ambulance arrived, and the EMT dressed Brad’s wound.

The medical examiner and the crime scene techs arrived together. “We have to fingerprint you and the young lady as a baseline. You understand?”

“I was a police officer in Springfield, I know the drill. I don’t like it, but I know the drill.” Brad was fingerprinted first, then Chelsea. Techs moved around the yard, snapping pictures, gathering evidence.

Brad motioned to the old wooden bench, burned, but not destroyed. “I was going to have this tested myself, before Sam showed up. He tried to destroy it — I think the stains worried him.”

Sheriff Trent strode over, dropped to his knees, and examined the bench. He motioned one of the techs over, and the tech rolled a Q-Tip over the stain. “It’s blood, Sheriff.”

“Make sure the bench is moved to the state police labs,” the sheriff said. “Maybe we’ll get more answers than we thought.”

After the techs took their pictures, the ME leaned down over Sam’s body, tape recorder in hand. Chelsea heard bits and pieces of his thoughts. “Young male … appears to have suffered blunt force trauma … hammer found in his right hand.”

She moved away. She’d had enough of death.

• • •

Brad asked the police to re-open the case of Angie Blackwell. Whether they would or not, the state police would have the final say.

Chelsea and Brad were allowed to leave, and they returned to the farmhouse in Taylorville. It would be weeks before all the evidence was processed. But, there were promises that Brad would be kept informed.

• • •

The state police crime lab confirmed that the rust stain on the wooden bench was blood, a DNA match for Deloris Rearden, and most likely resulting from her death. The boulder was lifted from its place in the pond and taken away as evidence — trace blood amounts were found there as well, again matching Mrs. Rearden.

Sam’s neck had snapped during his fall. His death was proved to be accidental and would have been instantaneous. Unlucky for him, the afterworld hadn’t been kind.

Life started to return to normal, with one exception. Brad Rearden took up permanent residence at the Karmikel farm.

Chapter Forty-Five

It was two days later when word reached Chelsea that Rowena’s battle was over; her cancer had finally gotten the better of her. The phone rang early one morning.

“Mama made me promise to call you,” Charlotte’s broken voice told Chelsea. “Let you know she’d gone to her peace.” Charlotte spoke in a hushed voice, Chelsea had to strain to hear. “She was peaceful at the end, no more pain. The doctors say it was a miracle she lasted this long. But I think she was waiting for you. I think she wanted to keep her promise to your Great-Granny. And to get you to make a promise of your own.”

Chelsea’s eyes brimmed with tears. “If it hadn’t been for your mama, I don’t know if I would have made it. She saved me, Charlotte, she gave me strength. And I promise, if and when June Mary ever needs my help, I’ll be here for her.”

• • •

Chelsea sat on the sofa, reading Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight on the recommendation of Grams. The late evening news came on just as Brad strolled into the room, and Chelsea dropped her book on the table. “Hi.” She smiled up at him, but their eyes were drawn back to the newscast when the anchor’s words filtered into their ears.

“A local man, Edward Vinner, was arrested yesterday in connection to the murder of Angela Blackwell, a college sophomore who had been attending Northwestern University. Her body was found in an alley outside a local popular eatery, beaten to death.” Angela’s smiling picture, the one from the newspaper, flashed across the screen.

“He’s being held with a one million dollar bond; court date has yet to be released.” Then the picture cut away and a short clip flashed across screen, showing a thin, grungy man in dark sunglasses, holey jeans, and a tight fitting t-shirt showing off his wiry muscles, belying his wasted appearance. A vaguely familiar lawyer dragged him from the Springfield jailhouse, screaming, “No comment!” as questions were shouted and microphones shoved in their faces.

Edward Vinner drew back from the lawyer and grinned as if he’d done nothing wrong. He lifted away his sunglasses, exposing his black eyes, and winked into the camera. For a moment, Chelsea thought he was going to wave like some rock star.

Brad paled and swore under his breath. “Eddie.”

Chelsea glanced over. “Do you know him?”

“I’ve seen him with Sam, though I’ve never understood what they could have in common.” Brad rubbed his tired face as he sank down on the sofa. Chelsea watched him, trying to absorb what was happening on the television. Memories of Sam haunted them both. She wrapped her arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder.

Chelsea hadn’t forgotten Angie Blackwell either. She prayed Angie’s soul had found the peace she deserved, now that her mystery was finally solved. “I know this has all been hard,” she said. The Rearden family law firm was now under investigation — apparently Sam had misused funds, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. There were promises of indictments yet to come. “I wish I could take it all away.”

He leaned his forehead against hers and bent down to steal a quick kiss. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. This is all that I need, to be right here, right now.” He breathed against her lips, pulling her closer. “I made you a promise, I plan to keep it, I won’t let you go.” His hazel eyes heated with flames.

“That’s good, because I plan to keep you busy.” She lifted her face and their lips met once again. She sighed. “Is it too early for bed?”

“Not in my world.” He swept her up in his arms. “Have I told you how much I love you? How glad I am that you walked into my office?”

“Let me think … ” She pretended to ponder his question before letting her lips take liberties, trailing kisses down the length of his neck. “I could always stand to hear it again.”

A soft laugh rumbled in his chest, making her heart race, and he plundered her mouth in a demanding kiss. She lifted her eyes to his, her fingers smoothed his worry lines, and she whispered, “Why tell me when you could show me?”

Brad’s eyes roamed over her face, and he kissed her again. “It might take all night.”

“I don’t have any place else to be.” She smiled up into his heated hazel gaze.

“As you wish.” He ravaged her already swollen lips and carried her away.

About the Author

Lillie J. Roberts grew up Springfield, Illinois, not as big as Chicago, but big enough for her. She went to school at Eastern Illinois University where she earned a degree in Speech Communication and Disorders. She met her husband while working their way through college, finally choosing to make their life together in rural Illinois with their three children and one wild Westie named Stuart.

She has always loved reading and writing, making up stories for her younger siblings. So, when life threw her a curve, she chose to make lemonade, and began writing in earnest, letting her characters come to life. She loves music of all kinds from the ancient to the brand new, as long as there’s a rocking beat. She loves to write to the sounds of a good movie playing in the background, drawing her in much like her characters do. She also loves to hear from her readers, drop her a line and visit her at lilliejroberts.wordpress.com.

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Only Time Will Tell by Suzanne Hoos

A Matter of Fate

Ellie Heller

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2014 by Alison Auerbach.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-6678-X

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6678-3
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6679-8
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6679-0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © istock.com/skyman8

This book is dedicated to my husband Steve, who never got to see the finished project, and my sisters (in fact and by marriage) Julia, Nelly, and Beth.

A great deal of thanks goes to the critique groups I’ve been in over the years. From RWU to ERAuthors to Critters, Inc., you all have shown me the errors of my ways, helped me grow, and supported me on this crazy quest. In particular I’d like to thank Dr. Zee for metaphorically rapping me on the knuckles early on over my bad “that” and “it” habit, the Sunday Night Chat group—you know who you are—for bouncing ideas off of and being a source of inspiration, and the ladies of my current group for being upfront and honest, as well as wacky as all get out. I’d also like to acknowledge the wonderful editors at Crimson Romance who really helped me shape the final draft into the book you see today. As this is a work of fiction, some of the geographical locations around Lackawanna and Buffalo have been rearranged to suit the needs of the story. Any errors are entirely my own.

Contents

1. Title Page
2. Copyright Page
3. Dedication
4. Chapter One
5. Chapter Two
6. Chapter Three
7. Chapter Four
8. Chapter Five
9. Chapter Six
10. Chapter Seven
11. Chapter Eight
12. Chapter Nine
13. Chapter Ten
14. Chapter Eleven
15. Chapter Twelve
16. Chapter Thirteen
17. Chapter Fourteen
18. Chapter Fifteen
19. Chapter Sixteen
20. Chapter Seventeen
21. Chapter Eighteen
22. Chapter Nineteen
23. Chapter Twenty
24. Epilogue
25. About the Author
26. A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

Chapter One

Her head bowed to the winter wind, Mona strode across the parking lot to the mall, her concern and curiosity about Raine now verging on dread. Since the frantic call from her normally unflappable friend, the scenarios flitting through her mind kept getting worse. Had she been mugged? Detained by mall security? Why? Raine had given no explanation, only saying she needed Mona’s help now. Even if they didn’t see each other much these days, their best friend bond was unshakeable.

The wind slid under her collar and raised goose bumps along her back. Fuck-a-duck, it was cold! As soon as she finished her training she planned to move someplace warm and get out of Buffalo. Not somewhere too far south though—her light skin sunburned far too easily to be out in the sun all the time.

Avoiding the revolving door out of habit—she felt trapped when she was neither in nor out—she yanked open the side door, thankful to be out of the frigid temperatures. All elves had their quirks, but she knew she had a few more than most. Growing up outside the Folk enclaves—where she might have learned about magic a lot earlier—hadn’t helped.

Mona looked around, expecting to see the management office since she’d been directed to use this entrance. Instead she spotted Raine on a bench at the far end of the hall. Mona was relieved for a split second—until she took in her usually tidy friend’s unkempt appearance. Poorly dressed for the winter, she had no coat and wore open-toed shoes and a loose, cap-sleeved sweater over a lightweight dress. Huddled over, legs and arms crossed, the thin sweater tented her body. If Mona hadn’t known the woman, she would have avoided her, and not just because she could see the glow of evil intent surrounding her, but because Raine looked as if she’d been living in her clothes.

As she came closer, Mona's elf heritage allowed her to see the shape of the magic, although it was a bit difficult in the florescent lights. A spell had definitely been placed on Raine. And in her. Mona could clearly see both parts of the spell, the twisted, violent sigils, creating the intent of the spell caster, and the power runes holding and shaping the energy needed for the working. Mona would have cringed if she hadn’t been stuck dumb with shock.

Oh no, oh no, this was all so wrong. Raine was mortal—aware that there were Folk, but mortal. And mortal or not, no one should have had a working like this on them, complicated with many intricate mini-spells encapsulated in the larger one. Mona was very, very thankful that Raine had called her. If anyone who created spells, and not just saw them, like she did, had touched the working it would have been a disaster. Even now she worried that Raine’s actions may have triggered the warning beacon placed at critical junctures of the spell.

The magic in Raine would slowly kill her, Mona could see that much. Mona sucked in her breath at the shock. A world without Raine, no matter how infrequently they saw each other, was unthinkable. But what, if anything, Mona could do about it was unclear. She had to be able to do something. She was in training to be a Warder, to protect Folk and humans from misused magic. Even before her training a spell like the one Raine displayed would have drawn her to attempt to fix it; the need was part of why she’d been called to train. Mona took a deep breath; she needed to be calm. The working would shift—speed up—if Raine got overly upset.

“Raine?” she said once she was sure she could keep her anxiety out of her voice.

Raine jumped up. Standing, the heavily pregnant bulge of her belly became apparent. But last time Mona saw Raine—six months ago before her training had become so hectic—Raine was just starting to date someone and had reiterated that she was not doing the baby thing until she had a ring on her finger. What had happened? Now that Mona saw the growing baby, the spell was even more sinister, tied up in the tiny person inside her friend. Whoever set the spell either hadn’t known about the pregnancy or worse yet, did.

“Mona!” Raine slapped her hand to her chest, hysteria lacing her voice. “You scared the crap out of me!”

“Raine, you okay?” Because, shit, this looked bad. Really bad. She couldn’t believe it, but she actually wished her mentor, Smythe, was here to help her figure out how to deal with a spell of this complexity and magnitude. The old coot’s pedantic lecturing when they were working was beyond annoying, but she’d put up with it in a heartbeat if he could help.

“Yeah,” Raine said. She took several deep breaths. “I will be. Shit, no one’s snuck up on me that bad in ages.”

“Let’s go in,” Mona said. “Can I get you something to eat?”

Cracked acorns, that spell was convoluted! Nothing like the clear, linear ones with simple branches she’d seen before, this one looped and twisted like a tangle of yarn.

“I—” Raine jumped at the noise of the revolving door screeching.

They turned as a man in tan slacks and an unbuttoned blue blazer headed their way. In Mona’s eyes he glowed with the same tainted residual as Raine. His spell was new and strong enough that she could almost make out the working despite the distance. Mona’s read of his Folk abilities made clear he was a shifter, although he wasn’t what the Weres called “strong,” and didn’t have the balance of elf and human blood needed to shift at any time. Which was good, because the last thing they needed was for him to transform in the middle of the mall. And he definitely had weak magical resistance, given the spell compelling him to act looked to be lightly set. Lightly set or not, the compulsion rune on the top layer honed in on them.

Raine gasped; the man seemed to have her worried, too. Without a word they both hurried to the more populated portion of the mall. If a mall on a late Sunday afternoon in January when the Bills were playing in their first championship game in decades could ever said to be populated. And, if the lumbering Raine was attempting could be called hurrying. Mona slowed down and placed herself between the man and Raine.

“Upstairs!” Raine yelled.

Raine swerved and headed up an escalator, tripping at the top. Mona caught hold of Raine’s elbow to steady her, hissing as a painful tingle—a reaction to the spell—raced through her arm. A glance over her shoulder showed the man was gaining on them.

Their frantic pace attracted the attention of mall security; the guards closed in from the other direction, also dressed in tan slacks and blue blazers.

“Mona! In here!” Raine grabbed her hand and pulled through a door marked Mall Personnel Only.

The shock of touching the spell directly as she came into contact with Raine’s skin threw Mona off for a moment. She forced herself not retch as she felt the perverted intent behind the sigils the spell caster had made to control the power runes. Raine tugged on her hand and Mona followed.

A security officer stood in the hallway. “Hey! You can’t come in here!”

Mona let go of Raine’s hand as they turned around. Another guard opened the entry they’d come through. Behind him stood the man who’d chased them, his blazer now buttoned and looking like he belonged. To anyone else’s eyes, he would look mortal and safe; only Mona could see how different his being was compared to the security detail around him.

They weren’t getting out without confronting either the security detail or their pursuer, who seemed to be biding time until the rest acted. The compulsion wasn’t pushing him strongly enough to act rashly, which was good to know given the strength of the working surrounding him. Mona wasn’t going to wait to find out exactly how long that would last.

Her best bet was to change the spell on him, consequences be damned. Unlike the complicated mess on Raine, this one didn’t have as many components. She should be able to create a new spell by rearranging the order of the runes within the sigils. While she’d done it many times on inanimate objects, Smythe, her teacher, had yet to allow her to do this on someone while she was in training. Oh, Mona had tweaked a spell or two on people, changing the runes’ orientation and tweaking precedence within a spell, much along the lines of what she hoped to do with Raine. So many things could go wrong on her first try, but the alternative was far worse in her opinion.

She was going to do it.

Decision made, Mona’s hand twitched at her side as she suppressed the need to reach out and remove the threat the man represented. She’d only get one chance, so she’d better do it right the first time. In an effort to gain some time to study the settings, she started to talk. Babble, really—one of things she just did when she was uncertain and uncomfortable about her situation.

“Oh my god! I’m so glad you’re here. My friend Jackie,” she gestured at Raine, hoping her friend would pick up on the fake name, “she’s being, like, stalked by the father of her child. She’s told him she’s keeping the baby and he isn’t too pleased. Threw out all her winter clothes, ruined her car, and hid her purse. Like, as if being preggo by a numbskull wasn’t enough, you know?”

Her babbling stopped as the man who’d pursued them tried to step around the guard in front of him. Mona sidled over too so he’d have to come through her to get to Raine.

Mona ignored the second spell under the first; she had to deal with the compulsion before anything else. She fought down bile as she deciphered the linkage between blood and food, then the one pairing giving pain with sexual pleasure. The last, hidden behind sigils so strong it was hard to see what lay beneath, looked like death and contact. She could only assume there was something in the sigils that would trigger the spell to kill him and anyone he touched.

Raine took over the chatter. Her hands now shaking, Mona kept them low and concentrated on what she needed to do. Luckily, with this strong a working, she didn’t need contact to rearrange the spell. With so few options before her, she connected food to pleasure—the dude would probably get a hard on every time he saw a loaf of bread—and made them the ascendant pair. Seeing blood now caused pain; she hoped the guy had no plans of being a doctor.

The last set of runes were too volatile to move around, and very worrisome as the sigils were pulsing now that she’d changed the spell. She couldn’t rearrange them but she might be able to pull them entirely out of the working. Smythe had taught her the theory of removal even if he’d never let her practice the maneuver.

Unfortunately, to do that, physical contact with the working would be necessary. A shudder of revulsion hit her at the thought of feeling the intent of the spell caster again, but she couldn’t risk the guy running around like a time bomb.

I am immune to magic. This unique trait was the reason she'd been chosen to train as Warder, a needed immunity given she would be fixing spells gone awry as well as dealing with misdirected magic. The spell should not hurt her, not if it was directed at her. Directing a spell at other things that might kill her—like say, having boulders burst out of the ground and slam together like a ram’s horns—could hurt her. Physical violence concerned her too, but the surrounding guards would hopefully intervene if he attacked. And, goddess willing, none of the magic she’d manipulate would show, keeping Folk secrets safe from these mortals.

Because protecting each from the other was also part of her calling as Warder.

Raine stopped talking and stood shaking, earning a lot of sympathy from the men near her. Time to get to work.

“Hey, did you get a chance to see the guy?” Mona asked as she stepped forward and grabbed the man’s exposed wrist.

She pulled the rune set away, physically removing her hand to finish the separation.

The entire spell collapsed. A swirling whirlpool of new magic surrounded him, causing him to contort. The secondary spell! The working was a type of summoning spell, aimed at not just him, but some aspect of his magical ability. By all the thorns on the first rose, he was being forced to change into his den totem. Mona stepped back, appalled. This man was not strong, did not have the exact balance of elf and mortal blood to be able to change outside the full moon. He should not be doing this.

His face contorted in pain and the sharp smell of anxious sweat assailed her. This Were was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it.

In the blink of an eye his arms blurred and shifted to a puma’s paws, but his shoulders remained human. By the goddess, this was obscene. The summoning spell was forcing him to take on his Were clan shape piecemeal, the strength of the spells causing a distortion in the air behind him as the energy they held was emitted.

But . . . this shouldn’t be happening. Mona again read his magic ability; something in the spell was feeding magic into the change, like a power boost in an attempt to supplement an ability he did not have. Because of it he’d shifted far further to his puma than she’d ever thought he’d be able to, given his low level of elf blood.

His body stopped shifting and he was stuck with human bits mixed in with his feline body. His scream, a cross between a screech of sheer pain and a yowl, echoed down the hall. A vortex opened in the whirlpool of magic swirling behind him. Between one heartbeat and the next, his abomination of a body was sucked through.

Mona knew if she had still been in contact she would have gone with him, the final act of the spell.

She turned to check on Raine, finding her friend’s latte-colored face several shades paler than normal, making her chocolate colored freckles stand out in relief. The smell of blood, sweat, and fecal matter hung heavy in the air, making even Mona feel queasy; she had to imagine Raine was hit harder. And magic—magic!—had just been done in front of all these mortals. Most would discount what they’d seen, but there was always one or two who picked up on what really happened.

Three men from security detail pushed forward. “What the fuck?”

Oh, hell.

“Imp! Please!” Even with the urgent, pleading tone of her voice, Mona wasn’t sure the magical entities would answer her call. Still in training, she had no perceived social status. But if ever a situation called for the sparkling, pure magical energy creatures, this was it. Smythe had told her that in extreme circumstances, an imp might cast a spell for a Warder. Particularly should Folk be in danger of discovery.

“Please, I need memories altered to help Folk!”

Two small, bright, sparkly lights appeared, hovering high over the men’s heads. Thank the goddess.

And their magic was already at work. The men stood frozen, with blank looks on their faces. Muttering a heartfelt “thank you,” she took Raine’s arm and dragged her out of the hallway.

Chapter Two

Raine wanted to run but Mona held her back—no need to draw more attention to themselves.

“Aren’t you supposed to stop people from misusing magic? Isn’t that your job?” Raine hissed as they passed another shop filled with valentines.

Mona was attempting to deal with her hair; the long, black curls had escaped her usual braid during their run and were getting in her face, driving her nuts. “No, I just clean up afterwards. I don’t usually do anything to stop people from misusing magic. There are other people who do that.”

“Well, it should be you. You might be new at this, but you have skills they don’t have, right? And isn’t it better to go after the source than clean up all the messes?”

Mona couldn’t argue Raine’s point. She’d tried to ask Smythe about it once and had simply been told that it wasn’t her job.

As they walked, Mona sorted through the magic around Raine. She tried to study every single rune and marking. The working contained several nasty rune pairings, a few quite subtly hidden. There was deeper, angrier color at several of the junctures, making her think those parts would be difficult to move around. With this complicated a spell, Mona was hesitant to change any of the linkages, however she definitely could work around the sigils and make one or two pairs less prominent by manipulating the runes.

Decided, Mona took the opportunity to nudge, ever so slightly to the back, the set of runes creating Raine's compulsion to deny she needed help. The main rune had a lot of the angry red about it, and it took Mona more effort than she’d anticipated to change the position. After working so hard to reorder the precedence of just the one, she wasn’t willing to move things around until she got a better handle on the setup. Particularly given what had happened to the Were.

“Raine, I can help you.”

“Help me?” Raine asked, her tone clearly both worried and defensive.

Mona should have anticipated this. One of the sequences made Raine think no one could help, and conversely, another made her deny anything was wrong with her.

“Pick out clothes and stuff,” Mona improvised. “There’s supposed be a big storm headed this way, and you need to get ready.”

“Okay.” Raine was monotone.

“How about a cup of coff—? Tea! I mean tea, first.” Mona didn’t think Raine should have caffeine. And sitting at a table would give her a chance to really look over the spell and see if there was any safe way to tweak it.

The chain cafe had an entrance to the outside, which meant windows and an alternate exit should they need to leave quickly. Engulfed by the smell of coffee and yeast as they walked in, Mona realized how hungry she was. After convincing Raine she needed to go with peppermint tea, and getting them each a quick nosh, they settled into a table with views of both entrances.

“Raine,” Mona said as she marshaled her thoughts, “I need to rearrange bits of your spell.”

Raine slammed her cup down, a spattering hot liquid on the table.

“I have a spell on me? First that deranged shifter kidnaps me, then he rapes me leaving me knocked up. Now I find out he’s put a spell on me, too? Why, that little piece of—”

Raine was an inventive and descriptive curser. She impressed Mona with her detailed description of how she’d remove, and then destroy, a certain part of his anatomy to make sure the “piece of refried crap with raw sewage for brains” couldn’t knock up anyone else. Mona monitored the sigils to see if they triggered one of the mini set spells embedded in the working, but they remained the same, despite Raine’s anger.

“Raine, deep breath,” Mona interjected, as soon as Raine paused her diatribe. She held up her hand to stop her from continuing. “You need to be careful not to get too worked up. The spell has built in markers that react to your moods, particularly if they get extreme. Except for anger; for some reason that’s ignored.”

Raine seemed about to say something. Mona looked her in the eye and took a deep breath, continuing to do so until Raine caught up with her.

Moving things around was every bit as tricky as she’d expected, especially in areas where the orange-tinted red sigils directing how the runes energy would combine deepened to burgundy. In those places the runes were particularly recalcitrant. But Mona did her best. Careful not to brush against the sigils, she changed the orientation of some of the runes at the base of the spell. Raine ended up in less discomfort, although if she got fewer than six hours of sleep she’d be in pain. Mona made Raine’s disinclination to speak, particularly of what had happened, into to an avoidance of quiet spaces. She also widened Raine’s perception, so her fear of leaving the mall was now a phobia of rural spaces.

Done, she watched the working resettle itself around the new configuration. There were some bright sigils still glowing from earlier but nothing new seemed to have come active.

Raine finished the last bit of soup-soaked bread and sat back, looking content.

The bright sigils flared, then sparked before disappearing.

Not good, although nothing new took their place. Mona suspected it was a beacon of some sort, and if so, it was tied to the place, not Raine. This meant she needed to make sure Raine left the mall soon.

“I’m ready to go, how about you?” Mona asked, standing to see if Raine would protest or follow.

Raine followed, pensive as they left the coffee shop.

“Where do you want to go?” Mona asked.

“I’m not ready to face anyone, not yet. They’re going to be full of questions that I’m not ready to answer.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, I know.” Raine didn’t sound entirely convinced.

Mona suspected nothing but time would heal that wound. “You’re welcome to stay at my place.”

“No, I need to be away from you all for a bit.” Raine gestured vaguely, indicating some ill-set area of Folk. “I’ll probably hole in up in a motel up by the falls tonight.”

“I’m not sure you should be alone.” Although if being around people she knew would make Raine more anxious, she might be better off alone for the next day while the new order of the spell took hold.

“I’ve been alone for the past several months. I’ll be fine.”

Guilt swamped Mona, if she’d stayed in touch, Raine might have gotten help sooner. Wallowing would not help. “Twenty-four hours, that’s my limit. After that you’re with me, or your aunt Betty. Got it?”

Raine smiled, they both knew her aunt Betty would smother her in kindness, no questions asked. “Between a rock and a hard place, huh? Okay, I can work with that.” She stared at Mona before coming to a decision. “Please, can you hold off on saying anything to the pack just yet about that crazy shifter stuff? Surely one day won’t make a difference.”

Reluctantly Mona agreed, bartering her silence for Raine’s agreement to let Mona buy her winter clothes.

Mona nattered on about inconsequentialities as she quickly assembled two outfits, along with boots—you couldn’t go through a Buffalo winter without boots. She also added several credit company-based gift cards, as she was pretty sure Raine had no money and she’d need something once she left the mall. Admittedly it was worrying when the clerk threw a pair of matching Buffalo Bills stadium blankets and deluxe emergency car kits she had earned “free with purchase” to the pile. Her brother said twice was a coincidence and three times was a plot. Not that he was always right. But it sure looked like at least one of them would need the supplies.

Done, they headed out to the mall restrooms. Raine changed and came back out looking a whole lot more comfortable and ready to face the weather.

“You look fabulous!” Mona said.

“Thanks,” Raine said, setting the bag with her old things by the trashcan. “I can’t tell you how much better I feel wearing new, clean clothes.”

“I know what you mean.”

Mona watched the spell shift around again as Raine become more relaxed. Some of the sigils were brightening again. Shit, she needed to get them out of the mall. Leaving would help reinforce the new settings of the spell. When they reached the garage, Mona followed Raine to the lower level where Raine stopped by a tiny excuse for a car.

“Are you kidding? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a car that small!” The exclamation was out before Mona could stop herself.

“Yeah, isn’t it great? I never have any problems finding a spot. Even when those honking big SUVs bulge over the edge of a space, I can fit in.” A frown crossed her face. “Guess I’ll need to trade up for something larger soon enough.”

They settled the bags in what passed for the trunk space before Raine slid the seat back and settled into the front seat, secured her belt, and checked the mirrors.

Mona stood in the open door and handed Raine the gift cards she’d picked up. She waved off Raine’s thanks.

“Call me, all right? If I don’t hear from you every couple of hours I’m going to come track you down. I don’t care if I told you I’d give you twenty-four hours.”

Raine shook her head. “Not every couple of hours. I’ll check in with you when I get there, but I need a little time to figure things out. It’s okay, isn’t it? To be by myself?”

Mona didn’t like leaving her alone, but doubted Raine would do anything drastic in the one-day window. Mona was more worried that whoever had set the spell might track her down. But . . . so long as Raine didn’t set off the spell’s beacons, she should be fine.

“Yes, if you stay calm, you should be fine. Just, call me when you get to the motel, okay? I’ll feel a lot better knowing where you are.” Mona leaned in and hugged Raine.

“Thanks, Mona. For—for everything,” Raine whispered into her collar.

“You don’t call me, and I will track you down. Like a dog after a bone.” They both chuckled; Weres hated the saying.

Mona moved away and Raine shut the door. She started the engine, waved goodbye, then slowly backed out. Mona watched Raine until she turned and headed to the exit, fighting the urge to follow her. Raine was right; she needed the space to be by herself for a bit, even if Mona didn’t like it. And now that she was out of the mall, she would be harder to find.

Outside the garage small, fine flakes skittered through the late afternoon sun. Mona looked at the steel-grey clouds edging their way across the sky toward the setting sun. Shit, what time was it? Mona quickly checked her phone. Damn. Too late for her to go home if she wanted to get to her shift at Fat Louie’s on time. And crap, she had an assignment to read before she met absurdly early tomorrow with her teacher, Warder Smythe. After being bored for the first six months of her training, if the spells on Raine were any indication, life was about to explode.

• • •

With the storm moving through, the bar had been quiet. For a long time the only customers had been her friend Francine and the date she brought to get Mona’s feedback. The woman was as suave and sophisticated as Frankie, and Mona thought her friend may have finally met her match. Oh, and right before closing there’d been that elfing, about to emerge into power. That happened a lot now; elves whose talents were on the cusp of emerging would find her. She’d quietly grilled him on what he needed and agreed to meet with him during her next shift. Other than that it was the same old, same old, except her boss closing early because he was worried about his pregnant wife. When they’d left, Mona had hoped to be home by eleven. Between having to clear the snow off her car and then needing to dig a trench through the pile plowed next to it so she could pull away from the curb, it was almost midnight when Mona finally drove away. She headed home in the hope of getting a couple hours of sleep before she went to Smythe’s.

The maintenance crew was out with the tractor plowing the lot of her townhouse complex when she turned into the back drive. Mona knew from experience that the rear access got cleared first because the shed that housed the tractor was there. Mentally making lists of things to do, she almost missed that there was something odd about her townhouse.

If she hadn’t come in the back way, or if it had been snowing any harder, she might not have seen the two shapes in the snow by the patio exit. She thought she saw a glow of magic about them, but given the distance she couldn’t be sure. Mona drove past her unit.

Damn. Okay, she wasn’t sleeping here. And she wasn’t confronting them, whoever they were; she was too tired and didn’t have back up. Calling the local Were pack was out of the question. One, she wasn’t sure how much help they’d be dealing with the goons, and two, well, they tended to be jerks and she avoided them as much as possible. Plus they'd want to know why the men were there and she'd promised Raine to hold off on telling the pack. If the shapes were still there when she came back tomorrow, she’d call and deal with their testosterone-laden leadership and comments on how helpless women were. But right now, no, thank you, she wasn’t in the mood.

Mona checked the time. Twelve thirty-five. Far too early to head out to Smythe’s and too late to call pretty much anyone who had little kids or babies, which meant most of her friends. Okay, then, it’d have to be her brother. She’d only be able to grab a couple of hours, given he was southwest of the city and Smythe was almost straight east, but something had to be better than nothing. Luckily she always kept a gym bag with a change of clothes in the car; part of her training with Smythe was showing up when spells went awry no matter what the time.

Nic answered on the third ring, annoyingly alert. “Mona?”

“There’s a problem at my unit and I can’t sleep there. Can I come crash back at the house tonight?”

“You need me to come over? What broke?”

Nic was an elf, like herself. After their mother left, he’d suppressed his abilities, which were quite strong from what Mona had read at one point, and ignored his heritage. Not fully ignore it as he worked for a secret division of the federal government monitoring Folk activity. He’d be less than thrilled to learn she’d come to embrace her Folk connections. Mona frantically thought of a safer reason she’d need to head over. “Nothing at my place; a plow hit the fire hydrant and the road’s blocked.”

“Even if you did get in, water’s probably off. I’ll go shovel the drive.”

Tomorrow . . . no, today was already shaping up to be a hell of a day. She dreaded Smythe’s reaction when he found out that she’d not done the assignment. Curmudgeon was the least of his bad traits. But given each region only had one Warder and he was it, she really didn’t have a choice on teachers.

Nic had shoveled to the street by the time she arrived. She unclenched her hands from the steering wheel as soon as she turned onto the driveway, only then realizing how close they’d been to cramping. Her brother stood inside the garage, leaning on his shovel.

“Hey, sis,” he said as he took her bag. “Were you able to find out when they expect the water to be back on?”

She blinked at his question and, knowing he caught her blink, covered for it.

“It’s late and I’m short on sleep, so, no, I didn’t think about calling. It’s Sunday night, remember? Plus, they’ve likely got everyone available out plowing and shoveling.”

Nic merely grunted and led her into the house.

Warmth enveloped her as soon as she entered. Mona had lived here from the time she was in fourth grade until she’d moved out a couple of years ago. Their mom had, with foresight, put the deed in Nic’s name once he’d hit eighteen. When she’d moved on—almost a decade in one place had to be a record for their mother—Nic was out of college and Mona was almost in high school. Mom had made sure they had money to take care of things. Odd as it had been—and there were times when things got very odd, not the least of which were the hoops they’d had to jump through since their mother had given Mona her last name and Nic his father’s—they’d managed. Mona had learned only recently that the elves traditionally gave their child the last name of the parent they felt would give their child better social standing. Apparently, that was one tradition her mother hadn’t bucked.

Mona was glad Nic had redecorated since she left. The natural woods and blues and yellows in the kitchen were nothing like the brown and avocado she’d grown up with. Some memories she was happy to leave behind.

“You want something to eat?” he asked.

And some never left. What he was really asking was if she wanted him to stay up and keep her company. Particularly since she knew if they ate, she’d be cooking. Not because he couldn’t, but because she loved to. She loved being in a kitchen, despite the fact that she’d dropped out of culinary school after a couple of semesters. Not that she had much time for it these days.

Imps were here, too? She blinked at the stove light. Yes, that was an imp. Were they always this prevalent and she’d just not noticed them, or was something going on? Had Nic somehow attracted them? Even though he ignored his magic, it was very strong; the imps might well have responded to it. Another thing to ask Abner Smythe about.

Nic was waiting for her answer.

“No, I’m bushed. Unless you want to stay up?”

“Nah, I should try to get back to sleep. I’m judging a regional Taekwondo bout tomorrow.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Night, sis. Let me know if you want me to come out and help with any clean up from the water being off.”

Now there was an idea, she thought giddily as she trudged up the stairs behind him. She could have him come out and “fix it.”

Mona hadn’t read him recently, but the last time she did, he was still teetering on the precipice of coming into his powers. Knowing his rejection of his elf side, she didn’t want any action on her part to be the catalyst to propel him into a life he clearly did not want to accept.

Exhaustion hit her in a wave as she flopped down on her mattress. She really sucked at this lack of sleep thing.

Her mind buzzed with all the worries she’d shoved back during the night: what was going on with Raine, how she’d now become a target, who could have set the spell. And, mostly, how much about the situation she was going to tell the Warder.

Sleep first, figure things out later. Mona rolled over, pulling the comforter on top of her, and decided that that was an excellent plan.

Chapter Three

Headlights flitting across wind-driven flurries, Mona turned the last corner of the tree-lined drive to find the entry of the Warder’s complex in complete darkness. The dashboard read six fifteen. Hell, given the crappy roads this morning, she was lucky she’d arrived only a quarter of an hour after her scheduled lesson. She knew Smythe would be snitty about her late arrival, but turning off the lights seemed a bit extreme.

Yet another reason to wonder why she put up with his crankiness. If there was anyone besides the self-important old coot who wospell himself; warders uld teach her about wards and spells, she’d take them up on the offer in heartbeat.

But this, this was just wrong. Even the motion sensitive floods stayed dark when she pulled over to park next to a pile of plowed snow. One or two windows of the castle Smythe called home hung lit and disembodied in the ebony bulk of the buildings, so the power was on.

No, something was off here. As much as a pain in the ass Smythe could be, and some days she swore he made it into an art form, he wouldn’t outright ignore her. He enjoyed busting her chops too much.

In the weak winter moonlight, the blue shadowed gate and the crenellated wall around the complex looked positively gothic.

Mona blamed the thought on too little sleep. Along with the sneaking worry that Warder Abner Smythe might be in trouble. She shook the worry aside; the complex was literally a fortress, built of stone and embedded with spells. Besides, clandestine images apart, the place didn’t seem to show any evidence of an attack. Apart from the gated entry being dark, and the eerie picture the moonlight painted, everything seemed . . . normal.

But she definitely needed to check things out, just to be sure. She was too far away to see whether the guard spells on the walls and gate had been breached. First step would be to look at them and figure things out based on what she found.

Opening the glove compartment, she pulled out her flashlight, hearing Nic’s smug “Aren’t you glad I made you put one in there?” She’d never told his overprotective self how, after the first time she’d gotten stuck in the snow heading out of Buffalo to the Warder’s to train, she’d made sure to keep one in the car. Particularly since she hadn’t informed him about her training. So not going down that road with him. He chose to deny his folk blood; she didn’t have a choice.

Mona bundled up and headed out into the lightly falling flakes. Her tire tracks were the only ones showing in the three-inch deep snow. Aiming the flashlight at the drive, she tried to find evidence of anyone coming by recently. Nothing obvious struck her, no lost hubcaps, no distinct furrows under the snow. Hell, she had no clue what she was expecting to find.

She cautiously moved toward the entry; the last thing she wanted was to turn her ankle. A strong breeze smacked her upside the head as if to ask what the hell she thought she was doing.

“Look, I’m just going to check the guard spells, then head back.”

Crap, had she really said that out loud?

The wind slammed into her, so strong that another step forward became impossible. She stopped and the gale force gust stopped with her.

She was reasonably certain wind sprites were incorruptible by evil. And this wasn’t a spell; no sigils or runes threaded the breezes.

Whoever or whatever had requested the sprites’ help didn’t want her to go any further.

Mona shone her flashlight over the frozen landscape. The gate stood perhaps fifteen feet away, the wall a touch more. Both were still too far for her to clearly read the myriad of spells scrolled upon them. She swept her beam across the ground, not sure exactly what she hoped to find.

A glint of pulsating red embedded in the dirt under the snow caught her eye. Mona cocked her head and leaned forward, angling the flashlight. Was that—yes, the glow came from magic.

Someone set a spell so it lay just under the gravel of the drive, hiding the telltale signs from her. Now that she knew where to look, she saw the working created a rectangle in front of the entry. If she’d driven up to the gate as usual she would have crossed into the field of the spell none the wiser.

The colors, including areas where it deepened, were exactly the same as the spell on Raine.

Mona shivered, and not from the cold. Given the little she’d seen, triggering the spell was a bad idea. How bad remained unclear. Several of the runes she did not recognize, her innate eye for reading them inexplicably blind. Warder Smythe had not yet covered these either. From what she could tell, the primary focus centered on stones and movement. An earth-based rune sat at the center. She reached out to trace the shape—sometimes doing so helped her learn the meaning, and if she knew the meaning she might be able to manipulate the spell to be less potent. The wind slammed into her side, upsetting her precarious stance. Arms cartwheeling as she tried to regain her balance, the flashlight arced out of her half-frozen hands and flew forward.

The earth rumbled and heaved. Mona shrieked in surprise as the ground buckled. Move! Shit, her flashlight must have crossed the plane and triggered the spell. She ran back to her car. Slipping on the wet snow she scraped her hands and knees raw trying to move quickly. Finally reaching it, she slammed her side into the rear bumper in her rush to get behind its bulk. Once safely behind the trunk she turned to watch. Pain burst from her bruised shoulder and her knees screamed protest at her crouched position, but she ignored the distraction.

Two giant slabs of rock surged up and out of the ground, slamming themselves at each other like whales at play before sinking back down. Except there was nothing playful about the shattered bits of plastic, glass, and batteries they left behind.

Mona fell, her ass hitting the frozen ground. That could have been her.

Her.

Smashed.

If the wind sprites hadn’t stopped her from going forward . . . bile burned the back of her throat at the gruesome image. Oh! And had the lights had been on and she’d driven on like usual…

As if her thought triggered them, the floods above the entry flickered and the area was bathed in their warm glow.

Momentarily blinded Mona blinked away spots as she scrambled back to her crouch. No time to be sick, she breathed shallowly, trying to clam her frantic heart. Little puffs of breath hung in the cold air in front of her, giving her position away to anyone looking. Not like there was anyplace else close enough to hide.

The huge wooden door creaked open.

Smythe wobbled his way around the edge, the scant strands of his white hair bobbing as his head palsied. He took the few steps to the edge of the churned up area. She expected him to blame her for the mess because, goddess knew, anything that went awry when she was around was her fault.

He stood for a moment staring at the rubble, then motioned absentmindedly to where she hid behind the car. “Mona, you may come in now. You did adequately in your challenge.”

What the. . .? That better not have been a test of her skills and reactions. Yes, she was tired of him pushing her to solve theoretical problems, when there was significantly more practical work they could be doing. Like restoring the wards around the Buffalo pack’s neighborhood, which she’d been told not to touch, despite the fact that her fixing them in the first place was how Smythe had found her. Instead—except when a spell was threatening to expose Folk or harm someone—they’d spent the last four months with her memorizing rune families and his quizzing her on theoretical scenarios.

Although a spell to crush her was hardly theoretical. Mona shivered at the memory of the slabs crashing together.

His statement didn't make sense. One, he could not have se the spell himself; Warders were unable to bing magical energy and create the runes needed to make spells, they could only see and manipulate workings others had made. And two, the taint of the magic was evil. Forget about saying evil was a state and not a being; the magic had been drenched with pure malice of thought and action. Just like the spell on Raine.

And three, hello? What happened to it being her fault? He might be safe, nothing had breeched the walls, but something very screwy was going on here. Either she could go in and get dragged into whatever mess Smythe had brewing inside the walls or stay out here and avoid getting blamed for the problem. Right, stay it was.

“Mona?” His querulous voice rose at the end, sounding like the schoolmaster he was.

She didn’t budge from her spot.

Smythe rocked, buffeted by the wind as he stood waiting. The sprites seemed displeased, which only firmed her resolve to stay where she was.

“You’ve been enough trouble already, running late and creating this mess.”

Yep, there it was, the pile of blame being heaped on her doorstep.

Reaching out, Smythe manipulated the remaining rune and the pile collapsed back in on itself, leaving the ground more or less level. Like she needed further indication that Smythe, frail as he was, could take care of himself.

Smythe tugged his jacket straight, then dusted the hem. “Once you are over your tiff, you are to study chapter six, parts ten through twelve. Lessons, however, are suspended until such a time that I feel you have shown sufficient remorse for your actions. Contact me when you are ready to discuss improving your attitude.”

He turned and shuffled back in, thudding the gate closed behind him. Thankfully he left the lights on.

Suspend lessons until she showed remorse? She wasn’t a recalcitrant teenager and didn’t appreciate being treated as one. Mona counted to twenty, just to be sure he wasn’t going to pop out again, then scurried around and got into her car, shivering and thoroughly chilled.

What the hell had just happened? No matter how she twisted and replayed the situation in her head, she could make no sense of why the Warder would say the trap had been a challenge. Blame her, yes; downplay the danger, yes again; but to say he’d set the spell as a challenge?

Who the hell challenged a Warder? And why?

She had no clue.

One thing was clear—Warder Smythe was fine, no matter who or what had set that spell outside his gate. He’d shown no worry or concern. Things looked to be under control inside the complex, then. His adding the “contact me” also helped ease some of her worries, although she couldn’t say why.

Knowing Smythe, there was the possibility that the sections he’d assigned held a clue or two. Of course, she’d need to shift through a lot of crap to find them. She wouldn’t know until she got back to her copy of the encyclopedia at her house.

At the entrance ramp onto the highway, the battering her body had taken made itself known, her arm a constant siren of pain and her legs pulsating throbs. Her body started shaking. Exhaustion? Adrenaline drop? Didn’t matter, best to head back home and get some sleep either way. No, wait, go to Nic’s. At least he’d be out. She could grab an hour or two, then head up to meet with Raine.

• • •

Sitting on the couch, mug in hand, Mona eyed the phone on the opposite side of the coffee table. The device might as well been a mile away. Mona’s right elbow thrummed with pain and both knees were stiff with a heavy cushion of swelling. Thank the goddess her elf blood meant she’d healed some already. She’d felt alarmingly like a human hockey puck when she’d gotten out of the car. Now she was just bruised, battered, and effing sore.

She didn’t remember much after she left Smythe to sell his hot air of an excuse to the thin air. Driving back down to Buffalo. Stumbling in through Nic’s front door. Landing on the couch, unable to sleep as shivers wracked her body. Calling Raine to check in, assuring each other they were fine and could wait to meet until the afternoon. As the panic receded, the hope that she’d have enough time to sleep and heal vanished faster than jerky at a shifter picnic.

Her cell phone rang, the loud blaring trumpets of a military march echoing in the living room. No excuses, she knew she needed to answer. It might be Raine, or even Smythe or the Pack with an emergency.

Ignoring the pain, she half stood to reach across the table.

The phone rang again in her hand. A shock buzzed through her fingers. Golems take it! Fumbling, she switched the phone to her other hand, shaking the tingling off. She glanced at the caller ID—no name and not a number she recognized.

She press talk and took a deep breath. “Hello?”

“Mona!”

A sour ball lodged in the pit of her stomach. Raine was frantic, and frantic wasn’t good with the spells she had on her.

“Mona? Are you there? I need to see you!”

“Are you okay?” She pulled herself forward and sat on the edge of the couch.

“Yes, but something’s come up. I’m not sure I can stay here.” Raine sounded a tad calmer.

“Get out of there!”

“No, I have a little time, I’m sure. Please, just come and meet me here, okay? I’ll feel safer leaving if I’m with you.”

Mona didn’t like Raine waiting, but getting Raine more frantic by arguing with her wasn’t going help. “Where are you?”

“At the motel behind the Seneca Nation Casino.” Raine audibly swallowed. “Mona, I remembered things about these guys. Things that’ll help you stop the hurting and killing of Weres.”

That explained why they were after both of them. “If you think you need to leave before I get there, don’t wait.”

There was a pause.

“I’m scared.” Raine’s voice was soft. “For me, for the baby. I—I’ll try to calm down, but get your butt out here, okay?”

Mona had already picked up one of her brother’s snowboarding jackets. She tucked the phone under her chin and slid one arm in, biting her lip to keep her moan of discomfort to herself.

“On my way. Just promise you’ll leave if things get hairy.”

“Yes. I—”

An automated voice came on asking for more money. Raine hung up.

Mona blinked at the phone in her hand. She pressed redial but was told the line did not accept incoming calls.

The urgent plea in Raine’s voice pulled at her. A premonition, a worry, definitely something she’d seen in the spell on Raine told her this was not good, not good at all. Hurriedly, she opened the front door and headed out to her car.

The wind whipped past her and froze her nose solid within two steps. Shivering, she tossed her ruined clothes in the back and looked at the sky. Another storm was building up over the lake.

Mona couldn’t wait to complete her training so she could finally do some traveling. On her brother’s advice, she’d put off exploring the country until she had a steady income or a portable skill. Being a Warder was clearly a portable skill and there were Folk enclaves all over the United States. Of course, she’d have to avoid the southern plains—witches held sway there—but there were so many other places she could go. She’d start with the larger ones, typically located near Elfhaven portals, like here and the one near Reno. The idea of being somewhere warm was very appealing right now. She’d heard there was a small community outside San Antonio, too. Visions of dry scrub and Joshua trees along with the smell of sunscreen danced in her head as she rushed through the lowering gloom and across Grand Island.

Twenty-two minutes later, Mona showed her ID and picked up the spare keycard Raine had left at the front desk. She’d healed more on the drive over, rotating her shoulders and left leg as much as she could to help speed the process.

The maid’s cart was in front of the door and the room was bare. Not good, not good. Looked like Raine had already left.

Mona flashed the card and went in. Raine’s things were gone. More importantly, no imps were hanging around; they’d abandoned the place, too. After nodding thanks to the woman who’d ignored the whole thing, she noisily ran back down the stairs and out to the lot.

Shit, shit, shit!

She jogged around the building. Careful of her still sore knee, she slowed to cross the several frozen slick spots. No sign of Raine’s small vehicle. Mona pulled out her phone and tried calling but got no answer.

Which meant she could be almost anywhere. Crap.

Okay, what to do. Mona went back to the warm lobby, trying to guess where Raine might have gone. There’d been no magical residual in any of the spaces she’d checked. Raine’s room, the lot, the lobby—all were bare. So she had to assume Raine had left of her own accord. The clerk came out of the back room, frowning at her. He’d been a snit about giving her the keycard, despite her showing the proper ID and the clear note from Raine she’d seen on the desk.

Mona stood and crossed to the counter. She handed him a credit card. “I’d like to put my friend’s room on my card please.”

“Room number?” the clerk asked as he tiredly clicked on a keyboard set below the counter. As if he hadn't just given her the third degree when she'd asked for the keycard.

“Two-sixteen.”

He glanced down at the screen and back at her. “Two nights already paid for. You want to do more?”

“Oh, no, thanks. Didn’t realize she’d handled it. Can you tell me when she did? We seem to be crossing messages here.”

“Sorry, can’t.”

Can’t, won’t. She didn’t argue with him. A couple of minutes one way or the other weren’t going to help her figure out where Raine had gone. And she had been here when she’d called, Mona was sure of it.

Not knowing what else to do, she headed to the lobby doors, with the vague idea of maybe going back to the mall to see if Raine had returned there.

Mona paused in the tiny vestibule, having heard the rear exit open. Maybe that was Raine. She turned to check. The bulk of two large Weres shadowed the hall, the essence of Folk and evil leeching out ahead of them.

She followed her instincts and ran, skidding across patches of ice on her way to her car. As she expected, they gave chase. Good, she needed to get them out of here and following her before they hurt mortals or exposed their magic. Mona wasn’t sure which would be worse at this point.

She was backing up when they reached her. One tried to come around, hand aiming for her door handle. There was no doubt he was strong enough to rip the door open. Gunning the motor, she shot back, skidding across the icy lot.

The car spun three-sixty, clipping one of the goons hard enough that he thudded over the hood, his back slamming into the windshield before he tumbled off. The other backpedalled out of the way. She watched in her review mirror as he yanked his friend upright. The motel clerk stood by the door and was yelling at all of them, furiously scribbling down something—likely her plate. Mona eased up on the brake and tapped the gas. Her two assailants were already climbing into a Jeep double-parked in the fire lane.

As soon as she was in control of the steering, she hightailed it away from the lot. The Jeep wasn’t far behind. Not good; she wanted them to follow her, but not this close. Her heart beat frantically and her hands shook. The trick was to not get caught, she had no illusion about the amount of harm the two would inflict if they got her in their grasp. The little bit of self-defense she knew wasn’t going to help against a pair of hulking brutes. Try as she might, images of becoming battered and bloody played in her mind, sending panic coursing through her.

Mona hit yellow lights on every intersection, causing her pursuers to blow through the reds and finally attract the attention of a cop. Either her timing was excellent or the imps were helping.

They slowed down and she kept going, quickly losing sight of the cop’s flashing blue lights in her rearview mirror. The distance meant they were less of a threat—now if she could just convince her panicked self of that.

South, over Grand Island toward the Folk enclaves near Lackawanna, seemed the best option. She’d agreed to Raine’s request not to tell the Buffalo pack last night, but with unknown Weres chasing her and probably Raine, she’d be damned if she went anywhere else. There was no doubt in Mona’s mind that these two were the same toughs she’d seen lurking at her place last night. Somehow they’d learned she’d helped Raine and were now coming after her.

The combination of the increasing rush hour traffic and sleet made driving more treacherous with each passing minute. She’d made it across the two bridges to the island without a sign of pursuit, but the Jeep showed up again as the Buffalo Skyway began, and the road started its rise over the surface streets. Dry-mouthed panic and a frantic heart were back full force. Dividing her attention between the incline ahead and her rearview mirror, she watched them swerve in and out of traffic, gaining on her.

Jerking her attention back, she found a solid wall of ice pellets heading her way and cars slowing down as it approached. She hit the brakes, the antilock mechanism kicked in, and the car stutteringly decelerated. Somehow the Jeep managed to pull alongside her on the left, tinted windows hiding the brutes’ faces. A window lowered just enough for the tip of a gun to peek out. Any hope that she’d survive an encounter with them fled.

Mona jerked the wheel hard and bashed into the Jeep’s side panel, sending it sliding across the skyway to the opposite side. Car horns blared and vehicles spun out as the wall of precipitation hit. Not waiting for them to sort themselves, Mona pulled over to the right shoulder and started backing up. Wheels humming on the safety treads, she only spared a few glances ahead to where the Jeep was still going forward on the far left, and the rest of the traffic was still snarled. Thankfully no one seemed to be injured, although at least one vehicle wasn’t going to be moving anytime soon.

Going backwards down the incline was slow, the road behind, difficult to see due to the angle. The icy precipitation didn’t help. But so long as she was heading away from the Jeep and that gun, she didn’t care about her speed.

The itch of a large and forceful spell being worked made her stop. A huge ripple of magic, like a distortion of heat in the frigid air, arched out from the ground below the skyway to the wind turbines along the Lake Erie shore. The angry red tone color was all too familiar.

The immense metal and concrete structures shuddered on their bases.

Holy Goddess of the First Tree! Mona didn’t know when a working of this size could have been set. She was fairly certain that she’d have seen that amount of magic on her way up and changed it, Warder restrictions be damned. Although, shit, if it’d been set down into the ground again, she may not have seen the markings from the elevated road.

The urge to help hummed in her veins. To shield Folk from mortals, or mortals from Folk, didn’t matter at this point. Saving lives did.

Leaving the car running, she got out and ran around the front to the Jersey barrier at the side of the road, ignoring the honking. These people were in far more danger than just the traffic jam the Jeep had caused, and she needed to do something to protect them.

No time to read everything, Mona concentrated on the symbols that shone the brightest. She flipped the rune controlling movement to the side, slowing the working down. Then, before the spell fully took, she turned the size one upside down, halving the area it encompassed.

With a sense of dread and futility, she watched through the sleet as the spell took hold. With a loud bang and a flurry of sparks a blade from of one of the turbines sheared off. Glowing and unnaturally spinning like a drill bit, the huge metal spike arced slowly toward the skyway. There was no way to hide this, even to the mortals.

Car brakes screeched and metal crunched as the few cars that had managed to straighten out halted, trying to avoid the oncoming projectile.

People abandoned their cars and started to run back down the highway, screaming and carrying children, slipping and sliding on the slick roadway, desperate to get away.

Jostled and cursed at, Mona stayed where she was, watching, waiting. Finally a symbol rose to the top of the spell. Motion. She might be able to pull the rune out and lessen the amount of damage from impact. An impact that would happen soon—very soon.

Perhaps she could tweak the location of the target. She followed the trajectory, only to see the Jeep-boys were out of their car and running along the opposite edge toward her. Still off a way, they were already aiming their guns at her, ignoring or oblivious to the danger hurtling toward them.

Time was running out. Mona tapped the symbol, stopping the blade’s spin and slowing momentum behind the blade to the weight of free fall. Something must have alerted the men, because they stopped and looked back over their shoulders, turning fully around in the next step, guns braced and aimed at the new threat.

With no way for her to get off the overpass in time, she needed the protection her car afforded. Counting seconds, as if she had a clue when the blade would hit, she hurried back to her car as fast as she dared on the slippery slope, worried she wouldn’t make it in time. As she climbed in, the road shuddered, rocking the chassis. She turned off the engine.

The sound of nails scraping a blackboard magnified a hundredfold shrieked out as the tip of the blade ground against the concrete. Covering her ears, Mona leaned into the steering wheel.

The barren stretch of road where the skyway leveled out, imploded under the impact. The concrete tumbled, and the cars rose and fell as the skyway buckled.

The car ahead of Mona was hit by the car in front of it as the sedan slid back. Mona sat back up and crossed her arms in front of her face a moment before her airbag exploded.

Fuck, that hurt.

The car swayed along with the overpass, but her section remained aloft. As the jostling slowed, the airbag deflated and she could see again.

The blade stuck straight up in the dusk tinted sky, the road on either side gone.

If she hadn’t sent the Jeep careening across the road, and there hadn’t already been a snarl-up, more cars would have been on the collapsed section.

The Jeep.

As if her thoughts had conjured them, the goons climbed up from the askew section in front of her. Dust swirling around them, they pulled their guns out of their holsters. Whoever had sent them was determined to end Mona’s interference.

Mona saw the second part of the spell too late to save them. The same summoning whirlpool of magic she’d seen at the mall formed, giving her an ill feeling about what was coming next. This time, though, she knew where to look and could see sequence of runes and sigils. The mage had set the spell to pull the Weres and their innate magic back, whether or not they survived the shift.

With all her heart she wished she could change the spell, erase it from being, but the linkage between the runes and sigils was too complex for her to manipulate without risking getting sucked in as well. This time she could see the coils of magic strengthening the spell and giving it the energy needed to change the men. She also saw some type of shield so mortals wouldn’t see this aspect of the working. Why the mage who had set this wanted to hide from mortals was something to consider later.

A tentacle of magic wrapped itself around each man. Their bodies jerked at the contact. As soon as she realized what was going to happen, Mona closed her eyes and ducked under the dash.

She could imagine all too well the mutant change of their bodies, followed by the evisceration of their innate magical energy once they were stuck half-man, half-beast and defenseless against the creator of the spell. Someone was harvesting the power of the failed change. The idea was sick.

Nausea roiled and she lost the fight with her stomach. Fumbling to unbuckle her seatbelt, she shoved the car door open and lost what little contents her stomach had on the ice-laden blacktop as sleet pelted her head and back.

Who could force Weres to change like this?

Why was he then harvesting the failed attempts?

What the hell had the power to make such a working—or even knew it could be done? Suddenly being shot by the spell caster’s henchmen seemed minor compared to the evisceration of the Weres.

Dammit, Raine was right. They needed to track this person down and stop him, not wait for him to continue creating spells that killed Weres. And she still needed to find her friend.

Of course, she had to get out of this alive first. But the pavement was still unstable and she was still in too much pain to move. All she could do was wait.

Finally summoning the courage to look out the front windshield, Mona discovered the chunk of concrete that the pair of spelled Weres had stood on was gone. She doubted anyone with Folk abilities had survived the second part of the spell. Her vision blurred when she realized how close she’d come to being in that group. Somehow her unique ability to have spells slide over her had kept her safe, even though she had Folk blood.

Shivers wracked her body.

Pulling out the emergency and stadium blankets from the fateful kit from the mall, she bundled under them.

• • •

“Stay in your cars.”

Someone was shouting instructions through a bullhorn. She rubbed her eyes. Darkness was rapidly falling across the steel-clouded sky. Red and orange lights strobed across the gutted landscape and flashed in her rear view mirror. Another blinked from the cubby in her dashboard.

How had she forgotten she had a phone? Picking up her mobile, she saw eight missed calls and no messages. Every one from her brother.

She tried to reach him, but her call went straight to voice mail. Her phone blinked a warning; the battery was getting low.

He must have been at work and close to the collapse; his office in the federally-owned building wasn’t too far away. He'd been close enough to know she was in danger. Just like the time she'd been placed in the wrong group at a Taekwondo match and he'd shown up after racing across the college campus due to a feeling she was in peril.

The bullhorn, closer now, repeated the instructions from the safety of the ground below the skyway.

“Please remain in your cars. Help is on the way. We will come to you. If you can hear this message, turn your hazard lights on. Please remain in your cars.”

Gradually Mona became aware that Folk were helping in the rescue effort. Not just any Folk, but a full elf if her reading of the magic was correct. Unlike the nastiness of the spell on the Weres, this was warm, sunny, and grieving with every life lost. The only person she was aware of who might feel that way was the Maven, the ruler of Folk in the area, although Smythe had never introduced Mona to her.

The storm had passed and the wind finally died down when she felt the Maven’s touch directly. It was an odd feeling. Somehow she felt both comforted, like someone had rubbed her shoulders, and uncomfortable, like the person’s hand was too hot for her body to handle. Something about it reminded her vaguely of Nic, but she couldn’t say why. Her brain was far too fuzzy to figure it out, despite the little bit of self-healing ability she had, and the sensation passed quickly enough that she began to wonder if she’d felt it at all.

Very soon a rescue worker made it to her car. After a quick check of her vitals, it was determined she could probably walk herself down, with aid of course.

At the bottom of the ramp she was checked over by a nurse and gave a heavily edited statement to the police. Released, she settled in a corner of the tent and tried Nic again.

“You get out okay?” was his greeting when he answered the phone.

“Yeah, thanks. How did you know I was in the collapse?”

“Just knew.” He shrugged off the ability as if it was nothing. Something was going on; he’d never been this blasé about anything that might be tied to his Elf heritage. “You okay going back to your place tonight?”

And he definitely sounded like he didn’t want her at the house. Unable to worry about it now, she added this bit of information to her long list of things to examine later. Along with the Maven being there and explaining the lack of remnants of her assailants.

“Yep.” Well, no, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

“Okay, call me in the morning if there’s anything you need,” he said, adding softly, “Glad to hear you’re okay.”

“Thanks.”

She heard the vague mumbling of a female voice in the background. Her curiosity would have been more sparked if she’d had any energy for it.

Mona tried Raine again. No answer. She called and left a message at the Buffalo pack leader’s house, telling them to contact her immediately, but not giving details. Past time she let them know, in hindsight she'd been foolish to promise Raine not to say anything. The pack could be compromised given how many spelled Weres she’d run into. She left a less harshly-worded message on Raine’s aunt Betty’s voice mail as well. Despite the frantic worry over where Raine was and how she was doing, Mona didn’t know who else to reach out to. Except the Warder. She should let Smythe know what she’d seen. But uneasiness settled in her stomach again, a sign she’d learned to pay attention to. There was definitely something off with Smythe, until she knew what it was she hesitated to contact him.

When had her life gotten so complicated? She rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes, trying to focus, realizing her face had a bit of rug burn from the airbag deploying.

Opening her eyes again, she realized she didn’t have anywhere to stay tonight. Or any way to get there.

There were a couple of last resort options, like Raine's Aunt Betty, but she didn’t want to call in those favors. Crappy end to a crappy day, it looked like.

Mona wrapped her sore side securely in the blanket one of the workers had given her, knowing the warmth would help, and looked around the area near the triage tents, on the slight chance she knew someone. Worse came to worst, she’d take the first aid workers up on their offer of help.

No luck.

No, wait; a glimmer of a spell caught her eye. At one of the columns, at the very edge of the wreckage, stood a group of Folk, hidden behind a diversionary spell and examining bits of magic.

She could only hope they were the good guys; it certainly seemed that way from their actions. Either way she should head over. Her ribs and shoulder ached with each step she took. Damn, she’d been hit hard, possibly even fractured her shoulder if she still had this much pain hours later. Somehow she’d managed to hide it from her original rescuers and the nurse at the foot of the skyway, although she didn’t remember intentionally doing so. Exiting the tent, she assured the women monitoring the victims she had a ride home. She only hoped it was true.

The Folk continued to work until she got quite close. Ah, the edge of a spell. Mona looked it over. Yes, it would let her through just fine. She stepped across and all activity stopped.

A row of unwelcoming, but not necessarily unfriendly faces turned toward her.

One man, the one she’d seen directing things, stepped forward. Were, she was pretty sure; she had no energy to spare to read him. He was quite tall. Mona, at five six, could fit under his chin with a bit of room. Even in the bulky clothes, he looked powerful and sleek, reminding her of a prowling cat. Mona wondered if he, unlike the three men she’d seen forced to change, was a strong-blooded Were, and could turn into his den’s totem at any time. Somehow she thought he could, despite being unable to check.

She hoped she was never put in the situation where they would find that out.

“You are?” His strong Brooklyn accent threw Mona for second.

“You’re from New York?”

He remained silent, but a small grin teased the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, right.” She executed a short half bow, no saying how much protocol he expected. She bit back on the hiss of pain the movement caused her shoulder and ribs. Stupid, stupid of her. “I am Mona Lisa Kubreck, trainee to Warder Smythe.”

The group behind him eased their stance, although he stayed still.

“I’m Were Protector and Trainer Josiah Carthage Dupree of the New York Were Training Center. Welcome.”

“I think I’m supposed to welcome you, since you’re in my territory.” The thought slipped out before she could think it through.

The smile almost broke out then, but was suppressed. His brow arched, as if querying whether she was going to do so.

A wave of exhaustion hit her and she steeled herself from swaying on her feet. As much fun as all this was—not—she was too tired to be tactful anymore. “Right. Welcome. Thanks for coming, glad you’re here. Look, do you have a way to get out of here? I’m stuck without a ride, since my car is up there.” She gestured with her free arm at the wreckage of the ramp.

The playful light left his face, replaced by a “don’t give anything away” mask she knew too well from her brother Nic. Well, at least they’d gotten past the careful banter.

“I’ll take you. Tiffany, you’re in charge until I get back. Hyram, I want you to continue to look for any signs of Folk.”

“Try a little further up, by where that triangular piece of roadway is missing,” she said, gesturing. “I know two Weres were blown away by the spell there.”

Another inscrutable look from the Protector. Without taking his eyes off her, he waved at his group. “Take Menlo and go. Be careful. You’ll be out of the spelled area.”

He walked up to her, then past. “Let’s go.”

Mona didn’t move. He realized it when he turned to ask her something and she wasn’t there.

Scowling now, he came back. The man did have an expressive face; she briefly wondered how he’d look with a smile. With a sensual mouth, medium brown hair with blond streaks, and tawny eyes, probably too darn fine for his own good.

She really needed to get some sleep. Her exhaustion heightened her attraction to him. Tiredness made her defenses low, she needed distance before she did anything stupid. Like jump in his bed. Sleeping with a Were, this Were, would be a colossal mistake. They were far too dominant and controlling and she liked doing things her own way. He was already acting as if there were one set of rules for him and a different one for her. That was so not going to happen

“What?” he asked once he’d crossed the spell line again.

“Either you use that damn protocol you had me go through or you don’t. You can’t have it both ways, formal one minute and then so informal, you’re rude the next.”

A short silence, then, “Would you please come with me? I can take you out of here.”

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate your offer.”

Mona would have swept off, but she was too tired to do more than stagger. He grabbed her unencumbered elbow with a muttered, “Let me do the honors.”

If she had thought about it, she would have realized there would be a long walk. The group was on the lake side of the skyway and any cars would have to be on the far side.

They’d made it past the collapsed inner lanes of the skyway when he spoke again. “You’re wrong, you know.”

“About?”

“About the protocol. It’s a tool—one you need to learn how to use and manipulate. Most of the time, it’s not an either/or situation, but a ‘what will serve me best’ one.”

“I see, so using it to find out the full name of a person in a possibly hostile situation is okay, but not using it to aid that same person isn’t? Which justifies being uncivil? Something’s wrong there.”

He muttered something about her not having seen uncivil yet. She pretended she couldn’t hear him.

“I know you want to query me on how I came to be on the bridge, what I saw, and more. I hope, though, you can wait until I get some sleep.”

“No, I can’t, trainee. There’s definitely something wrong going on with the Buffalo pack and I’ve been called in to find out what it is. I’ll have an imp help you make a memory ball when we’re in a secure place.”

“I doubt it’ll be complete, since I can barely remember my name.”

“That’s fine. I’d rather have it now, before you process what occurred too much, than after you’ve slept and your memory has already changed.”

Man, she hated losing the argument, but knew he was right.

“Can we do it in the car then? Is your place far?”

He halted. “You’re inviting yourself to my place?”

This time she was the one who kept on walking, forcing him to catch up, fighting the images of the two of them in bed. This was insane. She never reacted like this before.

“I’m not sure if the two guys I saw on the skyway were the same two who staked out my place last night. Plus there’s something screwy going on at the Warder’s complex, although Smythe tells me everything’s okay. Not to mention every single Folk I’ve seen controlled by the magic has been Were, so heading over to the Pack House in Lackawanna is out. And that doesn’t even cover what’s going on with my friend Raine. Or my brother.”

Mona wasn’t sure why she threw in that last bit, except it seemed to fit.

“You do have somewhere you’re all staying, don’t you?” she asked. “The Maven—I’m guessing she’s the one who set this up—surely arranged a place for you to stay. Or are you just crashing with the Buffalo Were pack? Although, since I’m pretty sure some of them are involved with this, you may not want to do that. And Maven’s place is somewhere near Dunkirk, in the wine country—that’s a good hour or more, too far to be useful, I’d think. No, there’s got to be somewhere close you’re staying.”

Oh no, she was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop. Something had made her nervous.

Right, the frisson of excitement that had raced through her when he’d asked if she was inviting herself to his place. Her mind had somehow imbued his simple question with sexual overtone.

Man, she really needed to sleep.

“I’ll take that as a yes, you’re inviting yourself to my place.”

“Right.” She clamped her lips shut.

Chapter Four

“Trainee.”

Someone shook her shoulder. She batted at the hand.

“Trainee Mona Lisa,” the female voice said.

She knew she grumbled something less than polite. She hated being called Mona Lisa. Mona was fine, thank you. The hand was back. She jerked her shoulder away and rolled into the back cushions of the couch.

A new voice, a male one, sexy yet irritating, said, “I got it, Tiff.”

Silence and stillness at last. Mona snuggled back under the covers.

Which were immediately yanked off. “Mona, get up now.”

She bolted upright and off the couch. She swayed, her not-quite-healed ribs protesting the sudden movement. Protector Dupree held her elbow while she regained her balance. She pulled her arm out of his grasp, irritated at the urge to lean on him. “What?”

“You’ve got an imp waiting,” Protector Dupree said, gesturing to the hovering spark of pure magic. He was up and dressed and distracting.

“Oh?” She rubbed her eyes and blinked at the blue sparkler. This was the first time she’d ever had one appear with a message for her. It was one thing to find them hiding in lights or zipping by as they did magic, quite another to have the sparkling shimmer of one hovering in your face. A faint hope stirred that it might be from Raine, but it was quickly squashed. No way would her friend have access to one.

Coffee. She needed coffee. She’d ask for some but somehow she didn’t think the man would humor her. Protector Dupree stood at her other side, nearly as close as the imp. Disconcertingly close given sleep had not accomplished what she hoped and diminished her attraction to him. A step to the side, and she felt better. The imp merely moved along with her.

“Um, how do open it?”

“Ask it politely to tell you its message.”

The suggestion took a minute to sink in. Mona thought back to how Smythe received his. Right, okay. The blue imp bobbed up and down incessantly, agitated by the wait.

“I am Mona Lisa Kubreck. Please state your message.” She left off her title, and, oh, lots of things—like her family affiliations—but it worked.

“Mona, this is Smythe. Meet me at the collapse site at nine this morning.”

The imp, whose effervescent brightness she’d been trying not to look at with her bleary eyes, spun twice then blinked out. Good. At some point, she realized the bridge was as good a place as any to look for clues about Raine. She had a sinking feeling that if she found the person who set the spell, she’d find her friend.

Mona rubbed her eyes, hiding the tears that had risen, and stretched her back. She was almost healed. “What time is it?”

“Eight.” Protector Dupree perched on the arm of the couch. Whoever had first tried to wake her up—for some reason the name Tiffany sprang to mind—had left. Mona looked around. This was clearly an office, tons of computers and flashing lights. But no desks or chairs, just two couches. Good enough for the night. Now she could go back to tracking down Raine.

“Do you have access to the people who were rescued last night? I’m trying to find if a friend was there.” But, oh goddess, did she hope Raine hadn’t been there.

“We’re putting together a list, I can give you access once we have it.”

“Okay, Protector—” His full name, Josiah Carthage Dupree, ran through her head but she wasn’t going to use any of those. She’d sound like his fricking mother scolding him. “Wait, we didn’t do that memory thing, did we?”

“Call me Cart, and no, we didn’t. We need to, but not now.” He stood and walked over to the now closed set of French doors to the hall. “Take a left and there’s a bathroom with a shower; take a right and you’ll find a living space and kitchen. I’ll meet up with you in fifteen minutes.”

“In the kitchen or the shower?” Oops. She’d meant to say bathroom, not shower.

His gold-flecked eyes locked on her and a frisson of excitement raced down her spine. Mona hoped those would stop once she got enough sleep. She'd heard Weres often experienced intense instant attraction and lust; she just never thought she'd experience it too. He seemed affected too, if the slight growl he emitted was any indication.

“The kitchen.” He opened his mouth as if he was going to add something, but then shook his head and walked out.

She took a quick shower, even though she was putting on old clothes. Okay, she skipped the thermal layer and just put on her long-sleeved t-shirt, figuring that was closer to clean. With no way to blow dry her hair, she gave it a rough rub, leaving the jet black, corkscrew curls tumbling over her shoulders and down her front. She would let it air dry while she had a cup of coffee then braid it back up. Feeling more alert, she gathered up her outer layers and purse, then made her way to the kitchen.

Cart stood leaning against a counter, looking out the window. Brown hair that was light enough to be called dark blond, shined in the overhead light. Definitely feline; she wondered what cat he’d become.

She followed his gaze. In a crack between buildings she could see the lake. The view looked familiar but off.

Looking away, she scanned the counter for a coffee pot, surprised when she didn’t see one. Actually the “kitchen” wasn’t more than a bunch of counters, a small fridge, and a large table.

“Do I have time to grab something to eat before we go over?” With excellent timing, her stomach rumbled as she finished her question.

He startled. Mona didn’t really think he hadn’t noticed her, just been deep in thought.

“Sure, we can get something downstairs.” He turned and faced her, his eyes fixed on the wet ends of her hair for a moment before sliding to her eyes. “Bundle up. The stairs are inside but just barely. You got a way to dry your hair? And your shirt’s wet; it’s going to freeze once we get out.”

“I’ll run back and give it another toweling. Do you mind going ahead and getting me some coffee? Please? Light with two sugars, three if it’s a large.” Mona headed back down the hall not waiting for his answer.

She rubbed her hair again, knowing that it’d be frizzy now from the mishandling, but what was a girl to do. Mona braided it up so she could tuck the whole thing under her hat. Rats, she didn’t have a hat. She hurried back to the kitchen holding the end of her hair, grabbing a twist tie off the counter to keep the braid in. Bundled up she headed on down the stairs. “Barely inside” was right—rickety plywood walls let in the cold and wind, but seemed to keep out most of the precipitation. She opened the repurposed screen door to find herself in an alley she was very familiar with.

D’Alessandro’s. She’d no idea they had an apartment upstairs. She’d worked in the kitchen for a while before she’d started training with Smythe. The chef had tried to talk her out of it and stay with him. Oh good, she’d definitely find something edible here.

“Hey, Howard,” she said as she walked in the kitchen door.

“Mona! So glad to see you! This guy, he came for coffee, but he didn’t say it was for you!” She got a robust kiss on each cheek from the chef.

Howard set to work at the espresso machine making up a large, sweet, milky latte as he asked Cart if he'd tasted her cooking yet then expounded upon what he had to look forward to. Once done, the paper cup and a paper sack emitting a cinnamon laden scent were thrust in her hands.

“Hey, you know I’m still training with Smythe?” she asked.

“Waste of your talents, but if you’re happy, I’m happy. Now out. I need to get to work.”

“What should I do with this coffee?” Cart asked as they headed over to his car.

“Keep it. I’ll drink it cold later. Okay if I eat in the car?”

“Only if you share.” By now the odor of cinnamon had pervaded the cabin. And she hadn’t even shut the door yet.

“Say please,” she said teasingly as she closed her eyes and took a deep whiff of her coffee. Mona couldn’t help the moan that slipped out—the fresh brew smelled so good.

Mona looked over at Cart as he whipped his head back. He unclenched one hand from the steering wheel and started the engine. Hoo-boy. Yep, he was attracted too.

“We should go.” His voice sounded a bit hoarse. He cleared this throat. “So, what’s it like living in Buffalo?”

“I’ve lived here pretty much my whole life so I don’t have a lot to compare it to. The town’s not as busy as, say, Toronto—I was in school there for a bit. Other than that, we’ve got decent restaurants, a downtown area going through a revival, clean energy sources. Not sure what else you want to know.”

Mona reached in the sack and pulled out a pasty. Or tried to—a thick, gooey glob came out. “Monkey bread, yum!” Mona ate the bit then pulled out another. She started to hand it to Cart before she thought better of it.

“I don’t think you can hold this and drive, you’ll get too sticky. Here.” She held the bit up to his mouth. “I can give you a taste now though.”

“I’ll wait.”

He had looked at the piece with hunger in his eyes, she was sure. Odd man.

“Fine, suit yourself.” The piece was starting to drip, so she tilted her head up and dropped the chunk in her mouth. Stray bits of sugar coated her lips so she licked those off. Her fingers were getting very sticky, but it just seemed a bit rude to lick them and then put her hand back in the bag. Like double dipping. Yuck.

She ate a couple more as she looked out the window; the southern start of the skyway was approaching. “We’re almost there anyway, aren’t we?”

He grunted his assent, then pulled over, showed some type of pass, and went the wrong way down the service road.

In the broad daylight the blade looked like a massive dagger embedded in the highway. Cracks and craters radiated out from the center, an almost delicate pattern belying the instability of the concrete.

He parked and pulled her attention away.

“I’ll take some now.”

She handed him the bag.

“No, the other.” He nodded to the one in her very sticky, sugar-covered hand.

Their eyes locked as she held the morsel up to his mouth. This time his growl sent tingles down her spine, heightening her awareness of him. Oh, wow, the attraction went both ways it seemed.

He enveloped her fingertips with his mouth, his teeth gently grazing her skin as he removed the pastry. Sucking gently, he cleaned the tips of her fingers before he licked the sugary remnants off her upper knuckles. His hand came up and clasped her wrist, turning her hand so he could trace a path of kisses across the center of her palm.

Her insides clenched and her pulse raced.

Okay, like most other women, she’d read romances. But she’d never understood some of the “aroused just by a touch” stuff.

Oh, boy, did she get it now.

Cracked acorns, she did not need this. He could so easily make her loose her focus, something she could not afford, not if she was going to find Raine. Not if she was going to finish her training and become a Warder.

Mona looked away, refusing to acknowledge how he affected her.

“It’s killing me too. Let’s get this job done.” He got out of the car.

“Wait, don’t we need to do that memory thing?”

He turned and stood in the open door.

“Mona, if I worked that intimate a spell in this confined a space we’d combust, and I’m planning to spend a hell of a lot more time combusting with you than we have right now.”

Okay then, good to know she was right that he was attracted as well. As for the “combust” thing? She didn’t plan for them ever to have time, thank you very much. There was no way she wanted that complication right now. She’d finally found her place within the Folk enclave, a place she’d wanted to be, but her mother had refused to “let her conform” to. She wasn’t about to let her lust for him distract her from achieving her goal. And, if he was anything like the men in the local pack, he’d start to demand all her attention and her training would go to heck in a hand basket. Not happening, no way. She’d worked too hard to reach this point to give up on it now.

“Let’s walk, and you fill me in.” Cart looked at his watch. “We’ve got about half an hour.”

Mona grabbed her things and headed out. The wind off Lake Erie rushed against her face, cooling off her flushed skin.

“Here.” Cart snatched his watch cap off and set it on her head. “Next time we need to make sure you have a hat.”

“I do, in my car.”

He merely grunted and started walking toward the lake. Mona fell in step besides him, gathering her thoughts and enjoying the sun, bitter as the temperatures were.

“Everything started the day before yesterday when my friend Raine called.”

Mona told him about the mall, then briefly mentioned meeting an elfling at the bar.

“You work at a bar?” No censure, just curiosity.

“Yeah, I’m good at it, I like doing it, and it’s not like I get paid or anything while training, so I need the money.”

Cart merely nodded and waved at her to continue. She told him about finding people lurking at her townhouse, going to her brother’s to crash for a couple of hours, then heading out early to get to Smythe’s. They turned to parallel the shore and Mona took a sip of her coffee.

“When I got to the Warder’s complex, the place was dark. Not sure what was up, I got out of my car and walked over to the gate. Or at least I tried to. The wind pushed me back and I stumbled away. Somehow, though, I triggered a set spell.”

Mona swallowed, remembering her fear. “The ground split open and these two huge slabs of rocks rose up from the corners of the entry and smashed themselves together. If I had been on the area of the spell. . .”

She shuddered again, and Cart put his arm around her shoulders.

“The thing is—and you know this—spells don’t affect Warders, but a spell like that, which wasn’t directed at me, but on things that could harm me, would have worked.” Mona shook her head. “The color was the same angry glow as the spell I found on Raine as well as the working that destroyed the skyway.”

She paused and let him absorb the implications.

“Anyway, I ran back to my car, which was in a safe spot, thankfully. The lights for the gate went on. I waited a minute longer, and the Warder stuck his head out of the gate, told me I’ve ‘passed the test’ and to go home and study chapters blah, blah, blah. I was so tired and shaken I just left and didn’t think anything of it until much later.” She paused. “I think—”

Cart held up his hand to stop her. “I do want to know what you’ve surmised, but not now. First tell me what happened, then we’ll start putting the pieces together.”

Mona proceeded to tell him everything else, from Raine’s frantic call to being on the skyway when the working struck the wind turbines, to her worry about where Raine might be now.

After she was done, he went over details, making her draw out far more than she realized she’d remembered. Including the fact that the Warder had told her to study a particular section of the Tome of Folk Lore, a huge book she’d been using as a her training text. This, Cart seemed to find very interesting.

They looped back and headed to his car.

“You need to do something for me—don’t tell anyone else all of this,” he said. “I’m worried you might be in danger if someone realized just how many aspects of all of this you’re involved in.”

“And compared to Raine, I’ve barely touched the surface.”

He shook his head. “I hate to say this, but it doesn’t look good for your friend.” Cart opened the car door and she climbed in, only aware of how cold she’d gotten once she was out of the wind.

“You’ve got a couple of minutes,” Cart said after holding up a finger to let his crew, who’d spotted him and called him over, know he’d be there in a minute. “Finish up the monkey bread—you’re far too short on sleep and will need the energy. I need to find out if my crew learned anything new before our meeting. After that we’ll track down Raine.”

Cart leaned in and gave her an absentminded kiss on the cheek, already looking over at his group. “Don’t leave here without me.”

He shut the door and headed over to where his crew stood, examining the spot where the blade had entered the concrete.

Mona sat and gulped coffee, trying to get her equilibrium back, and finished off the monkey bread—not because he said she should. She dug out her phone, couldn’t hurt to try Raine again. Damn, it was dead. Surely one of the Weres had a cell she could use. But there was no time to ask—the clock read 8:56. Time to go.

Workers still crawled over everything, and a pair of ambulances sat waiting. She doubted there had been a stop in activity since they’d left.

Warder Smythe arrived almost at the same time she did, crossing to walk alongside her. She caught his arm in his first stumbling step. She wasn’t about to let him fall out of spite.

He looked awful, as if he’d aged ten years since she last saw him. Caught up in helping him, she didn’t realize they’d gotten close to the group until the sensation of crossing their concealment spell caused her skin to goose bump.

“What happened the other day?” she asked, stopping them on the other side of the working, hoping here, away from the complex, he’d say something.

“If you’d been on time you wouldn’t have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He let go of her arm and walked toward the group. “Announce me,” Smythe said, his voice more tremulous than before.

Cart’s entire group turned at their arrival. Clearly a Were protocol she wasn’t aware of, this waiting to face the person coming until they were close enough to speak.

“May I present Abner Smythe, Warder of the Niagara Region.”

Cart stepped forward and bowed. “Warder Smythe, it is an honor to meet you, if unfortunate that there is a need to do so. I am Training Master and Were Protector Josiah Carthage Dupree.”

Smythe jerked at the name, although Mona didn’t think anyone else thought it was more than a worse than usual tremor.

“I am leader of the Upper West Side Pack,” Cart continued. “Second in command of the New York Leadership Council and past president of the North American Pack Training Council. My investigative associates all answer to me.”

Wow, she could learn something from him. Like the fact that he’d omitted a lot of information when he’d introduced himself to her.

“Good. Someone who knows something. What do you think of this here?” Smythe used his cane to point out a faded bit of magic.

They went off, leaving Mona to trail behind them. Sometimes Cart would look back at her, careful that the Warder didn’t catch him. She’d nod yes, or no, or shrug her good shoulder depending on how her memory matched up with Smythe’s analysis.

The rest of the group crowded around, staying close so they could hear the Warder’s raspy voice. Cart picked up the habit of subtly repeating what Smythe had said.

They hadn’t gotten very far when “Maven” was whispered down the line. Fighting the urge to turn around and watch the woman’s approach since Weres clearly didn’t do so, Mona followed their lead and did her best to neaten her appearance. About to turn around, Smythe pulled her aside, his grip on her forearm painful, even through her winter coat.

“You need to stay in the background.”

He released her arm and they turned to rejoin the Weres.

The Maven was still several feet away, and she wasn’t alone.

Nic?? What was he doing here?

It was Mona’s turn to place her hand on the Warder’s arm to detain him. “That’s going to be difficult, as the gentleman with her is my brother.”

“Then stay here and don’t get introduced.”

Not in your life, buster. “I think my staying back is more likely to draw attention. Plus, if I am with you, you can determine who I meet.”

He gave a sharp nod. “Fine then, come along. You’re still suspended. Don’t say anything.”

Maven Titania was every bit as imposing as Mona thought she would be. Not that she was large—she barely came up to Nic’s shoulder—but her carriage and the amount of magical energy swirling around her, not to mention the absurd amount in her, created a palpably strong sense of being. Despite her hauteur, there was a kind look on her unlined face. Regal, yes, but she was more pretty than beautiful.

She drew to a halt in front of the group, Nic half a pace behind. Graciously she inclined her head as a majority of the group bowed low before her. Warder stiffly bowed just his head, as did, Mona noticed, Cart. Mona settled for something halfway between the two extremes.

“Warder Smythe, Were Protector Dupree, we thank you for your prompt response,” Maven said, her voice surprisingly raspy and mellow.

Smythe shuffled up to the front of the group. “Indeed, Maven Titania, it is very clear why you called us. Such a working as this. . .” His face flushed and his thin jowls shook with anger as his arm swept out to encompass the destruction behind him. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“We have every confidence in your ability to do so,” said the Maven. She caught Cart’s eye and her smile twitched.

Clearly they knew each other. Mona watched as the energy around the Maven became less frantic.

“Come, Abner,” the Maven said, her tone much less stiff than before. “Show me what you observed.”

Smythe hesitated, his palsied hands fluttering with words he wanted to say. Finally he turned and addressed Mona. “You will join us.”

He clearly didn’t want her to stay behind and talk to Nic. Interesting. Behind him she saw Cart signal to the Maven that he wanted Mona to stay.

“The young woman and Protector Nicolai Lombard will join us in a moment,” the Maven said, blithely overruling him. “They share family.”

Protector? Mona wondered when the Maven had given him the title—and if Nic knew it meant he was about to be immersed in the Folk heritage he’d long denied.

And, oh crap, was that his magic swirling around the Maven, protecting her? She needed to talk to him about his emerging powers and the link he was building with the Maven. Thankfully, Smythe didn’t argue.

“Oh, yes, I have been told, good.” He gave Nic a deep bow then shuffled off toward the wreckage, pointing. Cart looked back and forth from Mona to Nic before sending his group off to gather more information.

He said one word, “Careful,” before joining the Maven and Smythe.

Chapter Five

The trio was barely out of earshot when Nic hissed, “Why didn’t you tell me you were working with Folk?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew the Maven?” she retorted.

“What other high ranking Folk in the area would I be monitoring?”

Right, she’d forgotten his real job, the one for the government agency that monitored Folk in the area. Of course he’d deny it to his last breath to anyone else, since his branch didn’t officially exist, just like Folk didn’t officially exist.

Crap, crap, crap. His latent magic pulsated, beating against the constraints he’d placed on it. She certainly hoped he, or at least the Maven, was aware of his pending immersion into Folk life.

“Wait.” Nic’s gaze, when not focused in anger on Mona, had been constantly sweeping the area. “Someone else is coming to join the merry band.”

Indeed, a woman was picking her way across the strewn concrete toward them. Mona and Nic rejoined the rest of the group. He leaned over the Maven and whispered something to her.

Taking her cue from the rest, she turned when they did.

The woman was in her late twenties, perhaps a year or two older than Mona. She looked a bit careworn, but sharp intelligence showed as her gaze shifted back and forth between Mona and the Maven while they waited for her to introduce herself. Cart jerked his head at the Maven.

She swept a deep, proper bow, hand flourishes and all, then remained bent at the waist, waiting for the Maven to signal she could rise. Only after she straightened did she speak. “Maven, I come in response to your message to the Buffalo pack.”

“And you are?” The Maven’s voice was laced with annoyance. Mona didn’t blame her; the pack was stuck in the past with women holding no place in the hierarchy. Sending a woman in response to the request was almost a slap in the face to the Maven.

“I’m Averill, of the Buffalo Pack.” Her tone was even, as if she hadn’t heard the anger. “Several of my family including two of my brothers and one cousin each served time as leader. When your message to the pack leader went unanswered the imp brought it to my house.”

The pack leader couldn’t be found and this woman was now the representative? Mona was dying of curiosity, but it wasn’t her place to ask. The woman was certainly strong enough to be a pack leader, even though there was some blockage or something around her totem. Probably had repressed her shifting, something Mona had seen before with women of the Buffalo pack.

“Averill, if the imp delivered the message to you, you are clearly a leader,” the Maven said, a smile on her face.

“No, Maven, I haven’t been trained to do the job.” Something about Averill’s tone made Mona think she was gritting her teeth and holding in an old argument.

“Yet the imp, when unable to find the person you have designated as leader, went to you,” the Maven said, pressing her point. “Despite any perceived lack of training, it recognized you as the current head. You do realize, very few would question an imp’s call in this situation.”

If the woman heard the chastising tone, she simply ignored it.

“I don’t question the imps choosing to deliver the message to me. However, unlike the imp and those present, I’m aware of an . . . inability to reach pack elders as well as those who have held the leadership position.”

“You can’t reach the pack elders? When was this discovered?” The Warder didn’t keep the worry from his voice.

“And you are?” Leader Averill’s voice was polite but cold. Smythe had been unusually discourteous.

Mona fought between amusement that Smythe had committed a faux pas and worry over what was causing him, a stickler for protocol, to have discarded propriety several times now.

“Were Leader Averill,” Maven said, gesturing to each person as she spoke. “If I may introduce Warder Smythe. Mona, who is with Smythe. Protector Nic Lombard, who is with me. Training Master and Were Protector Josiah Carthage Dupree and his crew.”

Averill bowed to each as she had the Maven, bowing longest to Nic. He shot the Maven a dirty look but held his peace. Mona returned her bow.

Smythe waved off the protocol, again.

Mona exchanged a look with Cart, who also seemed to realize how off Smythe was acting.

“Fine, fine, now, when did you find this out?” Smythe barked at her.

“We only discovered the extent of the problem this morning, after I got the message and made calls to other dens in the pack. Based on what I learned today, everything started about three weeks ago.”

“Tell us what you can.” Cart’s voice was calm, non-confrontational, unlike Smythe’s.

“We don’t know much.” Averill’s grimace made clear she was unhappy about that state of affairs. “From what I can gather everything started when our current pack leader didn’t arrive for the elders’ meeting three weeks ago. The next in line went out to look for him. Only he didn’t return, so the elder in his den went to look. When the elder didn’t return, a male from that den asked the elder of another den to look for him, not mentioning the previous missing leaders, only their missing member.

“In turn,” she continued, “every elder went out, each one approached by the den of the previous elder to go. This continued until a few days ago when they couldn’t figure out who could go so the idiots—sorry, but really—stopped sending men out.”

“I see,” the Maven said.

They pretty much all did. The Buffalo Pack didn’t adhere to the newer practice of having protectors with access and knowledge of all dens. Small and densely intermarried, the leaders had successfully argued fifty years ago when the change was initiated on a national level, that there was no need for them in such a close community.

Averill also had made clear, subtly, that the males hadn’t told the females until a few days ago. Her guess was the women had put their foot down at sending anyone else out.

“The Buffalo Pack—” the Maven started, irritation in her voice. She paused, and when she continued her voice was once again musical and light. “Well, we will not dwell on what they were, instead we will focus on what they will become. Here, this’ll help you.”

The Maven touched Averill’s forehead, and Mona could see a spell set to mark her as pack leader. “You’ll not miss any more messages.”

“I. AM. NOT. PACK LEADER.” Averill’s face flushed and she swept Maven a hurried and flustered bow, not nearly as well executed as her first. “Your Majesty.”

“Averill,” the Maven said. “You aren’t trained as a leader, no, but you have other qualities that made the imp recognize you as one, including a certain doggedness I can’t help but admire. I promise that you, and any other Were who qualifies, will be taught; some to be leaders and some as protectors because I am not going to put up with this foolishness again. However, until someone else is ready to assume the job, you are pack leader. I, and everyone here, will back your leadership should anyone challenge the imp’s judgment.”

Mona was the first to thump her fist over her heart and execute the half bow due a pack leader. The others followed, except the Maven—and Nic, who seemed to be taking his cues from her.

Stunned, and mouth agape, Averill stared at the group. A long minute passed before she clamped her mouth shut and ducked her head in acknowledgement.

“Were Trainer Dupree will make arrangements for your training to start, Averill. He will also make sure a proper protector station is set up,” Maven said, her voice less strident than a moment before. “I will set everything up with him, so there is no question it is my will and under my authority. In the meantime, Smythe, please show Leader Averill our initial findings. I think it may be pertinent to her problem.”

Averill still looked uncertain and shell-shocked. The Maven leaned in and said something quietly to her that Mona didn’t quite catch. Whatever was said, a smile lit Averill’s face. Then she looked over the wreckage and sobered. She stepped up to the Warder and started asking him questions about the collapse. Mona again trailed behind and did not contribute.

Time and again Smythe pointed out that the type of magic used, the signatures left, all pointed to Weres rebelling and losing control of their magic. Which simply wasn’t true; someone else was forcing them into it. Mona found herself glaring at Cart’s back, hoping he’d correct Abner, but he didn’t.

By the time Smythe called a halt it was clear Averill was shaking with suppressed rage. Then Smythe, not Cart, summed up what they’d found.

“There is clearly evidence that Weres were involved, however it doesn’t seem to be a single Were who did the magic.” Smythe wrapped up his analysis. “Of course, Weres can, if they act in concert, accomplish a feat on this scale.”

He made a sweeping gesture to emphasize the scope. Realizing what was about to happen Mona put her body behind his so he wouldn’t fall when he lost his balance. Mona caught Cart’s eye finally, but he gave his head a slight shake.

“I agree. No matter how you look at it, something is very off. We need to gather more information, though, and see if the disappearances and the collapse are connected.” Cart’s statement earned him a sharp glance from all the leaders except Smythe, who was fussily straightening his coat.

Mona watched as, almost as one, they all looked over at the turbine blade. The image of the men who’d been after her on the bridge rose and she shut her eyes. Finally Averill stirred.

“Maven, Warders, protectors.” Averill bowed her head to each of them. “It is clear Weres were involved in this catastrophe. However, I lack the skills to figure out who and how. Even if I could, with so many missing, there isn’t enough manpower to track them down.”

Reluctant as Averill was to take the job, she certainly seemed ready to shoulder the responsibilities.

“Protector Dupree and his crew will fill you in on what they find,” the Maven said, waving her petite hand graciously at the group. Cart nodded his agreement. “You will need to talk to each den and piece together a timeline of what occurred.”

“I think it’s time to leave things in their capable hands,” Nic said as he took the Maven’s arm. “Let us know if something definitive comes up.”

“Oh, I. . .” the Maven started before looking over at Nic. What ever she saw there made her give in graciously. “Yes, please do let us know. Averill, I’ve set up a meeting with the New York City group at D’Alessandro’s on the Saturday after this. I’ll send out imps, but please let people know. Everyone is to come, we’ll have something set up for the children.”

Done, the Maven turned her blue-grey eyes on the group.

“Warder Smythe.” The Maven waved for him to come closer. Smythe’s frown deepened with every step. “Earlier today we rescued a pregnant woman who was bearing a Folk child. The birth looked to be difficult and there is a chance she won’t survive. You need to find out how she fared and arrange for care of the babe if that is the case.”

“It is my duty and honor,” Smythe intoned ritually, although he was shaking.

“Thank you,” the Maven said before she turned back.

A baby? Difficult childbirth? Mona swayed where she stood. Raine. She knew it was Raine.

Raine had been here, trapped under the overpass.

If only . . . no, she couldn’t think that way. She needed to find out where Raine was and get to her. Cart left off talking to Averill and was already heading her way—either something in her face gave away her thought or he’d jumped to the same conclusion.

Warder Smythe unwittingly stepped between them. “I’ll leave the woman and her baby to you. I’m heading back to the complex.”

Cart was staring at Smythe’s back like he was a puzzle with far more intricate pieces than expected.

Mona felt the same way, but bit her tongue. “I will take care of the woman and her babe,” she said.

“Good, good.”

Once Smythe was in his car she approached the group.

“Look,” Cart was saying, “there isn’t much more we’re going to find out here, no matter what the Maven says. We need to help Averill with her end too. Hyram, Monique, Kofi, and Jens, you go with Leader Averill, stay with her and help support her new role with the pack.”

He looked at Averill, who opened her mouth, then closed it with a sharp nod.

“The rest of you are off until midnight, when you’ll be on duty for the next shift with Averill. The fresh group from New York should be here early in the morning, you’re on until they get here. Oh, and someone—Menlo—get in touch with Loch Lomond, he needs to be filled in.”

Mona couldn’t help but notice the second group was larger. Perhaps he expected more trouble as the word got around.

“And you’ll be?” This from tall, thin redhead with the pixie haircut she thought was Tiffany.

“I’m going to be tracking down the woman and the babe. She might be the lynch pin. Everyone should plan to meet back at base at ten tomorrow morning, or as soon as the new group gets here. Don’t hesitate to call for backup if you need it.”

Base, Mona assumed, was D’Alessandro’s.

Everyone dispersed and Mona and Cart headed back to his car.

“You think it’s your friend Raine?” he asked.

“Yes. Lynch pin?” she asked.

“Sometimes large acts like this are done to hide a small thing in the midst, leaving us to sort through everything to find the one ‘pin’ that caused it to happen.”

“You think that’s Raine?”

“Possibly.”

“Hold up.” They were crossing a stretch where a lone portion of the skyway still stood amidst rubble to either side. Residual magic, yellow and warm, lingered although there wasn’t a spell. “There’s a line of magic from the Maven here. Actually, two sets; some shorter connected lines that look like they are going in and a longer one headed back out.”

Mona had never seen anything like it; there weren’t any runes or symbols, but there’d clearly been magic used.

“You can see that?” Surprise laced Cart’s voice.

“Well, yeah, Warders can see magic even after it’s done.”

“Not like that. At least, not the ones I know and yes, before you ask, I do know a few, six fairly well and another dozen on a first name basis. Can you point out to me where the magic hops to?”

“Over there, see that clear patch at the edge? That was definitely a stopping point.”

“I’m going to regret this but if the woman they found is the lynch pin, I want to see.” Cart wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “Let’s go.”

Her body contoured into his, setting her nerves jangling and a frisson of something she deliberately mislabeled as annoyance through her. Blackness surrounded them for a blink. Two. Just as her mind comprehended there were shadows of something else in the darkness, they were in the spot she’d pointed out.

“Can we do that again?” she asked, curious about what she had almost seen in the void.

Cart looked at her then doubled over in laughter. Mona smiled, wondering what was so funny.

“Oh, Mona, you are a ruby among diamonds,” he finally bit out. “Yes, we’ll do it again. Just show me where the next spot is.”

“Oh, right.” Mona looked around; she’d been distracted by his wide grin. Easy to do. “There, under the skyway, a clear spot at about eleven o’clock. You see it?”

He nodded and wrapped his arm again around her waist. “Got to say, nice to know you aren’t going to faint or throw up on me.”

This jump was shorter than the other, and she didn’t get past the initial shock of darkness to see what else there was.

“Where’s the next jump go to?” he asked before she could say anything. She noticed he didn’t remove his arm.

Mona looked around. There were no short hops going in here, only one jump coming to this place. But. . .

“That’s odd. The long one goes through that pillar and I don’t see a short one. I wonder how—”

Cart put a finger over her mouth, which didn’t help the skittering of her nerves, although it did stop the babbling.

He unwrapped his arm from her waist, and then took two steps away. “That help?”

“Yeah,” she said, trying very hard not to show how his closeness affected her. “How do those jump things work?”

“Okay if I explain later? Right now it looks like we’re going to have to walk around the pillar.”

“Climb is more like it. Oh!” She’d taken a couple of cautious steps along the side and gotten a peek at what lay hidden. “That’s Raine’s car! Under the slab.”

The tiny car was nose in against the pillar; only a bit of the side showed from under the slab of concrete angled over it. No wonder the Maven was worried about Raine’s survival.

“You see any magic on the slab?”

She shot him a dirty look. If she’d seen any she’d have said something. “Not from this angle. I think we’ll need to go all the way around.”

He nodded his agreement. “So, how long has your brother known Tania?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Tania, the Maven. How long has he known her?”

So Cart knew the Maven on a first name basis. Interesting.

“Well, he’s been on her detail since he started with the agency.” If he was a protector he had to know about the agency. “And he’s been head of the detail for the past ten years or so.”

“He’s that guy?” Cart laughed.

“What guy?” Mona was pressed against the pillar, trying to find a little bit of clear, or at least clearer, ground to walk on.

“To quote my cousin: ‘Thorn-in-her-side-agent-Lombard.’”

She had to laugh. “Yep, he’s that guy. You should hear about her from his end.”

Her laughter ended abruptly as a bit of rubble slid out from under her feet and she slammed against the side of the car. Pain radiated along her arm down to her elbow from her already abused shoulder. A whimper and a couple of tears escaped before she could stop them.

Cart was immediately at her side, holding on to her good arm. “You okay?”

She looked over at him, arrested by what she saw his eyes. Concern morphed to passion that rapidly became heat.

As he said earlier, not the time nor place for them to be getting into this. She closed her eyes and turned her head away.

“Mona?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I just slammed my already bruised shoulder.” She stepped away, using the excuse of looking up at the top of the slab. “You were right, we needed to see this, there is some residual magic here. Three layers. The top is the spell that collapsed the whole thing. Under that—”

She looked harder at the now faint runes and sigils and her stomach churned. Thrusting the unease aside, she tried to be clinical about what she saw.

“Under that is a spell bound by death. Someone killed a small Folk creature, perhaps a Stellgut or Greypas, for their magic. The creature had been bound here, their residue hiding the other spells.” Which meant the whole thing could have been set for some time; she’d overlook the bit of magic residual a Folk creature had left. “The spell under that . . . man, this guy likes complexity. This is worse than what he put on Raine. Let’s see, at the very bottom. . .”

The runes and sigils where faint, but still connected to each other and still there, separate but intertwined with the other layers. Here, too, there were places where the spell binding was darker, like on Raine’s spell.

“Under it all was another, much larger trigger spell, this one for the turbines’ working. I think, maybe, when a certain thing happened, those runes are faded and their energy spent, but when whatever criteria was met, the smaller trigger spell would release the energy bound by the connected spell—”

“The one set by the small creature’s death,” Cart said.

“Yeah, the magic released from that spell would then trigger the larger one, the one that caused the blades to sheer off. But there’s something else here. It looks like someone’s come through and shifted some of these, putting a delay in, a slight one, so there’d be a moment of warning before it all came together.”

“Not your work?”

“No,” she said as she stared at the original spell. She gestured, trying to remember each movement she’d made the night before. “I moved things once the spell was in motion, to slow it down. Then I changed the quantity to half. I think originally two of the turbine tops, or maybe three, were in the spell. I tried to stop the momentum too, but only managed to stop the blade from spinning.”

“No wonder you were exhausted last night.”

They stood for a moment looking where the spell had been. Mona knew they were both thinking of who could have come along and changed it, and was glad Cart didn’t say it out loud. She had no idea if or how she’d defend Smythe if he mentioned him.

“Let’s get out of here and see if we can track down Raine,” he said. “If she’s able to talk, I want to hear what happened from her.”

Chapter Six

Mona fell asleep again on the way back to base. This time, she half woke up when Cart carried her in.

“Sleep. I’ll wake you up as soon as we track her down. What’s her last name?”

“Sumners.” Mona barely registered that she was in a bed before she rolled to her good side and buried her head in a pillow.

• • •

“What?” Mona said as she batted at the hand on her shoulder.

“Cart said to wake you,” said a woman’s voice, "and to give you this."

Mona rolled over and took her charged phone from Tiffany. Of course she was pretty much calling all the women in the group Tiffany since they’d not been introduced. She ought to correct that.

“He still hasn’t traced your friend and needs suggestions.”

Mona stumbled out into the hall, blinking in the light.

Cart was sitting on the couch she’d slept on last night, phone in one hand, the other resting on a laptop. Spread out in front him was an array of carryout containers along with a stack of paper plates. Seeing food made her realize she'd not had a solid meal in days.

“Have you tried St. Stevens in Lackawanna?” she asked as she sorted through what was left. “They have a neonatal unit.”

“No. They were actually next on my list. There’s a box in the kitchen, the chef sent it up for you.”

“Ask for Fergie in records.” She pushed open the swinging door. “She monitors all Folk who come through.”

Mona slid the box open. Oh, yum! Stuffed mushrooms in masala sauce. She took a bunch, managing to get the sauce all over the thumb holding the plate. Cart came in, giving the tail end of a message to Fergie before he clicked off the phone. Mona shifted the plate to her other hand and licked the sauce off while she waited. No sense in taking a bite if he was just going to start quizzing her.

“Sharing?” Cart looked up as she popped her thumb out of her mouth.

“Say ‘please.’”

“You’re killing me, you know that?” His voice had deepened and that look was in his eyes again.

“Stop it,” she said, pitching her voice low in case someone was close by. “I don’t have time for you and . . . and . . . that right now.”

She crossed to a chair as far away as she could get in the small room, taking a big bite of mushroom so she wouldn’t babble.

“You think I do?” he hissed back. “It’s my job to track this guy, not yours. I don’t have time to be distracted by your fine ass. I’d say we should ignore it, but personally, I think that strategy is going to bite us in—”

Cart clenched his jaw on what he’d been about to say.

“Eat up and get ready to go, since I doubt I’ll be able to dissuade you from tagging along. I can’t stay around here and do nothing.” He headed out the side door to the hall.

Mona put her food down and followed him. “I’m going because it’s my area to protect.”

“It’s yours to ward. There’s a difference. You aren’t qualified to track down this guy and you’re a danger to others.”

“So teach me.” Mona didn’t back down an inch, invading his personal space to prove the point.

They stood at the far end of the hall, just past where it turned before the bathroom. Behind them they both heard low voices and chatter as people came into the apartment from the entry at the opposite end of the hall.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“What do you mean ‘if you can?’” Mona’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Aren’t you some big hot shot trainer?”

His eyes narrowed and became flecked with gold. “I am some big hot shot trainer. But given that I’m fighting the need to press you against that wall and fuck you until you scream, I’m going to have to pass for my sanity as well as yours.”

“So maybe we should just fuck and get it out of our system.” As soon as she said the words, Mona realized sex with this man would never be that simple. Some part of her wanted more, and the intimacy would only increase that ache.

Mona swore he growled, not just a rumbling, but a true growl. “When I have you, we’re going to have hours and be alone because screaming isn’t going to be all of it.” He turned and stepped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Mona bit back her childish retort—no reason to antagonize him further.

Great. Just great. She had a huge, strong Were lusting after her, one to whom she was just as attracted. She so did not need this right now. Her training came first; she wasn’t going to risk losing her position and the connection to Folk after finally finding a place where she fit in. And she wasn’t going to turn into Averill, a leader who had not been given a chance, because she was in a Were pack. No, being a Warder was both a calling and a way for her to embrace her Folk heritage, and she wasn’t going to put that aside for anyone. Oh, she’d use his help to find Raine, and track down the person doing this. She wasn’t stupid. But anything more was out of the question.

• • •

“Hey, Cart,” Menlo called out, the phone in his hand.

Cart emerged from the hall, much calmer now that he’d had a few minutes to settle down, and joined Mona and Menlo in the kitchen.

“Some woman named Fergie said to tell you ‘she’s here.’”

Raine! The idea of food flew out the window; Mona would finally be able to go check on her friend, far more important. “Okay, let me at least grab a coat before we head out this time.”

“No,” Cart said, “you’re going to eat and then we’re going to go.”

“Excuse me? Are you ordering me around?” Just like a male Were, give him an inch, and he thought he ruled the roost. She was not going to put up with it.

“Yes.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “The Folk at the center know to keep an eye on her should something happen, which I don’t think will. They’ll let us know. And you need to eat. I need to eat. Right now, if we run into a problem, I don’t think either of us have the energy to help.”

Mona didn’t immediately respond; one, because she was too mad at him and two, because she was trying to assess how drained they both were. He was a little low, nothing adding the last bit of residual magic wouldn’t fix. Good thing they were above D’Allesandro’s, with so many Folk stopping at the eatery gathering stray magic was easy.

She flicked her hand at him, putting the now clean magic into the stream that clung to him. There, now they were all set.

“We’re fine.” Mona grabbed her coat off the hooks lining the wall. “Let’s go.”

“I’m in charge of this unit and if I say you’re not fit, then you’re not going.” He stood, arms still crossed, barring her path.

“YOU. ARE. NOT. IN. CHARGE. OF. ME.” With each word she poked him in the chest, right below the sternum, causing him to step back until he hit the counter.

With a panicked look, Menlo slipped out of the room.

“Watch it, woman.” Cart’s eyes narrowed.

Not taking his flack, Mona closed the minimal space between them, ignoring the heat searing her from knee to shoulder.

“Do I deserve the same respect as the other members of your team?”

“Yes.” He spit the word out as if it was an anathema.

“Have I informed you every time I was tired, cold, hungry, or otherwise unsure of my ability to handle a situation?”

“Yes.” He somehow made the word shorter than it had been before.

“Have you or your team been in danger due to my actions or lack of action?”

“Yes.”

Mona stepped back, appalled, when it hit her. He’d told her all he could think about was fucking her.

“No way, buster! Your inability to not be distracted by your libido is not my fault.”

He grabbed her hand.

His calloused palm covering hers, and she realized how close he was to changing. The energy they created had no other outlet. He closed his glittering eyes and his body started to bulk up.

Hell.

She yanked her hand out of his and wrapped her hands on either side of his face.

“Not now, Josiah,” she whispered, his first name coming unbidden to her lips. He shuddered and her grip tightened. “Stay here with me.”

The tension in his face eased, so subtly that if she hadn’t been focused on him, she wouldn’t have noticed. His eyes opened, once again tawny and gold-flecked.

With a growl he slid his hand under the thick mantle of her hair and captured her mouth with his.

Fangs still slightly extended, they grazed her lips, sending a rush of desire through her, making her press her now aching chest against him.

He deepened the kiss and Mona realized she was unwittingly getting a full imprint of him, reading his energy and abilities on a far deeper level than she’d ever read anyone before. As they kissed, his sense of self, family, honor all became embedded in her memory, became part of her.

Along with his raging desire.

Energy burst out from them, rattling the cabinet doors and causing the kitchen chairs to skitter across the floor.

A loud crash of glass made them pull out of the kiss, Cart turning them so he shielded her from the danger. She looked over his shoulder to see the brand new coffee pot had shattered.

Mona rested her forehead against Cart’s back, trying to get her breath to slow down. The kiss had made her tingle in places she didn’t know a kiss could make tingle. It had been fantastic, literally electrifying, and a really bad idea. He’d only get worse from here on out.

Her suggestion that they just get it over with was clearly dumb, dumb, dumb. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her.

“Better?” she asked as she absentmindedly gathered the released energy.

“For now.”

“Good, I—” She turned away only to find a row of faces in the doorway.

Cart and Mona bellowed “OUT!” in unison, sending the group scurrying back.

“Let’s get out of here.” He brushed past her, grabbing his jacket as he headed to the door.

“And where are we going?”

“We’ll grab a slice or two and eat them in the car on our way to the hospital. That suit you?”

“A slice of what?” Mona pulled the door shut behind her and heard someone locking it up.

“A slice of pizza.”

“No place close does pizza by the slice, only whole pies. Can’t stop downstairs or Howard will want to know why I didn’t eat the mushrooms he sent up. You okay with fast food?”

He’d gotten to the bottom of the stairs and turned to look at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. You’re not in New York City anymore, Toto.” Mona took the final couple of steps. The thin storm door rattled as a cold wind whipped down the alley.

“Don’t I just know it,” he muttered.

“We can pick up a beef on weck—it’s a local version of a roast beef sandwich on the best roll you’ve ever had,” she said at his confused look. “There’s a place around the corner. They should be quick, if they’re not crowded. That work for you?”

“Yes. And Mona?” He looked her in the eye and the wonderful but distracting tingling sensation flooded over her again. “Thanks. I . . . I need to be in control when my beast comes out or bad things happen. You stopped that, and I’m grateful.”

“My pleasure,” Mona said, and then realized just what she had said. “Wait, I didn’t mean it that way. Not that it wasn’t nice. It was actually really nice. Actually, I did mean it that way, but not, you know, the other way. The I-want-to-do-it-again-soon way. I do think I want to do it again, but not soon. I mean, I’m busy, you’re busy, and I have things to do and if we made the cabinets rattle with a kiss—”

Cart’s grin transformed his face, if possible making him more handsome than before. Damned man. He placed a finger over her lips. “Next time, just say ‘you’re welcome.’”

Chapter Seven

As he’d been directed, Cart parked in the emergency room lot.

“Can I help you?” The security officer behind the desk looked Mona then Cart up and down, radiating irritation.

“We’ve been called in by Nurse Ferguson.” Cart raised the pitch of his voice, somehow making him seem less threatening.

“Go to registration, someone will help you there.” The guard went back to monitoring the camera in the ambulance bay.

They mentioned Fergie’s name at the desk and immediately someone came through the locked door to let them in. They were led off to a room so small, the swing of the door took up half the space. Mortal emotions strong enough they left a residue, lingered here. Pain, despair, and grief all swirled around Mona. She grabbed onto Cart’s arm, swaying from the pressure.

“If you’ll just wait here, I’ll let her know you are here.” Their guide stepped out.

“You need to sit?” Cart asked.

Mona looked over at the miniscule loveseat that took up the wall across from the door. The miasma permeated the dull, washed out material. She shook her head. “Don’t you feel it?”

Cart shook his head.

“I need to get out of here.” Between her worry for Raine and the miasma in the room she was seconds away from retching.

Thankfully, the door opened and a guy in a security uniform came through. Mona saw a bit of magic in him. Folk, possibly from a Were grandparent. He bowed in greeting, clearly recognizing them as Folk, and waved them out to the hall.

“Please, follow me.”

They walked with purpose down, through, across, and up a dizzying array of halls, elevators, and doors. After a bit Mona realized they were following signs to the birthing center. Cart constantly scanned the halls, as if marking each intersection in his mind. Probably was.

They were left in another room, this time far more spacious with two couches, a television, and little pamphlets on the side cabinets explaining everything from proper lactation technique to immunization schedules to post partum menu choices.

Raine was here, and was unlikely to survive. Emotions already raw, Mona clasped her hands to still their trembling.

Cart looked around the room, and headed over to the windows. Apparently okay with what he saw, he turned back. His gaze lingered on the literature display.

“So, how much Elf blood do you have?”

“What?” Mona asked. His question was akin to asking someone their salary. She frowned at him. “Obviously a lot, or I wouldn’t be a Warder.”

“I’m exactly half, but you know that.” Cart turned back to the windows. “My mom is a full elf, a Titania actually; Dad didn’t have a drop, which confounded her to no end since she thought he’d had some and counted on her magic to . . . um . . . take care of the rest.”

Ah yes, the magic only a Titania has to supplement a not-full elf’s ability and make him more powerful. And, rumor had it, allow them to control their fertility. She bet it had been a large surprise for his mother.

“Not sure why this is relevant, but my dad is a full elf. From Elfhaven, actually. Decided to adventure earth-side for a bit and met my mom. She was . . . I don’t know for sure, but I’d guess pretty close to full. Raised entirely outside the elf realms. She never went and apparently had no desire to go. In turn she raised us away from any of the Folk enclaves. I didn’t have much contact with Folk until I got curious about my heritage when I was in college.”

Cart nodded and waved his hands that he wanted her to continue.

“Mom was brought up in a commune and was very adamant about not becoming a number on a page, so we’re not on the books, despite father’s desire to add us,” Mona said. Most elves chose to enter their descendants in Elfhaven’s lineage books, so their descendants would be looked after should something happen to them. In order to get listed, a magical evaluation was necessary, something her mother would not tolerate for her or her children. “From what I’ve heard from my brother, their relationship was very much a case of ‘opposites attract.’ Dad was called back to Elfhaven when I was three; I’ve seen him a couple of times since then. Mom waited until Nic was eighteen, then left. Haven’t seen her since. Something thing Nic said made me think he thinks she’s dead, but I’m not sure.”

“But your father’s still alive? Do you know—”

A soft knock and a woman walked through the door, leaving it ajar behind her. Lots of Folk in her. She raised a finger to her lips, shushing the pair.

“Mr. and Mrs. Howard,” she said. “I’m afraid your sister isn’t doing well. Please have a seat and Dr. Pinchon will explain the matter to you.”

“Thank you, Nurse Ferguson,” the doctor said upon entering, immediately dismissing Fergie. He did not have a drop of Folk in him. “Please, have a seat.”

They did as he suggested. Cart wrapped his arm around Mona’s shoulders then took her opposite hand in his; Mona needed the comfort.

The news, delivered in a staccato, matter-of-fact tone by the specialist, wasn’t good. Raine, or Rebecca as she was on the charts here, was on life support. She’d had some possible brain damage due to lack of oxygen, but they wouldn’t be able to tell the extent until she regained consciousness. Which they hoped would happen in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

If it happened at all.

The babe seemed fine, and they placed its age to be about twenty-five weeks. They did stress a longer gestation would make a drastically significant difference in the baby’s chance of survival outside the womb.

Right now they were walking a fine line between what was best for the baby and what was best for “Rebecca.” There were no easy choices.

“Can we see her?” Mona asked.

Behind the doctor’s back Fergie nodded, like she had done the right thing.

“Only one of you can go in right now,” the doctor told them. “I’ll let you decide.”

“I don’t know that I could see her face to face right now,” Cart said. He turned to Mona. “Will you be up to it?”

Despite the roles they were playing, Mona heard the concern in his voice.

“I’ll be okay.”

“There’s a window you can look in on while your wife’s there, Mr. Howard,” Fergie said, earning a frown from the doctor. “It’s by the nurses’ station, but since the other two rooms on that side are empty right now I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

They went down the hall, the doctor leaving them as they prepped to go in the area. Taking a deep breath, Mona entered the room.

The bed was in the middle of the space. Monitors suspended from the ceiling created a bizarre sci-fi-esque headboard.

Raine was on the bed, unmoving and breathing shallowly.

And covered with more spells than before. In the past twenty-four to thirty-six hours, whoever set the spells had been in the area and Raine had seen him. They’d set a death rune, inextricably laced in, and over the other spells, the entire shape the deep crimson of the most intractable portion of the spells.

And there was nothing, nothing, she could to remove it and stop her friend from dying.

Tears streaming down her face, vowing to find the fiend, Mona stood by Raine’s side for a long time, looking over the tangle. She didn’t dare do much and risk putting things in imbalance. The best she hoped to do was delay things and save the baby.

Mona took Raine’s hand in hers, and immediately one of the tracking spells kicked in, sending out a silent alarm. She knew Cart saw it somehow, because she heard him mutter through the glass.

The beacon had been put on top of everything else and, uncharacteristically, was not attached to the earlier ones. Without thinking, Mona pulled it off. She couldn’t leave it here, that’d defeat the purpose of removing the working, so she collapsed the energy as much as she could, imagined it as a ball, and put the whole thing in her pocket, where it made an untidy lump.

Knowing she now had a limited time before whatever was sent interrupted her work, she looked over the spells to make sure nothing had changed. A slight turn of a rune and the inversion of the one next to it was all she risked. The spell instantly acted more slowly than before, hopefully creating enough time so the baby would have a better chance of survival.

Mona let go of Raine’s hand, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. She didn’t think she’d see her laughing, smiling friend again.

Once out of the room she was enveloped in Cart’s arms. His warmth calmed and frightened her. It’d been less than twenty-four hours since they’d met and she already felt connected to him. She should step away; she had a job she loved and he was a complication she didn’t need. But right now she needed the comfort far more than she’d realized.

“She’s not going to survive,” she finally murmured into his coat.

She hated that she couldn’t do anything to save Raine. Anger and frustration left her shaking. They needed to find out who this mage was.

Nurse Ferguson patted her back. “You did a good job just easing things for her, I think. Her monitors show her blood pressure is already down a bit.”

“I tried to buy enough time for the baby,” Mona said.

“We’re hopeful that you did,” Fergie said as she escorted them back down the hall. “Now wait here, and I’ll fetch someone to escort you out.”

Mona pushed her grief aside and made herself calm down. After several deep, shuddering breaths, she stepped away from Cart.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

His deliberately pronounced reply brought a faint smile to her lips as she remembered their earlier exchange.

The same guard came to take them back, and this time Mona recognized his Folk side to be a mix of mortal and fairy, unusual but not unheard of.

They hadn’t gone far when a speaker called for specific doctors needed in the ER. The escort stopped and listened to his shoulder walkie-talkie.

“There are armed men in the ER. One may have made it into the hospital proper. I’m thinking we need to get you out now.”

“That was quick, you just worked on the spell.” Cart’s soft aside made Mona feel bad about not telling him she had a tracking spell on her. She didn’t want to risk his telling her to leave it and jeopardize the lives of innocent people. Plus the further away from Raine she could get it, the better she’d feel.

They hurried down the hallway, Mona and Cart leaving their jackets behind so their arms would be free. The woman who manned the security door to the birthing center moved from behind an open desk to a Plexiglas-fronted vestibule. After looking around the corner to the area they were exiting into, she let them out.

The guard left Mona and Cart by a bank of elevators.

“Follow the signs to the radiology unit in the basement. Some of the doors may be blocked; when that happens try going up a floor to continue on. Once you get to radiology continue down the hall to the double doors. One is marked with radiation symbols and the other says employees only. Go through the employee side and there’ll be a door on your left marked linens. The room has an exit to the loading dock.

“Here.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out two IDs of people who looked similar but not quite like them. “These should get you through most doors, just don’t go into any of the surgery areas or cancer wards if you can possibly avoid them.”

Mona tweaked the spells on each and now the pictures were exact.

Then they strode, walking urgently but not running, up stairs, down stairs, along corridors. Unlike their first walk, they didn’t run into many people, most were staying put and out of the halls.

They did, however, run into locked doors and closed corridors that the IDs did not open. The calls over the intercom became more frequent. Soon it became clear that the announcements were naming sections Mona and Cart had just gone through. The spell in Mona’s pocket was still sending out signals.

“You took the tracking spell with you, didn’t you?” Cart asked, only slightly out of breath from having just gone up two flights of stairs at a run.

Unlike Mona, who was valiantly ignoring the stitch in her side.

“Yes, and I can’t leave it. Do you have a faster way to get us out?”

“Can’t jump, if that’s what you’re asking. There’s a warding around the building.”

She’d seen the runes, but hadn’t read them deeply enough to realize there was a containment element.

“We’re not splitting up,” he said before she could even think of it.

“Okay, let’s booby trap the path,” said Mona.

They moved a meal cart behind the door to a stairwell making it almost impossible to open without sending the whole thing crashing down the stairs. In another stairwell several wheelchairs someone had stashed on a landing became a pileup for someone to fight their way through. Even though the emergency paging for “doctors” stopped, Cart, showing strength Mona could not even begin to fathom, flipped a cot across one of stairwell doorways, managing to wedge it in the process.

After that, they made their way to the basement. As they came to the bottom of a stairwell they checked the signs; radiology was clearly marked.

“Paging Dr. Armstrong, code silver in radiology.”

Slowing down, they peered around a corner to see several guards, including the one from earlier, using zip-ties to handcuff the Were. The cuffed man also had a low level binding spell, something the half-fairy could set with out the others noticing.

Mona watched as the magical working on the Were pushed and shoved at the simple spell, distorting the edges and weakening the sigils. She reached out and tweaked the runes, avoiding those that were darker colored. She shifted things around and pulled the binding tighter by strengthening the power behind them.

The energy coalesced. Oh shit, the secondary spell, the summoning that would force him into his Were, then strip the energy, was taking hold. But this Were looked to have the balance to shift, unlike the others. She hoped he would survive.

“Drop him!” she yelled as she pulled their guard’s hand off the Were.

They watched as his features distorted, the smell of blood and fear overwhelming the hallway as he was forced to shift. A wolverine as large as mountain lion stood in his place. Mona watched the vortex behind him.

A distorted face appeared, a gleeful grin sending shivers down her spine. The magic lassoed out to pull the shifted Were across.

The wolverine turned and struck at the phantom face. The entire spell collapsed and the creature vanished.

“Shit! That’s the working you’ve been seeing?” Cart swore and pulled Mona away from the residual magic. “We need to get out of here.”

The mortal guards stared at the spot then swung around, scanning up and down the hall, guns drawn.

“Thanks,” the Folk guard whispered. “Now get out of here before they decide you aided and abetted his getaway.”

He jerked his head in the direction they needed to move. Later Mona would need to track this man down and thank him for his help.

“There!” Pointing in the opposite direction the guard took off as if he’d seen something. The two mortals followed him.

Cart led them around one more corner, and finally to the laundry room where large wheeled baskets piled with bags of dirty linens flanked the walls. The loading dock bays were closed, but there was a small side door. The only problem was the large alarm handle across it.

“Do you think he’s disabled it?” she asked.

“He may have taken the connectors off the main system.” Cart pointed to a small matchbox-sized box along the door’s header with wires running out of it. “But this type also has its own internal alarm, which will sound once we open the door. I’ll see what I can do.”

He pulled out an army knife and twiddled with the faceplate.

Two seconds later the alarm sounded.

“Hell!” He grabbed her wrist and bolted through the door.

Already there were cruisers, lights flashing, streaking around the far edge of the building toward them.

Mona looked for the line of the warding spell . . . there! The working glimmered at the top of the driveway. Reaching out, she tweaked the edge closer. Two steps and they were over it.

“Jump!” she yelled.

Cart slung his arm over her shoulder, pulling her to his chest as a shot rang out and they entered the blackness.

This time Mona was able to watch as the blackness streaked past them and the world faded away. She’d been right, there were faint streaks of color creating specters of dark on dark. Radiating magic, they didn’t seem good nor bad, just elemental.

Before she could process any more, they tumbled onto the bed back at Cart’s room in the Were protector’s headquarters.

Mona was flat on her back and Cart was on top of her, causing all sorts of pleasant, if un-actionable tingling in private places.

“Okay,” Cart said as he nuzzled his nose under her ear and kissed her neck, “while I could live without the sudden departures we’ve had to do, I do enjoy the arrivals.”

She definitely was aware of his reaction; it warmed her inner thigh.

“We need to get out of here!” Her shoves at his shoulder ineffectual. “I still have that beacon on me!”

“Crap!”

They scrambled off the bed.

“Can’t go to Tania’s, can’t go . . . hell, I don’t know anyplace close enough that’s not associated with Weres!” Cart said.

“I do.”

“I can’t jump someplace I’ve never seen, Mona.”

“Maybe I can feed you the information? There’s got to be some way!”

His look turned inscrutable.

“The airport?” she asked since her last suggestion didn’t seem to be workable.

“No, I’ve never been.” Most Folk avoided airplane travel due to the disruption of magic fields the planes caused as they tore through the air. “How far is it?”

“About fifty miles.”

“I’ll try. No matter what I do, keep the image of where we should go in your mind.”

“Is it too far? I can—”

“Just do it!”

Mona set the image of the coal burning plant on its rocky promontory in her mind and the pier that paralleled it creating a small bay. She could toss the spell in there. Due to the pollution, there were no Folk in the waters who’d be affected by the beacon and the factory’s discharge meant it wouldn’t be iced over.

She closed her eyes to better concentrate.

“Keep concentrating.” He grabbed her face and kissed her. Knock-your-socks-off kissed her.

His magic enveloped her in a hug as warm as the hands on her face. Despite the temptation to melt against him, she managed to keep the image in her mind.

Once she determinedly ignored how his magic seemed to be permeating her pores, the image became clearer, a memory of wind and the waves against the rocks and seagulls screeching in the air.

Two heartbeats later he broke off the kiss and they stumbled into the frigid air.

She opened her eyes to see his gold-flecked irises had turned brown again. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones and his fangs were poking out from his lips. She sensed his exhaustion. He must be pulling on his animal side to keep going.

If she thought his body had been warm against her on the bed, it was nothing compared to the heat he generated now.

“Spell,” she blurted out. She didn’t want to have them tracked here. Particularly if Cart followed through on the intent his body radiated.

He let go of her face and closed his eyes.

Mona stepped away and made her way to the end of the pier, where she attached the beacon to a large rock and sunk it into the icy waters. The cold temperature as well as the depth of the lake would make the energy more difficult to follow.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, turning back to Cart.

“Can’t. I don’t have any energy,” Cart said.

Mona looked at him. It was true. And there was no residual energy here she could feed him.

“Okay. . .”

The water behind them erupted, spraying them with pellets of freezing water and ice. Mona screamed and ducked away from the deluge, moving back along the pier to where they’d landed, Cart right behind her.

Or so she thought until she turned to find him still standing back at the pier, legs braced and fists cocked, watching the water, muscles rippling under his overstretched t-shirt.

Mona looked back to where the water burbled from the explosion. Nothing came up out of the water, although flotsam churned to the top then sank again. No telling if they were from the bottom of the cove or had been sent along with the spell.

“Cart!”

He turned and looked at her. His face looked different, jaw elongated and his nose smashed into his face. Shit, he was on his way to shifting again. One of these times he’d fully turn and then she’d be stuck with a tiger. A tiger? Why did she think that? She was certain she was correct, but had no idea how she knew.

Maybe the kiss? Oh yeah, his magic had imprinted itself on her memory. She resisted the urge to read what she’d found out—his secrets were his to tell, not hers to pry open without his consent.

One final look at the water and Cart wearily made his way over to her. Mona saw how much suppressing his need to shift was burning up what little energy he had.

The wind picked up and Mona started to shiver violently. Cart picked up his pace and hurried to her side.

Wrapping their arms around each other they headed off the dock. Once in the parking lot, they were faced with two choices: a hotel or a diner. Of unspoken accord they turned to the diner.

“Open until one a.m. That should give you enough time to recharge, huh?” Mona said as they entered the front door.

Warmth blasted from a heater in the entry, bringing with it the smell of burnt coffee and fried foods.

Their waitress clucked over their condition. They explained it by saying they’d just dashed over from the hotel to wait for their ride, and hadn’t realized just how cold it was. The woman shook her head at them as she took their orders, only slightly startled when they each ordered three course meals with extra sides.

Alone with their waters, Cart sat tapping at the table and glaring at the front door.

“What?”

“I need to contact my group.”

She dug through her purse and handed him her cell. “Averill has a landline, why don’t you try that?”

He grunted in reply.

Hot cups of chocolate were set in front of them. Mona wrapped her hands around the thick ceramic and sighed as the warmth seeped through. Cart spooned a couple of ice cubes into his, drank it, and asked for a second one. When it arrived he picked it up and headed off to the hallway by the restrooms to make his call. She could see him, but couldn’t hear him. Interesting. She wondered why he’d left.

Mona looked around at the clientele, something she should have done when they’d entered. Very few people were hanging around in the after-dinner lull. Not one had any Folk blood. Outside of the one time she visited an airport, Mona couldn’t ever remember being in a place so barren of magical energy. She tucked the anomaly in her memory and examined who was there. A handful of middle aged men, a scattering of women, plus a couple of college kids who’d taken over a corner booth and had papers spread out in front of them.

Which reminded her, tomorrow night at work she was supposed to meet with an elfling to assess his powers. She glanced back at Cart, still on the phone, a frown marring his face. He’d know how to handle the kid and his just-coming-into-powers situation.

There was sudden stirring as most of the occupants finished their meals and lined up to pay.

The waitress stopped by with their soups.

“What’s the rush to get out?” Mona asked.

“Shift’s about to start over at the plant.” The soups were slapped down and the woman headed over to bus the emptied tables.

Too hungry to be polite, Mona dug into the soup. Like all good diners she’d found, this one had its share of Greek specialties. The avgolemono was particularly tasty.

Cart slid back into his seat, tucking her phone into his pocket.

“Anything interesting up?” she asked.

“The incident at the hospital is all over the news, more snow is forecasted, and someone will be here in a while to give us a ride back.”

“Hmm,” she replied around a spoonful of soup.

“Oh, and your brother and Tania are definitely an item.”

“I guessed that might happen when I saw them. And she did name him her protector.”

“You sure you’re a Warder? You know, you see things not all of them do.”

Mona laughed. “Nothing more this time than knowing my bro. That combination of protectiveness and exasperation could only mean one thing.”

“I can relate,” he muttered into his soup.

Mona chose not to reply.

They ate slowly, talking about inconsequential things like which Star Trek movie was their favorite—they both chose Wrath of Kahn—and arguing over which would be second. Mona was for the newer prequel while Cart slammed it as being for “the ladies.” Agreeing to disagree, they moved on to whether the “fog bowl” or the “ice bowl” football game had been harder to play in, which segued into the ugliest uniforms of all time. Each new plate of food added much-needed vitality to Cart’s body.

As he grew stronger, Mona waited for him to ask about the spell.

Finally, when the booths around them cleared, he did.

“I—” Cart paused. “Describe to me what you saw with that spell.”

“The summoning one?”

He grunted.

“The runes, the power symbols, are a fairly basic summoning combination. But there’s something about the sigils and the energy attached to the spell that is clearly aimed at the balance, which would make the Were strong enough to shift. Somehow the working is rearranging things and pulling out of the Were the ability to assume their clan totem, whether or not they are actually able to do so. There’s this . . . this shock of energy, which. . .”

Mona sat for a minute. How would she describe it? Cart signaled the waitress for more decaf. When she left Mona continued.

“The energy scrambles their inner magic, then rearranges it to a new pattern. I’m not sure how, but their elf blood is supplemented in such a way that they closer to the correct balance, the one strong Weres have that gives them the ability change any time. But the energy . . . it seems like it’s only able to help out so much. Some of the shifts I saw . . . they got stuck partially changed. It was gruesome.”

“But that’s the part I don’t understand,” Cart said.

“I get the impression that whoever is doing this, when he calls the Weres back and they haven’t successfully changed, their magic is reclaimed, killing them. It’s probably just as gruesome, but then, letting them live, that would be worse.”

“No, I get that part, as horrific as it is. It’s the partial changing.”

Maybe it was because she’d never seen a Were shift before, but she didn’t understand his point. Cart was frowning and staring blankly out the window.

“I don’t understand.”

Cart turned and blinked at her, his mind clearly somewhere else. “What do you know about Elfhaven?”

“Besides that’s where my father lives? Not much.”

“Well, some of the tales are true—the difference in how time passes, the beauty of the place. And some aren’t—eating the food won’t enchant you to stay. One of the true ones is that there’s a grove, a transitional zone between here and there, which you have to pass through to get to Elfhaven.”

Cart looked around the restaurant, examining each person there before continuing.

“Except for first generation Weres, who carry their clan totem inside them, when a strong shifter assumes an animal shape, it’s assuming the shape of an animal who lives in the grove.

“You mean they swap out their body for an animal from Elfhaven?” Mona asked. She’d had no idea.

“Yes, except our bodies don’t go to the grove; instead there’s a special place in Elfhaven they appear. This isn’t commonly known—I doubt even the Maven knows. And very few elves from Elfhaven are aware of the vault and its use. The shift starts gradually, as I’m sure you’ve seen, then there’s a burst of energy as the bodies are transposed.”

Mona didn’t correct him. She’d never been invited to monitor the pack’s run, since the Buffalo pack banned females. Or had. That would be tough to do with a female pack leader.

She thought through what he’d said and had to agree. “The piecemeal shifting doesn’t make any sense. Unless . . . by the goddess, are there mis-formed bodies strewn around the grove?”

“No, I’m very sure the magic in the grove would automatically kill any such chimera. The goddess’s will wouldn’t allow the abomination to live. No, there’s something else going on here.”

“Okay, but how does knowing what is going on help us get the person doing this? On the one hand, knowing what your enemy is capable of is good, but if this is the same person who has decimated the Buffalo pack, and they’re killing off Weres, we need to track them down whether or not we know the how of what they are doing, right?”

“True. Can you trace the summoning spell back?”

“No, something done from a distance like that, that’s not a skill I have. I’m not sure the magical traces are strong enough for me to follow. Could Tania?”

“Perhaps. We’d have to get her in the right place at the right time, and then she’d likely do something rash. Or your brother would. Better to see if we can track the user down.”

“We could . . . I could. . .” Mona gulped at what she was about to suggest. “I could stay in contact with the person shifting and get pulled back to the creator of the spell with them.”

From the growl coming across the table, Cart was not happy with that plan.

“You have my imprint. You could jump to me.”

“Still don’t like it.”

“We have to do something, we have no idea how many Weres he’s changed or killed.”

Cart rubbed his face. “Any idea how Raine fits into this?”

“The baby—” Mona stopped herself, not wanting to share Raine’s secret then realizing she had no choice. “Raine was raped.”

For a split second, Cart sat slack-jawed. “Shit, he’s trying to kill his own baby?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I mean, I’m not sure if he’s been trying to capture Raine or kill her. As for the baby being his, we’ll have to wait to find out after the baby is born.”

“We need to get this guy.”

“I know. First we need to find where he is.” Mona rubbed her finger around the rim of her hot chocolate mug, hoping something would come to mind.

“That’s not going to be easy. Imps won’t go near him.”

“Wait, how do you know?”

“Tried.”

They both slumped against the cushions of the booth. Cart’s energy was better, but Mona could still see he needed rest.

“You need to take a break. You can’t track this mage and set up the protector station for the Buffalo pack. Both of them are full time jobs,” Mona said.

“I’ll find him. It may take me longer than I’d like, but I will.”

Mona didn’t doubt it for a minute.

The waitress swung by. The food was long gone.

“Mind if we stay and just have some coffee? Our ride’s not here yet,” Cart said, dimpling a smile at the waitress.

“So long as you’re not the last ones out, it’s no skin off my teeth. I’m last on anyway.”

When there were only two tables left, they settled the bill but stayed at the table. Cart had regained some energy, but Mona wasn’t sure it was enough to get them where they needed to go if their ride didn’t show up soon.

“I need to work tomorrow night,” Mona said, remembering she wanted to ask him about the kid. “You mind coming in to see me? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Even across the table, she could feel him tense. “Who do you want me to meet?”

“Some guy who looks like he’s on the cusp of changing. What is up with you?”

“I thought it was your boyfriend,” he mumbled.

She kicked his shin under the table. “If I had a boyfriend I wouldn’t be kissing and . . . and snuggling, and thinking about doing wicked things with you!” Oh no! A thought struck her. “You don’t have a girlfriend, do you? I mean, you don’t, right? Because I would take it really, really badly if you did. I mean, I know all this was kind of sudden, but you don’t go around kissing other people when you’re already in a relationship. Or at least I don’t, and I hope you don’t either. Oh, that’d be really awful—”

He leaned over the table, a delighted smile on his face, and covered her mouth with his hand.

“No.” He paused as she took a breath. “And I don’t go around doing ‘things’ with other women when I do have one. But as you already pointed out, this isn’t the time.”

Cart removed his hand. Mona kept her jaw clenched lest she start babbling again.

He looked out the glass door.

“Here’s our ride. And, yes, I’ll come with you to work.” His relief at seeing the ride turned into a frown. He slid out the booth and stood waiting for her, having placed a generous tip on the table. “Typically the Warder should make arrangements so you don't have to work while training. But then, from what I’ve seen, Smythe’s methods seem to have been anything but typical.”

Mona teeth started chattering two steps outside the restaurant.

Cart opened the rear door and looked in at the driver. “Hey, Tiff, thanks for the ride.”

Tiff nodded her head in acknowledgement, the overhead light shining on her deep red hair. “No problem. How’d the two of you end up all the way out here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Mona climbed inside and was surprised when Cart climbed in the back seat after her.

“Jumped. Mind if you hold off the interrogation until later? I’m beat and cold and am going to try to sleep for at least part of the ride back.”

There was a blanket in the back and he tossed it over both of them, pulling her to the middle seat while he fastened his seatbelt. Mona would have protested, except she was too practical to give up his warmth.

“Sure. But don’t think I won’t ask you about it later.”

A grunt was the only reply. Cart leaned against the door and rested his head against the seatbelt webbing.

Mona leaned against him, far more comfortable than the door any day. A sure sign of his exhaustion, he fell asleep before she did.

“Any place you want me to drop you off or are you coming with us?” Tiffany looked at her in the rearview mirror, gray eyes glinting in curiosity.

“Oh, I’m coming with you. I may not be integral to the team, but I am part of it, and will be until we find this guy.”

“Good.”

Chapter Eight

Tiffany had pulled the car into in the driveway of a Victorian home in Lackawanna and left it running, both of them tacitly agreeing that Cart really needed the sleep. Mona snatched bits and pieces of sleep in the parked car, while Cart slept soundly for an hour or two. The sky was still dark, but lights were coming on in the second story of the house. The building sat back from the road and was surrounded with set spells. Old ones, which Mona noted desperately needed renewal.

This was Averill’s house. Judging by the people Mona had seen come and go, and the well-trampled path in the new snow, the new Were leader had been dealing with visitors most of the night. The two protectors stationed by the door were not reassuring, although they didn’t seem to bother the imps that hovered by the lights. A large contingent walked by, waving at Tiff before heading in; the replacement crew. Tiff slid out and went to talk to the guards at the door.

That wasn’t what pulled her awake. An imp hovered in front of them. Looked like rest time was over. This time she was the one to shake Cart awake.

“Um, Cart?” He bolted upright and looked around. She pointed to the creature.

“Not for me.” He ran his hand over his face, then leaned over the front seat and pulled the keys from the ignition.

“I know that. Think I can go in and get warm first?”

He turned and looked at the imp, who bobbed gently over her shoulder like a lopsided antennae.

“Looks like it’ll wait. And leave the blanket in the car, we may need it another time.” He climbed out into the cold night air and she followed.

His need to present a strong front to these Weres radiated off of him. He was back into efficient leader mode. Cart headed in and the guards by the door let them pass with brief salutes. Tiffany walked back to Mona, her thin, six foot frame barely moving in the sharp wind.

“Don’t worry, that was a civil conversation for him when he’s short on sleep. Come on, I’ll get you something hot to drink and you’ll feel better.” She escorted Mona up the front walk.

The living room, made larger by some magic the imps had, held a good dozen people. Averill was not in sight. Mona hoped she was getting some rest somewhere. Cart was over in the corner already answering questions the crowd put to him.

“Hey Teflon, heard you picked up a trainee, she getting in the way as usual?” a man asked, his snort letting everyone know how helpful he thought the she would be. The way he said Teflon made Mona think he didn't mean it as a complimentary nickname for Cart.

“I like to think I’m helping,” she said as she walked over to Cart’s side. This was the attitude she was used to from Weres, but it didn’t mean she had to put up with it. “But who knows, maybe I’m just a big old pain in the ass. Because you know, sometimes attitudes become self-fulfilling.”

“Nice,” he said, looking her up and down like she was a toy he was thinking about purchasing.

“She’s already placed herself under my protection, Herrick” Cart put his hand on Mona’s arm.

“Maybe she doesn’t want your protection,” Herrick said.

Mona heard Cart’s growl. Again, he was close to shifting. And she knew, just knew, that if he hurt Herrick because of his inability to control his animal, he’d pull himself off the detail citing his attack as a sign of instability. They so did not need that right now; they needed him focused and doing his job.

She turned back to Herrick, placing herself between the two men. The rest of the group, she noticed, had given their trio a wide berth.

“Do you have a death wish?” Mona asked Herrick. “Because tweaking a tiger’s tail has to be one the most incredibly dumbass things I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

She looked him over again, deeply this time, sensing his magic and intent. Irritation at Cart simmered through all of his sense of self. Evil wasn’t embedded in him, the way it sometimes became in Folk who were not pure elves. A little remnant of a spell of ill intent, likely from a recent encounter, but nothing festering. His attitude toward Cart was nothing more than any biased jealousy would create.

“Step away, now,” she said, “unless you want to be pummeled and battered to a point where you will be no use to anyone. Not that I’m seeing you’re much of one now.”

She glanced over the crowd, her focus still on inner magic and abilities.

“You and you.” She chose two strong but well-grounded Weres. “Take him out of here.”

They glanced at Cart first, who must have given his approval as they moved over and grabbed Herrick’s arms.

“You don’t have any authority over me!” Herrick said.

“I do,” Averill said.

Mona wasn’t sure when she’d arrived, but was she was very glad to see her because Mona had no idea if she did have the authority.

“I have the right to accept or reject the protectors who are in the group. I choose for you to be placed on probation and banned from the house. In three months you may appeal the ban if you wish. Take him out of here.”

The two Weres dragged the barely cooperating Herrick out of the room and house.

“Thank you, Leader Averill.” Mona thumped her fist to her chest in salute and recognition of the woman's position as Pack leader. “Now, if you have everything under control, we’re going to bed.”

Again with the growling. Mona turned and smacked Cart’s arm.

“Really, do you Weres ever think of anything else?” This earned her a couple of chuckles. “Since we both need to sleep, we’ll be doing so alone.”

Mona turned to head down the hall, guessing it was toward the kitchen. The imp, which had followed her, darted out of the way.

“Actually I should deal with this imp first,” she told Tiffany, who’d accompanied them out of the room. “Any place private we can go?”

“Try the basement. There’s a futon there so you take turns crashing while the other gets some work done,” Tiffany supplied.

Mona had to think that last bit was for the benefit of those still listening in the room. They pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen and a wave of heat swept out. Sleepiness hit Mona like a wall. She stifled a yawn.

“Is there any update from the hospital?” Hopefully one of the calls Cart had made last night was to fill his crew in on the need to monitor Raine.

“Nurse Ferguson said she’s holding steady.” Tiff showed them where the basement stairs were.

Cart, who’d been shockingly quiet until this point, politely asked Tiffany to check on them at noon if they weren’t already up. Mona headed down to an old fashion rec room, sofa on the left wall, TV on a crowded bookshelf across on the right. The building was on a hill and patio doors dominated the wall across from the stairs.

“I’d open that imp before you sit down or it’ll have to wait even longer to deliver the message.” Cart crossed to the futon and maneuvered the frame so it was flat.

“I am Mona Lisa Kubreck. Please state your message.”

“Mona.” Nic’s voice was loud and clear. “The cat’s out of the bag on what it is you’re doing. I expect you to fill me in ASAP.”

Nic had learned to use an imp. Wow. Part of her struggled to grasp how far he’d come so quickly, while dying to see his magic levels now, and part was simply too tired to worry about it.

Not bothering to stifle her yawn this time, Mona sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off her shoes. Turning to lie on her side, she found Cart had slipped in behind her and already taken the wall spot. He pulled her so she spooned in front of him then settled a light quilt over them.

She scooted back into his warmth and immediately dropped off to sleep.

• • •

The richly sweet smell of hot cocoa woke her. But, oh my, was it bright! She squinted her eyes against the glare of light. Beyond the patio doors, the snow had become neon with sunshine.

Cart handed her a mug. “It used to be hot.”

The chocolate smelled heavenly. She looked at Cart. Not only had he slipped out from bed without her noticing, clearly he’d been awake long enough to shower and change.

“What time is it?”

“Almost two.”

“I thought Tiff was going to wake us up at noon?”

“We tried; you muttered something about a damn alarm clock and slapped Tiff in the face. We decided to let you sleep.”

“Oh, sorry.” She took a sip of barely warm cocoa, hoping the mug hid her embarrassment.

“When do you need to be at Fat Louie’s?” Cart asked, setting his mug down on the desk. Mona set hers besides it and stretched.

Right. She had to work tonight. “Four-thirty. I should scoot out of here and run home. I could use a shower and a change.”

There was yelling and a loud thump from the top of the basement stairs and Mona found herself flung back on the trundle with Cart on top of her, his hand over her mouth and his gaze fixed on the stairs.

Mona tried to ignore the warmth deliciously spreading through her body and focus on what was happening outside.

There were some footsteps, then a muffled chortle. Mona relaxed, while Cart remained rigid. It wasn’t until they heard Averill’s voice telling people to clean up their mess that he calmed down and took his hand off her mouth.

“And what was that?” Mona asked, continuing without giving him a chance to respond. “You had no right to do that. I was perfectly safe. You don’t have to protect me. I—”

Cart put his hand back, then removed it again.

“Aren’t there guards upstairs? Why would you think there was any danger?” she asked, unable to stop. “I need to know because—”

His hand clamped back over her mouth. “You’re babbling.”

She nodded.

“You’re uncomfortable.”

She nodded.

“Do you want me to move?”

She hesitated, and then nodded again.

“Really?”

He kept his hand over her mouth and kissed along her jaw line and down her neck, nipping lightly along the way.

She moaned his name into his palm.

“Uh-uh-uh, I’m not removing my hand until I’m sure you’re not going to babble again.”

He draped his leg over hers, boxing her knees between his. Heat burned everywhere they touched, sending tendrils of desire racing to her core. Any traces of cold quickly vanished.

“Ready?”

She didn’t move. He lifted his hand.

“I—”

He clamped his hand back. “Nope. No talking.” He raised his palm up.

“But—” she got out before he pressed his fingers firmly over her lips again.

“Quiet,” he whispered. He slid his hand off, tracing the outline of her lips with the pad of his finger. His feather light touch skated across the seam.

She opened her mouth and gently nipped the questing tip.

He growled and pulled it away, sitting up. “This isn’t the time or place.” He raked his hand through his hair. “What do you need to get ready?”

Trying to adjust to his mood change, Mona took stock of what she had on. She couldn’t remember when she’d last put on clean clothes. “Black shirt, dark pants, the usual other stuff.”

Cart nodded. “There’s a full bath through the door next to the bookshelves. Get started and I’ll find you something.”

“Sounds good.” Mona bit her lip to keep the words from tumbling out. She held them in for one breath, two. . . “Can Tiff or someone else bring them down, though? You know, since we don’t have a lot of time and I’m pretty sure I’ll get distracted if you come in while I shower. And I think you would too, I mean I hope you would. No, I don’t hope, I’m pretty sure you just would. Plus, there’s that extra energy we create, no way to hide that, and wouldn’t that be embarrass—”

Cart laid his finger across her lips. “I’ll send a female down. Tiff’s out finding a new place for the protector group since D’Alessandro has asked us to move. It was only temporary anyway—too small and too far away from Averill and her Pack.”

He removed his finger and tweaked her nose. “And yes, privacy would be a good thing. Not sure when we’ll get that. Life can be perverse sometimes.”

“I thought that was imps. Like the imp of the perverse?”

“You called?” a voice said from behind Cart.

Cart whipped around, this time remaining standing as he shoved her behind him.

The voice, though, was one she knew, one she’d come to expect pulling a prank like this.

“Hey, Puck, you should know better than to sneak up on Folk like that.”

“Yeah, but it’s so much fun!” His chortle rang through the room.

She stood and stepped out from behind Cart, who was gaping at the barely two and a half foot tall barrel-chested man.

The Puck had chosen to dress in his disco finery today, complete with bare-to-navel maroon satin shirt and a thick, gold chain necklace nestled in the hair he called his “manly rug.” The guy had more clothes than a hotel heiress.

“Puck, this is—”

“I know who he is,” the Puck said, looking at Cart and straightening his cuffs. “We’ve met before, but it’s been a while, I don’t hang out in New York City too much. Although they’ve done a better job keeping the parks clean recently. You going by Josiah or Cart or something else these days?”

The two obviously had a history. Mona kept quiet, not wanting to get in the middle of things.

“I go by Cart, oh Eternal Keeper of Folk memory,” he replied.

Hmm, Mona had never heard that title before, but it did have the effect of stopping the Puck from pointing the TV controller at various objects around the room, pretending to use it to move them around.

“Right.” He set the unit back and turned around. “You two better ignore the canoodling for now. There are big problems around here, and you can’t be distracted.”

“We—” Mona started before Cart cut her off.

“Tell me more.”

“Can’t,” Puck said. He picked up Cart’s mug, sniffed at the drink, and pulled out a flask from some unseen pocket. After adding a healthy splash, he drained the mug.

“Won’t?” Cart asked. “And that was my drink.”

Mona watched them both as they took up eerily similar stances and glared at each other.

“It’s not just the humanoid Folk who are affected. I can’t.”

Mona knew Cart well enough now to know that this was news to him.

“Fine,” Cart said. “I assume you’ll show up again when you can use your appearance to the most dramatic effect?”

“Gotta make it memorable or people don’t listen. See ya then.”

The Puck popped out of the room, much more loudly than he had appeared.

“How do you know him?” Cart asked.

“Part of my training was spending a couple of weeks with him.”

A frown crossed his face.

“What? Let me guess—not standard training for a Warder, but not unique. Look, right now I’m going to take a shower and get the image of canoodling out of my head. I was doing fine until he said that, you know. Of course, he is the imp of the Perverse, so he probably did it to put the image there.”

Mona made it the bathroom door before Cart caught up with her, grabbed her arm, and spun her around.

“You mean we’re supposed to canoodle?” Disbelief, uncertainty, and eagerness all carried in his voice.

“I mean we should admit it’s going to happen, set it aside until it can, and get to work. Like he said.” She looked at Cart. He had his moments of typical pack leader.

“You’re not babbling.” His thumb stroked the inside of her elbow.

“I only babble when I’m uncertain and uncomfortable. Now that it’s certain, I’ll be better.” Mona pulled her arm out of his grip. “I’m also certain we should wait, so knowing this isn’t going to happen soon helps my comfort level. Please send down some clothes, okay?”

She went up on tiptoes, kissed his nose, then closed the door, immediately pulling off her shirt. She was shaking from her bravado. Hell, she wasn’t certain, but she was even more determined than ever not to babble when Cart cornered her.

“It’s not certain!” Cart yelled through the door.

She yanked open the door. Mona swore Cart’s eyes popped out of his head at the sight of her in a white cotton bra.

“What, because someone states the obvious, you don’t want to have sex with me anymore? That’s stupid, and I’m pretty sure you’re not stupid.”

His eyes snapped to her face.

“There’re levels of stupid, Mona,” he said. “And yes, part of me thinks ‘canoodling’ with you would be stupid now that someone has put it on their agenda.”

Mona opened her mouth to retort, but he held up a finger, forestalling her reply.

“However, given how much we both want this, and it’s very clear the feeling is mutual, it’d be far more stupid to ignore our attraction. You agree?”

Mona could only nod, fighting the need to pull him into the bathroom and have him join her shower.

His nostrils flared and he growled.

Dammed Were.

“I’ll go find you some clothes.” He turned and stalked away.

Chapter Nine

Cart finally noticed her silence in the cab of the truck. Mona had showered, gotten dressed, thanked Averill for coming up with some clothes—including a very warm coat!—which fit relatively well, and managed to grab a quick bite to eat before they’d rushed out the door to get her to work.

They’d been driving for about twenty minutes before he spoke.

“You said stupid first.”

Yeah, like that was going to hold water. Besides, she’d said she didn’t think he was stupid. She’d since revised her opinion.

“Look, it would be stupid to have sex,” he said, “but it would be more stupid not to, you can’t deny that.”

“Why?” she asked, despite herself.

“Mona, I have a life in New York City: a job, friends, family. A whole network that I rely on there. My pack is small, but I am their leader. I can’t, and never have, imagined living anywhere else.”

She nodded. Okay, and the point was?

“You are a Warder,” he continued. “While I could live anyplace, you have to live in a specific place. A large part of me doesn’t want to give my old life up. ‘Don’t be stupid and throw out your life’s work’ I tell myself. But then a growing-by-the-minute part of me says ‘don’t be stupid, there’s something special and unique here, you aren’t going to find this again.’ And trust me, I’ve seen enough not-quite-right partnerships to know that this one is so good, it’s practically a matter of fate.”

Mona refused to comment on that, despite the joy at hearing him say he thought there was something unique and special between them.

“Maybe not fated,” he continued as he turned the wheel hand over hand to go around a sharp corner, “‘cause I hate that word, but definitely well favored by whatever beings foresee such unions.”

“Like the Puck.”

“Exactly. Which explains the energy and the quickness of our attraction and the fact that we are constantly thrown together. For instance, I tried to assign Menlo, who actually specializes in dealing with the psychology of emerging Folk, to come with you tonight. He’s now stuck on some rural highway with a flat tire.”

Mona thought about what he hadn’t said, but implied. They could be fated, be Seele, be elf soul mates.

But that didn’t make sense, given she had no magic. From what she’d heard, elf soul mates were absolute compliments to their partner, an equal or very near equal in magical abilities and bloodlines.

She had no magic. And Cart definitely had a lot. So that ruled that out. Which was good because she wasn’t sure she wanted her lifetime tied to someone else’s, or theirs to hers, much less the emotional and physical connection that occurred. Feeling when Cart took a punch? No thank you.

Although they could still be mated on a Were level, less binding in some respects but just as strongly fated.

They drove a little further, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

“One thing that scares the crap out of me, though,” Cart said quietly as he pulled into a spot around the corner from Fat Louie’s, “whether you want to call it fated or predetermined or goddess blessed, each couple so named has a hard task ahead of them.”

Mona looked at his face; worry etched his brow.

“Good thing you’re good at what you do.”

He sighed, moved away, and opened the car door. “That doesn’t mean we both won’t end up dead.”

Oh no, he was not going to go there. She watched him come around the front of the SUV, opening her door to join him.

“Really?” She could help but laugh a bit at the macabre scene he painted. “You’re going to lay that crap on me? Okay, I guess I’ll just have to be the one to make sure we don’t get caught in that trap. Because, you know, I have all the experience fighting and stuff.”

He grabbed her hand and helped her over the wall of snow at the curb.

“If we’re going to rely on you, I better start planning my tombstone now,” he joked, his mood clearly lightened. “How about ‘fought well, fucked better?’”

Mona laughed. “Sure, so long as you tell your family first. Or how about ‘fought better well fucked?’”

“Or ‘better fuck, well taught?’”

“Or ‘butter tuck, sell naught?’” Mona said, doubling over in laughter.

“Woman, that doesn’t make sense. I’m trying to be serious here.” Cart hauled her up and hugged her.

Mona’s laugh died, although a smile lingered. “Oh and ‘fought well, fucked better’ is serious, Cart.”

“It is in my family.” He waggled his eyebrows and his grin promised her many things.

Mona wasn’t quite sure she was ready for any of them. Or at least not mentally ready; her body had far different ideas.

He kissed her nose then let her go. They’d arrived almost forty-five minutes early, making excellent time across town. Mona wasn’t ready to go in yet.

“Mind if we walk around the block?” she asked. “I feel like I’ve been running or sleeping for days now. I wouldn’t mind the break.”

“Sure.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and stared off in the direction opposite of where she needed to go. “Tell me about bartending.”

So she did, sharing insights on the regulars and telling him about the elfings finding her there, one of whom she’d brought him to meet tonight. They’d made it all the way around by that point.

“No relation?” he asked as they walked by the plate glass windows.

“Not that I know of.” Elf families were far flung entities, particularly since most elves, except those rare ones who did have a Seele, did not stay in long-term relationships and often had children with several different partners. Families were very extended by mortal standards since all the children of any person with whom one of your parents had a child with was considered a sibling. Distinctions of half, full, and step simply did not exist in an elf family. Good thing when elves were in a relationship, they tended to be monogamous, or it’d be even more confusing for everyone.

Adding in cousins made the family that much larger.

So Leonardo could be family. Mona should ask him.

He was already sitting at the bar, waiting.

Which would have been fine, except for the person who’d chosen to sit next to him. Something was off.

Cart bumped into her back.

“Anyone you know?” she asked Cart, pointing to the pair. “He looks like he could be in your family.” His build and coloring were eerily familiar.

“Which one, the geeky kid or the older one?”

“The older one. The geeky kid is Leonardo.”

“Not that I know of.”

“He’s trouble.” To Mona his magic exuded a level of uncleanliness she didn’t trust. Not enough for her to filter out, but enough that she was very uncomfortable.

Cart stilled. “Should we leave? I don’t want to get mortals hurt if he’s here for you.”

“He hasn’t spotted me yet. I don’t think he was expecting me to come in accompanied or this early.”

“Okay, wait here. I’ll head in and see what I can find out. Do me a favor though, stand over by the edge of the building—you’ll be out of sight, and if the window shatters I don’t want you right in front of it.”

Cart approached Leonardo. He offered his hand to shake, saying something in the process.

Before Leonardo could take Cart’s hand, the other guy jumped up and pulled out a knife, placing it next to Leonardo’s throat.

Mona took a step and in that blink Leonardo was gone. Shit, he’d probably jumped; she was also sure it was the first time he’d used magic that way.

Cart knocked the knife out of the guy’s hand; his opponent didn’t care, he was lunging for Leonardo’s satchel. He grabbed it then jumped himself out, leaving Cart standing there and the few customers looking at him agape.

Mona ran to the door. By the time she’d yanked it open imps were flitting across the room, indubitably altering memories.

Cart crossed over and pushed her back out.

“Truck. We need to track the kid down.”

They climbed over the snow bank and back in the cab of the pickup.

“I need an imp please,” Mona said.

A slowly rotating spark came to light in her lap.

“I need your help please. A young elf named Leonardo just did his first jump from the bar down the street, Fat Louie’s. He was the first person to go of the two who jumped out of there in the past couple of minutes. Can you please find him then report to Protector Dupree where he is? Please verify it is Leonardo since we do not want to follow the other jumper. Here—”

Mona held up her finger and concentrated on what she knew of Leonardo from the one time she’d met him. The imp came and brushed her fingertip, causing a not insubstantial shock to race up her arm. Mona hissed at the pain as it spread through her body. Her heart started to beat frantically and muscles ticked.

“Thank you,” she managed to get out.

The imp stopped its slow revolution and faded out.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Cart said.

She gasped and shook her hand, she hadn’t known either, just acted on instinct. Now that she did know, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to do it again.

“Mona. Mona! Are you okay?” He held her hand and examined the tip of digit.

“Just a bit of shock,” she said around her chattering teeth.

“A bit, hell, you’re reacting like you touched a live wire. No wonder that ability’s not widely known—it’s dangerous.” He slid his seat back and hauled her across the console.

He held her and rocked her until her heartbeat slowed to something close to normal.

The imp reappeared. “Creekside Village, unit one fourteen.”

“That’s one of the University at Buffalo graduate residence complexes,” Mona said. She uncurled herself from where she’d been snuggled on his chest and sat up straight. “I need to work. Bills to pay, you know the drill. Go, and once you’ve tracked him down, come back. I’m off at midnight.”

It was a typical weeknight, slow with mostly regulars. No one seemed to have any ill effects from the imps earlier, although Mona could see trace residue from their work. Vince’s wife had gone into labor, so Mickey, the daytime manager was on duty. Just as the last customers left for the night, Cart walked in the door.

“Good timing, almost done with closing. Did everything go okay?”

“Yep, let me help and I’ll fill you in.” Cart took off his coat and hung it by the door. Mona would have to get more information later.

“Except for sweeping the floor, everything else is behind the counter and Mickey and I will handle that.”

“Okay, where’s the broom?”

Mona set chairs on tables while Cart came behind her and swept.

“We found him,” Cart said. “Turns out it hadn’t been the first time he’d jumped, he’d done it once or twice with relatives. First time he’d done it on his own, though. So he was surprised but not shocked when he ended up back at on campus. Roommate was a bit flipped.”

“Where is he now?”

“On his way to New York.”

Done stacking chairs Mona wiped the already clean bar, dreading the question she was about to ask.

Cart put his hand over hers. “No change on Raine. I checked before we came back in.”

Relief washed through her. “Thanks.”

Mickey came out of the back room and told them it was time to leave. Zipping back up against the bitter cold they headed out and waited for Mickey as he locked up.

“Where are Menlo and Tiffany?” Mona asked as they walked to Cart’s. “Did Tiffany find a new place?”

“Yeah, the old Y. We’ve set up cots in the offices and there are two locker rooms so we have a place to wash up. Plus we can use the gym for a big open office, which we like. A bit rough now, but long-term looks good.”

“That’s a great space to set up as a headquarters for the Buffalo Pack protectors. I didn’t realize it was still livable inside, it’s sat so long. There's that wing which used to be rooms for rent, although that's been boarded up for a while.”

“Yeah, we can definitely work with it. Not sure what we’ll do with the pool though.”

“Ask Randall for help, he’ll see to it.”

They’d made it over the curbside pile and were at the truck.

“Randall?” Cart asked.

“The Puck, his name is Randall,” Mona said as she climbed in.

Cart slid behind the wheel, quickly starting the engine. “I’d forgotten you’d know the Puck’s name. He doesn’t like people using it, which is why it surprised me.”

Mona rubbed her palms together as they waited for the engine to heat up a bit. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure that has more to do with the fact that he likes the power calling him the Puck gives him, than his dislike of the name. Although, yeah, he’s not too fond of the name, is he?”

Cart laughed. “You’re going to be calling him Randall now, aren’t you?”

“Every flippin’ chance I get. You try living with the control freak for a while. He was worse than my brother, and that’s saying a lot.”

Still chuckling, Cart pulled the car out of the spot.

“Hey,” Mona said, “I’d like to try to swing by my place to pick up a few things. You up to it?”

“Hmm, you think it’s safe?” Cart asked they stopped for a red light.

“I think the goons who were waiting the other night were the pair I saw on the skyway, and they weren’t strong enough to set a spell. And since the target was more Raine than me, I guessing my place is off the radar.”

“Okay. But if it does look like something is set or someone is waiting, we’re leaving and coming back with some of my group.”

It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer.

“How long have you been working at the bar?” Cart asked.

“Started as a waitress the summer after my first year in college, then I moved to bartending and I’ve been working at least two nights a week ever since. That’s . . . what? Almost ten years.”

“Same owner?”

“Yeah, Carmen. He has a touch of Folk in him and grew up in a Folk neighborhood. He was happy and worried for me when I told him I was training as a Warder.” And because he cooked the books, but Mona didn’t mention that. She was reasonably certain it was for relatively benign reasons. “Take a left here and go to the second entrance, the one marked clubhouse. That way we can drive past the rear of my place before we head in.”

No goons were hanging out in the back or the front, and no magic or spells that she saw. One thing about her house, it was solidly in a mortal community; very few Folk were around. Good in that it made it easy to spot the goons, bad in that if she ever needed help there were not Folk close by.

“Looks good to me,” she confirmed.

Cart parked on the short ramp to the garage door. Mona got out and keyed in her code, Cart standing beside her and scoping out the area. Her smashed car was sitting in her garage. Someone must have moved it, she suspected the Puck. With the entire front end crumpled, it wasn’t usable, something she’d have to deal with later. She closed the garage door behind them, she pulled out her spare key from under the jug of windshield wiper fluid near the front of the space.

Cart took the key.

“Hey!”

“So the guys couldn’t set spells, that doesn’t mean they couldn’t do other things.”

He cautiously opened the door and peered around before flicking on a light.

Mona looked over his shoulder.

“I didn’t pick you for such a neat nick. . . that could be a problem.”

Mona grabbed his shoulder and held him back. “I’m not a slob, but this isn’t how I left the house.”

They tiptoed around the corner to her now pristine kitchen. A vase of flowers and a note were propped up on the counter. She looked at Cart. He shrugged, so she crossed over and picked up the paper, holding it so he could read it over her shoulder.

I cleaned it up for you. Stay safe.—Nic

Her shoulders slumped in relief.

“Nice to have a brother who’ll handle things for you. Can’t have been in power long, or I would have heard something.” Cart’s stomach rumbled. He unzipped his jacket and slung it on the back of a chair before he headed over to the fridge.

“He hasn’t. I mean, he’s just now coming into power,” Mona said as she piled her jacket on top of his.

Cart’s sudden stillness made her look over. He stood, hand on the handle, arrested by her statement. He stared at her for a minute.

Worried? Angry? Mona couldn’t figure what he was feeling; perhaps he wasn’t sure himself.

“You mean Tania’s pulling his power out and pushing him into acknowledging it? He okay with that? You okay with that?”

Mona fiddled with the flowers, refilling the vase in the sink as she thought through her answer. The bright red tulips were some of her favorites.

“I think he’ll be okay with it eventually. Despite the fact he’s ignored his own heritage, he’s used his knowledge to get a job monitoring Folk, so it’s not like he’s forsaken it entirely. Plus, he’s been unhappy and edgy about work for a while. I truly expect, once he recognizes what’s happening, he’ll see working with Tania as a protector is a much better fit. Although . . . he can be oblivious about some things, it may take him a bit to figure out what’s going on.”

“How strong is he?”

Mona realized his question was more how she thought Titania’s augmenting of Nic’s power might affect him after it was withdrawn.

“Well, he’s a full blooded elf and he has a ton of magical ability, so I’d guess plenty strong even before whatever mojo Tania works.” She set the flowers back on the counter and didn’t look at Cart, suspicions on just how much power her brother might one day have too close to the surface for her to face him right now. “With Nic, I’ve always figured it was more of ‘when’ he’d start to fully embrace his heritage, not ‘if’ despite his refusal to take part in Folk society.” Mona thought about Nic and his life. “Besides, he and Tania have been doing a bizarre arm’s length dance for a bit. Not sure either of them was aware of it. But I’m guessing they’re both going to be super aware very soon.”

Cart’s response was a loud grumbling of his stomach.

“Let me grab a couple of things and we can head back.”

“No reason to, we can crash here tonight,” Cart said from inside the fridge. “I’ll take the couch. You cook or something? There’s a lot of odd ingredients and sauces in here.”

“Spent two years at a culinary institute after college,” she said as she sorted through the stack of mail on the counter, bill, bill, solicitation, bill. “Enjoyed it but decided long-term the life of a chef wasn’t for me. I wasn’t that dedicated.”

They were alone, in her condo. No Folk about to disturb with the energy they were likely to create.

Mona blindly stacked the envelopes into two piles. Should she say something? Hell yeah, the Puck wasn’t going to control her sex life.

“You don’t have to crash on the couch.”

The bottles in the fridge rattled as Cart slammed the door shut. Before she could turn around he scooped her up in his arms, causing her to shriek, and the envelopes she still had in her hands to scatter across the floor.

Oh my, his eyes were turning again and he’d become so hot his body practically scorched her where she touched him. Mona flushed. Desire for him sent tingles from the inside out and flushed her with heat.

“Good, because I really, really didn’t want to.” He strode out of the kitchen and to the stairs.

“Wait, you have some kind of protection, right?”

“I am a protector,” he replied, his grin wide at his humor.

Mona slapped her hand on his chest then left it there, enjoying the feeling of his warm skin though his shirt.

“My crew has been sticking condoms in every pocket of every jacket I own since the very first night.”

Mona laughed, embarrassment tingling her cheeks. “Smart of them.”

“I only pick the best.”

They reached the landing and Mona pointed to her door. Cart set her down and reached for the handle.

Mona placed her hand over his. “You okay with this?”

She took his nonverbal reply as a yes.

Chapter Ten

A combination of the warm sun on her face and a hand caressing her hip woke Mona. She turned away from the sun and snuggled toward the hand only to find Cart was on top of the covers and dressed. And wide awake, the bastard. Exhaustion had claimed them far earlier than either had hoped. But before then. . .Mona smiled and stretched at the memory. Wowza.

“Have you heard anything from the Warder since our meeting?” he asked. “I’m getting worried.”

And there went that mood. But she understood Cart’s reaction, once she thought about it. Not having heard from Smythe was worrisome, particularly given everything that had happened since they’d last seen him.

“No, I haven’t, and you’re right, it’s very odd,” she replied. Looked like she’d be getting out of bed sooner than she thought. She stretched and rolled over, the smell of coffee hitting her mid yawn.

“You bring a cup for me?” She sat up and wrapped the sheet around her bare torso.

“Sorry, here.” He handed her a mug of already light coffee absentmindedly.

Mona took a sip. He’d even added a bit of sugar. Oh, and he’d used the Kona blend. Excellent.

She inhaled the smell and took another sip. What had they been talking about? Oh, right the Warder. Shoot, she still needed to read that assignment.

“Yes, it’s worrisome, but look on the bright side, this gives me more time to catch up on my reading homework. Although, we haven’t scheduled my next lesson.”

“We got some time, you want to do it now?”

“Let me finish waking up. Not the most captivating of reading material as it is.”

Cart slid off the bed and started pacing. The room was generously sized but he made the space seem small as he passed from dresser to window and back again.

Who knew having sex would make the man a focused, analytical machine? Mona gave up on thoughts of morning-after nookie.

“I’ve been thinking through what I know,” he said. “And what I want to know. And I’m realizing there’s a gaping hole in my knowledge.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Stuff before our time.”

“You could ask the Puck. Hey! It was just a thought.” Mona had to laugh at his rude gesture.

“I could also ask my mother, but that’s not happening.”

Mona turned to set the mug down on the bedside table and slid her feet on the floor. “How about an aunt or someone else of her generation?”

“I—” Cart’s response was bit off.

Mona looked over her shoulder to find him staring at her bare back, nostrils flaring. Maybe not so focused on work after all.

He closed his eyes and turned his head away. “I’ll wait for you in the living room. Take your time.”

“You don’t have to go.”

His eyes remained scrunched shut. “If I want to get any work done, I do. Trust me, though,” his lids popped open and his grin became feral, “if I didn’t know we’d have plenty of time together to make up for missing this morning, or I didn’t have this worry hanging over my head, I’d be on you in a heartbeat.”

Mona shook her head at him. Men. Well, okay, not just him; if he stayed in the room she probably wouldn’t be getting any work done any time soon. “You better go then, since once I get out of the covers I’m going to be as naked as a dryad.”

“But a heck of a lot prettier.”

The compliment warmed her down to her toes.

“I’m going to take a quick shower, be down in twenty.”

He grunted and closed the door behind him.

She didn’t make it downstairs for over an hour. Cart joined her five minutes into her shower, cursing his imagination the whole while.

“I think,” he said as they walked hand in hand down the stairs, “I’d better head back to my group soon, or I’m not going to get anything done.”

“You hear anything about Raine?”

“No calls this morning. Have to think no news is good news.”

“Before we head back, I want to go over my lessons to see if there’s something there that’ll help before we go. And grab a bite to eat, since we keep skipping meals.”

“Why don’t you tell me the pages and I’ll look it up.”

In the kitchen, Mona wrote down her assignment: chapter six, parts ten through twelve and chapter seven, section eight. Was there more? She stared blankly at the wall, trying to remember.

Oh, by the goddess, there were a lot of imps hanging about.

A lot. She’d never seen this many except when she’d been with the Puck. They flocked to the man.

Something about the large gathering of randomly moving lights reminded her of the shifting colors she’d seen when she’d jumped with Cart. Was that where imps stayed when they weren’t flitting about? She held out her hand and an orange one, floating like a piece of thistledown, hovered over her palm.

Cart came in and set the large book down with a slight grunt. He headed over to the coffee pot. “Hey—”

Mona held up her hand and cut him off. She pointed to the imps.

He jerked back in surprise, darting a glance at her then back to the dozen or so hovering imps in each corner.

“Hmph.” He walked back to the table and sat by the book.

“Wait, that,” Mona waived her hand at the sparkling entities, “is more than a ‘hmph.’ Particularly as they caused you to forget to get coffee.”

Cart looked at her notes and started to rifle through pages. “You know about that fated and meant to be stuff the Puck was implying?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that,” he jerked his head at the corner above the cabinets, “is probably why he wanted us to wait.”

Mona looked at the mass of shimmering lights again. “We did that?”

“A sign of the goddess’s approval.” He flipped one page back and forth, double checking the information on her list.

“Cool.” Mona couldn’t help but smile. They’d created enough energy for imps to come to being. Puck had never been clear on the process, all she knew was a lot of magic energy was needed.

“If you say so.”

Mona didn’t know what was bugging him, but she’d have to assume he’d tell her when he was ready.

“You are not going to rain on my parade, Cart. We helped imps come to being. In my book, that’s cool. So, unless there’s more?”

He stopped flipping the page. “They shouldn’t be here, not yet,” he grudgingly muttered.

Mona went and joined him at the table. Cart frowned down at the page and didn’t look at her.

“Why?”

He scowled at her, his brow furrowed. “We didn’t mate.”

“No, but every time you kiss me, really kiss me, none of this peck on the cheek stuff, we send off enough energy to rattle cabinet doors. Figures we’d make enough energy, whether or not we did whatever stuff it is we need to do to mate, to create imps. Although, until this stops, we should be careful where we have sex.” Mona stood. “Good thing you’re not above D’Alessandro’s—you’d never get any if you were still there. Eggs okay?”

“I don’t think—”

“Look, is this energy imp thing going to happen no matter what we do?” Mona asked as she pulled items out of the fridge.

“Yes.”

“Do we have any control over it? Aside from not having sex—and between you and me that’s not going to stop. You couldn’t even keep yourself from joining me in the shower after you said you were going to stay away.” Good, the unopened salmon hadn’t expired. Mona set that on the counter next to the eggs. “I say don’t sweat what you can’t control. Figure out why it’s happening, okay, but don’t freak out that it is happening. Because, you know, freaking out doesn’t solve anything, you only—”

Cart’s hand clamped over her mouth and his warmth pressed against her back.

“You’re babbling,” he whispered in her ear. “I wonder what made you uncertain and uncomfortable. Not sex, we’re past that. Is it mating?”

Mona nodded.

“The mating ritual?”

Mona shivered in anticipation. From what she’d heard, each one was unique but all the women she’d heard talk about it agreed. Best. Sex. Ever.

“I’ll make sure I plan something special then.” He kissed her neck. Then he stepped away, swatting her rear with the hand he’d removed from her face. “Until then, I’m hungry, woman. Feed me.”

She slapped his wrist as he walked away. Understandable why he’d distracted her, and himself from sex, but damn! Now she was going to be thinking about mating with him far too much. Picking up a potato she went to the sink. “After that, you expect edible food?”

“I’ll have to hope your sense of skill outweighs your sense of indignity.” He stood at the table, running his finger down the page the book was open to.

“Let’s see,” he said, picking up the list. “Chapter six: Those positions usual and customary in Folk culture filled by such persons born with special gifts or those who have such gifts bestowed upon them.” His voice took on slight northeast accent, making the title sound humorous.

“Uh-huh, read through that earlier.” Mona washed then peeled the potato.

“Part ten is Warder, customary qualifications; eleven, typical duties and jobs; and twelve, specific information regarding the ward.”

“Wait, what ward?” she said as she slid a now clean spud over the mandolin, making nice, thin slices for her galette.

“You know, the bad elf you are most likely going to have to spend your life keeping captive and out of the area of any Folk.”

“Contain the big bad elf; not funny, Cart.” Although it was a funny idea. Shifters could turn evil, but full elves didn’t. So why not have a big bad elf to make up for it? “Really, what ward are they talking about? The neighborhood one? I know there is a very faded one around the area most Folk live in, it’s getting to the point that there’s not much left for me to repair. I keep meaning to ask Smythe about having the Maven reset it. And I definitely need to do the one around the Lackawanna pack house.”

Mona set the shallot down on the cutting board and quickly skinned it.

“Mona, put down the knife.”

Cart had again moved silently to her side. She put it down before she thought to ask why.

He turned her and held her hands. Eyes flecked with gold stared at her. “I wasn’t joking about the elf.”

“Of course you’re joking. No one can be expected to dedicate their entire life to keeping someone in captivity.”

He remained silent.

Oh shit.

“Wait, a ‘bad’ elf? Elves are never are born with innate evil in them,” she said. Never. The goddess kept them pure.

“That’s true for most elves, yes—but only because once a generation or so the goddess allows one to be born with all the evil they would have. And a Warder is born to keep that elf from everyone else. Although there are more Warders than wards, if Smythe wanted you to read that section, I assume he thinks you’ll have one.”

Mona slumped against the counter. She couldn’t fathom it. Spending her whole life keeping someone captive.

Although . . . that did explain why the complex was way out in the middle of nowhere. So much for moving close enough for pizza delivery.

“I—” She couldn’t string a thought or sentence together.

Cart sat her down and got her a glass of water.

“Look, I’ll tell you what I know, then we’ll try to make sense of what Smythe has down here.”

Mona nodded.

“First thing, it isn’t like you keep the ward down in some dank dungeon. It’s not the fault of the ward they have been born with this way, so the Warder tries, as best they can, to give them freedom within the restrictions of the complex. I’ve seen everything from suites whose gadgetry would make a teen green with jealousy to sumptuous villas reminiscent of a sultan from a tale.”

He went on to say how she still would do her other jobs, she wasn’t restricted to the complex at all hours. Other Folk and even some mortals could be trusted around the ward, once it was clear how the evil would manifest itself.

“That’s why you said I had to live in a specific place,” she interrupted. “I thought it was because, like a Maven, I have an area I am responsible for, not a person.”

“Think of it this way, if you had a child with a severe handicap, you’d make sure that child was cared for well into their adulthood, right? It is somewhat similar. Folk produce a child with special needs and it is your unique job to take care of it.”

“Because I am the only one who can. Magic doesn’t affect me.”

“That’s a large part of it. However, and this is always the case, the Warder has a special skill set with which counter to the skills of the ward.”

Mona mulled that over.

“But—how old is this ward? Do I get them as an infant? Full elves have long lives, won’t it out live me?”

“Part of the special binding typically extends your life to match your ward’s.” He chaffed her cold hands. “Look why don’t you read through the chapter and I’ll finish cooking.”

Too numb to do anything else, she pulled the book over.

The first paragraph jumped out at her.

When I first started writing this book, I had recently begun my Wardership. The subsequent dearth of material upon which to draw information from led me to collect such and put it together for others to use. What I have collected is by no means a complete manual, merely it is as complete as I could make it in the ten years I have labored.

Mona flipped to the title page of the book.

There, at the bottom: Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1886.

Her brain unable to calculate how old Smythe was, well beyond one hundred years, she turned back.

This was wrong. Something Cart said didn’t jive with that date.

“Wait, you said about once a generation an elf is born that must be warded, right? But then, shouldn’t there have been another one between Smythe and me? It’s longer than a generation, even for elves.”

He was standing at the counter whisking eggs. “Sometimes it skips a generation. Perhaps the previous ward is still alive. Sometimes the person is unwardable and is killed, but that’s rare. From what I understand, once a generation is a general guideline. Sometimes a ward is born a little sooner, sometimes longer. There’ll probably be more about the frequency in the chapter. I think, too, it has to do with the birthrate. The fewer babies, the less likely you’ll have a ward born. Makes sense, and with all the intermingling with mortals, less elves have been born.”

Right, only someone whose bloodline was at least fifty percent elfin was an elf and able to manipulate the energy Folk called magic. Of those only elves that were almost pure blooded—Smythe had put it at eighty percent elf lineage—could never be turned to evil. It was the group between the fifty and eighty that caused the most problems. And witches, but Mona wasn’t concerned about them right now.

Cart poured the eggs with a flourish into a hot pan and then turned his attention to the second skillet he had on the stove. Mona turned her attention back to the book.

Ten minutes later, when Cart slid a plate on the table next to her, she still didn’t have any answers on when or who or how, just a headache induced by the archaic language Smythe used.

And Mona had a plate of unappealing looking pink streaked, green-flecked eggs in front of her.

“It tastes a lot better than it looks,” Cart said as he helped himself to a forkful.

Looking more closely she saw he’d scrambled the salmon, shallots, and dill into the eggs and served them over hash browns.

“What, no cream cheese?” she quipped as she filled her fork.

He smacked his head. “I knew I forgot something.”

He grinned, clearly thinking she was kidding. She was, about the cream cheese, but it needed something, so she got out the crème-fraiche and drizzled it over the stack, then topped the whole thing with a light coating of cracked pepper.

Cart followed her lead.

It was pretty darn good. A couple of slices of fresh, cold firm tomatoes and it would have been superb.

“Thanks for making something. I was getting tired of food on the fly,” Mona said as she stacked the dishes in the dishwasher. They’d avoided talking about wards and Warders through the meal.

“You did half the work.” Cart added his plate to hers. “We do need to head out. I need to get the reports from my group and knock a few heads and it’s already almost noon.”

Mona agreed. Ignoring the problem that she couldn’t wrap her head around seemed to be working for now. Or at least it was until Cart draped an arm around her and asked if she was okay.

“I think so. It’s a lot to process. Let me go throw some things in a bag and I’ll be ready. Hope you don’t mind if I assign hauling the tome to you.”

“No prob.”

“Knew I’d find some use for having a manly man around.”

He waggled his eyebrows and she ducked out of his embrace.

“Stay downstairs,” she ordered as she headed up.

He gave an overly exasperated sigh then turned to wash the pans.

Mona changed, again, belatedly remembering it was Thursday and she was supposed to meet Nic for their weekly dinner. She packed a bag with several outfits, no telling when she’d be back, adding in extra socks and the boots she had taken off last night. Or had it been Cart? She smiled at the memory. It had been Cart.

When she made it back downstairs Cart was already in his coat and using her cell phone, he’d never given it back. Funny, despite his keeping it, he hadn’t seen him on it much, come to think of it.

“No, no imps around these guys. I know you don’t like phones, Menlo, but that’s what we’re going to have to use. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I’m on my way in see if you can stall them. I’ll be—”

He looked at Mona.

“Ten minutes,” she supplied.

“Ten minutes. Yes. Yes. Yes, she’ll be there too. No, not the Maven. We’ll wait to bring her in until later. She’s dealing with something else now. Yeah, well, trust me, it’s related, and I’m not just saying that.”

Mona zipped up her coat then held her hand out for the keys. He dug them out and handed them to her. Apparently he’d already carried the heavy book out to the car.

He stayed on the phone, one call after another, until they pulled into the lot of the old YMCA. He snapped the unit closed. “The imps took it upon themselves to delay my calls until noon,” he said.

As if they needed further proof someone was meddling to get them together. She’d tell the Puck her opinion of his antics next time she saw him.

“You know,” she told him, “you can ask an imp to take a message directly to Randall saying what is okay with you and what’s not. I’d suggest not letting him have his way too easily or he’ll walk all over you.”

She heard most of Cart’s message to the Puck as she pulled her bag out of the back. It’d be effective, if it didn’t tick Randall off.

Cart caught up to her on the steps, phone put away and the large tome cradled in his arms. The place was pretty busy, given it had been up for less than a day. Hyram stood just inside the door beside a manned desk that was clearly a check in point.

The lobby was circular, pleasing to Folk if unintentionally built that way. The three-story area was capped with a dome, which Mona could see needed cleaning as well as a renewal of spells. Interesting, though, that there were even spells there.

“They’ve set up a room for you on the third floor, and an office on the second, Cart. The Warder and his trainee have a couple of rooms set aside down here, past the gym. Herrick’s set up workstations down the hall to the left. He’s expecting you there.”

“Thanks, Hyram. Here, take these.” Cart handed the heavy book and Mona’s bag to him. “And put them in the Warder’s rooms, out of sight preferably, then come join the meeting. You have someone to cover the desk?”

“Wait, can you take my coat too?” Mona shrugged out of it, hesitating a minute since she did seem to be taking off suddenly, without a coat, a lot recently. But what could happen to her in a protector station? She handed it over.

Hyram gathered everything together. Mona hadn’t realized he was so much larger than Cart, but he carried everything with ease.

“Take the hall to the right, first door on your left. It’s behind those windows.” The wall of glass Hyram gestured to took up one side of the entry rotunda. “We haven’t cleaned them off yet.”

Not that they could—they were spelled opaque. They headed down the hall.

“You want me to clear the windows?” Mona asked.

“When I open the door.” He reached for the knob. “Now.”

Mona rotated the clarity rune clockwise.

People stilled around the workstations and tables that filled the room as activity ceased. Half were looking at the now clear windows and half had their attention on the door.

“Geez, Leader Josiah, you sure like to make an entrance,” said Herrick from his position along the wall. “And about time. What’s this about not using imps for messaging?”

Somehow Mona didn’t think it accidental that all the desks faced his. The guy had control freak written all over him.

“Pretty simple, no imps,” Cart said. He looked around the room, he had everyone’s attention now, his presence controlling the pack in a way Herrick’s never would. “The person who did this is manipulating them. Stopped all my messages for a while, which, I can tell you, turned out to be a pain in the ass.”

Mona filed the information away, wondering when he’d learned that, as she watched Herrick. His magic had the slightest taint of evil to it, the stain noticeably larger than before. Cleaning the cancer out now would be better than waiting.

“And Herrick,” Cart added, “despite the fact they’ve named you head of the policing side, call me Cart, everyone else does. Now, I want to see the chart my investigative team has on attack locations as well as families attacked and I’ll add to it. Do we have a conference room?”

“Hold on a minute,” Mona interrupted. “Cart, Herrick, when was the last time either of your crews was cleansed?”

Not that she’d ever done the check on protectors, given Buffalo didn’t have any, but Smythe had her read the procedure and explained it. Protectors routinely went through a cleaning of their essence so foul residual that might cling to them from their work was removed. Usually the procedure was done after, and sometimes before, they went out to handle someone whose magical essence was severely tainted.

Although Herrick was a small step beyond what she’d been told to expect, the procedure would clean him too.

“We don’t need cleansing,” said a voice from the back of the room.

“Glad you volunteered to be first,” Mona said as she walked through the crowd and grabbed the arm of the tall, African American woman who’d spoken. “This is not negotiable, and you all know it. If I see the need, you have to submit. Or you can be placed in solitary until your appeal is heard.”

The woman tried to slip out of Mona’s grasp. Mona reacted, stilling the magic in her, which had the effect of slowing her movements. The woman was, for all intents, frozen in place as her body moved at a fraction of what it usually did. But, oh, how interesting this was! For she wasn’t a Were or even an elf. She was a witch.

Mona had been told about witches, early in her training. Here in the states they’d claimed a large chunk of the southern plains, from Utah to the Mississippi, and mostly they stayed there except for small covens in New York, Chicago, and San Francisco. But once in while one got a wandering foot, and showed up in unexpected places. The woman’s magic felt different. Definitely part of her, but not so much in her body, like elves and Weres, more mental. Interesting. Worrisome, since even holding her for a short amount of time might cause some damage Mona couldn’t anticipate.

“The longer you hold out the worse it is going to be for you,” Mona told her.

“Kofi, submit or I’ll be sending you home on administrative leave. Again,” Cart said from behind Mona.

“Funny thing is I don’t see any residual on you, just a crappy attitude.” Mona hadn’t realized she’d spoken the thought out loud until someone snorted at her words.

Kofi nodded her head imperceptibly, and Mona unfroze her.

“Good, I’ll do you, then the bosses,” Mona said, pulling up a chair for her to sit on. No way she’d be able to reach Kofi’s head standing, much less half the crew. “After that, whoever is in line first will get to the meeting room earlier and be in on the strategy session.”

“Line up behind Herrick,” Cart said as he stood in front of the man. A general scrambling ensued.

In the cover of shuffling around, Kofi whispered to Mona. “You won’t change my personality, right?”

No, but this would be different given how tied to mental processes Kofi’s magic was. Mona would need to do more of a surface check, but then any external evil taint would be on the exterior, she thought, so that’d be okay.

“That’ll only happen if what is causing your attitude is tied into the residual. Don’t worry,” Mona smiled at her, “I think every group needs a nay-sayer, keeps people on their toes.”

Mona placed her hands on either side of Kofi’s head, fingers slotting into place between the tight braids. Unsurprisingly, several imps, including an orange one that looked remarkably like the one from her kitchen, had come to hover near her. Something, she didn’t know what, made her think these were some of the new ones she and Cart had created. Mona could only guess she was now in a cone of silence, but she didn’t want to pull her attention away to check, so she kept her voice low.

Kofi’s magic felt fine—restlessness, worry, and resentment laced the energy, but nothing evil. “Kofi, if there is something you can do to get more training, look into it. Your magic is underused.”

A startled look crossed the tall woman’s face. “I keep saying I need to do more and they say I haven’t shown potential yet.”

“If ‘they,’ whoever ‘they’ are, wait for a sign of your potential, it’ll be too late, because at that point it’ll explode out of you. Clearly they’re not taking into account that you’ll evince your magic differently because you’re a witch. I’ll mention it to Cart.” Mona lowered her hands. “You’re done. Go give them hell.”

Cart stepped up next.

“You have a nice talk with Kofi?” he said, confirming there was a cone of silence. Rejecting the chair, he sat on the edge of a table so she could reach his temples. It also forced her to step between his knees to reach him. As if the crew needed any more of a hint they were together.

“She needs more training. Pull strings and get her some or her magic will get out of control.”

He, too, looked startled. “But—”

“Not everyone shows potential the same way. I’m guessing Kofi served for several years, doing well, before she started asking for, then demanding, training and getting cranky when she didn’t get it. Her potential should have been picked up then. Besides, she’s a witch, she’s going to do things differently.”

“Right, we’ll have to contact the New York coven to see how they can help. Thanks, I’m so used to her fitting in, I’d forgotten she wasn’t fae.”

“Not safe to do with a witch, even if they are on your side.”

Cart only nodded and looked thoughtful.

Mona placed her hands on his head. “I’m only doing this for show. I would have noticed if any evil was clinging to you already.”

“Ah, and I thought it was the sex that had given me the extra energy.”

“Both.” She couldn’t help but grin back. She lowered her hands. “Now go kick butt.”

He jumped down and, mimicking her, placed his hands on either side of her head and kissed her, pulling away before things got too intense. The man was clearly marking her as his in front of his people. She’d complain about Weres and their desire to publically claim their property, but she understood the need riding him. Plus it felt damned good.

He let her go.

“You do realize you didn’t need to do that, they all know,” Mona said as she willed her heart back to its normal beat.

“Yeah, but I wanted to.” Grinning cheekily, he stepped away and toward the door.

Herrick turned to leave with him.

“Herrick, everyone’s got to do it, that includes you,” Mona said loudly, knowing the imps would have removed the cone of silence with no one in her space.

He came reluctantly into her space, Cart patting him on the shoulder as he passed.

“What’s up?” Mona asked. “I can’t imagine you don’t know how important this is.”

“I get extremely nauseous from the feeling. The crew knows I’ll be puking my guts out afterwards.”

Mona looked him over. He was a man’s man. She expected he had a pack of cigars stashed next to the recliner he watched football and hockey from.

“Is the Warder who does this in New York male?”

“Yep.”

And that explained a whole lot. The process could feel like a very intimate touch and, while she didn’t think he was homophobic, he would be intensely uncomfortable with a man’s caress.

“Well I’m not, so this should go better for you.” She put her hands on his temples.

One of the logistics she hadn’t thought through was where to put the bits of foul energy she pulled out. Someone had, though, since the orange imp lowered itself to her hand once she pulled the taint away.

“Thanks,” she muttered. The imp felt like a small spark of static electricity as it took the magic. Not much, a minute or two and she was done. She removed her hands and stepped back.

Herrick grinned at her.

“Wow, I feel better. Guess I did have some stuff.” He stood and stretched, cracking his back. “Maybe I ought to get transferred so you can do that all the time.”

“Sorry, I am a one man gal, and I’ve found my man.”

Only two more had any substantial residue. Even those she pulled nothing from said they felt better after having her look at their magic. She guessed it was like going to the dentist—having clean, smooth teeth felt nice even when no other work was done.

She was starving when she finished up with Hyram, whom she was told was the last until the night shift, a skeleton crew for now, came on. Checking the time she saw she had a good four hours until her dinner, so she’d need to eat something or risk passing out.

“Any food around, Hyram?” she asked when she was done.

“Yeah, there’s a full kitchen, and they laid in supplies, but not a lot of ready made stuff.”

No problem, she’d make something up. She’d had enough of pack politics and personalities for the day. Better to let Cart find out what he could, and ask him later.

Chapter Eleven

The kitchen might be stocked, but the place hadn’t been properly cleaned in years. Again, though, Mona found imps waiting to help. Good thing since the site was too new to have a family of brownies in residence like Smythe had. While they worked she went to look at what was in the fridges. No walk-ins, just a wall of industrial sized units. After opening every top and bottom door and moving on to the freezers, she started pulling things out. The counter was sparkling.

“Thank you again, imps,” she said to the two remaining ones who seemed to be working in the bottom of an oven. They shimmered green then disappeared.

As she cooked, she gathered her thoughts. Cart was, in essence, right. Having a ward would not be that different than, say, if she had found out she had a child with a severe disability. Plus, she knew she’d have the added advantage of the support of the entire Folk community to help care for him, or, more correctly, help her as she cared for him. Or her.

Mona sighed as she scraped the minced chanterelles into the bowl. She needed to go re-read the parts on a ward, but she still wasn’t ready to deal with the reality.

Mona had the mushroom barley soup on the stove in two big pots, one batch with cubed roast, beef stock, and tomatoes—the tomatoes were, in part, to make it easier to see which had meat—and one without, as well as several loaves of a fast-rising bread proofing on the counter when Cart found her.

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. Still taking me a bit to process it.”

Mona filled a sink half full of soapy water and set the Hobart mixer bowl in it to soak.

“Leave it, someone else can clean up.”

Not about to argue with that, she removed the apron she didn’t remember putting on.

She joined the group in the dining area and had her own soup served to her.

The crew bounced ideas off each other to figure out if there was a pattern to who had disappeared from the pack. Clans, trades and age all were put out and discarded before they decided to put the idea aside. Mona enjoyed the chaos of the group but was more than ready to leave when she was done eating.

“Thanks for making food for the crew,” Cart said again when they were in the hall.

“No problem. I tend to cook when I am anxious.”

“I thought you babbled,” he said as he took her elbow and led her around a corner and down a long corridor.

“No, that’s when I’m uncertain and uncomfortable, remember? Anxious, worried, that I cook for.”

“Good to know,” he said.

“So, anything you want to share now that you know two of my worst quirks?”

“Me, I don’t have any quirks,” he said, his too cheeky smile belying the point.

“Yeah, right.” She followed him, quickly getting lost in all the turns and half staircases.

“The group hasn’t made much headway tracking where the leaders headed off to,” Cart shared. “The information from the pack is different for each person who went to meet him, giving us too many leads for our manpower to follow up on. Most, though, were north, toward Canada so we’re concentrating in that direction.”

“Near the falls?” Raine hadn’t gone somewhere safe when she’d headed up there, she’d walked into the lion’s den.

“Seems reasonable he’d be near a major source of natural energy.”

Mona had no response to that. He was right, she should have thought of it.

“Any word on Raine?” she asked.

“I called Nurse Ferguson before lunch, she had nothing new to report except to thank you for buying the baby more time.”

Mona abruptly stopped in the middle of a hall they’d gone down at least once before. There was a door hidden in the wall here. From the guarding and secrecy spells, it looked like a Maven might have used this as an office at some point. With all the spells around, it was clear the building, before it’d been a YMCA, had been used by Folk. Mona reached up and fiddled with the working, renewing the guarding part and deemphasizing the secrecy. Some secrecy was good, but this would make it difficult for some people to remember the room’s existence once the door was closed. Actually, she could see the spell being very useful. She memorized the sequence of runes.

The door, which had been blurry to her eyes before, shimmered and solidified.

“I thought you’d be able to do it,” Cart said his eyes on the newly appearing door.

“Changing spells is what I do, Cart.”

“Yeah, but no one’s been able to find the room since Hyram shut the door after he put your stuff in.”

Mona looked over the workings again. “Who chose this room? They had to have seen it.”

“Kofi went through and did the initial assignments. Yes, before you say anything else, I realize now it isn’t just skill anymore that guides her and I have arranged, or am arranging for, training for her, once this gets done.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He opened the door and took a quick look around before holding it wide for her. “Shall we?”

The outer room looked like a waiting room, just large enough for a couch, table, and magazine rack. What made the room special was the waterfall feature in the corner, complete with a small tree and plants. Imp magic glistened all over it.

“I don’t remember her saying anything about the fountain,” Cart said as he walked over to take a look.

“I’d guess it wasn’t here before. I think, eventually, the imps plan for this to be the Maven’s room again, so they wanted to set up something so all Folk could access her. For now, while things get settled, I’m sure it’s okay for us to use the room.”

Mona walked through to the next room. Surprisingly contemporary furnishings sat in the sun lit room. Looking up she saw there was a large, clear dome letting in as much light as possible. As if she needed further proof this would be the Maven’s room; as a full-blooded elf who’d come into their powers, the main way the Maven renewed her energy was with sunlight. She wondered how Nic would deal with that.

Her book was on a desk facing the door and her bag on a chaise set under the window. Mona kicked off her low boots and sank her feet in the rich rug.

“No curtains, the windows are spelled, right?”

Mona looked at them. “Old spells that aren’t quite working. The Maven will want to set her own, so I’m inclined to just leave them.”

“But you could fix them.”

“But I’m not going to.” She crossed over to the only other door and found a bathroom with a shower and lots of white marble.

“I need to freshen up.” She opened up her bag and pulled a couple of things out.

“Wait, what?”

“I have dinner with my brother every week. And no, you can’t go. I’m not up to dealing with two men thinking they need to protect the women in the room from each other. I’ll never get anything accomplished.”

Cart grunted and looked at his watch.

“Oh, no.” She strode to the bathroom door. Stopping, she turned to find Cart immediately behind her. “I am not canoodling with you here. I’d be embarrassed to leave a residual of magic energy in a place the Maven was going to use.”

“But—”

“Excuse me, are you working on a case or not?” She crossed her arms and canted her hip. “I’ve got to say, I can’t decide whether or not I’m flattered by the fact that you are distracted by sex every time we are alone.”

“Me either, but part of me is convinced I need to make memories now, since every time we separate I’m worried I’ll never see you again. Doesn’t help that with the full moon tonight, my beast is close to the surface and he doesn’t want to let you go.”

“We haven’t separated in days! Until last night, I’ve been in the same building as you since we met.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Mona took his hands in hers. “You’re wrong, it does.” Mona held tight when he tried to pull away. Realizing part of his anxiety was due to his being low on energy she fed him some of the magic she’d unconsciously been cleaning since she’d entered the room. “Worrying that a thing might happen, when you have as much magic as you do, can cause it to happen. So you need to stop.”

Mona sighed, released him, and grabbed her coat. Staying here with Cart was too much of a temptation for both of them. “I need to get going. Is there a car I can borrow?”

Mona saw him mentally bracing himself to let her go. It was both sweet and annoying. She could only hope he’d get over his need to monitor everything she did before it drove her nuts.

He dug some keys out of his pocket. “There’s a tan all-wheel drive car in spot fifteen, use that.”

He held them up and out of her way. “I’ll be out running with the pack. You have to promise to leave a message when you get back so I know you’re safe.”

Mona kissed his cheek and agreed, plucking the keys out when he lowered his arm to hug her. He flipped her into his lap and convinced her he was not settling for anything close to a peck.

“I do have to go. If you want, I’ll call you when I get there and when I leave.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m pretty sure you’re right. In the grand scheme of things, our being together is useful, but not monumental.” He did sound as if he was still trying to convince himself, but she let it slide.

And she knew she was going to try to call him anyway.

“Okay, I’ll be back around eleven. Have fun on your run.”

“Let’s go, before I haul you back and pin you down.”

Mona headed down the hall, Cart right behind her.

“Just as well you’re here, or I’d get lost,” she said as he took her elbow and steered her in the correct direction.

“Yo, Cart, some dude here to see you.” The voice echoed down the hall.

“Who is it?” he called abruptly.

“Some dude from the Buffalo Pack.”

Something wasn’t right. “Didn’t Averill say all the able-bodied men were missing?”

She had never seen someone move so fast. Cart took off down the hall before she’d processed that he’d moved at all. She raced after him knowing it was likely this Were had a spell on him too.

Cart and two other protectors wrestled with the man in the main rotunda. They moved around so much it was hard for her to get a read on him. No time for finesse, she just had to hope her changing things didn’t trigger the same summoning the Weres she’d encountered had.

Her stomach roiled at the thought.

There, the rune for endurance was riding on the top of the spell and thankfully it didn’t have the darker residue that made it difficult to move. She flipped it and he went down under Cart’s next chop. Now speed rose to the top. She flipped that too as she yelled, “Stop!”

Amazingly, they all stepped back. The Were was pitifully flopping on the floor but she was not about to change back the runes.

“I’ve reversed the strength and speed aspects of the spells,” she told Cart.

He walked over and hunkered down by the man.

“Wait, don’t ask him anything—he’s got some nasty things tied to speech. Let’s see. . .” She looked over the spell. She’d been incredibly lucky with the two she’d chosen to turn as they were linked to so much else.

Having learned her lesson she looked deeper.

“Get him out of here! He’s got some kind of beacon on him!”

Cart picked the man up and slung him over his shoulder. The two other protectors who’d been fighting stepped further back.

“I don’t think so!” Mona was not going to let Cart face whatever was being called.

Acting on instinct alone, she gathered the residual magic from the fight and spell. Somehow she fed that magic into Cart. He ran down a corridor, and out to the back lot of the building. As soon as he passed the old barrier, Mona grabbed the back of his t-shirt. Blackness swirled around them.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cart yanked his shirt out of her grip.

“Helping you!”

They were in the living room of an empty house, the stunned Were Cart had carried now slumped unconscious at his feet.

“It’s not helping when I have to take care of you too.”

“You don’t have to take care of me, I’ll take care of myself.”

Still snarling, he grabbed her hand. This home had a ton of residual magic, an elf adept at spells had lived here and left. Not that she was able to do more than recognize the potential before they were jumping again.

Mona found herself dumped like a hot potato when they arrived. Her bottom smarted.

“What the hell is your problem? I’m trying to help here!”

“You’re distracting me!” he whispered back. “Now shut up before you get us both killed.”

Mona stalked to the opposite corner of the small, decrepit shed he’d brought them to. To the far left, through the door-less entry she could see a house under the full moon. Further than across the street, for sure, but close enough that they’d be able to see movement. Cart must have known whoever lived in the house and thought it was a safe place to leave the spelled man.

She studied the building closely as she rubbed her arms in an attempt to get warm, unsure what Cart was waiting for. “This isn’t the Were’s fault, they don’t have control. We need to track down the shithead who is creating these spells. We, as in I need to be there too.”

Cart didn’t look convinced. He turned back to watch the house, not responding to her statement.

“What are we watching for?” she asked, barely able to keep her teeth from chattering. She began bouncing in place to try to warm up.

“Well, we’ve got a bit of a predicament. I can’t do what I was going to since, as you pointed out, they’re not entirely responsible for their actions. On the other hand I can’t leave them here to wreck havoc on any Folk that may be around.”

“No mortals?”

“Not for some distance. Tania liked her privacy.”

“Oh, if it’s just the non-human Folk, I can take care of that.”

“How?”

“I am a Warder, or at least one in training,” she said between bounces. “I do know how to send alarms to the Folk, particularly creatures who we can’t warn with words.”

Mona stopped bouncing, closed her eyes, and remembered the tone, then did a flick that sent it out to reverberate along any magic lines in the area.

“Crap. I felt that.” Cart shook his head and rubbed at his left ear.

“You shouldn’t have, that tone is for creatures!”

“It’s a full moon tonight, Mona, and I am not just strong and able to change, I’m a first generation Were. Right now I’m probably closer to creature than person.”

“Shit, let’s hope other shifters didn’t,” Mona said. “I don’t think there are many strong Weres in the pack.”

“I don’t know if I have enough energy,” he grumbled. “If I hadn’t pulled you along with me, I might have enough for just me.”

“Even with the extra I sent into you?”

“The . . . what?” He stopped talking for a minute. “How did you do that?”

“Later, just get us out of here. I’m getting a really bad feeling.”

Too late—a mix of wolves, big cats, and other predators headed to the house. Right as they got there, the spell they had unwittingly carried caused the building to shake, then burst into a huge ball of fire.

Mona saw the spell, saw the simple runes, and reached out to turn them, thankful this spell, for once, didn’t have any of the sticky residue.

Only to have her hand batted down. The bastard!

“Don’t ever do that! If I have a rune in my hand you could wreck the entire spell and cause chaos.” She turned her back on Cart. “I’m going closer. I want to try to send the whole thing, including the fireball, back to the maker.”

“Don’t go closer!”

She shot a ‘fine! But don’t interrupt me’ over her shoulder and raised her hand again.

The large swirling she’d come to expect with the magic wielder formed in the sky above the house. Weres were dying in that fire, she was sure of it. She needed to move the fire away from the shifters if she was going to save any.

If she turned the homing rune that way and flipped the igniter rune that way . . . the ball of fire shot right at the swirl.

And so did all of the remaining Weres.

Mona stood numb, not wanting the bespelled shifters to get caught in the flames, not seeing what was pulling them along with the spell.

“No!” she screamed as the first of the shifters passed through the fireball on its way back to the face. The decimated remains hit the face and there was a huge flash of light. Everything—the swirl, the shifters, the face—everything disappeared.

She blinked in the pitch black, spots dancing before her eyes. Cart had jumped her out before she saw any more.

She tumbled face first onto the bed. He’d jumped them to the rooms above D’Alessandro’s again. Shivers wracked her body, despite the solid warmth at her back. The frantic beat of her heart matched paced with the pounding in the chest pressed behind her.

She’d killed Weres she’d been trying to save.

“If you had gone in closer—” Cart started.

“But I didn’t,” Mona interrupted. And then, because she simply could not help herself, she started to babble. “We got out of there, didn’t we? But those poor Weres! What if I—”

“Stop!” Cart’s angry yell made her blink. He scrambled off the bed and stood, arms akimbo, tension in every line of his body. His face looking down at her was furious.

She sat up and stared at him.

“Excuse me?” she finally said. “You did not just tell me to stop talking.”

“I did because you were going to babble incessantly about what happened to those Weres, which wasn’t your fault. Oh, you may have killed one or two who might have been spared from the fireball, but only by random bad luck. The bad guy here is whoever sent them and the fireball in the first place.”

Mona blinked at him. Killed one or two? As if that wasn’t a big deal.

Perhaps to him it wasn’t.

But she couldn’t ever see looking at lives that way. Her job was to stop magic from hurting others. Instead, she’d killed two the people she’d been trying to protect.

She stood up and absentmindedly brushed her pants off. “I need to go.”

“I think you’d better.”

Mona looked at Cart. Anger still poured off him.

“I know why I think I have to go. Why do you think I need to go?”

His chest rose and fell as he took several deep breaths before answering.

“I’ve seen what happens when someone thinks their job is to protect everyone else but themselves and their family. They end up dying. I don’t care if I’ll be in physical agony because I’ve withdrawn from the person who I’m pretty sure is my mate, but I can’t watch as you destroy yourself helping other people. Nothing is worth that.”

Mona nodded, unable to form an argument with her grief over killing the Weres wrapping itself around her heart.

He took a step toward her and before his foot hit the ground he disappeared.

Unsure what to do, Mona wandered out into the hall and to the kitchen. Dinner was gearing up downstairs, the smells from the restaurant were almost overwhelming.

Dinner. She was supposed to join Cart and Tania.

One of the lights shifted and moved toward her.

An imp.

“I’m Mona Lisa Kubrek, state your message.”

“Mona,” Nic’s voice carried in the empty room. “I need to cancel dinner. Something’s come up with Tania—Titania, the Maven. I’ll explain later. You should get in touch with Smythe, some odd things are going on.”

Past time to track him down. The imp blinked out and another took its place. She directed the imp to state its message.

A quivery, out-of-breath voice said “Mona, four hundred eleven sixty, make note.”

There was a heartbeat of silence after the imp sparked out. Smythe! He’d sounded odd, out of breath and almost incoherent. Where was he? Did he need help? Mona paused in the act of calling an imp to check. Cart was right, damn him, someone was messing with imps and she couldn’t rely on them. Mona grasped on the one clue Smythe had given her. ‘Make note.’ He had to be referring to his extensive journals and records. Mona needed to tell Cart so they could track down the clue and try to find him.

She headed to the door then stopped. Cart had left.

Surely the protectors would help. Unless Cart had told them to keep her safe, in which case she’d be stuck at the station instead of doing something. Better, then not to say anything, yet, about the message and track down the clue.

Mona headed out, grabbing an oversized sweatshirt off the coat rack by the backdoor. It was going to be a cold five block walk to the new headquarters, but even with Cart walking out, she wasn’t foolish enough to head over to the complex without some backup. Despite his assumptions, she didn’t jump into situations without a thought to her safety. She just didn’t plan to tell them the reason she wanted to go.

Chapter Twelve

During the walk over she’d gotten more and more antsy about Smythe’s message. What did the numbers mean? There were too many possibilities, none of which seemed to fit.

The desk was manned with two Weres when she entered this time, neither of whom she knew. She wondered if any of this crew had had a chance to go on a moon run, if any of them needed to. Surely Cart would have taken care of it.

Indeed, as she waited, a half a dozen Weres headed out, chattering and excited and talking about the tricks they’d learned to hide their tracks in the snow and how hard it was to not mark the territory with everything so unclaimed. Tifft Nature Preserve was mentioned too, a good place for a group their size, provided they had control, which it sounded like they did.

“Hello,” she said to one of the attendants. “I need to find someone from Protector Dupree’s unit. Can you help me?”

The man gave her a look and dismissed her. “We’re closed, except for emergencies. Is it an emergency?”

“Well, no. . .”

“Very well then, it can wait until the morning. The protectors are here to help, but it’s unreasonable for you to expect them to jump just because you can’t wait until the morning. Really, the Buffalo Pack has got to learn some priorities.” This last was spoken more to himself than to Mona.

He glared at her. She smiled sweetly back.

“Protector. . .” She glanced at his badge, pinned to the hem of his t-shirt. “Matheus. I am glad that Cart, Tiff, Menlo, Hyram, and the rest of the crew have such an avid defender. However, perhaps first you should find out from whom you are defending them from.”

Mona didn’t realize how anxious she was to get going now until she made the pithy speech. Turning to the desk, she saw that Herrick was there, an annoyed look on his face.

“Matheus was doing his job, Trainee,” he said before she could say anything.

What? She didn’t see any foul magic about him so she was very taken aback at the attitude. No, without Cart there, he was acting like a typical Were and dismissing her ‘hysterics’.

“Protector Leader Herrick, I cannot but think that if he’d asked who I was and found out that I am the Warder’s trainee, he might have handled the situation differently.” She emphasized “Warder” since his calling her “Trainee” had been more than a slight. “While I understand the need to vet requests to see the investigative crew, since I am working with them, my request for help to locate them is reasonable.”

“Not at this time of night it isn’t.”

He just lost any chance of her being civil.

“I must insist that it is.” Somehow she knew bringing Cart’s name into the mix would only make his attitude more recalcitrant. Besides, she didn’t want him involved in this.

“With Leader Dupree gone, I am the senior Were here and I say it isn’t.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared smugly at her.

“Oh?” She did her best to hide the fact she was plucking at every recently laid magic thread she could find by using her hands to emphasize her points. Disrupting the energy was a silent call to those Protectors sensitive to magic. “You think that gives you the right to rule the place? To make decisions that will affect Dupree’s unit? Last I heard, the investigative team and the policing team were separate entities. Have you, in your megalomania, decided they need to be joined?”

As she spoke, Weres started coming into the room, some hurrying, others in caution, from both units.

“You may perceive yourself to be the senior Were here, but you are not the highest ranking.” Mona silently gave thanks to Smythe for making her memorize the endless lists of hierarchy. “I outrank you, as do, I am sure, several members of Cart’s crew. However, even they do not have the authority you have sought to assume by putting the entire group under one umbrella. Right now, until the Buffalo pack has trained its own protectors and named a chief, you all are under the direction of the Warder and the Pack Leader.”

Anger simmered out of him, then a sly look came over his face. “Yes, and she—”

Mona could not let him complete the sentence and possibly perjure himself. “She what? Be careful what you say. Remember I was there when she banned you from the pack house. Shall I call an imp to refresh your memory?”

He paled; everyone knew that what one imp knew, they all knew. Plus, Cart had said he didn’t want any of the protector group using them.

“Fine, then.” Mona turned to scan the crowd. “Menlo, Tiffany, if I could meet with you and the rest of the investigators, please?”

“Bitch.” Herrick muttered. The acoustics of the room carried his pronouncement to everyone.

As Mona turned back there was a loud pop and lights began to blaze from every wall. But they weren’t lights—more imps than she’d ever seen lined the rotunda.

Randall stood on the desk in a furious rage. The thirties gangster outfit completed the impression of lethalness. Mona heard several gasps.

“You are so far out of line, Herrick, you’ve just earned yourself a one way ticket to visit me. And if you think I’m mad, just wait until you meet the goddess. You don’t mess with her designees.”

He turned to the imps, who had coalesced behind him like a large sparkling cloak. “Take him.”

They swirled around Herrick, completely blocking him from sight. Then they were gone, Herrick along with them.

Randall turned and looked over the crowd, his body relaxing and face easing into a smile when he saw Mona. “Hi, Warder.”

“Hello, Puck.” It was times like this, when he went from an overwhelming rage to charmingly calm that she remembered he was even less human than she was.

He flashed a large grin before somberly addressing the crowd. “Protectors, investigators.” He stabbed his finger at the groups within the crowd. “Do your job. Now. The goddess is watching.”

He flipped off the desk, causing people to scramble out of the way. In the middle of his back flip he disappeared.

On the one hand, Mona was a little annoyed at his jumping in and not letting her handle things. On the other, she wondered just what all was going on to make him interfere. Most Weres were lucky if they saw him once in a lifetime.

The problems in Buffalo clearly had wider consequences than they’d realized.

A few people stood still, looking shocked. Most, however, were already merging into groups and discussing things. Mona found Cart’s crew heading toward her.

As a group, they bowed to her.

Crap, that designee of the goddess line was going to be tough to live down.

“Warder,” Menlo said, confirming that he was in charge. Or maybe Tiff was and she’d asked him to speak. Mona cut a glance over to her. She nodded, her smile faint on her face.

Wait.

“I’m not a Warder yet.”

“Pretty sure you are if Randall just named you one,” he said, a grin on his face. The rest of the group grinned too. “Handy, that. I wonder if I could get his help.”

Right, Menlo specialized in dealing with elves who were coming into power.

“Let’s head to the conference room,” Hyram said, looking around. “We can go over what we know there and add to the schematic Cart made up. Good job with the fireball. The little bit of intelligence we have says you put him out of commission. At least for now.”

They started to turn.

“No.” Despite all that had gone on, Mona still clung to her objective. The group turned around. “I need to get to the complex. That’s why I was looking for you all. I need a buddy.”

Tiff and another woman stepped forward.

“I thought you were in charge,” she said to Tiff, who’d just directed the other woman to get their coats.

“Yes and no. Menlo and I share the job. Besides, Cart said guarding you was top priority, since things seem to happen when you’re around.”

Mona would deal with this guarding thing later since he was right about things happening. She hadn’t fully articulated the coincidence in her head yet, but she did now. Crap.

Mona rubbed her face. No wonder Cart thought she was an accident waiting to happen. If he couldn’t get over his worry. . . she wasn’t going to think about that now. Restless energy and a sense of urgency had Mona pacing. “I need to get out to Smythe’s complex.”

“Anyone out there to keep an eye on the ward?”

“Not that I know of. But then, we hadn’t started that part of my training yet.”

The woman was already coming back with their winter gear.

“Let’s go,” Tiff said.

“Wait, all of us? We don’t need three people.”

“All of us. Emetaly,” she waved a hand at her companion, whose long, black hair and hooked nose were reminiscent of a Mexican native tribe, “is a first generation Were and can jump us out if need be. And I’m not not going.”

“You can’t jump in or out of Smythe’s complex!” Mona said, exasperated that she needed to explain.

“Right, but if we need to jump at some point outside of it, she can do it. I can’t.”

“Fine.” Okay, Mona saw the logic, given how often Cart had jumped her out of tight places the last couple of days.

Until recently, Mona had never understood why the complex was so far away from the Were enclave. Now she knew the forty-minute drive was to keep the ward removed from Folk and still keep the Warder close enough he could do the rest of his job.

And the skyway was still closed, so they had to go a circuitous route.

Then things kept delaying them.

Broken lights.

Long freight trains.

Disabled cars.

A massive pothole.

No one said anything—it was clear someone or thing was determined they’d not get there.

This, of course, made them all the more determined to do so.

The worst delay was when they got stuck on a road behind an accident where they had to airlift someone out. Two hours. Mona actually took a nap, once it was clear they weren’t going to be moving any time soon.

Dawn was streaking the sky by the time they got to the turnoff for the Warder’s driveway.

Mona pulled over at the second to last turn in the drive.

“We should leave the car here and walk the rest of the way,” she said, fighting to keep her worry from her voice. They’d all taken turns driving and cat napping when they could, but none of them were anything near rested and up to speed. And the way things were going, they’d need to be.

“We got any rations, Emetaly?” Tiffany asked, tucking her short, wine colored hair under a knit cap.

“Yeah,” Emetaly reached into a satchel that was on the back seat. Mona had used it as a pillow one of the times she’d tried to rest. “Let’s see what tasty treats we have in store today. Eggs Benedict? Hash browns? Belgian waffles? Ah, yes, I see they’ve opted for the almond butter and coffee bean option, my favorite.”

They ate their protein bars and washed down the thick taste with sips from the one bottle of water that’d been packed. Mona almost missed the rations from the emergency kit.

“Okay,” Mona said once everyone was done. “Let’s check this place out.”

Mona’s tire tracks from earlier in the week were still discernable and they followed the path as the drive made its way through the stand of trees shielding the complex from the road.

Tiffany stopped where the path ended in a large area of trampled snow. “Which way?”

“To the right, but let me lead. There was a trap here earlier in the week, and I need to make sure it’s gone.”

They halted at the edge of the clearing around the walls, the full set of buildings in view. The high, crenellated stone wall and the turrets on the corner of the inner buildings looked medieval in the frosty morning air.

Of course, they looked medieval in any air, but something about the crisp blue sky made the slate spires atop the building look far more sharply out of time than they had before. Tiffany and Emetaly stopped and stared.

“That is awesome. A castle in the middle of a forest in upstate New York. Definitely the most . . . um . . . warrior-like Warder compound I’ve seen,” Tiffany said. She scanned the area in the front of the gate. “That’s where the working earlier in the week was, right? I can see the residual from the disturbance in the ground. Not seeing anything now, though, are you?”

Emetaly and Mona shook their heads.

“Any way in besides the gate?” Tiffany asked, gesturing to the large wooden doors mounted deep in the keep’s outer wall.

“No.” There had to be a back way, but Mona didn’t know where it was.

Tiffany shrugged. “Then let’s go.”

This time Tiff led and the other two followed.

She skirted well wide of the churned earth left from the spell Smythe had said was a test. Once at the gates Mona noticed the runes on the warding spell were rearranged.

“He’s changed the spell. You won’t be able to come in with me.”

“What? You’re kidding right?” Tiffany reached to run her hand over the door, as if that would give her information.

Mona’s yell of “Stop!” coincided with the arc of energy coming off the planks of the door.

Tiffany flew back a couple of feet and crumpled to the ground. Her breathing was shallow and her pulse, when Mona thought to feel for it in her neck, rapid.

Emetaly lifted Tiff’s hand and carefully pulled the remnants of her glove off. An angry red welt ran across Tiff’s palm, but the glove had protected her skin from the worst of the heat, if not the energy of the power.

“Go, jump her back,” Mona said. “I need to stay here and see if the Warder’s left me a message.”

Emetaly bit her lip, clearly torn on what to do.

“Look, it’s pretty clear no one besides me is going to get in. If I think anyone is trying, I’ll call, imp restriction be damned.”

“Okay.”

Truth was, Mona wasn’t sure she would be able to get in, but she was going to try.

Mona watched the spell as she approached and reached out for the handle. There, to the right, was the part she needed to change. She tweaked the rune, opened the door, and tweaked it back. “I’m in,” she called out. “Go! Get her some help.”

Mona felt the surge and knew they were gone.

Chapter Thirteen

The circular drive was barren. No snow on any surface. Mona had forgotten how odd the effect of the three large castle-like buildings with the pristine cobblestone drive looked after walking through the snowy forest.

She crossed the wintry lit courtyard to the Warder’s house. Mona realized very quickly gaining entry was a lost cause. The spell had been twisted and turned in a very convoluted string—it’d take her all day to loosen it enough just so she could figure out what she could change to get in. The good news was she was pretty sure nothing was going to get out.

Okay, off to the middle building then, which housed a large library and warehouse. Saying the classrooms on the third floor were too old and dusty to use, the vast book-filled second floor was where most of her training had taken place. Aside from his journal, Smythe kept logs of most events in the Folk community, from births to marriages to the date and location he’d fixed a set spell. They were more like lists than narratives and very, very dry reading. Mona hoped to find something in the library to explain Smythe’s cryptic numbers as well as “make note” of them in the current diary.

She headed up the side staircase to the vast and chilly room. The stone walls and high arched windows reminded her of an ivy-clad prep school she had attended for a year. That was before her mother left and Nic switched her to public school.

Fortunately there was a much smaller reading room off to the side, in an alcove made by the exterior tower. The circular space held the desk Smythe used and the table Mona studied at as well as comfy seating. And a potbelly stove, old but still working.

Mona closed the door. After making sure the flue was open—she wasn’t going to make that mistake again—she started a fire from the wood already laid in. A set spell made the cast iron fixture more efficient.

As the room started to warm and the scent of wood smoke filled the air, Mona took off her coat and sat at the desk. She’d check the Warder’s journal and add a note on what he’d said in his message.

But the top left drawer, where Smythe always placed his book, was empty. So was the one below it. And the three on the right hand side.

Nor was the small leather clad volume on the shelves to the right of the desk where the pervious journals were kept.

Or the floor, or under any of the cushions of the couch or on any of the side tables in the room. Not there.

Would it make more sense to look through the older journals or to look in the larger room for the current one?

Library.

Mona shrugged back into her jacket, did what she could to bank the fire, and headed back into the vast book-filled space. Smythe had a journal for every month he’d been Warder. Add to that the fact that he’d been doing it for over a hundred years . . . that was a lot of journals she was going to have to do through.

She pulled out the oldest, brittle with age and flaking.

She read the first journal entry date.

March 21, 1812.

Abner was even older than they realized if his first journal was two hundred years old.

Nothing seemed relevant on the pages she checked. Births, deaths, trades with the natives. Mona carefully slid the journal back and pulled out the next.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Three hours later, she was starving and still hadn’t found the book or stumbled onto anything that might help decipher the numbers.

Giving into her hunger pangs, she headed down to the kitchen hoping to scrounge something to eat. There was a large bag of string cheese sticks in the fridge sitting all by its lonesome on a lower shelf. The freezer had been cleared out as well, although three pints of frost covered soup remained stacked in a corner. In the cabinets, a case of fusilli sat next to an institutional-sized box of toaster pastries. Smythe always had them around, although, come to think of it, she’d never seen him eat one.

Standing in the empty kitchen, Mona was struck by how off things really were. Usually brownies kept the house stocked with at least enough for Abner to eat, plus food for anyone who worked here.

But there was nothing. Even most of the serving ware was gone—a handful of mugs, a saucepan, and a bowl were all that remained. She had no sense that the brownies were about at all.

Mona felt like she was trespassing in an abandoned home. But the answer to the clue Smythe had sent was in all likelihood here, she was sure of it. Knowing she was on the right track didn’t assuage her guilt she hadn’t told anyone of his message. Only one way to deal with that.

“I’d like an imp please.”

Nothing happened. She counted to twenty and tried again. Nothing.

Mona pulled out her phone. No reception. How was she supposed to check on Raine? Find out if more spelled Weres showed up? She was torn, sure she needed to be here, and unwilling to be disconnected from everything that was happening. Focusing on the big picture helped, along with the worry that if she left, she might not make it back. If the goal was to get the person spelling the shifters, her best option was to stay and use the journals to attempt to figure out what the numbers from Smythe meant. The protectors knew where she was. If they needed her, they would figure out a way to come get her. Determined to find something, she grabbed several cheese sticks and a toaster pastry, and headed back upstairs to the bookshelves.

Mona passed several days in a stupor of reading, eating when hunger hit and sleeping only when she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. Worry over Smythe and Raine, as well as the shifters the madman seemed to control, became a constant companion, one that urged her to keep looking, keep going. Her tiredness served as an excellent buffer for thoughts on Cart and his declaration that he couldn’t be with her. Not to mention the sadness that he hadn’t even shown up to check on her. She simply tried not to think and worked her way through over two thousand books.

The sun was streaming through the windows when she woke up from a cat nap nearly a week after she got there. Mona sat up and rubbed her face. She slid her phone out from under yet another journal to check the time.

She’d not found anything, despite stacks of notes on the pages she’d checked and today was the day the Maven had set for the Lackawanna pack meeting. Mona didn’t understand how her feeling that she’d find something here could be so wrong. She’d wasted days when she could have been with the protectors, helping them. With nothing to show for her work she started bundling herself back up and grabbed her keys.

Which were next to a journal.

A journal that had not been there when she went to sleep.

Looking around, she saw the faint trace of imp magic—which was unnerving, given none had been around the entire time she’d been there.

Gingerly, she picked the book up, holding it by the binding. There was a spell running along the side of the cover; the markings looked like Randall’s work. Understandable, then, why the magic hadn’t awakened her—she trusted the Puck implicitly, pain in the ass that he could be.

Although, maybe she shouldn’t. Not that he’d mean her harm, but protecting all the non-human Folk would always come before any friendship they had.

Only one way to find out.

Bracing herself, she opened the book.

Images, words, feelings all bombarded her. Information, scenes of Smythe’s life, came at her at the speed of sound, and she felt like she was standing in the middle of the largest, busiest place she could ever imagine, where people and beings rushed up to her, acknowledged her, then rushed back away.

The assault of sights and sounds and scents overwhelmed Mona to the point where they were her whole existence, and her body a memory.

Then the sensations stopped.

She breathed deeply.

Her heart stuttered.

Blinking, she focused on the room around her, she’d seen this room built, furnished, lived in.

With an almost audible snap, everything found a place to settle in her memory. All the learning that Abner had not yet been able to give her was with her.

A knowledge bequeathing spell. Apparently it was the one spell that could be directed at a Warder and actually work.

Which meant Smythe was dead.

Mona didn’t remember grabbing her things and running down the stairs or out of the library, nor the start of the tremors that shook the ground and buildings. Her newly acquired memory told her, however, that she needed to get the hell out of there before the place fell like a house of cards.

As she had when they were by the Maven’s old home, she sent out a note of warning to the non-human Folk in the area of the danger. She’d not seen any but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

The gate was already askew when she went to shoulder it open. As she squeezed through the foot wide gap between the huge wooden slabs, she heard her coat rip.

Then she flat out ran, stumbling as the earth shuddered from the impact of the massive slabs falling. Collapsing against the car, she took several deep breaths, the cold air searing her lungs.

That had been far too close a call.

She checked her phone, noting she had a bar or two of reception along with the time. While she’d been absorbing Smythe’s knowledge, an hour had passed. Strange. It felt like all the memories should have taken longer and, at the same time, that only a minute had passed.

Should she contact someone? No. She wasn’t going to tell anyone Smythe was dead over the phone. She was about to put the phone back in her pocket when a text came through from Nic. Meeting at D’Alesandro’s six p.m. Need you there. Tucking her cell away, she got in the truck.

Thankfully the engine started and she was able to turn around and get out.

Then, at the end of the drive, like a curtain waiting for her to pass through, there was a sheet of falling snow.

If the drive up had been frustrating, this was far worse. Visibility was poor, traction non-existent. The snowfall only let up as she neared some of the busier intersections of the rural highway, where gas stations and fast food outlets seemed to crop up suddenly in the lessening snow. The snow stopped all together when she hit the outskirts of town.

Some part of her recognized the pattern meant the system had somehow been tied to non-urban areas, likely to do with hindering non-human Folk. She’d never have known that without the information Smythe imparted. Having this unexpected knowledge was going to take some getting used to.

Despite the let up of precipitation, she drove carefully the rest of the way, wary of another ambush to delay her arrival.

Three blocks away from D’Alessandro’s she found the delay she was expecting.

Simple, yet diabolical.

The fire hydrants had burst, sending huge plumes arcing across street, and coating everything in a fifty-foot radius in water. In the below freezing temperatures, the water quickly turned to ice. Controlling the car as best as she could on the incredibly slick road, she slid over to the edge, got out, and determinedly, she set out on foot. She needed to get to the meeting before they were done. By the time she made it to D’Alessandro’s, her half frozen hands could barely grab the knob on the door.

“Mona!” Gabby, the night hostess started toward her.

Mona waved her aside and moved into the warmth of the building.

“I’ve got to get to the meeting.” Shivering and dazed, she knew she had to take that last step.

Suddenly drained, and realizing just how much she’d been running on adrenaline in her trek from the car, she teetered and stumbled down the back hall to the meeting room, each step painfully difficult. Gabby fluttered behind her, offering help; Mona had no energy to accept or reject. One last burst of energy and she shoved her way through the door.

As if in slow motion she saw Nic and Cart both vault a table, although Cart magically hopped the last few feet to get to her side first. Nic and Tania appeared a hairsbreadth behind him.

Sagging into Cart’s arms she felt some of her energy restore—she must’ve been pulling it out or he was unconsciously sending magic into her.

Message. She had a message she needed to deliver to the group.

“The Warder, he’s dead!” She hadn’t meant to shout, but the urgency to tell everyone created volume.

Her voice echoed through the stunned room.

“HOLD!” Randall’s voice rang through the room. “Maven, there is an imp here for you.”

In the silence a faint and feeble light glimmered to being in front of Tania.

“I’m Maven Titania, please start your message when ready.”

A couple of raspy breaths, then, “Four hundred eleven sixty.”

The Maven gasped. Nic put his arm around her, “We still don’t know what those numbers mean.”

Mona was so thankful to realize Smythe had sent them the same message.

The Puck gently scooped the fading light out of the air. He cupped the imp in his hand, an expression of deep sorrow on his face.

“Little Spark, you have served well and are an honor to the well spring of knowledge from which you sprung. Go in peace.”

The imp flickered then shone brightly through the spectrum of colors before fading out. A low keening filled the room, the note tinged with infinite sadness.

Mona sat in the chair someone had kindly put behind her. An imp had died. More than anything else, and there had been a lot of other things, the death highlighted just how severely something wrong was occurring. Imps didn’t die. Everything she’d learned from Smythe was telling her this was impossible. Yet it had happened.

Randall looked up at the group, his expression fierce. Crap, she knew he was going to do a binding and she was in no shape to argue him out of it.

“Maven, you’ll find who is doing this and bring them the swift justice of the Folk.” His stentorian tones echoed through the hall and no doubt beyond.

Tania did something, a tweak of magic that morphed into a full spell. There was a slight flare and the magic settled. Mona gasped at the suddenness and the beauty of it. She felt like she’d been reading runes and symbols in block letters and now was looking at them in what her Dad called copperplate, elegantly curved writing that celebrated the beauty and symmetry of the work.

Between one blink of the eye and the next Tania was in an outfit fit for a Queen at the Elfhaven court. Mona, along with most of the room, stared in awe at the jewel encrusted tiara and crimson sash heavily decorated with medals. She actually heard Nic gulp at the sight of the gossamer dress. Not much was left to the imagination.

The scepter in Tania’s hand only added to her regal appearance. All around, Weres knelt or bowed or curtsied. Mona started to follow suit, only to find Cart clamping his hand on her shoulder and keeping her in the chair.

Tania regally nodded at everyone, gesturing immediately that they rise, a small smile playing on her lips as she waved and bowed her head to the children in the back.

“With the Buffalo Were Pack and my protector as witnesses,” Tania said, turning to face Randall, who Mona could tell was trying to hide how impressed he was by the Maven’s actions. “I agree to search for the one who has harmed the imps, and has imprisoned and coerced the Buffalo Pack Weres.”

The Maven had been told, or perhaps already had known, about the spelled Weres. Mona was glad Randall had pushed Tania into taking action on what clearly was no longer just a pack problem.

Tania’s voice rang through the room and, like Randall’s had earlier, beyond; such a pact would be heard by all Folk within several miles. Which made Mona wonder if any of those they sought would hear the binding.

“Seek those who’ll help you,” Randall said.

Tania’s eyes narrowed with annoyance. Mona could tell she didn’t like Randall’s request but wasn’t going to turn him down. She ran her fingers down her sash, stopping at a small pouch that had been pinned on. Oh my. Mona could read the contents through the bespelled fabric. Fairy dust.

The pinch she took was infinitesimal and she kept her finger in her palm to keep it from floating away. A few particles sifted out and hung iridescent in the air. Mona watched as Tania’s magic reached out and swirled with the floating bits.

“May all who shall go forth with me to confront this being be marked and made known,” Tania ritually invoked.

Somewhere a memory from Smythe rose up of a similar action in a long ago time, but the image faded before Mona had done more than recognize the similarities of posture and word.

Tania lifted her hand, palm up, and blew gently on the dust as she turned in a circle. Prismatic sparkles lingered in her wake. Once her revolution was complete, they flashed brightly and surrounded Mona.

“Hi, Warder.” The Puck grinned, momentarily dropping his fierce persona. His mood swings were starting to worry her, because as soon as his gaze left her, he became solemn again, his bushy eyebrows drawn in a straight line. “Mona Lisa Kubrek, you have been chosen.”

As soon as Randall finished, the particles left and immediately reappeared as glittering particles surrounding Cart, who stood by Mona’s seat.

“Training Leader and Protector Josiah Carthage Dupree, you are chosen,” Randall said.

Then the dust did an odd thing—it went to Nic, flying around his head and then spiraling down his body, but left to circle back to the Maven before the Puck intoned his name.

A slight hesitation, then Randall said: “Niccoli Machiavelli Lombard, you too join in the pursuit of justice.”

Mona sensed confusion from the Weres on Nic’s participation. But unlike them, she was informed, in Smythe’s dry voice, of two factors at play. First, with Tania committed, Nic, as her protector, was also committed, so his being named was not needed.

And two, he was still coming into his powers. There was a very good chance, once they settled, and likely by the end of their search, Nic would have a different title than Protector. The Puck would not bind him by title until his powers fully manifested.

Mona shook her head, not liking Smythe’s didactic recitation of the Puck’s reasoning. She noticed Tania looked taken aback that the dust was done but still stood straight as she said her part of the binding.

“With those called forth, I’ll mete the retribution of the Folk on behalf of the imps and the Buffalo Pack Weres.”

“So mote it be,” Randall and Averill said in unison, each within their rights as leaders to bind her. In Mona’s head a thready, reed-like version of Smythe’s voice urged her to join in the binding, but she ignored it.

Silence spread out as the binding took. Mona saw the spell settle on Tania and more lightly on Cart. Nic was not tagged by it at all. Interesting. Of course, she wasn’t either, but then that wasn’t unexpected.

The crowd stayed motionless, stunned to have witnessed the stuff of legends; at least, she knew she was.

“Okay, let’s get started,” Cart said, his voice clear and loud. From where he’d moved behind her, with his hand on her shoulders, he started barking directions and people shook themselves out of their mesmerized state. His stance radiated irritation. At her? At the Puck? Hard to tell.

Nic came and eased her out of Cart’s grasp; for a moment she thought Cart wasn’t going to let her go.

“Let me get her out of the middle of everything,” Nic said.

Cart removed his arm, but not before whispering into her ear. “You will never put yourself in danger like that again.”

Cart moved away, not allowing her the chance to speak. Idiot man! While she had no desire to put herself in harm’s way, she wasn’t going to avoid her job because he thought she needed to be safe.

Fuming, she and Nic shuffled around the edge of the room, her muscles protesting with every step. Once she was seated at a table along the far side of the room, Nic got her a water bottle and told her to take several sips. The water helped, although she was still a bit shaky and furious. Mona asked for some food but he suggested she wait to make sure the water stayed down first.

Tania, she noted, had changed out of most of her regalia and was approaching them with a large mug of coffee in her hands.

“You okay, Mona?” Tania asked as she set the cup on the table next to her.

The reply wasn’t automatic. She took stock of herself. She felt faint, definitely bruised, her palm bled from a scrape she didn’t remember getting, her ears were ringing. And she wanted to give Tania’s cousin a piece of her mind.

Things could have been worse. “Yeah, I think so. I—”

“Wait, don’t say anything yet, Mona.” Cart came up behind Tania, Emetaly by his side. She saw his barely contained rage even if no one else did. Although the shifters did seem to be giving him a wide berth.

“I want Emetaly to make a formal recording.”

Mona ignored Cart and looked at Nic, who nodded at her encouragingly.

“First I need to know how Raine is doing.”

“We checked and she’s still in a holding pattern,” said Cart. “The only good news is the babe is still healthy.”

Mona nodded. “Any more attacks?”

“No. Current thought is that the fireball you sent back did some damage.” Cart held his hand out to stop any further questions. “Let's make this record first, I’ll answer your questions later.”

“Okay.” Mona took a deep breath. Cart had heard much of this already, but not Nic or the Maven. She had no idea how much he’d shared with his crew. “I need to start the day before the collapse of the skyway. I got a phone call from my friend Raine. . .”

Her tale came out between sips of the sweet milky coffee. She did skip some bits, like, oh say, having sex with Cart. Several of the Weres, including Hyram and Tiff walked by to check on her, but didn’t interrupt.

Finally she got to the collapse of the compound, and then her walk this evening through the icy streets.

“Once I hit the broken fire hydrants it was tough, like someone poured buckets of ice over all the cars. The lot here looks particularly frozen.”

Cart caught Menlo’s eye. He’d been hovering at the periphery for the last twenty minutes or so. Menlo nodded and headed out.

Tania leaned in and said something to Nic when she was done. Cart stood on the other side of the table, arms crossed, his glare hard to avoid, so she didn’t.

“How’s Tiffany?” she asked.

“She’s fine, got a bit of a burn but it’s already healing.”

“Good.”

Tania headed to the other side of the room. Nic stayed with Mona but his attention was clearly with the Maven.

“Any chance I can have some food?”

Nic didn’t look as if he’d even heard the question.

“Let me see what I can do,” Cart said.

“Mushrooms, if they have them. Whatever is fine, though, I’d rather have something sooner than wait.”

As soon as he left. Nic turned his attention to Mona. Not as oblivious as he seemed.

“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?” Mona asked before he could grill her.

“No. But I don’t think I could stop it now even if I wanted to.” He glanced over at Tania, who’d settled in by the kids’ corner. “Everything okay between you and Dupree?”

Mona shrugged. She wasn’t sure. “Just growing pains, I think we’ll be okay.”

“You need me to read him the riot act?”

“Nah, we’ll figure it out.” Some of what Smythe imparted helped her understand a bit of Cart’s reaction to the death of the shifters in the fireball. She still hated that they’d died, but she understood a bit better why Cart had reacted the way he did.

Cart entered the room, hands full of food, only to be waylaid by Tania. Whatever she said helped ease some of the tension from his shoulders. He looked across the room at her. Mona held his eyes, unwilling, unable to look away. He could not dictate her actions, could not rule over her, and he needed to realize that. A smile formed and he crossed. Mona would have to find out what Tania had said. In the meantime, the smell of mushrooms masala wafted across the room.

“Any other news to pass along?” she asked Cart. Oh, she was still mad at him, but this wasn’t the place to talk about it.

“You were right about Kofi. She blasted a hole in the wall. I took her back to New York and met with the local coven about her training. Just got back yesterday.”

“Wait, I thought witches and Folk avoided each other.” Nic moved out of Cart's way.

“Typically, not always,” she said around the tail end of a mouthful of food.

“Get Tania to fill you in, this is stuff you need to know,” Cart said. He snatched a string bean.

“Getting her to talk about Folk is almost impossible but I’ll try.” Nic swiped a bean as well.

Mona pretended to go after both of their hands with her fork. “Mine. You got to eat earlier.”

“Yeah, but yours tastes better,” Cart said unrepentantly as he filched another.

“That’ll cost you. Go get me some more water,” she said, covering her plate with her arm.

“My turn. So, what have you and Tania found out?” she asked Nic as soon as Cart headed to the waiter's station. There was a slight twitch in his shoulders that made Mona realize he had heard her, although he kept going.

He stilled. “About what?”

Now that was an interesting reaction. Before she could formulate a reply he started across the room. “Tania’s done with the kids, I need to go.” He looked like a warrior or something off to defend his property.

“I guess you didn’t have any more luck than I did when I tried to find out what all they know?” Cart said when he returned.

“Nope.” Mona pushed her empty plate away, feeling a lot better. Too many days had passed since she’d had a decent meal. She stood and stretched. Her legs were still sore, would be for a while she guessed, but she could walk.

“Let’s see if tag teaming them works.” Cart took her elbow and helped her across the room.

Tania and Nic were already heading out. Cart and Mona intercepted them at the door.

“I’ve got some not good news,” Tania said, after stopping to wait in the hall, just past the door to the meeting room. “Apparently salamanders have been moving into the Were tribes.”

“Salamanders?” Mona said trying to remember what she knew. Her new font of information didn’t supply anything. “Aren’t they harbingers of death and destruction?”

“That is how they used to be viewed,” Tania said. “They actually are natural healers, with an uncanny sense of where they’ll be needed next.”

“So yeah,” Cart said, “they do foretell bad things, but they don’t bring it with them.”

“They’ve been known to be wrong,” Tania pointed out.

“No, not true, cuz. We’ve been able to avert disaster so they weren’t needed, but the potential is always there.”

She graciously bowed her head.

“They can be useful as an intelligence point, but they didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know,” Nic said, shrugging off their importance. Good thing he didn’t see Tania’s expression, because she was clearly floored by his remark. “Why were you two wanting us?”

“We’re heading back to the complex tomorrow,” Cart said. Not that he’d asked her. “We’ll be looking to see if the collapse is linked to everything else. Will you join us?”

“I’ll be there. Not sure about how useful Nic will be, it is magic,” Tania pointed out.

“I’ll be there,” Nic said, eyes narrowed and jaw ticking.

“But it’s a magic place, there’s not much you can do,” Tania said, a bit of worry and annoyance in her voice.

Oh! Tania was trying to keep Nic out of a dangerous area. Like that was going to work.

“I’m going. Randall said to stick with you, I’m sticking with you.”

“Good,” Cart said. “We’ll meet you outside the complex at noon.”

“See you there,” Nic said. He turned and headed out.

A split second later Tania followed, body rigid and posture straight, clearly very mad at him.

“Glad I’m not in his shoes,” Cart said. He popped open the door to the meeting room, glanced around, then pulled her further down the hall. “What the hell were you doing? Do you realize you were unreachable for a whole week? Anything could have happened.”

Mona yanked her arm out of his grasp. “I was doing my job. Besides which, your crew knew where I was.”

“Knowing didn’t help. We need you to stick around. You’re important.”

Mona wanted to believe it was her, not the job, that was important. A thought struck her.

“How did you know I was unreachable?”

“I broke my own rule and had an imp go look for you.” He grimaced and ruffled his hand through his hair. “Are you really okay? Tiff and Emetaly told me some of the incidents you ran into on the way up. And I have no doubt that you glossed over how bad the drive back here was.”

Mona relaxed against the wall for a brief moment then gently pushed herself straight, needing to be strong for this. “Did they tell you Randall named me Warder before. . .before. . .”

Her last words came out as a sob. Dammit, she didn’t want to cry!

Cart tucked her into his shoulder and rubbed his chin on her head while she bawled.

“And here I am, being an asshole. Sorry, I just—” He took a deep breath. “I just wouldn’t handle it well if something happened to you while I wasn’t around. Yes, I know I said I couldn’t handle being together, but some things aren’t going to change, and the need to protect you seems to be one of them.”

He rubbed her back and held her close. “I think Smythe knew it was his time,” Cart said after her initial burst had quieted. “He made the transfer spell, right? He lived an extraordinarily long time, Mona. He surely knew the risks of what he was doing.”

Mona sniffed and nodded.

“I think Tania thinks his Ward died,” she said.

“I think she’s right. Although. . .” Cart hesitated before continuing on. “That may have happened a while ago.”

“Why do you say that?” She stepped back and looked into his eyes, puzzled at the idea.

“My first thought when I saw him was he looked like a man living on borrowed time. The idea stuck with me.” He shrugged. “I’ve learned to pay attention when that happens.”

He looked down at Mona and stepped back, as awkward as she’d ever seen him.

“I, uh, need to get back and make sure they’re staying on track. And I need talk to you about what happened with Herrick, but that’ll wait until later. We need to talk, too, but first we’re going to have to deal with whatever geas the Puck put on us.”

He took another quick breath, likely to add to the list of things he’d been saving up to tell her. Mona flapped her hands at him, shooing him away.

“Go. I’ll join you in a minute.”

He nodded then ducked away.

Exhaustion clawing at her like a hungry pup, she sat down in the first chair she found in the room. Eventually most of the group stopped by a second time, checking she was okay and catching her up with happenings.

She was going to miss them when they were gone.

After the third time she jerked awake because her chin bumped into her chest, she made herself get up.

“Cart, I need to go,” she announced to the suddenly spinning room.

In short order she found herself bundled up and put in a car.

“Backlash—”

“Over-exerted—”

Words swirled around her as she snuggled into the seat belt webbing and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Fourteen

Mona tucked the duvet under her chin, comfy, cozy, and warm. A part of her didn’t want to have to get out of the warm cocoon she was in. Another, more insistent part, told her she needed to get up now.

She was in the protector’s station, her bag on the rocking chair in the corner. Cart was nowhere in sight. Rubbing her sleepy eyes, she got out of bed just as Cart entered the room.

“Shower, I need a shower,” she said.

“Damn, and I wanted to wake you up.”

He shut the door behind him and reached out for her shoulders. Mona stepped back. They weren’t going back to status quo without a discussion.

“Too late now, I have things to do, places to be.” She ignored his crestfallen look. “What time is it, and how long before we need to leave?”

He stepped back and put his hands in his pockets. “It’s seven-thirty, I’d suggest leaving at nine-thirty, no later than ten.”

“Good time for a shower. Then we’ll talk. Is there an update on Raine?”

“Nurse Ferguson already called to let us know there’s been no change.”

Nodding, Mona grabbed her bag. It’d be important to find the right person to raise the orphaned child. Wait, was the baby her charge? No, that didn’t make sense. Raine had no folk blood, so her child couldn’t be the ward. She headed to the door then stopped. She didn’t know where to go. Turning around, she saw Cart leaning against the wall, arms now crossed over his large chest, smile on his face.

“Okay, fine, where are the showers?”

He crossed over to her, wrapped his hands on either side of her face, tucked his fingers into her hair, and pulled her flush to his taut body.

There was a reason, something she’d learned yesterday, why she shouldn’t let him do this, but she couldn’t think of anything but the warmth in his eyes and the smile quirking one side of his mouth.

And the heat of his body searing her from shoulder to toe.

“Good morning, Mona,” he said, between the kisses he scattered across her face. He pulled back, his eyes churning amber. “Are you feeling better this morning?”

Unable to stop herself, she slid her free hand up his chest and twined her fingers around the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Much better, but I really, really want a shower, Cart. More than anything.”

“Anything?” He pressed her against the door.

“Anything,” she managed to get out without sounding too breathy.

“Can I have a rain check then?”

“You think if we don’t have sex now, you can get a voucher to have sex later?” Mona asked. “I don’t think so. You need to earn it.”

Especially after he said he couldn’t handle how she did her job. He must have seen something in her face because he stepped back.

“I’ll remember that.”

“Shower? Now, please?”

With a very audible and visible sigh he let go of her. “One day, we’ll have all the time in the world, and rain check or not, I’m keeping you in bed.”

Mona didn’t have much to say to that. She’d suddenly remembered why being with Cart was a bad idea. A really, really bad idea, no matter what the Puck thought. Images and memories from Smythe about the relationship between Warders and their wards crowded her thoughts. The transfer from him was still there, but at a remove, and not as intrusive as it had been yesterday.

Cart took her hand and led her through the labyrinth of corridors. He didn’t seem to notice her silence or distraction.

“I’ll come back in, what? Thirty minutes?”

Mona thought over everything she’d need to do.

“Thirty-five.” She needed a little time alone, time to figure out how the hell to undo what she’d already done.

“Gotcha.”

She ducked in the locker room. The room smelled of disinfectant and chlorine, and very faintly of wet dog. Mona found a bench and set her things down on it.

Cart.

Shit.

Mona closed her eyes and replayed what she’d learned from Abner.

An ethereal woman, one with the small bone structure of a European elf, a lot like the Maven, stood before her. Smythe labeled the woman “mate.”

He also labeled her “ward.”

And Mona could see why, the taint of evil magic was so deeply embedded in the woman she could almost see the imprint on her bones.

There were other memories of Warders, each mated to their ward. Each caring and loving them in private, keeping the world safe from them, and them safe from the world.

That was the bond others missed. Yes, a Warder guarded the Folk from their ward, but they guarded their ward from being used or killed by Folk seeing only their evil just as much.

Which meant either Cart was going to turn evil, which didn’t match up with what she’d been told and now knew about Wards being born with evil, or he wasn’t her mate. Nor, as she’d hoped, her Seele, the deeply bonded soul mate only those with enough elf blood experienced.

Okay, okay, why then did Randall seem to think they needed to be together?

“Puck!” She practically growled. Damn, but she’d been hanging around Weres too much.

Randall appeared, sitting on the bench next to her. Except when she’d stayed with him, she’d never seen him so casually dressed. Trousers, shirt, knit vest, he looked like he was slumming with Gene Kelly. With his shoulders hunching over and one leg bouncing so hard the bench threatened to vibrate, Mona knew he was ill at ease.

“Hi, Warder,” he said. “I can’t tell you much.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” she asked, making the same point Cart had days ago.

“Too fine a line,” he waved off her question. He stood and paced the short length of the bench and back again. Lecture mode. She’d seen him do this many times before. “It’s not like I haven’t been dropping hints all over the place. There are big events going on here. If I say any more than that, my ass is going to be in a sling and I won’t be able to help you at all.”

“You’ve been helping? Really? ‘Cause those cryptic messages and the dire vagueness? Not helpful.”

He stopped and stared at her, arms akimbo. “I could just leave, I don’t need this crap.”

“Sorry, I just. . .” Mona scrubbed her face with her hands.

“Look, I’ll let you ask me one direct question. If I can answer it I will. But you only get one.”

Just one? But she had so many. She needed to find out about wards and Warders and the faces she saw when she jumped and Cart and imps and that evil, evil taint she’d seen on the spells.

Randall had crossed his arms over his barrel chest. The tapping of his toe echoed in the metal filled room.

She needed another resource that wasn’t Smythe’s tome.

“Is there a resource or book that isn’t Smythe’s where I can find out more information on Folk magic, particularly Warders and their wards?”

“Sorry, there’s not a book.”

“So there is some other resource?” At his sly grin she asked, “Someone I know?”

“Do you mean know or know?” He waggled bushy eyebrows. “Because there’s knowing and there’s knowing. On second thought, that’s a second question, I’m out of here.”

With an audible pop he disappeared.

Showoff.

The person had to be Cart. Of course. The one person she didn’t want to be asking.

She chose a locker near the showers and was dried, dressed, and waiting by the time he showed up.

“Food’s next on the agenda,” he told her. “I’ve got the crew waiting in the kitchen.”

The mention of food made her stomach feel like a hollow pit. The kitchen and being around other Weres sounded good to her. Once in the kitchen, her anxiety about Cart hit her full force. Mona slipped on an apron and started on breakfast. She cracked up eggs for French toast as the group talked about the meeting from the previous night. Apparently she’d missed Nic’s recruitment speech, urging youngsters to grow up and be protectors. They crew was impressed.

As she started cooking everything up the discussion turned to leads and trying to figure out what the numbers meant.

“Do we have contacts up in Canada? The stronger the magic user,” Mona said, “the greater the distance he can cover. And this guy seems like he’d be able to cover a great distance.”

Mona had to turn her back to monitor the large griddle, so she only heard the chatter of excitement her comment caused and didn’t see their faces.

Finished, she picked up her plate of hot toast and warm syrup, piled some fruit on top, and went to join them at the folding tables they’d dragged in from somewhere. The rest of the crew hastily stood and lined up to serve themselves from the platter on the stove.

“Once you’re done we’ll head out,” Cart said as she sat. “We’ve got all the equipment ready.”

In less than twenty minutes the half a dozen protectors going with them piled into an oversized SUV leaving Mona and Cart with the jeep they’d used the first day.

“So, how was New York?” she asked once they were settled in.

“Good. Nice to see the gang. There’s only a handful of family. Less than a dozen of us go out on a run. And it is a run. Half of us stay human and ‘run’ through the park with the ‘dogs’ for an hour or so, then we switch.”

“Oh, I keep meaning to ask you what happened with the guy who jumped from the bar.” The bar! “Shit! I missed my shifts this week.”

“Don’t worry, Menlo covered for you.”

“What?” Menlo? Although, now that she thought about it she could see him handling the bartending with his usual self effacing efficiency.

“That’s how he put himself through grad school before he joined the force.”

“Grad school?” Was it typical for people to go to college or more before becoming a protector? She had no idea.

“He has a PhD in psychology. In regards to your other question, Leonardo is doing fine. He’s in New York now. We gave him a couple of options, and he seemed most interested in working in the archives, but it’ll be a bit before we find the right fit.”

“And Averill’s doing okay?”

“I’ve sent Hyram over to train her. We’ve been butting heads, he wants more responsibility so I thought I’d see how he does. Now you tell me—what happened to Herrick?”

Mona did. Knowing Cart wanted to know what happened as well as the reactions of those around, she went into detail, including the fact that he’d called her a bitch.

Judging from Cart’s flushed face and white knuckles on the steering wheel, it was probably a good thing Herrick was gone.

“You need to calm down, Cart,” she said, a little uncomfortable with his rage.

“Can’t help it, everyone in the family is overprotective.” He groaned. “Which reminds me. My mother’s likely to show up soon, since I happened to mention you when I was back home. I can tell you right now, she won’t like you.”

“Mention me?”

“Yes, she jokingly asked if a woman had put me in my foul mood and I said yes. In her opinion, you have a huge strike against you already. She not going to be happy that you’re gorgeous.”

Mona felt the heat of her blush sear her cheeks.

“And smart,” Cart continued. “Not to mention you don’t live in New York City, which is worse than everything else combined. I didn’t even mention you’re a Warder.”

He’d given her an entre to ask about Warders and where they’d live and if he might change, but Mona couldn’t bring herself to ask.

His grin was positively gleeful. “Actually, didn’t tell her because your position means she can’t use hers to intimidate you.”

“Her position?”

“She’s a Titania too, like Tania.”

“But not a Maven.”

“Hell no, too much responsibility and work.” Only a slight touch of irritation tinged his voice.

“So she’s a tad overprotective of her already grown son?”

“She’s not the worst of my family you’ll meet, but if you can handle her, you can handle the rest.”

“Thanks for the heads-up, they say forewarned is forearmed.”

“I only hope you feel that way after you meet her.”

If she couldn’t ask Cart about Warders and their wards, and if he might shift to evil maybe she could ask his mother. Right, she could see that conversation with a woman already predisposed to not liking her. Do you think your son could turn into evil incarnate? She was better off asking Cart.

Surprisingly few impediments sprang up, and they made excellent time, arriving well before Nic and Tania. As soon as they turned into the drive, Cart pulled over to the berm.

“We’ve got a ways to go yet. A good a quarter mile,” Mona said.

“I figured as much. I want my team to carefully examine the ground, given what you ran into, and that’s easier to do on foot.”

A very good point.

They bundled up and got out of the car. The day looked to be warming up nicely. Still cold, but sunny enough that the ice clinging to the trees would occasionally snap and fall.

The group spread out making notes and comments to each other over what they saw and found. Mona tagged along, walking behind them. The tracks and shapes were getting distorted as the sharp edges blurred and softened as the top layer of snow melted into the one below.

Before long, Nic pulled up behind the two cars. Cart and Mona headed back while the rest of the crew kept their slow pace forward. Nic didn’t wait for Tania to get out of the car. He strode over to where the group was examining something. Dressed like a commando with a tech fetish, he had gadgets, rope, and gee-gaws hanging from a utility belt around his waist and banding his chest. Mona hoped they if they needed them they would work around magic. Electronics could be finicky.

Tania came up to Mona and Cart, and deliberately turned her back to the group. As if they needed another hint that she and Nic had argued.

“So, what’s the plan?” Tania asked Cart.

“Don’t know. Yo, Lombard, you got a plan?” he called out.

Funny how Cart’s accent got stronger when he was around his cousin. Tania’s finger tapped out a rapid staccato on her crossed arms, as she was forced to look over at Nic too.

“Figured we’d get closer and see how bad the damage is before we make one,” Nic called over from the group. “That enough to start?”

“Sounds good. Everyone’s here, let’s go.”

On the walk up the drive Cart started asking more detailed questions on the complex and its buildings. He seemed a bit tiffed that Mona didn’t know much about the construction and composition. Oddly, the information had not been included in the bits Smythe passed along.

“Cart?” Tania asked.

“What’s up?”

“Is there anything in your training that might help Mona learn her job? Usually a Warder directly trains his or her successor, but since Abner isn’t around. . .”

“Got it covered.”

That was the first Mona had heard of it. Mona looked at Cart and started to ask him about it, but was forestalled by an infinitesimal shake of his head.

“My mother, Titania Margaret, that is, Aunt Meg,” he turned back to Tania, “is due to arrive later. She’ll probably have something of use.”

“Oh?” Tania sounded disbelieving of her aunt’s helpfulness.

Cart actually laughed. “Hard to believe, huh? But I bet she’ll know something about who Abner was guarding and why. If only the gossip. And Mona can see Mom’s magic, so we can start to narrow down who in the family might have helped build the compound.”

“Hopefully if it was mother or grandmother, Aunt Meg will know,” Tania said.

“It couldn’t have been your father?” Nic asked. Mona wasn’t sure when he’d sidled up, but there he was, pacing along side Tania.

“It might have been,” Tania said, frowning. “I guess it would depend on when it was built. He died shortly after my mother and, as far as I know, rare as it is, I’m his only offspring. We should probably ask Aunt Meg that too.”

Reaching the curve in the drive that lead to the entry gates, they stopped, along with the crew.

The gray stones looked like knocked over dominoes, all leaning askew and slanting, mostly, in the same direction.

Everyone stared at the huge pile of rubble beyond. The castle-like home was in shambles as was the converted stables. The only building left looking mostly intact, was the library. One of the team made to go forward.

“Wait.” Nic’s command had them all looking at him. “The only thing left standing, more or less, is this front gate. Given what I have heard of the destruction of this place, there’s a chance it’s still booby trapped—remember, Tiff? Mona, can you check to see what spells are still there? I can check for non-Folk methods if needed.”

Mona turned and examined the gates, stepping close to see clearly. Odd, very odd; the spell was set more on the inside of the gate.

“I’m not sure, there is still trace magic there, and I can see a bit of the spell but it’s unclear if the spell is to keep us out or something in.”

“Is there another way in?” Nic asked. “A side entrance or emergency gate?”

“He did mention one, but I don’t know where it is.”

“I do.” Tania supplied. “He showed it to me when I first became Maven. It was a while ago, though, so I’m not exactly certain.”

She cocked her head and looked at the gate. The she turned her back and moved her hands in front of her, like she was placing imaginary objects. Shaking her head, she turned back.

“I’ll have to pull up the memory I made,” she said as she sent out a tendril of magic.

“Wait! You’re not doing a spell, are you?” Nic’s tone was laced with annoyance.

“Yes, you do want to know where the other entrance is don’t you?” Tania replied, having halted her actions when he shouted.

“I do, but I don’t think doing a spell is the way to do it,” Nic said rather tersely.

“Do you have a better idea?” Despite her calm voice it was clear she was annoyed. She didn’t realize, Mona suspected, that his worry wasn’t over the magic, but over what might happen to her if there was an offensive spell.

“Nic, the spell’s a passive one,” Cart said. “The magic never builds enough, or goes far enough, to be detected.”

“And I don’t see any traces of magic this far out from the gates, bro,” Mona said, trying to calm him down. “Seems like a safe risk.”

Nic looked at them for a long minute. “Fine, do it.”

Immediately Tania sent the faintest thread of magic out again and said the words to start the spell.

“My memory of my first meeting with Warder Abner Smythe begins thus: We exited the library out onto the front circle. Let’s see, to our right sat the residence for him and his ward.”

As she spoke she gestured, and faint images of each building sprung up. The library, the tallest building in the complex, reached up to Tania’s shoulders.

“To my immediate left was a large stone archway leading back to a small garden, and, then, along the left wall, what’d been stables and a carriage house but was now a garage and workshop. The middle of the circular drive was grass with a shade tree and a fountain.”

Tania looked everything over, then waved her hand again. The scene all morphed into more substantial images, still not solid, but much more clearly defined, except the wall, which they could still see through.

Mona was amazed—she had never seen anything like this before. Given the gasps around her, she wasn’t the only one.

Tania walked through the images and stood, relative to the miniature complex she made, in the same spot they now were.

“My recorded memory of my first meeting with Warder Abner Smythe, starting after we exited the library, went thusly. . .”

The buildings became a scale set, and miniature versions of Tania and Abner appeared in front of the library. Tania’s voice spoke in the still air around them. Tania was in a long, semiformal day gown, stiff with embroidery. Their walk had a slow measured beat likely due to the formalness of the occasion: Smythe showing the new Maven his stronghold. It wasn’t until Mona looked over to see how Nic was dealing with this that she realized Tania wasn’t talking, the spell had recorded her voice.

Nic, like the rest of the protectors, watched with an air of awe and concentration.

“Have you had any call to train another Warder, Warder Abner?” the memory Tania was saying, her voice full sized despite the diminutive appearance. “I’m sure a new Warder would have much to learn from you.”

They all saw Abner preen from the compliment, standing taller and squaring his shoulders.

“Maven, I haven’t yet. Which, in all, is a good thing. Warders only arise when there is need.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, indeed, Maven. That a Warder hasn’t come forth to be trained is beneficial, since having one would mean there is a Folk out there who needs containment.”

“And is that what Warders do? Come forth? You don’t go seek them?”

“Traditionally, those who will become Warders come to the attention of the current Warder through their own actions. My fellow Warders say this is still the case, so I see no reason to go seeking anyone.”

Mona knew Abner well enough to realize he was being blustery, as if he knew she had a good suggestion, but clung to reasons not to.

“I apologize, Abner, it is simply my curiosity that makes me ask, having known from a young age I would be Maven. Where are we going?”

The two were on the walk heading around the side of the library. There, hidden by the angles of the buildings, plantings, and two feet of false façade, was a small path between the residence and the library. The entry was entirely blocked from view unless you were on top of it.

“As part of the tour I wanted to show you the traitor’s gate. Rather, that is what they used to call it. I think the current term is emergency exit. If something should happen and you need to get in without me, you should come this way. The entrance is under the crenellation with three missing bricks. Once keyed, if you put your hand on the wall where it is, the entry will appear. I’ll need a token so an imp can set it up for you.”

“Thank you for your foresight,” Tania said as she undid the ribbon holding her hair. “Let us hope we never need it.”

She handed him the strip and he bowed over her extended hand, before taking it and tucking it into his vest pocket.

“End the memory here,” Tania intoned.

Her and Smythe’s miniatures disappeared and the buildings began to fade away.

A slow beat of silence held everyone.

Mona knew she looked in awe as Tania waved her hand through the wisps of the reenactment still hanging in the air. With each pass of her hand the strands of the energy sank into the Maven. She then stood, straight and stiff, clearly uncomfortable and unwilling to say anything first.

Nic stared at her for a moment before nodding. “Right, then, the traitor’s gate. Everyone ready?”

Cart gestured grandly to Nic. “Protector, I assume you have a plan.”

Mona didn’t doubt that Cart had one too, but for some reason he wanted Nic to lead this part.

“We’ll split up, and check each side for evidence on who did this. Tania and I’ll go counter=clockwise with you two.” He picked a pair out of the group. “Two more of you go with Cart and Mona clockwise. Stay in the trees as much as possible. The other two stay here and guard our backs. If we need your help we’ll find a way to contact you.”

He held up his hands to forestall questions. “I suspect there are traps specifically set for large groups that we want to avoid. Plus, smaller groups can move faster. But no one should continue on by themselves. If the choice is go on alone or turn back, turn back.”

Cart nodded his agreement as Nic spoke. Tania glared at his back.

“To make sure we all head for the same spot, see where there are two tall white pines, right next each other?” Nic continued, pointing at the tops that rose above the devastation. Everyone gave an affirmative sound. “We’ll meet up there before heading in.”

“Sounds good, but don’t wait too long for the next group, as they may have all turned back,” Cart said. “I’d suggest calling an imp to tell the other you’ve made it, but that strikes me as a bad idea.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. Cart looked at the jumble of rocks and forest that we’d need to get through, then at Mona. “You up to this?”

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied.

“How about you, cuz?” Cart’s concerned gaze captured Tania’s. He was giving her an out if she didn’t want to go with Nic, Mona realized.

Tania’s response was to shoot him an annoyed look and walk away, leaving Nic and the others to catch up.

Chapter Fifteen

Walking proved difficult on their side. Beneath the melting snow was a layer of leaves, not to mention fallen branches, making the ground very slippery. Then there were occasional low, rocky outcroppings. They detoured were they could, but sometimes it was just faster to climb over.

At the third such climb, they lost one of their team members to a severely twisted ankle. Cart sent her and their fourth back, telling them not to send anyone else along after them.

“I’d rather have the gate guarded.”

Once they were safely on their way Cart turned to Mona. “You see any magic?”

“Nope,” she replied. “I can’t help if there are any other types of traps, but magic I’ll spot.”

“We can’t risk another injury. Let’s stick to just inside the edge of the forest. It’ll be faster and less likely that either of us will get hurt.” Cart took her hand and started forward. “Even with all the parks in the city, I miss forests.”

“When were you in a forest?” she asked, deciding not to pull her hand away.

“Scouts. Went to camp every summer from the time I was seven until I graduated from college. By then I was an assistant division director. Lots of the Were packs in the city had their own Scout dens.” They both smiled at the play on words.

He held up his hand and she stopped.

“There’s something.” He slowly spun around. “Black bear I think. You talk and keep going, I want to make sure it’s not a shifter.”

Moving silently toward the trees he beckoned her to keep walking forward.

“You talk,” he said, moving silently toward the trees and beckoning her to keep walking forward.

“What? I can’t just come up with a monologue on demand.”

“Here’s a topic to set you babbling: I sent in my notice to the force.”

His pronouncement had the desired affect. Shit, this was bad.

“You what? I can’t believe you did that. Why? I mean, no, well, why is what I mean, but I am not going to go there now. What are you going to do? Not that I don’t think you’d find something to do. If nothing else, Nic can put in a word for you at the agency. That is, um, assuming you are staying in Buffalo. You are staying in Buffalo, right? I don’t want to assume you are, but then you were the one talking about fates and destinies. Which, you know, might be an issue.”

No, no, not going there, not going to say she was worried about what her relationship with her ward might be. “What if I end up someplace else? There’s no reason to assume Buffalo is where I’m going to end up. Particularly with your cousin here, she can do the warding stuff as well, actually, probably better than I can—”

He came running back and grabbed her arm, forcing her to keep up.

“Not a shifter but a sow, let’s get out of her path.”

Without waiting for her reply he let go her arm and Mona followed him on a crisscrossing path through the woods.

Finally, at a slow jog now, Cart lead them back toward the complex, angling far away from where they’d come in. Once they got to the edge, the White Pines Nic had designated were in sight. Cart slowed his pace, aiming them for the other side of the trees, away from the complex. They caromed around the corner, to find Nic in a defensive pose and Tania seated and serenely watching the direction they came from. Their companions were nowhere in sight.

Mona sank down to sit on a log near where Tania sat, in a beam of sunshine. The split trunk of the pine stood between them and the complex, hiding it from view. Later, she’d talk to Cart about his decision.

“You loose your escort too?” Tania asked.

“Larissa twisted an ankle not that far in and we sent her back with Tyrene,” Cart replied. “As Nic said, having a smaller group made it easier to avoid any traps. Where are Frank and Lytel?”

“They found something they wanted to check out. I’m sure you’ll get the details when we get back,” Nic said pacing in front of them. “I want to go take a look at the wall. We’ve found the spot with the missing bricks.”

Mona and Cart waved him along; he was clearly antsy and ready to do something. Tania joined him as he rounded the tree and disappeared out of sight.

“Did you really send in your notice?” Mona had to ask.

“Not yet, although I do have it written up.” He stood and peeked around the tree. “And it’s not really a notice, it’s asking for a sabbatical while we figure out where it is you are going to end up. Then we’ll figure out if I want to transfer to a local place or arrange for something else.”

“Were you going to discuss this with me?” she said.

He stuck his head back behind the tree. “We are discussing it.”

“No, we’re not. You’re listing your plan of action and telling me about it.” Mona held up his hand to forestall his sputtering. “Although I agree that is better than your having sent the notice off before telling me.”

Cart leaned against the tree, all six foot plus of him. A study in nonchalance, so he must be worried. “Do you object?”

That wasn’t the point.

“No,” she said. “I don’t. But, there are complications—”

Tania’s and Nic’s voices raised in disagreement rang through the air. Cart stuck his head back around the tree.

“What’s he doing? Is that—” He bounded off before she could tell him her concerns.

Mona rose from the stump, her legs protesting the movement. She’d ignored the discomfort while running, determined to get away from the bear. Cart stood next to Nic, looking at a contraption resembling a radar gun. Tania had her back to them, her hands sweeping the air in front of the wall. Likely checking for the feel of spells.

“I can’t believe you have that,” Cart said as Mona caught up to him. “We’ve tried to get some, but they’re too new and aren’t on the black market yet.”

“They’re also highly restricted—at least, this type is. Of course, officially, I don’t have this one.” Nic flashed a grin at them before going back to touch the screen. “Okay, let’s look.”

Nic walked to the left and squared himself to the still intact section of the wall. He braced the unit with both hands and pointed at the stonework. All of them, even Tania, crowded around him and stared at the blank screen.

Nic did something and green lines raced down the screen from top to bottom, crisscrossing and multiplying to create the illusion of depth and dimension. The room was pretty much square except for a series of lumps at the bottom.

“That’s the first room, the one on the left?” Tania asked.

“Yeah, wait just a sec, it should fill in, yeah there it goes.”

The green grid had been overlaid with tones of gray, adding a layer of detail missing from lines. They all stared at the images, particularly the human like shapes at the bottom.

“The lumps on the bottom, those look like two mummies,” Tania said.

“There could be bodies there, I don’t know,” Nic said.

“Not alive?” Cart asked.

“Unlikely. They’d have to be holding pretty darned still for their breathing movement to not register.”

They all looked at each other.

“Smythe and his ward.” Mona was the first to say it. Had to be—who else would be in the complex?

“Are you going to be okay?” Cart asked Mona.

“You don’t have to go in, you can stay out,” Nic said.

“Nonsense,” Tania decisive slash of her hand let everyone know what she thought of Nic’s offer. “She knows they are just empty husks, their souls with the goddess. She’ll be fine. Right?”

Mona looked at Cart. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen deceased elves, but for it to be Smythe. The Maven was right, though, she new they were empty husks, Abner’s soul had left its shell behind when he’d sent the spell to transfer knowledge to her. She could do it.

“I’ll be fine.” She shrugged. “And if I’m not I’ll let you know.”

Nic clapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t be a martyr. If you need to step back, step back.” He raised the scanner and the room came back into view. His finger traced a slightly darker area. “This looks like a room, not the hall, although there is a door there. It could be the way in. Let’s see the next space.”

He took several steps to his right and repeated the procedure. This time the image was of a hall. Although a couple of the vertical lines seemed to be wavering.

“Ah, that’s movement, isn’t it?” Cart said. “Those lines that keep changing.”

“Yep.” The image again turned gray and a hall with no apparent end appeared. “Look here.” Nic pointed to a spot to the side. “There seems to be niches built into the walls.”

Cart and Mona uh-huh’ed in agreement; Tania remained silent.

“The first set appears to be empty, but there could be something there that the radar isn’t picking up. The second set definitely has movement,” Nic said as his finger traced the places on the screen.

“Likely something that doesn’t need daylight and can do without food for a while,” Mona said, trying to figure what might be able to do that.

Tania and Cart looked at each other.

“Or something that uses the stones for food,” Cart added. “How regular do the niches seem, are they the same height? No,” he answered his own question, “the one in the front on the right seems to be a bit lower.”

“It could be a stone golem, although it’d be larger than any one I’ve ever heard of,” Tania said.

“Maybe a small mountain ogre?” Cart said.

“Or a quarry Wyrm,” Tania said, “although I haven’t heard of one this far from an actual quarry before. It could be any number of things. The only way to find out is to go in. Shall we?”

She stepped up, and started to place her hand on wall.

“No, wait! Go through the other side first,” Mona said.

“A much better plan,” said Nic.

“Why?” Tania asked.

“It’s easier to open it now, before we see who is in the hall, than to have to come back later if there’s problems,” Nic explained.

“Okay, then, I’ll do this one.” She stepped to her left.

“Wait until Cart and Mona get back behind the tree, could you?” Nic said.

Cart stayed where he was, clearly more reluctant than Mona was to move away from the action. Mona grabbed his hand and dragged him back to the trees. Once there they both immediately peeked around the trunk.

“You really okay?”

“Yeah.”

Nic nodded at Tania. She placed her hand on the wall; spiral tentacles of distortion spread out, pushing aside the stone until a jagged star opening was left.

“Cool,” Mona said.

“Yeah, but not so safe to go through with those edges,” Cart said. He stood on tiptoe trying to see around the two at the wall. “Where are the bodies?”

“What?”

“I can’t see any bodies, wait—”

They watched as Nic reached out and tore down a piece of fabric scrim, which had been painted to look like the inside.

“Now that was cool.” Cart was nodding to himself. “A bit scary that someone went to all that trouble, but cool.”

“And there are the bodies.” Mona could see the residual of magic around them.

Tania leaned over the edge and then stepped in.

“NIC!” Tania’s scream echoed across the clearing as her head slid from view.

He lunged, landing flat on his stomach on the sharp stones.

Mona and Cart scrambled over each other to get around the tree. She felt magic build up in Cart.

“No! Don’t jump!” she hissed at him as she grabbed his arm.

They watched as Nic slid a little further, then his body jerked. Tania gave a short shrill scream. They arrived in time to hear the soft thud of her landing.

“Tania!” Nic leaned over the edge and yelled.

Cart very carefully leaned over the edge of the wall and looked too. He pulled a small flashlight out and shined the beam down.

“It’s muddy, I think she’s okay, although she probably got the wind knocked out of her,” Cart said. He shone the beam quickly around the room before turning it back to the pit.

For it was a pit. Mona peered over the edge of the wall and could see the ragged edge of the hole. Two elves in death shrouds were on either side of the hole. Which made her think the shaft was probably thirty feet or so down, as that would be the correct depth for burial.

She didn’t think she’d mention that to Nic, he might flip.

Nic, in the meantime, was counting to ten under his breath.

“Tania!”

Another count.

Another yell.

“I’m going down no matter what. Even if she’s fine, I’ll need to do it so we can get her back up. It’s still not safe to do magic here.”

Mona didn’t ask how he knew, but he was quite right, there was something off. She looked at the walls, trying to figure out what it was. The thick, planked door to the hall was closed. Whatever was on the other side, they still needed to deal with it.

“Here.” Nic unclipped something from his belt, then unwound the rope he had coiled on his hip. “Make a winch so I can repel down.”

“Right.” Cart stepped back and looked at the crenellated edge of the wall.

“Tania!” Nic called again.

Nothing. Cart set the unit up and helped Nic rig some type of harness.

“Here.” The soft call echoed up the hole.

Nic scrambled back to the edge and looked down.

“You okay?”

“I’m okay. Got my breath knocked out. Give me a minute.”

Nic stood and finished tying up the knots. “I’m going down before she can say I shouldn’t,” he said in a low voice.

“Easier to just not ask sometimes,” Cart agreed.

Nic climbed over the edge and nodded at Cart. He began to slowly go down while Cart fed him rope at a steady rate.

Mona kept an eye on the door and examined the room again. There was something to the side of one of the bodies, a book and some runes in the corner. Part of a containment spell, but not the main portion. That was through the door and on the other side.

And there was a scraping against they heavy wood of the door from the beings in the hall. She looked over at Cart. He shook his head at her.

The rope had stopped moving.

“Wait,” Cart said in a low voice. “It’ll take them a little while to get through. And Nic and Tania are more likely to get hurt if we make them rush.”

Slowly, although it probably wasn’t as long as the anticipation made it seem, more scraping sounds came from the door.

“Yo,” Cart called down after a particularly violent push made the door shudder. Mona could tell he was worried—his New York accent was strong again. “You okay down there?”

“Almost ready to come up,” Nic replied.

“Good,” came Cart’s voice again, “‘cause we’re starting to have a situation here.”

Fairly quickly, Nic called up that they were ready.

The voices seemed to spur the beings into action because the beating at the door became furious. With a tremendous screech the wood splintered and a small gap appeared between the boards.

Briefly a blue-gray, scale covered hand along with a short, reptilian snout appeared before slipping back out of sight.

“Damn,” Cart muttered. “I haven’t seen that type of Wyrm before. Nic, I need you to hurry up!” Cart’s voice was calm, but the urgency was clear. His head swiveled back and forth between the rope he was bracing and the door. With the next pass, the splintering hole got larger. He jerked his head at Mona, indicating he wanted her to leave. “Go back to the trees. If I need to I can jump to you.”

She ignored him and stayed. He called “Hold on!” down to Nic, whose head was barely visible from where they stood outside the room. Stepping back, he secured the rope around the outcropping. He started to scale the wall, heading up to where the rope was over a crenellation.

“Go!” he yelled at her.

Mona ran to the trees, fairly certain that Nic and Tania were close enough to the top that they’d be okay. Nic was beyond resourceful.

She had to think that, or she’d be turning back.

Steps from the tree, a wave of magic washed over her, making her skin itch. Instinctively she threw herself flat on the ground and covered her head. Small projectiles staccatoed against the bark of the trees. When she looked up, thin quills were embedded deep in the wood.

Another surge, different this time. She started to scamper to the relative safety of the pines, backwards so she could see what it was and defend herself.

Mona’s ears popped and Nic and Tania appeared, then collapsed onto the ground where she had just been. Nic immediately rolled off Tania and pulled out a knife.

“You could have warned me,” Mona hissed. Okay, she knew it was an asinine thing to say, but if she hadn’t moved, she’d have been under the pair as they landed. Like that was the biggest of their problems. Mona looked back at the complex. The faint outlines of a beacon spell hung by the opening, like a faded pennant. Except in this case Mona knew each act of magic would strengthen the spell until the beacon would go off and the mage’s creatures would come.

“Nic, get down!” Tania yelled as she crawled to join Mona behind the tree.

He complied, managing to keep the knife out as he elbowed his way over.

“Did Cart say what they were?” Tania asked.

“‘Damn, I haven’t seen that type of Wyrm before’ were his words.” Mona shrugged.

“What’s a Wyrm?” Nic asked.

“In this case,” Tania said as she worked to free herself of the harness Nic had rigged up, “a reptile-like creature that can eat through rock. I want to get closer. Nic, I’ll put a shield up but you’d have to stay behind me or you won’t be covered.”

“Let’s go,” Nic said.

Tania stepped out from behind the tree, and Mona saw her build a shield of magic in front of her. It was a beautiful spell, a single rune, wall, modified by a sigil controlling the size.

A surge of magic pressed against her again.

“Watch out!” Mona said as she ducked.

She heard the projectiles hit the shield with an angry ping of energy.

“Damn, those things came fast,” Nic muttered.

Nic and Tania began to walk forward. Mona peered at them from between the two trunks, only able to see a small patch of the ground between her and the Wyrms. After seeing the deep holes left by the second set of quills she was happy to live with the limited view.

Nic and Tania stopped about ten feet out and scanned the wall. Cart had a large pile of slush set between two crenellations, the edge of which dripped onto the ground in front of the opening. How he’d managed to pile it up she didn’t know and her hindered view didn’t help.

Another brush of magic against her skin pulled her attention away from Cart. Tania knelt. In her hand was a knife and Mona saw the runes that would merge stone with the metal form. The flare of magic as the working took hold was strong enough that Mona shut her eyes. When she opened them again Nick sat crouched next to Tania, sucking and spitting from her finger, as if she had venom in it.

Tania jerked her hand away and he took a swig from his water bottle, which he spit out as well.

Mona looked back at the wall, wondering why the creatures were doing nothing during this time.

Tania looked over too, said something to Nic and they started forward, hunched over. The closer they got, the smaller they made themselves.

“Hey, there, rock munchers, come and pick on someone who can fight you, why don’t ya?” Cart yelled suddenly, startling them all.

A slight shifting sound from inside the cave, but neither came out.

Tania and Nic were having a whispered conference slightly to the side of the hole.

Suddenly Nic stood and shouted. “Hurry up! We’ve got to get the goods out of here by dark. We’ll get a great price for them only if we don’t miss the deadline.”

Tania scrambled to get the shield up and in front of Mona’s foolish brother. Cart was braced to send the slush down.

Nothing happened.

“Wait!” Tania yelled at them both.

There was a tense silence before she spoke again.

“Wyrms, I am Maven Titania Greymantle, ruler of the Folk in this area. I promise to help you get back to where you belong, if you promise to help us discover who ruined this complex.”

No answer.

“Tap twice if you both are willing to work with us,” she said.

The dripping of the melting snow sounded like a gong in the silence that followed.

Two taps.

“Okay . . . um . . . thank you for your cooperation,” Tania said. “For the safety of both sides I need to put a cooperative binding on you and on us. If you disagree at any point with what I say, tap three times and I’ll stop. Again, tap twice if this is suitable for you.”

Two taps came rapidly. Mona wondered at the intelligence of the creatures.

“If you’ll allow me, I’d like to come close enough to see if I can heal you. Would that be acceptable?”

The creatures were hurt? She wasn’t sure how Tania had come to that conclusion, but then, Tania was a lot closer.

No taps this time. They waited and finally a claw feebly reached up, grasped the rocks on the bottom edge. The elbow kept dipping up and down in a futile effort to raise the Wyrm’s body.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. . .” Tania dropped the shield and strode up to the wall. Nic followed her more closely than a shadow.

She leaned in and started talking to the Wyrms; Mona could almost see the calm she was projecting at them. Cart swung down and leaned in to have a whispered conversation with Nic. He looked back at Mona at one point, then continued on.

Mona didn’t mind being out of it. It was one thing to be immune to a spell directed at her, missiles, rocks, and bullets were another matter and, despite Cart’s assertion that she put herself in danger without thought, she liked her skin too much to risk it.

Tania asked for the rope, breaking up the guys’ conversation. She wrapped an end around her waist and climbed back into the room. Good precaution in case she fell again.

Once Tania was in, Mona crept forward. The now familiar feeling of a warm breeze brushing against her body as Tania worked magic strengthened the closer she got to the working. She was not close enough yet to tell exactly what Tania did.

Cart met her not too far from the doorway. “Glad to see you can listen well.”

“Only when I agree it’s the best choice. What’s Tania doing?”

“Apparently they have some kind slow acting poison in them. Obsidian? And she’s getting it out before they die from it.”

Mona edged closer in time to hear the one talk.

“Do it,” a voice croaked, high and raspy, like a lounge singer whose voice had stayed soprano. “I’ll make sure he is taken care of.”

Tania created a wire thin lasso of magic and removed the foul piece from the scaly skin of the male one the floor. Or at least Mona thought it was male, given what the other had said.

With beautiful economy, Tania used the line to slide healing magic in the puncture wound. Nic’s hand was on her shoulder, and a strong line of energy passed from him to her. Mona wondered if Tania realized he was augmenting her. The thread was so faint, she might not have picked it up, had she not been so close.

A loud flatulation rent the air and Nic was sprayed with a thick, stinking mess. Oh dear, the Wyrm had lost control of its bowels. Tania’s lap somehow only got a trickle, which she ignored.

Nic stood, dripped, and tried to shake off the mess. Ineffectually, trying to not spatter everyone, he shook one arm then the other. Globs fell with splats on the stone floor. Most of the excrement seemed to be on his parka, although there was a definite thick splash across both sets of knuckles. Plus some on his face, a wide arc on the right side from temple to chin.

Tania looked over at Nic and suggested he go scrub it off with snow. Not speaking, and holding his hands up and away from most of the ick, he turned to go.

“Yo! Cart! Nic needs a hand here!” Tania called out.

Tania explained to the Wyrms someone else would be in to help. Making room for Cart, Mona backed out of the entryway, keeping close to the edges and moving away from the gaping hole in the floor.

Cart scooped up a big handful of slushy snow then climbed through.

“Hey Rock Lady,” he said and bowed to the Wyrm. He lifted his handful of slush toward Nic. “I can’t tell you how much fun this is going to be!”

Nic did not move.

Shit! Something had happened and he was frozen in position. Mona moved closer—magic? She didn’t see a spell.

“Nic?” she said. “Nic!”

Cart started to reach out to Nic.

“Stop!” Tania yelled as she scrambled to stand. “Don’t touch him!”

Tania sent a tendril of magic into Nic, and relaxed only a fraction once it connected. “Imps! I need three imps! Now!” she demanded.

Three bobbed into existence at Nic’s shoulders. And, oh dear, Mona could almost see the tracing magic following them. They needed to act quickly and get out of here before something was sent through the connection. Something she wasn’t sure they were ready to face.

“Clean this mess off his face and hands, anywhere it touches his skin,” Tania directed. Tania used her line like a beacon and directed the imps to the worst spots, starting with the crescent on the right side of his face. “Start here.”

Each place she pointed, the imps came over to quickly touch it then went back to hovering by his shoulder. Nic’s face and hands were blurred by rapidly moving lights.

While they did that, Tania was doing something to his body to heal it. Mona watched as a laser point of magic burned up bits inside him, in his veins, she thought. Mona had no idea how Tania knew where and what to do until she remembered the Maven had done a full imprint of him at some point.

His jaw worked first and he spit out any residual from his lips. Then his eyes blinked. He shifted his shoulders and began to lower his arms, causing the residue to start to slide down.

“Don’t!” everyone cried, including the female Wyrm.

Nic put his hands back up.

“Go!” the female Wyrm said. “Take care of your protector. This one and his companion will stay and help me.”

The Wyrm pointed to Cart and Mona. Cart bowed in response.

Tania didn’t hesitate. She slid on a glove and grabbed the one wrist that had been cleaned. With a pop and a gust of magic, she jumped them both out.

Chapter Sixteen

The tracer spell was now starting to glow with a distinctly evil cast Mona knew too well. The runes were simple enough, but with the sigils convoluted by dark maroon markings, she couldn’t change it around.

Mona looked at it again. Smythe’s memories told her that the darker color she’d been seeing meant someone was reworking the spells. Whoever was creating them had someone helping him make them stronger. This was a kink she’d need to share with the group later.

She nudged the rune that monitored the build up of magic. Not even a quarter of a turn, but it would buy them a little more time.

“You, get someone to help us now,” the Wyrm demanded of Cart.

“About that—”

Mona didn’t know what Cart had been planning to say, but she needed to get them out of there so she interrupted. “Ma’am, I am the Warder for this area. I will help you. However, with our Maven being busy it may take us a little longer than ‘right now.’ We’d be better off moving you out of here and then seeking someone to help.”

The Wyrm lying on the ground twitched, his leg jerking with spasms beneath him.

“You neglect to understand, I need to get us back so I can use our medicines to heal him.” Even through the unusual accent her demand was clear.

Cart looked at Mona, consternation on his face. “Okay, I can get someone now,” he said, “but it ain’t gonna be pretty. Yo, imp, please tell Titania Margaret thus: Were Trainer Dupree needs Titania Margaret’s help immediately. Dress for outdoor, arctic, work conditions. I’ll owe you one. Thank you.”

The imps, who’d stayed after Tania had called them, spun around like tops and then disappeared. The tracing spell became clearer, but fortunately didn’t activate yet. Each act of magic seemed to strengthen it. Better make sure they were ready to go when help got there, since that might be the final trigger to set it off.

“Here,” Mona said as she climbed into the space, determinedly not looking at the shrouds, “let me see what I can do so we can be ready when help arrives.”

Tania had removed the splinter but Mona could see there was still residue in him. And around both of them. Something was keeping them in this place.

Mona walked closer to the door. There, embedded in the lintel, were the remains of the spell, bathed in the same color as the rapidly growing tracer spell. Setting aside that observation to share with Cart later, she looked the lintel markings over.

Simple, neat, and hard to change; however the working was at its most, a basic containment spell and those she did know how to manipulate. Mona could move two of the points and set a new perimeter. So long as she didn’t make the new places too close or even together, this should work.

“Ma’am—” Mona turned to ask the Wyrm a question and was cut off.

“You may call me Rushka, Warder.”

Mona didn’t know if that was a name or a title so she opted to bow her shoulders in acknowledgement.

“Rushka, a spell has been set around this space to contain you in this area. While I cannot disable this spell without injuring you, I can change the spell so that you and your companion would be considered part of the walls of the room.”

“Which would make them free to leave this place, since the spell would adjust to the new room size. Nice trick,” Cart said.

Mona wondered, again, just how much magic Cart could see. Far more than she expected.

“If I may have your permission?” she asked.

“No harm would come to us?”

Mona had to think this over. “I don’t believe so, not from transferring the spell. However, I can’t say long-term what the consequences of being thought of as a wall might be.”

She waved a claw at this. “I can have the spell changed once home. You may do it.”

Mona looked over the placement of the five points one more time, given she would need to touch the runes to manipulate them. The easiest perimeter rune was the one by the lintel, but that was also an anchor for the spell—indeed, their passing through the door had triggered the spell. How Mona hadn’t seen it earlier, she had no idea.

Then there were the ones side by side over the wall they’d come in, and thus the gaping hole. Those would be almost impossible to get to.

She’d have to go with the two high in the corners over the shrouds. Lucky her.

Trying to figure out how to get to the corners without disturbing Smythe and his ward, she checked the tracking spell. No changes from the last time. Looked as if so long as they didn’t do any magic, the spell would remain static.

“Cart, I need to climb up into that corner to get part of the spell I need to move. Any suggestions?”

“Well, first, I can’t move the bodies, don’t ask me to.”

Even she knew the ceremonies and rituals enough to know he couldn’t touch them—no one with elf blood could. Even the faintest touch might leave some residual magic that would cause soul to linger, instead of going back to the heart of the goddess as it was supposed to. The ritual was very clear. A plot had to be dug—by hand, no magic could be used—to the correct depth. Once dug, only then could an imp be asked to move the bodies. Even though Mona was pretty sure both spirits were gone, she wasn’t about to ask him to do something she wouldn’t do herself.

Although. . .she stepped close to the edge of the shaft and peered down. If it wasn’t thirty-six feet, it was close. There looked to be a bit of magic at the bottom, but it was hard to tell from this distance. Besides, Tania would have said something, right?

She turned to find Cart standing besides her with a speculative look in his eye. He’d come over to peer down too.

“It couldn’t hurt to ask, could it? I can phrase it so if it’s not correct they won’t move them.”

Cart shrugged.

Shit, though, there was that tracking spell. She looked at the semi-opaque working hanging like a drift of fog by the entrance. Would calling an imp provide enough energy to trigger it? Probably not, given how much had already been done. With no other way to get the Wyrms out, calling an imp was a risk they’d have to take.

Mona looked at the Wyrm to see if she had any advice, but Rushka was bent over her companion, stroking his shoulder and whispering something to him.

“I’d like an imp please, for possible burial of these unnamed Folk.”

Three imps appeared, startling her. Mona looked over at the working. No change. She looked back at the imps. No additional tracking runes seemed to be on these imps. No time to speculate why.

“Thank you. Can one of you please verify if the depth of this plot is correct, while another please see if you can verify that it was, indeed dug by hand?”

They didn’t move but immediately both blurted out, “Yes.”

Cart narrowed his eyes at the imps and shot her a wary glance. Mona agreed—something seemed off.

“Will the rites be observed if we were to ask you to place the bodies down there?” he asked.

All three chimed “yes” but threw off yellow sparks of agitation.

“Does a reason exist why it would not be in our interests or the interests of the families of the deceased to put them down there?” he asked.

They started bobbing frantically up and down, as if they were nodding but unable to bring themselves to say yes.

“Maybe we should ask if a reason exists why it would not be in the imps’ interest to put the deceased down there?” Mona said.

“YES! YES!” The answer echoed through the space loudly, and they all, even the Wyrm, leaned back in shock.

“I will not ask you to perform a duty that is hazardous to you. Is there a way to perform the duty without hazard to you?” she asked, with little hope.

They spun blue, thinking on it.

“Wyrm help,” one said.

They both turned to the Wyrm.

“Do you know how they might want you to help?” Mona asked, knowing the imps were unlikely to give them more information.

Rushka slowly rose, then shuffled over and peered down the hole. Showing no fear of falling in, she leaned far over, her tail twitching. She tapped the sides of the pit as far down as she could reach. Pebbles skittered and a chunk of earth fell. Sitting back on her legs and tail, she tapped the ground on either side of the pit.

“The area is unstable. Possibility exists that once the bodies are down, a spell has been sent to make implosion.”

Mona noticed the imps were bobbing eagerly at this information.

“The sparklyflies, they know this. I can make stable so long as I am near, but once I leave it will fall.”

“Does it take a lot of energy?” Cart said, clearly plotting something out. “If we needed you to hold it for, say, an hour, would you be able to do that?”

How long did he expect his mother to take?

“A little energy to set the spell and nothing to maintain,” Rushka clarified.

“What are you planning?” Mona asked.

“Once the remains are moved you still need to scale the rubble, and I don’t know of a way to stabilize it. Unless you could do that too?” he asked Rushka.

“The shaft and room will be stable until changed. I can maintain this stability. The pile is inherently unstable, I cannot maintain something that is not.”

“Thank you for letting us know,” Mona said. She turned to Cart. “If there’s a chance everything will come down, or that we’d disturb the shrouds, I won’t climb it. It isn’t safe for everyone down here.”

“Right. And we can’t move anyone until you climb it. However,” and he looked uncomfortable, in an I’m-not-sure-how-you’ll-take-this kind of way, “I could shift, if you’re okay with that. Once changed, I’d probably be able to keep my bottom feet on the floor, work my way cautiously up the pile with my front paws, then brace them on the walls. You could then clamber over and up me. Wouldn’t be very comfortable for me, but it might work.”

Mona looked at the corner—the ceiling was a good ten feet up and the pile of dirt and rocks went up almost to the top, not to mention the spread at the bottom.

“What do you turn into? A saber-tooth?”

“Nah, Weres can’t be extinct animals, don’t know why that is. Although I do have an uncle who turns into a Persian tiger, but then they weren’t extinct when he was born. Me, I turn into a Siberian Tiger.”

Cart would become an animal. A tiger. Something about it was just a tad creepy. She knew he was a Were, a first generation one, which were always strong enough to shift. Why she hadn’t thought it through that she might actually see him change from human to beast, she didn’t know.

“Will he fit in here?” This from the Wyrm.

“I think I will, ma’am. If it bothers you, though, I won’t change. I’m sure we could come up with something.”

“Your help will be here soon, yes? Maybe we should wait for her?” the Wyrm suggested.

“Well, there is a chance she might be here soon. But she’s her own boss, so I wouldn’t count on it. I think it’d be best to have you ready to go, so when my mother gets here she doesn’t have to do more than get you back.”

“I have no problem then. Does your mate?” She looked at Mona.

Mona decided not to correct the assumption. “I’m fine. Ready to have you do your part.”

“Right,” Cart said. “I think, Rushka, it might be safer to stabilize things before the imps pick up the bodies.”

“I have already done so.”

Mona blinked and realized a fine net of power in a color similar to the stone emanated from Rushka.

“Mona, could you direct the imps?” Cart asked.

She had called them so it was up to her to do the next part.

“Imps, could you please lift the Folk and hold them in a place in or near the shaft where you are certain you will not come to harm? Only place them at the bottom if you are sure you will not be harmed by doing so.”

Between one blink and the next the bodies were moved and the imps were gone and Smythe and his mate were in their final resting place. Later she’d burn incense and pass his praise to the goddess; now she had to get the Wyrms to safety.

Mona turned to face Cart, who was divesting himself of his knapsack, coat, and utility belt.

“Next step?”

“You sure you want to watch?” He shrugged out of his sweater and shirt in one motion.

His shoulders were already widening, his body adding bulk as it prepared for the shift. He looked like a cartoon version of his usual heavily muscled self.

“I think I need to.” Partly to convince herself it really was him, partly because she wasn’t really sure what her reaction was going to be.

Unsnapping his pants, he leaned toward her. His scent and warmth made her want to wrap her arms and legs around him and. . .

Better not to go there.

Smiling, as if he knew her reaction, he kissed her nose. “Love you.”

What?

He stepped back and green healthy magic swirled around and through him, spinning quickly and making a barrier she couldn’t see through.

The barrier expanded and the edge reached her. The magic caressed her cheeks, leaving light prickles of magic in its wake, before brushing across her body intimately. Startlingly aroused from the contact, she blinked slowly in an attempt to regain her equilibrium.

A huge—huge! He had to be ten feet long—tiger stood on a pile of clothes. Black and orange with faint strips of white, he was both the most beautiful and scary thing she’d ever seen.

He stepped toward her, only to stop. Looking back over his shoulder, he lifted a hind leg and shook it free of the waistband of his pants.

“Oh!” Mona fought the need to back up, ignoring the part of her that was screaming, “tigers are carnivores” and the top of their food chain.

Another part was amazed at his closeness and beauty.

Good thing the latter part won the day.

Did he understand her when he was a beast? He had to, right?

“If you get off your clothes I’ll pick them up so they won’t get as cold and dirty.”

He gave a solid shake of his fur, sending the stripes rippling, and moved over to a pile of rock in the corner. Setting his front paws on it, he quickly scaled to the top, his huge, padded feet not disturbing the pile. He stretched out over it, looking like a cat scratching a tree.

Mona picked up the clothes and absentmindedly folded them, trying to figure out how to scale his back. Not so easy, knowing that Cart was under there. Not under there, but in there.

No, that wasn’t right either.

Unable to wrap her mind around the concept, she set the pants with the rest of his outfit before approaching him. His faintly musky odor was stronger, enticing. If this scent carried over when he changed back she’d have a hard time controlling the urges building up in her. Cart rumbled, and she knew he’d picked up on her body’s reaction to his elemental scent. Damn the man.

She put one hand on his flank. The fur was thick like velvet but a little bit coarser. She burrowed her hand in, wondering if he had an undercoat. Cart shook his fur. Right, now was not the time to explore this.

Mona would work her way up along side Cart before clambering up him. Tigers weren’t designed to be ladders and she had no idea how she’d scale him. Placing one hand on him to brace herself, she started climbing the pile.

The rubble shifted at her first step; a pebble skittered down, loosening several others in its path. The second step was worse. Mona found herself sliding back to the floor. Cart’s massive head was turned and his black eyes watched her every move.

Predator. Ignoring the thought, she examined his sleek back.

“I can’t climb onto you when you’re like that, Cart.”

“Maybe climb on before, yes?” Rushka said.

If Mona didn’t know better, she’d say amusement laced her voice.

Cart lifted his paws, turned, and with an audible oomph of fur, landed next to her. His head butted her hand and she caressed his ears, so soft, they reminded her of silk. With a rumble he lay down on the floor, his massive shoulders by her feet.

Mona look a deep breath, quelled her trembling limbs, and climbed on. His scent enveloped her, making her both relax and tense. She wrapped her hands around his neck, leaned forward, and whispered in his ear. “I will not forgive myself if I hurt you.”

He shook his head, somehow making her think he was laughing at the thought that she could hurt him. He did have a point.

He reared up slowly, allowing her to adjust her weight and balance. Three carefully placed steps up the pile with his front paws and the rune was within reach. Mona grabbed it and he hopped down.

Sliding off Cart’s back, she put the rune on the Wyrm’s companion. Somehow she knew Rushka wanted him safe first. The Wyrm nodded in approval.

Mona glanced over at the beacon spell—still in stasis, good.

The other corner was past the pit and the ledge on either side was narrow. The good news was that the rough wall had plenty of handholds. Mona flattened herself against the wall and started to cautiously slide one foot out, figuring Cart would make it on his own the other side.

Her free wrist was gently engulfed in the tiger’s mouth. Warm, not wet, with a faint rasp to his tongue, he gently pulled her away from the edge. Mona let him lead her away from the edge.

“I have to get to the other side, you know that.”

He lay down, wrapping himself around her and again putting his shoulder by her knees.

“You’re joking, right?”

His response was to curl himself more tightly, making it impossible for her to move.

“I am not going to sit on you while you jump over.”

“Why not? You trust him.” This from the Wyrm.

“Yes, but—”

“His way is safe, possibly safer than trying to cross yourself.”

“Yes, but—”

“He is offering, you are not demanding. You are not demeaning him.”

His head bumped against her hip, a bit hard, as if he was trying to knock some sense into her.

“Fine.” Mona clearly was not going to win this argument. This time she settled herself just below his shoulder blades; she didn’t want to impede his movement. Not worried about hurting him, she grabbed fistfuls of fur and leaned forward.

“Ready.”

Under her legs she felt his muscles tense. A slight jerk and he launched himself at the other side.

Oh so briefly, Mona felt weightless.

With a thud they landed. She pitched forward, rattling her teeth as her chest hit his back.

“Ouch.”

Before she recovered, he started to scale the pile on this side. Without thinking she grabbed the rune. He jumped down and was about to spring back across when she noticed something on the floor. The old book she’d noticed earlier next to one of the shrouds.

And set under it was what she knew to be Smythe’s last log.

“Wait a sec. I need to get something else.”

Mona slid off his back and reached down for the packet. The fizzle of magic worked close by hit her like a static shock. Quickly she tucked the two in the front of her jacket and then stood with her hand gripping Cart’s ruff.

Across the pit, a woman appeared.

Mona blinked a couple of times to make sure she was seeing what she was seeing. The image didn’t change.

The woman was older but still stunning, tight pants and cinched jacket with bosom spilling out aside. Something about her reminded Mona of an older starlet clinging desperately to the vestiges of her youth. The ski bunny attire only added to the impression.

This had to be Cart’s mother.

Mona did her best to keep her face blank while the woman glared at her.

Cart shook her hand off and in an instant changed himself back, magic again swirling around both their bodies intimately. He stepped behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Whether it was out of modesty or not, she appreciated the gesture.

“Titania Margaret,” Mona said as Cart drew his breath in to speak. “So pleased to meet you. Cart said to expect you.”

Mona could see she debated whether to even answer. When she did she addressed her reply to Cart.

“Here I am.” Her voice was rich with the resonance of southern gentility laced through it.

Cart took Mona’s arm and they stepped across the hole to his mother, colors and stone blurring only slightly at the small jump.

“Mother, glad you could make it,” he said as he slipped his pants on.

Mona wasn’t sure how he maintained his dignity, but he managed to sound sincere and in charge. And not at all embarrassed by his nudity.

Leaving him to deal with the woman, she placed the rune on Rushka. The Wyrm was staring, eyes slit, at the Titania.

“Rushka, Titania Margaret is going to help you and your companion to get back home,” Mona said as she stood and moved to Cart’s side. “What information do you need from her, Titania?”

“She knows where it is,” said Rushka.

“I know where it is,” said Titania Margaret at the same time.

Cart paused for only a heartbeat. “Then this should be quick. Should we wait here for you, Mother, or have you set up residence yet?”

“With you owing me something, you can wait right here for me.”

Somehow Mona got the impression she was using the singular you, and not “you both.” Mona ignored her. They couldn’t stay here, but now wasn’t the time to push.

“Is there anything you need before you go?” Mona asked Rushka.

“No, thank you. May you and yours find comfort in safety.”

Mona smiled at the colloquial Folk saying.

“And may you and yours prosper in peace,” she replied.

As soon as she moved out of the way, Cart’s mother stepped in and put her hand on Rushka’s shoulder.

“Which will it be, the plateau or the cavern?” she asked.

“The cavern. I can ensure your safety.”

“I was expecting you would.”

They all disappeared in a shimmer of magic.

“I’d be interested to hear that story some day,” Mona said.

Cart harrumphed.

“So, how long is she going to hold the ‘you owe me’ over your head?” Mona asked.

He threw his head back and laughed. “No beating around the bush with you, is there? I’d say she’ll hold it over my head for less than a minute. This’ll be fun. Watch.”

I’m not sure how he knew his mother was on her way back, but as soon as he was done she felt the static charge of her magic again.

“There you are, dear, all done and settled. Now,” she said, completely ignoring Mona’s presence, “about that debt.”

A feline smile stretched her mouth and she looked nothing so much like a cat about to get cream.

Mona saw the shudder Cart suppressed even if she didn’t.

Shit, the spell. Mona looked over at the tracking spell. The runes were now solid enough that she could manipulate them. Given her previous history with these spells, she didn’t want to do much.

“I assume you want to know if there is a male elf or elfling of sufficient blood to have rank that I could introduce you to?” Cart asked his mother.

Mona reached out and tweaked the location setting, just a touch. If she’d done it right, whatever was sent would now land in the middle of the ruined Warder’s complex and not where they were.

Or, oh shit, they might go to Rushka. No, the spell was here, and hadn’t disappeared when they had.

“As always, shugah.”

Wait, Cart’s mom wanted to meet an elfling—a not-as-yet-fully-come-into-his-powers male elf? Mona began to see where Cart was going to take this. She couldn’t wait to see the fun.

“Before we take your mother to meet him, don’t you think we ought to give her a chance to freshen up?” Mona smiled at her. “I’m sure you’re going to want to put on an outfit more fitting for your introduction.”

Titania Margaret’s smile turned almost feral. “So right you are. I’ll just pop over to the cozy shack Randall set up for me, and meet Cart, in say half an hour darling?”

Cart’s mother narrowed her eyes and darted her gaze back and forth between the two of them. “And no contacting him before then, you hear?”

“No problem, see you then,” Cart said.

She blinked out of existence.

“Well, I see where you get your firecracker determination from,” Mona said. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here. There’s a spell about to go off and I want to change too.”

“I’m going to focus on that last part.” Cart cupped his hands around her face. “You don’t take any shit from my mom, you hear? I love you and nothing will change that.”

An uncomfortably hot sear of magic as the tracking working kicked in raced across her flesh and she gasped. He didn’t give her a chance to respond, his lips devouring hers as the world slid by.

Chapter Seventeen

Thirty-five minutes later, after an all too brief stopover at her apartment, they were waiting by Cart’s mother’s front door. Cart had been initially disappointed that she’d nixed his plans, but understood why she wanted to light the funeral incense right away. He’d even added some of his own commendations of Smythe’s character.

Mona looked around. Dried vines on wire trellises glowed blue from the setting winter sun. She knew this place—it was the abandoned stone house in the vineyard Nic’s house backed onto. She’d spent many hours of her youth wondering who might have lived here and why.

A brownie peeked out from under the snow-laden bushes before popping back in. Vineyards were home to many non-human Folk creatures, grapes and wine being close to the goddess’s heart.

Titania Margaret opened the door, the house lights spilling over and silhouetting her for a moment before she stepped out and glared at the pair. The look on her face could have peeled paint. Oh, this was going to be fun. Although Tania might not think it as fun as she and Cart did.

Mona tucked her hand into the crook of Cart’s arm, watching the woman studiously ignore the action.

“I see you brought a sidekick. Trying to educate her on Folk customs and ranking?”

Titania Margaret wouldn’t see any magic on Mona. Although why she thought Cart would be dragging a mortal around with him was beyond her.

“She has a right to be here,” Cart said as he took hold of his mother’s elbow. He looked at Mona.

She pictured the front steps of Nic’s house. A brief sense of displacement and they were there.

Cart’s mother stepped in front of them, placing herself squarely to be first through the door.

“Really, this is a private matter. We’ll talk about it later.” She pressed the doorbell.

“We’ll talk about it now, Ms. Dupree,” Mona said as she slipped in front of the woman and opened the door, intentionally not using the title Titania.

“She’s part of his family, Mother.”

“Yeppers, I am at that.” Mona stepped in and shrugged out of her coat. “Hello!”

“In the sunroom,” Nic responded.

“Sunroom? Why would you call it a sunroom?” Cart’s mother’s voice had lost a bit of its sultry edge. Hmm, perhaps she was annoyed. Well, so was Mona.

Ever polite, Mona took the coats and hung them up in the vestibule while Cart’s mother’s rant about sunrooms and solariums continued. Titania Margaret now wore black leggings, high heels, and a belted black tunic with a low keyhole neckline. With her styled blond hair, she looked like Ava Gabor getting ready for a pinup shot. Except she was older by a good century if Mona was any judge.

“What a useless phrase, since one clearly uses it when the sun is not around. Solarium means the same thing, doesn’t it. Really, the proper name is a conservatory. Although, of course, they’re not used as such anymore, are they? No need to be growing plants in the house for fresh fruit these days.”

Mona was the only one who noticed Cart stumbled a bit on the step. Shit, with all the jumping and shifting he must have used a tremendous amount of energy. Food. She smelled something cooking. Good. They both needed it.

“Mother,” Cart interrupted as she paused to take a breath, “Mona is staying. Not only is she with me, but this is her family’s house. You are correct, she doesn’t need to be here, but I want her here.”

“I’m with Cart, so you might as well get used to it.” At least for now, until they could talk over how Mona being a Warder affected their relationship and that “I love you” she’d still not responded to. Mona shut the closet and headed to the kitchen. “Hey, Nic, is there enough grub here for us to grab a bite? We haven’t eaten yet.”

Behind her, Cart stayed by the door, held fast by his mother. That conversation she ignored.

“Sure, there’s enough for anyone who would like some.” Nic rounded the corner from the sunroom and gave her a quick hug. He smelled like Tania and soap. You’d never guess from looking at him that less than two hours ago, he’d been completely paralyzed by poison.

“All right?” he whispered.

“I’m fine. You okay?” she whispered back.

He nodded.

“Get ready for fireworks,” Mona replied, winking at him.

He stepped back and kept his face blank.

“Thanks,” she said, louder. “You defrost some of my Salmon en Croute? Smells great!”

Taking two plates, she served generous helpings of the holiday sized puff pastry dish. Early in the fall, when she’d been worried about a test Smythe was getting her ready for, she’d come over and cooked up a storm. Nic had been left with a freezer full of food and no answers for why she was so anxious. Though that hadn’t stopped him from complaining they’d never have enough people over to eat all of it—particularly this one, which normally might have fed ten people. Given how hungry she was, and she suspected Cart was as well, she’d bet between the five of them, they’d made a good showing. He’d also heated up the side she’d made, so she added equal sized portions of the root vegetables from the pan next to it.

She looked over the food. The meal needed something cool and crisp with it. She set them down on the counter and pulled out a cutting board from one of the lower cabinets as well as a metal bowl.

A quick fennel slaw with oranges did the trick. Making it relaxed her, even with the hissing argument ensuing in the hall. Mona stacked some on their plates, then gestured Tania, who’d come in from the sunroom, and put some on her plate well. Nic already had his out and hovering.

The whispered comments in the hall had gotten louder and harder to ignore.

“Really, Cart, I cannot see why she needs to be here. You know how . . . interested I am in meeting the male elf of rank in this backwater and her—”

Enough already.

“Yo, Cart, grub’s ready,” Mona called out, using her shout-over-the-crowd bartender’s voice. She washed her hands and headed to the dining room. Out of the way, but with a decent view of the kitchen.

“Gotcha.” Cart came through from the living room, walked over to where she stood by the sideboard getting out napkins, and kissed her.

Short, powerful, hard. He was clearly staking claim. She wished she could say she minded, but that was hard to do when her toes were curling.

“Now comes the fun,” he said for her ears alone.

They grinned and sat down at the table. Tania stood in the doorway, blocking their view, but also out of sight from the front hall.

Titania Margaret’s voice floated out from the kitchen.

“Well, hello.” Honey had nothing on the sweetness embedded in that accent. “Aren’t you the tall, dark, and handsome one? I’m Titania Margaret Dupree.”

“Pleased to meet you, Titania Dupree.” Nic’s voice was entirely businesslike.

“Margaret, you may call me Titania Margaret. And you are?”

“Titania Margaret then. My friends, and I hope we will be friends, call me Nic.” He’d picked up on the situation, all right. Nic wasn’t slow. The way he said “friends” made it clear he was thinking platonic only. “Most Folk know me as Protector Niccolo Machiavelli Lombard.”

There was a slight pause. He continued. “I would add at your service, however, I’m sure the elf I’m currently . . . attached to . . . might quibble with that.”

“Oh, I doubt she’d give us much trouble, I’m after all a Titania.”

And that, Mona realized, was Margaret in a nutshell. Beautiful, powerful, privileged, and not afraid to use any of it to get what she wanted. And right now she wanted Nic.

Nic chuckled. “Indeed you are, however she is all that and more. Besides, family squabbles can get very messy. Better to just let things stay the way they are, don’t you think?”

“Tania!” Margaret’s shriek of delight couldn’t be faked.

He must have turned her to see Tania. Margaret came and embraced Tania, shooting the pair at the table a quick glare before stepping back.

“You wicked girl, you, taking this handsome gentleman before I got here.” She put her arm though Tania’s and turned back to the kitchen. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in sharing?”

Mona couldn’t suppress her snort as she imagined the look on her straight-laced brother’s face.

“Nope, sorry, can’t do that to Nic,” Tania said.

Cart’s mother’s back stiffened at her words.

“Is that a can’t or a won’t?” The sharpness of the words cut through her drawl like a knife.

“Oh-oh,” Cart muttered and picked up his plate. She’d piled it high and every bite was gone. He rose and made his way around the table toward the kitchen.

“Nic is my protector. And yes, Randall already knows, and yes, I have pronounced him as such to the Folk here, including to our brethren the Weres.”

“And is there a congress of the heart as well?” Cart’s mother asked. Even Mona could hear the hope in the question.

“Mom,” Cart said he entered the kitchen. “You don’t need to put pressure on her or Nic.”

“Of course I wouldn’t do that Cart. Really. Hold that open, would you, sugah, while I get a plate for some of this ‘grub.’ Then I’ll go meet this young lady you are so interested in. I can’t leave either of you alone, can I?”

Oh my, Mona could tell she was in for a grilling by her tone.

“Mom, the ‘young lady’ is the Warder hereabouts, and one of my current interests is in training her since the old Warder died without finishing the job.”

A dish shattered. Mona started up and out of her seat.

“Abner died?” Margaret said, her voice small and scared.

“Well, yes. I did tell you. . .”

A faint popping sound and a surge of magic hit Mona before she got to the doorway.

Margaret was gone.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Aw, hell, sorry about the mess. My mother has a flare for dramatics,” Cart said. He looked at Mona then Tania.

“I’m sorry, Cart, I don’t know where she went,” Tania said. “And since it has to do with Abner, and possibly this whole mess with the renegades, I’m hesitant to ask an imp to follow.”

Mona went over what had been said before she left.

“She knew Abner? She . . . wait . . . what is your mother’s full name?” Mona demanded of Cart.

“Titania Margaret D’Anjou Dupree,” Cart replied. “And no, despite what she might lead you to believe, she wasn’t the wife of Henry the Sixth. That would be her great grandmother, whom she was named after.”

“D’Anjou. Abner guarded Edward D’Anjou.” As well as his mother. Mona had been shocked with the information earlier, when she’d read the last pages of Abner’s missing journal. No name for his mother popped into her memory; the information Smythe passed along clearly very selective.

Tania and Cart started to say something but Nic held up his hands to stop them.

“Wait. Let’s all get something to eat, then we can sit down and figure out who the ward might be and how you’re connected,” Nic said. “If we’re heading out again soon, and it looks like we are, we’ll need the energy.”

Nic waved them back into the dining room. “You too,” he said to Tania. “I know food isn’t the best source of energy for you, but eating can’t hurt. I’ll clean up here and join you.”

Mona blinked at this information. If Tania didn’t need food for energy she was truly a Maven in her soul, and it was not merely an honorary title for the work she did. For her, only sunlight or the presence of naturally generated magic would replete her stores. Which explained why there was an elf of such power in their region—Niagara Falls generated more than enough energy to sustain her, provided she was close enough. The vineyard out Nic’s backyard was probably a good, low-level source too.

Tania came in with a plate containing only salmon, and sat on the other side of Cart. Between bites they started going through the family tree to figure out who Smythe might have been Warding until Nic joined them.

“Fill me in.” Nic pulled a chair to the corner of the table so it was right next to Tania’s. “Is there a protocol for naming?”

Seeing Tania and Cart squirm was slightly amusing, although Mona understood their reactions. Nic watched them both with raised eyebrows.

“Any help here, sis?” Nic asked when it became clear neither was going to answer.

From what Mona had heard, if a full elf was fertile and conception was going to occur, the goddess’s blessing raced through the pair during the climax of intercourse and the first name of their child was revealed. Elves, though, considered it bad luck, not to mention highly personal, to talk about the experience.

“Do you mean given names,” Mona’s voice squeaked slightly but she persevered, “or last names or earned names?”

“Wait!” Cart cut in, blushing. “I think you’re mostly interested in the last name of this guy, right?”

“Right. Now, for Mona and myself, she has my mother’s last name and I have my father’s. Is that typical?”

“Yes and no. The mother has the entire decision on which last name the child will bear,” Cart said.

Nic nodded. “Okay, but is there any protocol at all or is it merely a toss of the coin?”

“A lot of the mother’s decision has to do with families and perceived social standing as well as the power of each elf in the relationship.” Tania added. “Often, but not always, the mother will give the surname with a longer history. Which, most likely, explains why you are a Lombard and your sister is a Trubek. Both are old and honored families.”

“So, anyway, D’Anjou’s a family name. Tania and I might be able to figure out who it was,,” Cart supplied. “Could Marty have had a kid before the girls? I mean, we all know Abner was old, could have been that, huh?”

Tania looked thoughtful. “You’re right, I think we aren’t going back far enough. As you said, Abner was old. Is there a sibling or cousin of Aunt Meg and Uncle Marty’s it could be?”

Cart shrugged his shoulders and started listing people with Tania jumping in to fill names.

Mona didn’t recognize any, not that she was sure she would.

“Is this something you could ask an imp?” Nic asked.

Startled into silence, Cart and Tania exchanged a look and then laughed.

“Thanks, Nic,” Tania said. “An imp might be able to tell us—however, Randall definitely could. If he will, that’s another matter. I need an imp, please.”

Randall flashed into being in the middle of the dining room table, setting over the candlesticks and bowl of pinecones. He wore a twenties gangster outfit, pinstripes, spats, and hat complete with a dapper feather. Mona knew from experience that this meant he was out for vengeance.

“Where is she?” he said, stalking up to Tania. “I’ve trying to track Titania Margaret down and the imps won’t go to her. She better have some answers.”

Nic’s voice overrode everyone else’s. “Answers to what?”

They all quieted down and waited for Randall’s answer.

“Why the hell she wasn’t monitoring her uncle like she agreed to?”

“Edward?” Mona asked. Given how extensive elf families were, it was possible to have that large a generation gap.

“Edward? I’m talking about Abner. Weak link there, we all knew he was going to cave in, but we didn’t think it’d be this catastrophic. Or, honestly, that he’d hold out this long. Wait, who the hell is Edward?”

“Edward D’Anjou, Abner’s ward,” Mona said, worry lacing through her at his description of things being catastrophic.

“No, Abner’s ward was Elisabeth Dupree, Titania Margaret’s mother’s sister and Abner’s wife. Edward D’Anjou? Aw, crap.” He spun to face Tania, pointing his finger in her face. “You need to get going now! This is bad, bad, bad.”

“Randall,” Tania said, clearly trying to maintain her calm, “it would help me if I knew what ability Elisabeth manifested or if you know what ability Edward has.”

“Is she serious?” He turned to fire the question at Mona. Not even waiting for a response, he leaned forward and placed his face where his finger had been, his voice dropping to become a hoarse, harsh whisper. “You can’t figure out the ability he has? Does the fact that Weres are being forced into their animal forms tell you anything? And think about this, princess, there are more Weres who are now animals than there were half bloods.”

Everyone at the table, except Nic, paled and gasped. Smythe’s memory provided images for Mona. The darkest and bloodiest of Folk tales involved possession by the wicked and insane spirit of the first Were.

“We’ve got ourselves a Lycoan. And this one looks almost as strong as the first Were he’s named after. You,” Randall’s gesture took in everyone in the room, “need to go after him and soon.”

He straightened up and immediately disappeared.

They all sat blinking at the space he’d recently occupied.

Tania started to shake, and Nic scooted his chair over and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“What the hell is a Lycoan and how can it convert people into Weres who aren’t?” he asked.

There was an awkward moment of silence before Cart cleared his throat. “You know anything about Weres?”

Nic shook his head.

“There are three types of shifters. The rarest is a first generation. They are the offspring of a full elf and a mortal. That’s me. My bloodlines are exactly half of each, which, with the amount of crossbreeding in the past, is getting rare. Because I’m a first generation I carry my den’s totem inside me. I can change into my beast, anytime, any place, although the moon call is still strong and the easiest time for me to change. I also have other abilities, but they’re not relevant. Now a little more common, but still not so much, is a strong Were. That’s someone who also has fifty-fifty blood lines but isn’t first generation. They too can change out of cycle, but not so easily. The moon has a stronger influence on their ability because they don’t carry their animals with them at all times, it’s more of a displacement of their body with a magical beast from Elfhaven. Then there are what most Weres in the pack are—close to fifty percent elfblood and only able to change with the full moon. Of course, there are Weres who don’t have enough magic in their bloodlines to call their beasts who are still part of the pack.”

Mona hadn’t heard that before. She must have jerked, because Cart glanced at her.

Tania continued. “What a Lycoan does is manipulate the body of a Were and supplement the magic in some way, making it so they can change into their totem even if they’re not strong or first generation. Or a Lycoan attempts to supplement it, there’s only so much he can add if the Were’s innate magic is too low, the forced shift will kill the shifter. He also can hold anyone—strong, first, anyone he’s successfully forced to change—in their beast shape until he chooses to release them. He can create an army that way if he so wishes.”

They looked at each other. Was that what he was doing?

“This particular Lycoan has no discernment on who is close, and we’ve witnessed his attempts to force the change on Were who are too far away from the fifty-fifty split. As you can imagine, it’s gruesome,” Cart added. “Thank the fates the female version of the trait is far more benign given it’s also far more common.”

Nic sat for a moment looking back and forth between the three of them. Mona knew him well enough to guess his next question.

“How do you release the changed Weres?”

“The Weres? Short of killing them? Haven’t heard of any way.” Cart’s voice softened. “You got any ideas, cuz?”

“Yes . . . no.” Tania gestured vaguely. “I was planning to talk to Aunt Meg, but I’m not so sure how much of a help she is going to be. Sorry, Cart. I wonder though . . . do you think she knew this might happen? It would explain why she keeps trying to make more full elves.”

“You mean . . . aw, heck, I don’t know.” Disbelief and shock laced Cart’s voice. “I’d like to think that her screwing around and trying to elevate so many elves was noble. That’d be nice. But I’d never assume my mother does anything for a single reason.”

“You do know I have no clue what you are saying, right?” Nic said.

“Cart’s mom has the female version of the trait,” Mona explained. “She can elevate male elves to full ranking, and somehow supplement their ability to work magic to make their workings closer to the level of a full elf. Unlike a Lycoan, this is considered a good thing, especially since full male elves are very rare.”

“What ability do you think she was looking for?” Nic asked Tania.

“That’s just it, I’m not sure,” Tania said. “It’s only a rumor, but she has gone to the effort of making many men close to full elves. However, if you take a Titania’s power and apply it to a full or almost full blooded elf, the theory is you’ll get something . . . more. I don’t know what.”

Somehow Mona thought Tania did have a good idea, but was hesitant to say anything. Like her reluctance over naming conventions, there were things Tania would not speak about in Nic’s company.

“Yeah, maybe if Mom had been more discerning or had a better grasp of who was an elf and who wasn’t—” Cart couldn’t keep the derision out of his voice. “Plus the change never stuck. Every single one turned back.”

“Enough, speculation isn’t going to get us anywhere.” Tania waved off any further talk. “Nic and I think that the numbers in Abner’s message were routes, directions to where the Were pack is being held up in Canada. I think we should gear up and head out. Can everyone be ready in about an hour?”

“No.” Nic’s assertion forestalled anyone’s answer. “We’re heading into unmapped woods, something we want to do in daylight if possible. Unless someone thinks the need to act immediately outweighs the need for our being better prepared?”

Cart raised an eyebrow at Tania, but didn’t naysay Nic. Nic seemed to take the silence as acceptance. “Everyone gather what information they can, anything you think might possibly be useful. And be sure to rest at least six hours. We’ll meet here and head out an hour before dawn.”

Mona contemplated how the change Tania implied, which was clearly already working on Nic, was going to affect her brother. Because, try as he might to deny it, and despite the fact that he had not had a talent evince itself, he was as close to a full blood elf as possible in this day and age.

“Good,” Nic said. “It’s eight p.m. Be back here at six a.m. Unless you’re planning to stay here? You’re welcome to stay.”

“No, that’s okay.” Mona wanted to find out more about Lycoans and Titanias and their powers, which meant she’d have less than six hours of sleep, but for once she was feeling caught up.

“I’ll go with you, there’s some stuff I want to look up too.” Cart stood and pulled out her chair.

“Tania.” Cart’s grip on Mona’s arm tensed as he addressed his cousin. “If you hear anything from my mom, let me know. I suspect though, that we’ll both hear from her soon enough.”

“If not,” Tania replied, “she’s probably done the smart thing and headed to Elfhaven until all this blows over. Your mother never did like direct confrontation.”

Mona didn’t think Cart believed her, but he didn’t say anything as they helped clean up.

Once in the car, they settled on going back to headquarters first, and Mona tried to sort through her racing thoughts. While she knew and had learned a lot of Folk mythology and history, it was clear she didn’t yet know enough. Although she had a strong guess. Who else came to mind when you thought of Titania?

“So, tell me about Oberon,” she said to Cart.

He jerked the wheel slightly, but didn’t leave the lane. “Crap. How did I miss that?”

“Too close to the situation? Plus, since my mother didn’t have much to do with Folk, the first name I associate with Titania is Oberon.”

“Drama club in high school, right?”

“English major in college before I dropped out to go to culinary school. So, what’s the scoop?”

“Besides the fact that he’s a powerful elf who’s the enforcer of Folk justice—or his interpretation of it—on mortals and other Folk? Not sure.”

Mona thought through what she knew about Titania and changes.

“I realize that this might be awkward, but how do most Folk react when they find out they’ve been changed by your mother?”

“Worried about Nic?”

“But unlike the others, this would be permanent, right?”

“If that’s what’s happening, yes.” Cart was silent a moment, negotiating the darkened stretch of rural highway as he thought. “I can’t say there was any ‘one way’ or that everyone reacted in the way you thought they would.”

Who knew, if Nic would be in charge of meting out justice, he might actually take the change well. Plus, it was clear he was very attached to Tania, which would help. But that he’d been coerced into the position? That might outweigh both the others.

“Hmmm, what about the Lycoan? Any insight on him?”

“Beside what Randall said about changing Weres, no.”

“Will he affect you?” she belated asked. She didn’t think she could stand to see him forced into transforming.

“I don’t think so, since I’m already a strong Were. Guess we’ll find out tomorrow.” He pulled into a parking spot behind the building. “Maybe there’ll be something in the books you picked up at the compound too.”

So much for thinking he hadn’t noticed since he’d been in tiger form. “It’s in code. I’m not sure we’ll have a luxury of the time to decipher it.

After a good hour of reading, they hadn’t come up with much.

“Do you think Nic is going to be Tania’s first?” Mona asked as she flipped through Smythe’s tome. They’d settled on the couch and had the large book on the coffee table in front of them. Cart was reading through the last couple of journal entries, making notes on a piece of paper on the miniscule space not occupied by the tome.

The other book Mona had found was still an indecipherable mystery.

“First what?”

“You know, first lover?” She couldn’t help blushing. “Because if he is, and they’re already bound, from this passage it seems more likely the change will occur and be permanent. Although, he’s already pretty much a full elf.”

Mona showed him the passage Abner had written that, after wading through archaic language, did seem to say Nic’s change was likely to be permanent if they were bonded and Tania was a virgin.

“It’s pretty likely he’ll be her first. She’s a bit scared of changing people. But as embarrassing as she’ll find it, I can’t imagine she won’t say something if that’s the case.”

Yes, Mona could imagine Tania, no matter how uncomfortable the conversation might make her, standing her ground to make sure things were clear before anything happened. Mona read further down the page. “If that is the case, we may not get out tomorrow. According to Smythe, he’ll have a ‘sleep of a deep and restorative nature whist his body accepts the changes spectral to his magical essence.’ I need to rewrite this into modern English.”

“We should show up at the right time anyway, we can’t be sure if and when it’ll happen. Speaking of which. . .” He pushed the table aside, placing the book out of reach. “We have some unfinished business of our own. Now, where were we earlier? Right.”

He wrapped his arms around her, bringing his hands up to cup the back of her head.

“Here,” he gently kissed the corner of her mouth, the tip to his tongue darting out and teasing, “is where we were.”

He traced the seam of her lips, while he leaned them both down onto the couch. The weight and heat of him felt incredible. Mona grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him even closer, and chased his tongue back to his mouth. When they came up for air, Cart had nestled himself between her legs and was working his hands up the inside of her shirt.

There was a reason they shouldn’t do this.

Mates. Warders.

Mona needed to talk to him before his wicked hands made thinking about anything but pleasure impossible.

“Cart, wait. Talk to me about wards and Warders.”

“Not much to tell.” He kissed his way down her neck. “If there’s an elf who needs to be warded, a Warder will be around to ward him or her.”

“Yes, but—” Mona bit her lip. How could she ask this without exposing her concern? “How do Warders’ mates fit into all of this?”

Cart stopped kissing her and leaned away a bit. He looked her in the eye. “Typically, but not always, they’re the mate of the Warder. Since that’s not the case with us, I’m thinking your ward may need both of us to contain him or her. I’m hoping it’s not this guy. Him, I just want to take down.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t meet his gaze and glanced away.

“Wait.” Cart extended his arms and pushed himself all the way off her. “Did you think I was going to be your ward?”

She looked back at his now blank face. Cautiously, she tried to explain her reasoning. “I know that wards are typically born with the imbalance of evil but nothing about my training has been typical.”

Cart slid down to his elbows, his face now inches from hers. “You, know that’s a very good point.” He turned his head to the side and yelled, “Oh, Eternal Keeper of Folk memory, we needs ya!”

Randall flashed into being, sitting on the open pages of the tome. He tilted his head and wagged his grayed eyebrows at them. Gold chains glittered through his thatch of chest hair—other than that, his dark blue, mechanic’s jumpsuit with a Puck patch on the chest was remarkably restrained.

“I don’t do threesomes with elves anymore, although if you want to tempt me, by all means get undressed.” He sat back, propping his arms behind him and swinging his legs as if he was going to sit and watch the show. “Oh, and thanks for the new imps. The way that Lycoan is burning them out, I’m running short.”

His legs ticked faster.

“Oh!” Mona sat up, forcing Cart to turn and sit along side her. “That’s how he does it, isn’t it? He’s found a way to siphon off the energy from imps for his spells. I’d wondered how he’d gotten so much. No wonder the imps won’t go near him, he’s killing them off.”

“Like I didn’t already tell you that when I put the geas on Tania,” the Puck said.

“You said he was hurting them, this is a bit larger than that,” Cart said. He looked over Randall speculatively. “We knew he somehow managed to put tracking on them when he shouldn’t. I’ve never heard of anyone besides you being able to do anything that would affect imps in that way.”

“Yeah, well anyone who figures out where imps come from can control them.” Puck hopped down from the table. “Life was a lot easier when information was harder to come by and you could control who knew what.”

Where imps came from. Mona thought the imps they’d created looked like the specters she saw when they did long jumps. Could it be that simple?

Mona stood up and grabbed their jackets. “Cart, we need to jump.”

“Randall, what crazy—” The Puck was no longer in sight. “Shit.”

Mona handed Cart his leather coat and shrugged into hers.

“I’d like you to jump us to the furthest place you can comfortably jump us to and back from tonight.”

“Hold on.” Cart slid his coat on, despite his words. “I’m sure there’s a good reason you want me to use up energy we need to face the Lycoan. Mind telling me?”

“I want to see the beings in the time between the jumps.”

“Beings? I’ve never seen beings.” He paused, arm half in his sleeve, brows furrowed as he looked at Mona, confusion clear on his face.

“Well, maybe ‘beings’ is too strong a word. You know, those multicolored essences.” Mona stomped on her boots. She was going to be prepared for the Buffalo weather no matter what this time.

“I’ve never seen anything while jumping, except the swirl of the locations coming and going. Nothing in between.”

Mona blinked at him. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

She thought this through. “And, I’m guessing, you’ve never heard of anyone seeing anything?”

“Nope.”

She slumped against the side of the couch, perching on the arm. “The information I have from Abner is remarkable in its lack of information about imps. Any suggestions on who we could ask?”

“Yeah.” Cart finished putting his jacket on, his face grim. “Except you're not going with me to ask her.”

“Oh joy, it’s your mom, isn’t it?”

Cart didn’t bother answering, and instead rummaged in the desk. “Give me a list of questions and I'll do my best to get your answers.”

Chapter Eighteen

On the way to her brother's, in the boxy, military-looking SUV which somehow they'd been assigned, Mona flipped through the papers Cart brought back. He'd been surly and cranky, and ferociously intent on sex when he'd returned and she'd not gotten a chance to read through until now. The first page had a dozen questions, only one of which Titania Dupree answered. Cart's mother agreed there was a strong chance Nic would be the Oberon but left every inquiry about his power and strength blank. The second page, covering other topics, had more information. According to Titania Dupree, the void they passed through when Cart jumped was a special space the goddess created which held shards of the life force of deceased Folk. And since imps were created from those shards, of course the two were connected. The last two pages about Smythe and his ward were entirely blank.

Mona now understood Cart's frustration the previous night.

“You believe what my Mom said?” Cart asked as he turned off the highway.

“Which part?” She knew full well he was having problems grasping the imps as partial embodiments of spirits.

“The part with the imps being dead elves.”

“They’re not dead elves, they’re just linked to that spirit. Like a tendril of magic from them, not the whole self.”

“But it’s connected.” Cart pulled on to Nic's driveway and turned off the engine.

“I think so, yes.”

“I have a question then." He turned and looked at her, his finger tapping on the steering wheel in agitation. "If this Edward guy, and I have to think it’s him, is killing off imps, how is that affecting the spirits? Are they gone then too?”

Mona stared at him. She’d been so caught up in discovering where imps came from, she hadn’t thought about what the Lycoan was doing to them. If Cart was correct, and there was a tie-in with elf spirits, they had their explanation of why the Puck and goddess were involved. She didn't mention her suspicion that someone was augmenting the Lycaon’s spells. When they tracked him down, she'd confront whomever helped him and deal with them there.

“I don’t know. I guess the question going forward is, does the answer make a difference?”

“No, I guess not. We want him to stop, no matter what. Lets get these guys and get going.” Cart opened his door, letting in a blast of ice cold air.

The lights were out and no on seemed to be up so Mona let them into Nic’s house.

“Thinking he’s got the sleep thing going on,” Cart said.

Mona sure hoped so, because she didn’t remember Nic oversleeping, ever. She headed up the stairs.

“You sure you want to do this?” Cart asked as he followed her up.

Her first chance ever to wake her brother up? Okay, she might be waking Tania up too, but she’d take the chance.

“Nic?” Mona called when they reached Nic’s bedroom door.

“Just a minute!” Tania called. They heard a bit of scrambling then, “Come in.”

In the middle of a bed draped with flowers and flitting with pixies, Tania sat, trying to shake Nic awake. He wasn’t budging.

Mona and Cart’s gasps echoed across the room. This scene, Mona knew it. The quote from Shakespeare sprang to mind.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk roses and with eglantine:

There sleeps Titania, sometime of the night.

The pixies danced as she recited the lines, then swooped up to blink out of sight.

“Holy moly, cuz, what’d you do?” Cart had stepped into the room and stood, arms akimbo, surveying the imps’ decorations.

Tania copied his stance and raised her eyebrows at him. Really, they stood in the middle of Nic’s bedroom, she was clearly only wearing a robe. . .what did Cart think his cousin and Nic had done?

He had the grace to blush. “Yeah, okay, about that, you all going to be ready in about half an hour? I’ll rustle up something for us to eat on the way.”

“Once I wake Nic up we shouldn’t be long.”

Mona came and stood by the bed, knowing full well nothing was likely to work, but unable to help herself. She leaned over his ear and yelled, “Yo! Bro! You kidding around here?”

He flinched some, and he turned away from her, mumbling something dark.

Mona kept her face impassive, although a little bit of worry did seep through. “He’s never like this. I mean never. After drinking, after he got his tonsils out—which he did at twenty-five—he always just springs up wide awake. Usually it’s rather annoying.”

She started to bite on her fingernail and looked around the room, her other hand tracing lines in the air. Oh my, but was there a lot of magic in this room. She remembered what the tome had said. He might be out for hours and they didn’t have hours.

“Um,” Mona was sure she turned beet red as she asked the question, “if you don’t mind my asking, was this your first time?”

Tania, she was sure, now matched her blush.

Cart muttered something about checking downstairs. He and Tania exchanged a look before he headed out. Mona didn’t want to ask what that was all about.

Still not looking at Mona, Tania replied. “Yes.”

Mona gritted her teeth and pursued the question. “I mean, not just with Nic, but your very first time?”

Tania nodded.

“Oh dear, he may be asleep for a while then.”

The Maven looked over at Nic and back at Mona, curiosity clearly giving way to her discomfort.

“Okay, tell me why.” Tania sat on the edge of the bed.

“Well, I was talking to Cart last night. You’d both said that perhaps his mother had been trying to accomplish . . . something during her trysts. So I thought ‘There’s Titania, Puck, where’s the Oberon?’ As you can guess, I’m a huge fan of Shakespeare.”

“There hasn’t been an Oberon in almost five hundred years,” Tania replied. She blinked and looked back at Nic. “An Oberon is like a Maven and Titania and Puck all rolled into one, able to do all of their magic and more.”

She managed to look both scared and thrilled at the thought. Mona wondered if she knew more. If so, she wasn’t sharing.

“Yes, that’s what Cart said too.”

Tania gazed off into the distance for a minute before turning back to Mona, her face scrunched with perplexity.

“I’m not sure I agree with you, but I’m also not sure I disagree.” Tania laughed uncomfortably. “I guess I’m just not sure about any of it. Wait,” she added, jumping up and grabbing Mona’s arm. “How long do you think he’s going to be asleep? We need to get going.”

Mona watched her steel herself, clearly coming to a decision before Mona could come up with an answer. Not that Mona had any clue how long the sleep would last.

“Never mind.” Tania let go and straightened the collar of her robe, then retied the sash. “We’re going to have to go on without him. He can catch up. He knows the coordinates and the Folk will help him. Even more so if what you think is true.” She shooed Mona out. “Go, I’ll join you as soon as I get ready.”

Mona headed downstairs to find Cart pacing the hall.

"Your brother wake up?” Cart headed back to the kitchen. He’d already started a carafe of coffee..

“No and my guess is, due to the circumstances, it may be a bit.”

“Shit. Do we wait? I have to tell you, I don’t want to. I’m itching go, to even as tired as I am.”

Mona agreed, she was fighting the compulsion already to jump in the monstrosity of a vehicle and head out.

“Tania’s all for going now.”

Cart merely grunted as she coffee into a thermos. Before she'd put the cap on, Tania’s footsteps were on the stairs.

"Ready? Let's go."

Mona and Cart scrambled to follow her. She was already in the car before they made it out the door.

“This yours?” Tania held up a posy of flowers from where she sat in the middle of the back seat.

Mona glanced at them. They were not rudbeckia or daisies or any flower she knew, although they looked close.

“Nope. Maybe the imps left it?”

Tania took a tentative sniff at the small bouquet and wrinkled her nose. Mona watched in the rearview mirror. Over half looked like they’d died and dried already. The flaking leaves were crumbling all over the upholstery.

“A very odd gift, but welcome,” Tania said as she carefully set it down. From one of her pockets she pulled out an empty sandwich bag. Placing the bag over the top, she shook the dried flowers and leaves causing them to fall off the stem and into the bag. She patted herself down before slipping the bag into the cargo pocket on her right thigh.

They drove north in the rosy tinted chill of the dawn. The first time Tania jumped them all in the car Mona bit back on her squeal. She had no idea you could move a whole car. Tania only did it twice more, both times, Mona realized as they arrived, to markers she’d placed along the road sometime in the past.

After they crossed the border—in record time, but then it was clear imps were rearranging things to their liking—they found themselves on a rural highway. Soon the signs on the roads made it clear that they were heading up to Algonquin.

The monstrous beast of a car needed gas so they stopped and stretched. Mona looked around. A bank of blue-gray clouds sedately moved toward them, coming from the direction they were heading. Snow, she was sure. No magic in sky that she could see, thankfully, but the heavy weight of the clouds seemed to indicate there’d be plenty of snow without any interference.

Mona headed over to Cart, to find him crouched down between two cars and talking to a Feeorin. Notoriously shy of women, the squirrel-sized human-like creatures loved the northern cold and the wooded areas around here. Mona hung back, not wanting to scare the blue-black being. The small man nodded at Cart, then bowed to her before scampering off under the chassis of the parked cars.

“Salamanders came through en masse about an hour ago.”

“We missed that clue, didn’t we? We could have just stayed and followed them.”

Cart threw his arm over her shoulders as they headed back to the car and Tania, who was standing on the far side. “Only if we want to get there after them. I’m still hoping to get there before.”

Twenty minutes later, the snow started. A light dusting of flurries that soon became dense white and shimmered in the headlights. The only good news was that nothing was accumulating. Yet.

“So,” Tania asked, “what information did you all find out last night?”

“Well. . .” Mona stretched the word to see if Cart wanted to jump in and say he'd visited his mother. He didn't say a thing. “You mean aside from the Oberon thing? I tried to look up more information on Lycoan. That was a little difficult, given the title wasn’t used last time.”

“Last time they just used the name the non-Folk gave him. I’d only ever heard him called Jack the Ripper.” Tania looked thoughtful.

“I think naming him is helpful,” Cart added.

The big vehicle slowed down more and they kept their eyes on the road and woods. By the time Cart turned up the last route, everything had been recoated in new snow and anything loose was being kicked around by the wind.

“If nothing else, knowing his name helps us know his powers.” Tania clearly had been thinking on the naming thing the whole while.

“Unfortunately, from what we could track down, his powers weren’t really clear,” Mona said. She mentally placed the people she knew with powers in a hierarchy, using her hands to help her go through the levels. Hopefully she was right in placing her brother at the top of the heap.

“Did you find out if Puck’s using the name means there is truly a possession by the first’s spirit or is it merely a title? I really, really hope it isn’t possession,” Tania continued before they could answer. “The stories warn of the spirit splitting every time it was cleaved and going forth to possess more Folk.”

She visibly shook herself from the horror she’d just described. “I am the Maven for this area and I will protect and oversee justice for the Folk.”

Cart and Mona exchanged looks. They hadn’t known about the splitting thing. Shit, no wonder he wanted to make more Weres—more bodies for him to control if he wasn't truly killed.

They should have waited for Nic.

“We think this is just a title,” Cart said. “Either way, there are very limited ways to kill him. He can’t die by loss of blood or any death blow that would cause bleeding, because he’ll heal too quickly. Drowning, suffocation, starvation . . . although drowning would be tough right now.”

“Hypothermia might work, but it’d be harder if he’s in his wolf form,” Mona said. She was again biting her nails.

“Asphyxiation, poison, heart failure would do the trick too.” Cart swore as they skidded.

Mona couldn’t help but notice that all of the options, except possibly poison, were lingering ways to die. His demise wouldn’t be swift or painless. She wasn’t sure if she had the stomach for that. She looked over at Cart. He, too might not have to stomach for it, but she knew without a doubt that he’d see if through because letting the Lycoan live was a far worse option.

Mona looked in the rear view mirror. Tania was staring out the window and looked nothing so much as an angered Queen, maddened by events and ready to do justice.

Mona looked out window again and saw the sign for their turnoff briefly flitter before becoming obscured by snow again.

“TURN LEFT HERE!” Tania and Mona both shouted.

Cart jerked the wheel and they did a one hundred eighty degree spin, the slushing sounds of the tires punctuated only by Mona’s slight squeal. Cart maintained control of the car and got them straightened out with only a little fishtailing.

“There’ll be a split coming up. Stay to the right,” Tania said. Mona didn’t question how she knew.

Cart took the turn, slowing down further on the unpaved and unplowed road. Fir trees lined each side, helping to block the wind and making it clear that the snow wasn’t falling as rapidly as it had been. The swirling white they’d been witnessing was from loose snow. Tania leaned forward over the console and peered at the white wall that was the world outside. She seemed to see some sign.

“We should stop the car here. The road doesn’t go that much further and we’ll be leaving it before then.” Tania kept her voice quiet as if she could be heard outside the car.

Cart pulled up a bit, attempted a three point run that quickly became far more, and parked facing the way they'd come.

They looked at the snow-covered road, trees and hills. Mona had no clue what to do, although with the trace of spells she could see Tania had been right to make them stop. “Do we attempt to circle around? Which way? Damn, I wish Nic were here, he’d know how we should go.”

“He’s still asleep.” Tania shrugged her shoulders at their stare.

Cart cleared his throat. “Nic strikes me as a ‘meet your foes head on’ kind of guy anyway, not a ‘skulk around and sneak up on them.’”

Tania and Mona turned to look at him.

“Why not?” Tania asked what Mona had been thinking. “Why don’t we just go up the drive and call him out? It is the quickest route. Mona can manipulate whatever spells are set to keep the Weres bound, wherever it is he has them.”

“Aw, hell, if we were going to do that, I wouldn’t have parked,” Cart said.

“We couldn’t drive it up anyway,” Mona said. “There are spells here to block any vehicles. Let’s just go.”

Tania made to move but Cart locked the doors, forestalling her.

“I go first,” Cart said.

“You can’t see spells, I’ll go first,” Mona corrected. It did make a lot more sense.

“I can see spells and work magic, so I should go first,” Tania said. They couldn’t argue with that, much as Mona wanted to. “Plus, this is my fight.”

They didn’t contradict her, and she nodded. “Once we get out of the trees I’ll take us to a clear spot and you can stand wherever you like.”

“Gotcha. Bundle up.”

Once out of the car Cart pulled a carbine out of the back along with some rope. He had them string themselves together for safety, the show was falling in blindingly heavy. The walk was a blur of simply pushing themselves forward through the cold wind and blinding snow. Mona felt the fission of a spell and suddenly the snow and wind ceased.

“Untie yourselves!” Cart frantic whisper had Mona scrambling to undo her knot.

“Why?” Tania was practically bouncing with the need get going.

“If we get attacked, being tied together will work to their benefit, not ours.” Cart’s rope came undone and he helped Mona with hers.

Tania didn’t take the time to untie herself, and merely wrapped the extra rope around her waist. She crossed to the side of the lane opposite the drifts. Mona, expecting a trap any minute, kept stumbling into the snow as she tried to see through it to the ground beneath.

Tania led them to a large arborvitae hedge on the edge of the circular driveway, and screening it from the road. Glancing back at both of them, she stepped out from behind the bushes and onto the pavement.

There, standing in the center of the driveway circle in a ring of prowling Weres, was the Lycoan. Red streams of magic flowed from him in many directions, most vanishing down under the snow, making it difficult for Mona to trace. Behind him were two buildings, a large barn that glowed with spells and a house with a small, attached shed that shone less brightly. Beyond both, Mona could see the smooth, flat surface of a pond.

Excellent, there was a spell she could alter on the barn to keep those inside trapped for a bit. She reached out and moved it around as Cart cursed and scrambled through his clothes for something.

The Lycaon stood on a platform, giving him a clear view of the area. Hatless, despite the snow and cold, you could see the relationship between him and Cart. They had the same hair, although the Lycoan’s was a bit longer and very, very straight, unlike Cart’s. Some ancestor had graced them with the same high, slightly narrow forehead with thick brows beneath.

The Lycoan looked right at Tania, and Mona could see his spear of magic burrow into her, pulling out energy. Tania did something that aborted the flow. He jerked and took a half step back.

Oh! The red tint to his magic was because he consumed the energies of Folk and creatures, not just imps. Forget her squeamishness at a possible prolonged death, this man needed to be taken out.

Mona looked at Tania’s strength and the Lycoan’s. The Maven’s was stronger, but only just, and he’d certainly proved himself wilier. She really, really, wished Nic was there.

Mona tweaked the last rune and every door and every window to the house and barn slammed shut. Tania took a step forward and pointed at the Lycoan. What was she doing?

“Lycoan Edward, release those Weres to me!” She pointed to the Weres then herself as she said the request. Mona could see the faint beginnings of a spell. Oh, this looked to be old magic.

The Lycoan just laughed. “A bold statement from someone who is clearly at a disadvantage here. Besides, I cannot release them to someone unnamed, can I?” A deep, seductive baritone carried the words across the snow.

Mona saw the sigils almost embedded in his voice. She was thankful, very thankful they would not affect her. She glanced at Cart. He was glaring at the man, the carbine rifle hidden out of sight behind Tania’s back.

Mona looked at the lines emanating from the Lycoan. Concentrating on the larger lines, she worked on cleaning them. She saw a faint spark of an imp next to a deeply shadowed bole of a tree. Hoping she was right, she sent blood tinted portions straight into the blackness, turning lines from glowing red to a pumpkin orange. She stopped before she got too close to Edward, she didn’t want him to become aware of what she’d done. On to the next line.

“I am Maven Greymantle. You, Lycoan Edward D’Anjou, shall release those Weres to me.”

Again, Tania used gestures to emphasize what she said. The spell took a more solid shape. If it was like any traditional magic, the third recital would be the charm. Mona continued to clean the lines, hoping that whomever they led to would no longer be under the control of the Lycoan.

“Ah, Maven, I have heard of you and expected as much. Did you think I was so unschooled that I wouldn’t know of you? My dear father, while he had many other faults, did at least teach me some of my own heritage.”

They stood quietly and the silence grew. Tania was clearly waiting for something. The Lycoan just stared at them while the beasts below him paced back and forth, reflecting his anger, perhaps.

“What?” Incredulousness laced his voice. “You really expect me to release them to you?”

“Those Weres will be released to me, Maven Titania Isabella Meissen Greymantle, by you, Lycoan Edward Smythe D’Anjou.” Tania paused, and smiled back at his smirk. “Now.”

The spell took hold. The red lines of his magic holding the Weres vanished and were replaced by the golden glow of Tania’s magic. Mona watched as a surge of energy rushed out of Tania to envelop the Weres close to him.

A slightly perplexed look crossed the Lycoan’s face as the Weres’ pacing lessened. Then another smirk and a slight bow toward us. “As you say. Now.”

He waved his hand.

By the goddess, he was sending a death rune straight at Tania. Mona flipped it and sent it to the ground, severing several of his lines. She staggered a step back, heart racing like she’d run up a dozen flights of stairs, and just as tired. He cursed at her and Mona ignored him. There were three strands untouched and she didn’t have the energy to do anything to them.

“Sorry,” she gasped. “I couldn’t sever all the connections.”

She looked off to where the three strands led. Lumbering out of the woods came two grizzlies and a wolf. The wolf immediately slunk low to the ground, almost vanishing in the snow.

Cart shouldered his gun, taking a deep breath as he sighted. Two soft hisses and the two grizzlies batted at the darts that imbedded in their fur.

“I had to pick a middling dose, since I didn’t want anything lethal. Hopefully it’s strong enough to slow them down,” he said as he placed the gun on the ground next to the bushes besides them. Mona only then realized that he’d stripped down to his thermals. With a stretch and a swirl of magic he shifted into to his Siberian tiger shape and leapt in a flurry of tan and white and shredded clothes toward the wolf.

Tania muttered something and sent a simple but effective protection charm after Cart. He met the wolf in a flurry of snarls and snaps. The bears turned toward the sounds. Mona looked at their spells. She reached out, and for the first time ever, her hands simply drifted through the runes and did not touch them.

There was a tingle of magic as Tania did something but Mona couldn’t take her eyes off the fight.

Tania cursed. “Mona, move closer and put your hand on my shoulder. I’m bringing Cart back.”

As soon as Mona touched her, Tania sent out a lasso of her power, wrapping it around Cart, and hauling him back. The strength of the magic changed him back. Tania screamed with the effort and Mona felt how low her reserves were getting. Mona looked to see if there was any clean magic she might give to the maven, but everything she saw still had tints of evil she no longer had the ability to clean.

Cart landed on the road fifteen feet away and they both scrambled toward him. As soon as his knee hit the ground, Mona grabbed his pack with his clothes and moved to his side. Around them she could see Tania putting up a buffer so the Weres couldn’t get in. Why? She glanced over at the milling group as she pulled Cart’s clothes out. The fight had made them too agitated. Tania must be spending too much energy trying to keep them contained. She needed to let the Weres go.

While the Maven was expending energy dealing with the agitated shifters, the Lycoan was drawing power from their anger. Shit, they’d played right into the Lycoan’s hands.

Cart groaned and rubbed the side of his face where it had smacked the pavement. Mona set his things next to him and turned to watch Tania as she put a buffer around the Lycoan and set the Weres free.

In a flurry of nips and growls from wolves, badgers, and cougars, they turned to the Lycoan, only to stop short as they hit Tania’s barrier. Several turned their way, baring teeth at the Maven before moving off toward the barn. A wolverine was particularly persistent and the last to go.

“What now?” Cart had slid on pants and his jacket and nothing else before standing and leaning on her.

They all looked over at the Lycoan. His face was contorted in rage and anger emanated off him. Even the Weres who wanted to watch were behind the barn with just their heads sticking out.

Mona wasn’t sure how they were going to beat him. She was exhausted, Cart pretty beaten up, and Tania’s power was dwindling away from keeping up the barriers. Mona looked over the Lycoan. His energy level was still high. She watched as he tested his buffer. Magic couldn’t go out of it. He took a couple of paces and found he could move, slowly, in whatever direction he wanted; the buffer gradually changed to accommodate him. He looked at them assessingly, then started walking toward Tania.

Tania cursed and reached into her pockets, pulling out two bottles.

“Mona, use the lighter fluid to create a circle around us. Quickly!”

Mona took one while Tania took the rope from her waist and followed behind her, She placed the rope down on Mona’s line and muttering a spell and dousing it again as she did so.

Their circle was barely ten feet round. Tania’s plan was going to make them very toasty.

“Hey, cuz, remind me to never complain to you about being cold,” Cart said.

Mona tucked her empty can in Cart’s bag then stood next to him. The Lycoan was close enough they could see that his eyes were no longer human and had shifted to wolf.

Tania lit the rope, flicking her hand to activate the spell.

“Stay in contact.” Her voice was low.

The Lycoan laughed, a deep cruel laugh that succeed in making Tania stumble. Cart and Mona grabbed her before she’d done more than slightly dip. Mona had a feeling Tania had no more back up plans.

“Do you think something so small and petty as a fire will keep me out? Even in wolf form, that excuse for a charm won’t work on me.”

They stood their ground, moving closer together as the flames lapped higher. The Lycoan grinned and stepped into the circle, merging the two.

Mona screamed as Tania shoved her and Cart ahead of her and out of the circle. They headed through the fire toward the snow-laden bushes at the same time Tania dropped the barrier and created a new one integrated with the flames. Mona turned as she fell, not wanting that beast to be behind her where she couldn’t see it. Cart had done the same thing.

Tania hesitated before going over the circle as well. Her hesitation cost her, as the Lycoan leapt and grabbed her ankle. She fell with one foot still in the circle. Her shoulders were next to Mona and her shin still in the magical flames.

The snow pants over the flame burned off, sending a billow of black smoke to the sky along with the acrid scent of melted plastic. Tania’s skin, though, didn’t seem to be burning from the flames, just from the melted pants. Mona scooped up some of the snow they’d dislodged and packed it against Tania’s knee so the flames wouldn’t go higher while Cart grabbed her arm and pulled.

He and the Lycoan, whose insane cackle hovered over all they did, were practically playing tug of war with the Maven. Cart looked at the flames assessingly.

Tania wiggled her arm out of Cart’s grasp and grabbed onto the base of a bush instead. “No, you can only go through once.”

Cart looked at her then back at the Lycoan and nodded, as if something just clicked. “We’ll get help, cuz.”

Mona wasn’t sure what he was up to but scrambled up to join him as he sprinted to house. At the last minute he swerved to the tool shed to the side.

Once inside she found herself slammed against the door and Cart kissing her, his hand grasping at her jacket and fumbling at the zipper. His scent was wrapped around her, fogging her senses. Until a whiff of burnt plastic crept in.

Tania.

She pushed at him. “What are you doing?”

He leaned in and kissed along her jaw. “Giving you enough energy so you can summon your brother.”

Oh. Sex to reenergize her. She looked at him again. The scrape on his face was almost gone and he was practically burning up with energy. The adrenaline from his need to fight must have kicked everything into high gear. So full of energy, even his kiss helped bolster her. But no, she looked at the riding mower, the shovels, the cobweb covered watering can, she wasn’t going to have sex here. Particularly with Tania alone with the Lycoan.

“Kiss me again and I’ll think of Nic and you think Oberon. Between the two of us we should call him.” His response to her suggestion was to pick her up and wrap her legs around his bare waist.

“But no sex,” she said.

He nodded and leaned in. “I’ll do my best.”

Mona wasn’t sure how he meant that, and didn’t have time before he plundered her mouth. Nic, she needed to think of Nic, which just seemed so wrong right now. He was her big brother, always protective of her. If he found her like this, pressed up against a wall by Cart, he’d separate them. Then argue with her over all the reasons this was a bad idea. She’d argue back, and he’d pull that “I’m your big brother” line out. . .

A frisson of energy and he was there.

Cart stepped away, chest heaving, and, while clearly reluctant to do so, set her down.

Nic took a step toward them, eyes narrowed. He was filled with brilliant blue magic. Far stronger than even Tania’s, it permeated his skin and gave him an eerie glow in the dark shed. Mona thought he could make magic work for him without even needing runes, the sheer strength of him would force the magic into submission.

“The Lycoan has Tania!” Mona yelled, pointing out the door. Nic turned and ran for the door, slowly opening it and slipping out once he’d taken a look.

Mona slumped against Cart even though she felt a whole lot better.

Huh.

She removed her hand from where it rested against Cart’s bare back. She felt a lot worse. She slipped her hand back around his waist. “I think I have the energy I need to deal with the Weres.”

Cart was already heading to the door. “We need to go help Nic and Tania.”

“No, we don’t,” Mona said as she hurried to his side.

“Yes, we do.” Cart put his hand on the door to open it but Mona put hers over his, stopping him.

“Nic has as much power as the all of the protectors you brought combined. He makes Tania’s look like a lake to his ocean. If he can’t beat the Lycoan, we’re all screwed.”

“If he fails. . .” Cart didn’t say anything for a minute. “If he fails, he’ll still have damaged the Lycoan. We need to be there to attack then, before he has a chance to recover.”

“And if he’s not beaten and he’s able to call all those Were’s back to him because they’re still linked since he made them, we’ll never win. I need to truly sever the bonds, so we have a chance. Plus I think he may have someone here he’s coercing to help make his spells stronger. If we can find that person, we’ll weaken his ability further.”

The indecision was clear on his face. “Let’s see how Nic is doing before we decide.”

Mona took her hand off of his. They opened the door just enough to ease out, then ran, hunched over in the hopes of remaining out of sight, to the edge of the Lycoan’s platform to get a better look. They needn’t have worried, the beast had its back to them.

And beast it was. The Lycoan didn’t change into a true animal like other Weres. Instead he’d become the tall, hairy, fang snapping half-human Werewolf figure that nightmares were made of. He leaned over, fangs bared. Tania must be on the ground.

They could see that Nic had the rifle with the darts aimed at the beast, even if he could not. He got off two shots. The beast rose and snarled in fury as Nic said something they couldn’t hear. Nic set down the gun and walked into the ring of fire.

Nic’s energy was spilling out and making the fire cackle around him. There was another short exchange then Nic’s foot lashed out and slammed into the Lycoan’s shoulder.

“We need to go,” Mona said. “I need time to work on the Weres.”

Cart watched as Nic did a couple more kicks and drove the Lycoan back. “It goes against my better judgment to leave, but you’re right, you need to do your job.”

Mona felt a glow of admiration for him. His understanding her need to do her duty was one of the things she loved about him.

Oh crap, she did not just have that thought.

“You just want to see him fight,” she said, in a jocular attempt to ignore the revelation.

“No shit.”

Neither voiced any worry over Nic’s being defeated. As soon as they rounded the corner of the barn they were met with a phalanx of snarling animals.

Cart snarled back.

“Not helping,” Mona muttered. She took a step forward. Creatures flitted around the edges of the group, unnoticed by the Weres, who were entirely focused on Cart.

Salamanders. Here. They were natural healers. Hopefully they’d help.

“I am Warder Kubrek,” she said loudly over their growling reaction to Cart. “I’m here to break your links to the Lycoan.”

She paused. The attention of most of the group was on her. “I do not know the long-term effect of doing this. It may mean you will never change back to human. But you will be free of him and not killed by his senseless actions.”

There were a couple of whines quickly followed by more snapping and growls.

“If we can’t change you back,” Cart said, his voice low and calming despite his earlier reaction of snarling at the group, “the protectors will arrange for you to be moved to a safe territory near Elfhaven, and help you however they can. You will not be abandoned, you will always be pack.”

It was as if a collective sigh went through the group. Cart’s words brought them a reassurance Mona would not have thought to offer.

“We now have an Oberon,” Mona informed them, trying to match Cart’s tone, “which gives me hope that if I cannot change you back, he can. First, though, I must sever your bond. I need to touch you to do this.”

No noticeable reaction.

“And I need the help of my partner. So you must let him near too.” A few of the animals reared up, not liking her restriction. Once she did a couple, she hoped they’d get over it. “Who wants to go first?”

The huge wolverine who’d been the last to leave the Lycoan by the platform lumbered up. Mona looked at him.

“I think I’ve met you before. In the hospital, you were sent after us, and when the Lycoan called you back you turned and attacked him.”

His black masked snout nodded while his brown eyes remained steady on her.

Mona looked over the spell on him. He was a strong Were, he’d needed no help to change. From what she could see, the affect the Lycoan had on him was to make him freakishly large in his animal size. And kept him there until the Lycoan changed the spell otherwise.

She reached out to touch him, but he took a step back. Like a grouchy aunt, the wolverine petulantly turned his side to her so she could reach him. Mona placed one hand on him, while keeping the other in contact with Cart’s skin. A soft brush against her ankles let her know at least one salamander was there as well.

Running on instinct, Mona thought of the cleansing she’d done for the protectors. She ran her hand along his side and went over the spell on him as if it were the same thing as cleaning his inner essence, and stripped as much of the Lycoan’s imprint on the sigils as she could all the while searching for one that might contain something like a signature.

She didn’t see one.

Shit, all she saw was the angry red where someone had supplemented the spell. No one here had enough magic to have helped the Lycoan. His helper was somewhere else.

Maybe, she was going about helping the Weres the wrong way. Maybe, instead of concentrating on the actual pieces she saw, she should see if she could change the color of the working, get rid of the Lycoan and his helper’s color. Could she do that? Would there be a way to disassociate the spell caster by changing the color, their personal mark?

At the end of the lines of rune, Mona concentrated on the color. Nic’s hue came to mind and there was a jolt as she realized she’d somehow connected to him. It was the salamanders, she realized, they acted as a conduit for the energy, keeping it clear and steady. As she worked her way back, the angry red of the original spell’s sigils and markings was now a blue. The red pooled in front, as if it was being scraped off, although she was certain it was being replaced.

Halfway through there was a tug and the rest of the runes rushed through. So focused on the work, she hadn’t realized the wolverine had shifted until she reached the end and stepped back.

Cart was growling at the naked man.

“Cool it, dude,” the tall, muscular man said to Cart, his voice low and gravelly. “I don’t have designs on your lady.”

He ducked his head at her. “Thank you.” He turned his back to the pair and stepped into the crowd of animals.

“Do the pair of bears next, they’re bothers and were caught together in the spell,” he tossed over his shoulder, clearly looking around the group for someone. “You might even be able to do them at the same time.”

Cart looked at the man, a grin splitting his face. “Any chance I could talk you into training to be a protector?”

“Rather not go through the training again, thanks all the same. Need to go find the rest of my group.”

Cart snapped his fingers. "You're with the Reno group."

The man nodded still looking through the crowd. The bears had worked their way to the front and the man slid out of sight behind the large animals.

Mona set her hands on the bears. With Nic’s added help she didn’t need to touch Cart for energy. She did both, a little more quickly, since she knew what to expect and do this time. They too changed back to their shapes, ducking their blond heads and murmuring thanks as they stepped back.

“How many can you do at once?” Cart asked looking at the good two dozen left.

“I think if the spell is the same I could do several,” Mona said after a moment’s thought. With the salamanders’ help and Nic’s magic she should be good. “If they’re not the same it could get slowed down quite a bit.”

“Last five Weres who were changed up next, Reno,” Cart called out.

“Okay, New York.”

Reno pointed out the animals to the brothers who helped push them forward, including one extremely reluctant badger. They went quickly, too, although as the badger transformed, it became clear why she’d been reluctant. Mona handed over her jacket without a word.

Mona now had a pile of hostile magic residue at her feet, ribbons of anger and evil. The salamanders, she noted, were keeping the tendrils confined so nothing would leach out. She needed to get rid of it. She leaned over, and the ground spun and dove at her. Cart reached out for her but she shouted “NO!” and he stopped. A rush of energy was coming back along the line from Nic, and she worried what would happen if Cart touched her. The magic was all evil, as if Nic had stripped someone of the taint—but who? The Lycoan. She squatted down, setting her forearms on her knees and bowing her head against nausea.

“Don’t touch me, just . . . give me a sec,” she managed to get out when Cart knelt down beside her.

She watched as the color leached out of her fingertips and drifted to the ground, threads of magic making crazy looping patterns on the hard packed snow. By the time it was done she was taking shallow breaths through her nose and swallowing against the bile in her throat.

“We need to get rid of this,” Mona said before she remembered Cart wouldn’t be able to see the residue.

“It looks pretty nasty,” Cart agreed.

She lifted her head and blinked at him. “You can see it?”

“Only when I’m around you.”

Something else to figure out. Later. She gathered the red up, the strands feeling, and looking, like cold, slightly slimy noodles. The Weres, she noticed, had stepped back and were warily watching her.

“I think the Lycoan is gone.” Her pronouncement set of a series of reactions, not all good. Reno and the group she’d cleaned moved to create a barrier. She couldn’t help but notice that the bear brothers had hairy asses. Right at eye level.

Cart took her elbow and helped her stand. She swayed a bit before getting her balance.

“Can you jump us somewhere? Maybe the Maven’s old place?”

“I don’t know if I can, my energy is fluctuating a lot.” Oops, Mona hadn’t let him know she was drawing on him, she’d assumed he knew. “Let me try a short one, back to the shed.”

“I—” She was cut off by Nic.

“Mona! Cart!” But his call was too late, the darkness surrounded them as Cart hauled her forward a step. Mona stumbled, her feet almost too tired to lift. Her elbow slipped out of Cart’s grasp.

She let go of the red strands, reaching out to grab where Cart should be. His energy, the aquamarine she’d never consciously associated with him was right . . . there. . .

The strands she’d let go were squiggling like worms in the blackness. Distracted, she watched as one of the faint streaks of color creating specters of dark on dark wrapped itself around the thread and dimmed its light. She looked around. It was as if she’d acclimated herself to the dark and could now see so many colors where there’d be none before.

Go!

The idea pulsed in her brain, not her thought and clearly an order. Cart’s color was there, right there! She flung herself at the glow, colliding with him and causing them both to tumble to the ground as he stepped out of the jump. The landing bruised them both.

Cart didn’t seem to notice. He wrapped his scraped arms around Mona and held her close. His kiss was strong and domineering, and more than a bit frantic. When he broke off the kiss, Mona found their rapid breaths fogged the air between them.

“Don’t ever let go of me during a jump again!” His voice shook. “I couldn’t find you. I thought—”

His body shook, and he didn’t continue.

“I don’t plan to,” she said.

He lifted off her. “I—” he started but was distracted by something. “Shit, the fire circle’s still in place.” He looked around. Mona, under him, couldn’t see what had made him tense. “We need to get up.”

He scrambled up and dragged Mona with him. Hand in hand they raced to the fire, cutting off the Weres so they were in front.

“Tania!” Cart’s worried voice carried over the fire.

“She’s safe,” Nic called out.

Mona watched as the energy of the fire disappeared and the flames melted down to tiny flickers before fading away. Nic was standing over Tania, braced as if for another fight. There was no sign of the Lycoan.

Tania struggled to rise but fell back.

“Your ankle?” Nic leaned over, his hand outstretched. Mona could see his power gathering.

Tania, though, waved him off. “Save your energy for the Weres. I can heal myself once I have my power back.”

He nodded and pulled his hand away. With a half smile, he tucked something into in an inner pocket in his vest then pulled out small plastic bag, which he offered to Tania.

“Salmon jerky? I’m told the vitamin D in it works wonders, but isn’t as good as the real thing.”

“Thank you, I think I will.” Tania took several large pieces.

As she ate, Nic picked Tania up. He strode past Cart and Mona to the platform the Lycoan had been standing upon when they’d first seen him. He carefully set her down. Mona looked around. The sun hung its golden disk just above the horizon—perhaps an hour had passed since they’d arrived.

Closer now, Mona realized there was another series of spells under the contraption. The lime-green color of the original casting was overlaid with the angry red with tints of deepening vermillion. Actually, there was a bit of the red spells on the top too, on what looked to be a rack or something the Lycoan may have used to . . . she wasn’t going to go there. He had used death magic.

Chapter Nineteen

Nic frowned at the construction as he paced around the rectangle one way and then back the other. Looking up, he waved Mona over to him.

“What is that?” He pointed to a particularly large bump of orangey red.

Mona looked through the sigils to the runes. Both were linked through a containment rune. The top one also had the death rune, but it was on its side, which would mean a curse of some sort.

“A couple of things going on. The foremost is the top containment spell—it has a nasty counter curse imbedded in it. I can’t be sure what the curse does; the symbols are all under the top portion.

Nic nodded and poked at the knot. Mona watched his finger slide through and tap just the green portion of the containment rune. Sparks shot out and Nic caught those and absorbed them. Mona watched as he converted the wild energy into something he could use. He shared some with Tania, given the thread between them, but that was probably not on purpose.

He poked again, this time tilting the death rune, flipping it over so it would be ineffectual. A loud keening occurred causing every Were in sight to drop and roll around in an attempt to cover their ears. Mona reached out, flipped the rune all the way over and the keening stopped.

Nic nodded at the work she’d done. “Can you tell now?” he asked her.

Mona peered at the spell again. Yes, just that little flip had exposed some major workings. The bit she could see under the containment looked similar to the memory spell on Smythe’s journal. But also a bit like the spell Tania had used to show them where the ‘traitor’s gate’ was back at the compound.

“Some ancient . . . half beast . . . is in place to keep you from opening the top holding spell. There’s definitely a tie there and I can’t do anything to change the second one, it’s too ancient a spell.”

Tania came over and peered around Nic’s shoulder at the knot of magic. Mona glanced around—Cart was over with the Were he’d called Reno, talking quietly while they worked this out.

“That’s what I see. There’s a weak spot here,” Tania said, pointing to a place where the sigils were slightly less vibrant. “If you trigger the spell there, it could be whatever is trapped below gets out that much faster.”

“Okay.” Nic yanked at the spell.

Mona scrambled back as the platform erupted, sending shards of wood everywhere and making everyone duck. Everyone except Nic and Tania, who stood side by side behind a vibrant blue energy shield. Mona blinked at the shield—the energy was from the spell. He’d taken the magic and forced it into another shape. Cracked acorns, he had crazy power.

A great bovine head, with bronze clad horns and a ringed nose, arose from the wreckage. Once on solid ground he stomped his unclad feet then shook his wrestler’s arms and body like an animal shedding water. Snout high in the air, his massive shoulders under the pelt skin shifted and stretched, then some scent caught his attention. Still now, except for the twitching tail over his bare buttocks, he breathed in the smell deeply.

Slowly, his nose leading the way, he turned his bull’s eyes toward Nic and Tania.

A growl was all the warning they had before he charged right at them.

Mona turned and ran toward the shed, Cart by her side, although she had no memory of when he got there. Behind her, she felt a surge of magic. A jump. She looked back over her shoulder. Tania and Nic were now behind the beast who again scented then turned around.

“We need to find some weapons,” Cart said. “The only known method of killing them is to separate the head from the body.”

Mona thought of that massively thick neck. Defeating it would be very difficult. Cart headed into the shed while she watched from behind the safety of the building. Tania jumped them again, this time closer down to the pond.

“We aren’t here to hurt you,” Nic’s voice rang out.

Apparently the beast disagreed, because it lowered its head and ran at them again.

Nic sent out a lasso of magic and jerked its feet out from under it. Mud and slush and gravel spattered when it hit the ground.

“We did not trap you,” Nic clarified.

The beast shook his head, snowy mush flying in a ten-foot arc around him, and roared. Mona watched as the half man rose, mud and magic sliding off him. She squinted. The minotaur had a natural resistance to magic, but there looked to be something else going on here. A spell on him that made only one person’s magic stick to him. She’d remove it but there was no way to do so without touching him. If needed, she would, but she sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be needed.

The minotaur swung its head from side to side and Mona realized there was a whole lot more than that spell on him. The earthy tones had blended into his skin, making it difficult to see. Except for the faint red pulses. Red pulses like the areas on the Lycoan’s spells. Someone had manipulated this working too.

Tania and Nic turned from their whispered conversation.

“I can help you get revenge.” Nic’s voice was full of power and promise.

The great shaggy head stilled, although his shoulders twitched as if he fought against the urge to move.

“I can also send you back so no one would ever know you’ve been gone.” Nic’s voice was lower this time. “You tell me. One hand up for revenge and both hands up for return.” Nic demonstrated what he wanted as he spoke.

A foot pawed at the ground, causing Nic to pull Tania tightly against his side. The beast stood, toes scuffing the ground.

“You want to do both, don’t you?” Tania asked. “I’m not sure we can promise that.”

“She’s right, I can’t promise you that we’ll be able to do both,” Nic said. “Not because I don’t want to, but I don’t know what and who you’ll find when I send you to get your revenge. However, if I can, I’ll help you get back. My word.” He smacked his fist on his chest twice then did a half bow. A ritual Mona didn’t get, but the minotaur seemed to be reassured; he knelt and raised one hand in the air.

“Okay, I’ll take your word you won’t harm us and you have our word we won’t harm you. We need to get close enough to undo your bindings.” Nic took a step and the half man jumped up, arms cocked to fight. Nic stopped. “I can’t do this if you don’t trust us.”

Tania took a step forward and bowed. She flicked her fingers and Mona saw a set spell tornado around her, then her crown was plopped on her head. Mona thought this was supposed to change her into the finery she’d worn at the Puck’s binding, but without imps around, this was what she got.

“I’m the ruler of the Folk in this area and this is my . . . consort,” Tania said. “Our promise to help you binds us to do you no harm.”

The fists lowered.

“I’ll stand here, next to you, while my consort works, if that’ll put you at ease.” Tania slowly walked toward him then stood with her back half to him, trust implicit in the stance. Mona did notice she’d gone to the side where she’d be standing in the sun.

Nic waited half a heartbeat and joined them.

Tania was saying something to the beast that Mona couldn’t hear.

“Must be an Asterion, they’re smart. A regular minotaur acts on animal instinct alone.” Cart gave a dry chuckle. “An Oberon who doesn’t fight first and ask questions later, this’ll be new.”

“Stop doing that!” Mona hissed.

“What?”

“Showing up at my side with no warning!”

“You want me to warn you that I’m at your side? How?”

Mona just shook her head and looked back. The beast had his arms raised and Nic was examining the workings etched into the underside. Tania kept up her low-key banter. Cart might be able to hear it but she couldn’t.

Whatever she was saying must have been funny because Cart started to snicker then almost doubled over with suppressed laughter. Tania shot them a glance, not breaking her banter with the beast.

Nic approached Tania, who turned and bowed her head regally at the beast before stepping away. Nic elegantly pulled at each strand using a small hook of magic and gathered together the lines that were binding the Asterion to this place. He then wrapped the hook of his magic around them and brought them to his fist.

Cart and Mona moved closer as Nic spoke to the being.

“I want to grant you some power to help you and so that whoever you face knows I sent you,” Nic said. He flicked a bit of magic at it, marking its brow with a symbol Mona couldn’t make out. “When you are ready to for me to get you, what movement do you want to make?”

The minotaur clapped his hands three times.

“No, something simpler that you can do even if disabled. Not that I think that’ll happen, but I want to plan for any eventuality.”

The shaggy head nodded then stilled. He touched his chest three times, going across, down, then up to make a triangle.

“Yes, I can use that. Touch any place on your body to make a triangle and I’ll either come get you or pull you out. Good idea. Now let’s see. . .”

Mona watched as her brother—her brother, the one who’d never used magic and who had suppressed his heritage until less than two weeks ago—created a spell of amazing simplicity and beauty. She remembered thinking that Tania’s spell was like looking at copperplate after reading block letters. Nic’s elegant sigils and three-dimensional runes, were like the most elegant of calligraphy, simple, clear but so well structured and shaped there was joy just in the formation of the pieces while the whole became a work of art.

“Either hand, Nic,” Tania pointed out, her voice soft so as not to break his concentration. When he was done she added, “Nice job.”

Mona thought this was a bit of an understatement.

“Thanks. You ready to send him?” Nic’s voice sounded tired.

“Yep. Here,” Tania wrapped a hand around his wrist and Mona saw the swell of energy she sent into him. “On the count of three. One, two, three!”

The spell literally pushed him away. The effect was odd to watch as he shrunk toward his middle from top to bottom. Then he was gone.

“That’s different, I’ve never seen anything like that,” Cart murmured.

It made Mona feel better that she wasn’t the only one who thought the method odd. With the minotaur gone the hole under the platform drew her attention—there was one more containment spell. About to tell Nic and Tania, she found them heading over, Nic carrying Tania in his arms as he fed energy he’d cleaned into her. That’s what it was, Mona realized, he cleaned energy like a Warder but could also make spells.

Oberon. King of the Elves and able to do all magic. Mona watched as he set Tania down, worried over his reaction when he found out exactly what these new powers meant.

“Shouldn’t you wait?” Cart called to them, his disbelief that they were doing this now clear.

Mona agreed—they had low energy and who knew what else was in the pit? She stepped closer, until she could see below the edge of the ground. No more angry red, just the lime green of the ancient spell, the one that looked so much like a memory spell.

“Finishing the job while we’re here,” Nic called back. “Want to help?”

“This one is safe,” Mona assured Cart, knowing it was true but unable to put her finger on why. The color? The intent of the sigils? Something.

“Nah, call me if you want backup.”

Nic and Tania stepped right up to the edge of the hole. Mona watched as the edges of the spell swayed as if drawn by their presence. The one tendril curled up and unraveled, leaving a bright blue and a goldenrod yellow.

Tania and Nic’s colors, but not put there by them. The pair looked at the strands and seemed to come to a decision.

“What is it?” Cart asked under his breath. He stood behind Mona, hands on her shoulders, a sense of excitement vibrating off him. Even the Weres who’d crept back out were standing still, as if aware that this might be a momentous occasion.

“It’s a memory spell, similar to the one Smythe used on me.”

“A memory—”

At that moment Nic and Tania counted to three and each grasped a strand, belatedly throwing a shield up.

Two figures formed in front, semi transparent but clearly there. The woman older and in the raiment that Tania had worn not so long ago when the Puck had bound her to find the Lycoan. The man in a brief kilt of leaves and bark vest that did nothing to cover his very hirsute body. Even the tops of his feet had a pad of brown, curly hair. They were life sized and frozen as if in mid-action.

The last full Titania and Oberon stood there, ready to impart something to Nic and Tania.

A loud crack and Randall, Cart’s mother, and . . . by the goddess, that was Dad!

“Dad!” Mona couldn’t help the exclamation from escaping her lips.

He turned just his head and winked at her before quickly looking back. Nic’s expression at seeing him was less than pleased. Mona knew he had issues with their dad’s seeming abandonment, but when the Queen of Elfhaven had called, he’d had to go.

“We’re waiting here!” Randall said.

“That’s your father?” Cart said, distracting Mona from watching Nic and Tania trying to figure out what they were supposed to do. The pair looked flummoxed, then took a pose mimicking the holograms.

“Yep.”

Cart’s reply was a soft chortle. Mona didn’t have time for figure out what that meant as the pair dropped their shield and together proclaimed, “Welcome.”

Mona watched as the colors surrounded the couple, entwining and meshing with their magic. Imps started blinking into existence. But something, something was still off. Like an off-tune instrument in a band, a faint buzz of evil played on her nerves.

Mona looked around. There, on the top edge of the askew lumber that had once been the Lycoan’s torture rack. A last little bit of vermillion still hung despite the fact all of the ties for the Lycoan’s workings should have been cleared from this area when Nic had freed the minotaur.

“Come on,” she said to Cart. “There’s some of the residue from the person who helped the Lycoan I want to look at.”

A couple of the Weres looked over at them as they moved closer, before turning back to watch the light display of new imps being created.

“Here, give me a boost up. I want to touch it.” Something about it made Mona think the spell had been placed by whoever was helping the Lycoan. Although, it wasn’t really a spell, just a bit a magic residue with the marking of the person who’d worked it.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“It should be okay.” The only other magic in this area was the residue of Nic and Tania’s spell to send the minotaur away. “Plus, spells shouldn’t affect me.”

Although, come to think of it, they had been affecting her some. But this probably wasn’t the time to mention that.

Cart knelt his six foot plus frame down, wrapped his arms around her thighs, and picked her up. Mona grabbed onto his shoulders for balance.

“You could have warned me!”

Cart was nuzzling her stomach. “This going to take long?”

Mona ignored his question and stared at the splash of color. It wasn’t a sigil or rune, more like it was a little bit of energy left from a working. The same deepening color appeared on many of the Lycoan’s workings.

She reached out and touched the piece.

The remnants of the transfer spell Nic and Tania created for the Minotaur swirled in a blue and yellow cyclone around them. Cart’s grip loosened and Mona slid a fraction before the familiar blackness of a jump swallowed then. There were, she noted, less of the faintly tinted black specters today. In fact, as she watched, one with a slight orange shade coalesced to a pin point then popped out of sight with a slight spark.

Imps, this was where imps came from. She looked around at the magical sparks created when elves’ souls returned to the goddess.

The light returned like the flash of a light bulb. They were at the edge of a road curving down a hill in a lazy “s,” barely visible through the trees. The air was slightly less chilly then it had been in Canada, but much, much windier.

“I know this place.” Cart turned and looked around at the trees and the small lot behind them. He let go of her and jogged down to a sign facing away from them on the road, read it, and jogged back up. “We’re in New Jersey.”

Mona looked around at the forested hills. Cart didn’t give her a chance to observe much before he hustled her away from the road and across the parking lot. The purr of a motor explained his actions.

“You sure?” She’d never been, but from what she’d heard this was not what she’d expected it to look like.

“Absolutely,” Cart said as he continued down to the trailhead marked at the end of the parking lot. “This is the South Mountain reservation. The local townships have a deer problem and they contract us to cull the population. They think we use rifles, instead every year we have a tracking and training exercise for the New York City protectors. It’s about three square miles, all of it hilly.”

“And clearly you have an idea of where to go.”

“There’s an abandoned estate on the very northern edge. Huge place, looks like an English country estate—formal gardens, viewing ponds, the whole deal. Think the heirs are fighting over the land. Anyway, unless whoever placed that bit of magic is at the remnants of the mill, which I doubt, as it’s pretty close to the road, I’m guessing that’s where we should head.”

“Can we jump closer?” They’d slowed down as the trail rose steeply. The path curved around the sprawling upturned roots of a giant felled tree. Holes and furrows marked the debarked wood.

“No, I—” Cart stopped as Mona grabbed his arm.

There was a shift in the wind. She felt the power rushing toward them as the wind began to shriek. The scent of wet leaves and snow raced in front of it. Cart turned around and ran back down the trail, pulling her down and behind the rotting tree. He tried to slide her in the small hollow below and cover her with his body. Mona stepped to the side.

“No, I need to protect you!” Mona said, whispering frantically. “There’s magic in that spell, magic intended to harm. It won’t affect me, but it could affect you. I need to be on the outside so I can shield you.”

“But there’ll be debris and branches, you need to be on the inside,” he hissed back.

“The tree will protect me.” The leading edge of the windborne spell hit them as a sapling tangled in the roots of their shelter then crashed down. Cart wedged himself as far back in the hollow as he could, then wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in front of him.

“No, I need to face out, I need to see the spell,” Mona said, squirming and trying to move.

He snarled, and in the gloom of the now overcast sky she could see the magic he’d need to change building up. She put both hands on his face. “Josiah, stay with me. I need to do this, and you need to trust that I can.”

A second passed, filled with the now howling wind and clatter as smaller bits of debris bounced and pinged against her back. Cart closed his eyes and loosened his hands. Mona brushed his lips with hers before she rolled over.

The sky swirled with sigils and runes, huge amber shapes tinged with vermillion. The distorted images were hard to read. Wind, speed, shield, all clearly moved from their original places in the working. Mona reached out and nudged the speed rune.

Abruptly all the twigs and papers and debris of a forest in winter plummeted. Mona squealed and attempted to shield her head with her arms.

“Dammit, Mona!” Cart pulled her closer.

The loud clattering as something very solid tumbled down on the log stopped Mona’s reply.

Then silence.

No birds, no wind, no sounds even from the not so far off road.

“GO!” Cart shoved at her and she scrambled out, bumping on the half dozen bricks now littered over the path.

She watched back up the trail, in the direction the wind had come from. Something, some thing was coming down that path. A faint hissing built up and moved toward them, slowly stalking their way.

Cart slipped out of the hollow, his jacket ripped and streaked with blood.

“Help me get this off. I want to be ready to shift.” He was carefully pulling his arms out of the jacket.

Mona reached over and realized splinters of wood were embedded through the fabric and into his back.

“Let me pull out the worst of these,” Mona said softly. Knowing they didn’t have much time as the hissing become more distinct, she grabbed a jagged edge of fabric and pulled out the ones with the most blood around them.

Cart leaned over to undo his boots, grunting in pain. Mona kept an ear out, listening again for the shushing sound she’d heard earlier, but except for their whispers nothing was moving. Whatever was coming had stopped. Was it close enough to see them? She looked around, she didn’t see anything or the glow of any spells. A small window then, to help Cart heal before they faced whatever was coming after them.

“Ready?” Mona whispered. Without waiting for his response or for him to straighten, she grabbed opposing corners of the ruined coat and yanked it up, following the direction of the scrapes.

“Cracked—” Cart bit off the rest of his exclamation. The copper scent of his blood filled the air. Mona plucked out the larger bits she could see, tossing them under the tree.

“Shoot!” She shook her finger after a particularly barbed piece pierced her.

Cart started to stand up. “You okay?”

“Stay there. Two more and I’ll be done.” Mona braced her sore hand on his back and pulled with the other. Done.

Cart stood and grabbed her now bloody hand in his own scraped ones.

Energy, a bolt of pure, electrical, hair-raising energy went through her. Both she and Cart jerked from the shock, although he managed to retain hold of her hand.

Mona shook her head and looked around.

The Earth glowed, trees a slumberous emerald green, the ground with streaks of umber. And Cart, Cart was a blue so close to purple she wondered why she thought of it as blue.

“I’ve never seen magical essence this clearly, I can always see a little, but this. . .” Cart trailed off in wonder.

The understory saplings quivered. Mona turned toward them and a deer skittered out, veering off with a leap when it saw them. Mona could almost see the beat of its heart in the pumpkin colored life force.

“Let’s go, I’d rather be uphill from whatever it is than downhill.” Cart headed up the trail, keeping his hold of her hand.

Mona was glad for his help, the change in perception was making her a bit dizzy. She had no idea why her sight had shifted. Would she still be able to see spells?

“Are you going to shift?” she asked as they neared the crest of the hill.

“No, I’d lose the advantage of the sight. I need to stay in contact.”

“The sight, don’t you always see like this?”

“Not this strongly, and if I’m right, I’ll be able to see a bit of what you see.”

Pulling on their joined hands, she stopped them.

“Why is this happening?” she whispered. She didn’t see the beast but somehow her brain was reading the shifting patterns of energy, she knew it sat, unmoving, just over the ridge.

“It’s the blood.” He held up their joined hands. “Somehow we’ve each absorbed a little of the other’s, so we’ve gained a bit of each other’s abilities.”

“It wasn’t that much!” Mona said. Well, at least on her side, just a bit more than a pin prick.

“Right, so I’m not sure how long it’ll last. I want to wait until it’s done before I shift.”

They both tensed as the energies around them stirred. As one, they headed off the path and up toward higher ground, crashing through underbrush when it was in their way. There, at the top of the ridge they looked down on the lizard whose scaled snout was turning toward them. Not a Wyrm, but something similar. He stood a good twenty feet down, his head was almost parallel to their feet. Mona looked over the runes wrapped around his body, distracted by the additional lines of his life force—Cart jerked her down. They slipped a few feet back along the ridge. With a whistling sound, a blast of air and ice frosted the trees around them.

Only one side of the trees. Not the other. It was as if someone had painted frost across the bark and not completed the task.

“Okay, so is this a different kind of Wyrm?” Mona asked. Something seemed off about its movements and actions, its life force. Even with the little she’d seen there was a feeling a misplayed note in the middle of a song.

“Not a Wyrm, pretty sure it’s not sentient, just an animal. The closest thing I can think of is a basilisk, but it’s far too large and basilisks turn things into stone, not freeze them.”

“The spell on it probably did that,” Mona said. She was reasonably certain she’d seen the markings that would have changed the size of the creature.

There was a scraping sound on the other side of the hill.

Not looking to see what it was, Mona and Cart ran further into the woods.

“If I can get a good look at it, I could probably change the spell back,” Mona managed to get out as they rounded a boulder and stopped.

She leaned her back against the cool stone and tried to catch her breath. Cart paced, arms crossed and hands tucked against his side, his muscular shoulders hunched against the cold. Mona unwrapped her scarf and took off her hat and handed them over. Somewhere, she wasn’t sure when, they’d lost Cart’s knapsack.

“I want to see the spell,” Cart said. “If we got a good view, would you be able to explain it to me?”

Far behind them they heard a crash. Cart looked down the trail. “It moves very slowly,” he said, frowning at the noises. “I don’t think it’s meant to be out in this cold.”

“But if it breathes freezing air, wouldn’t it be used to it?” Mona asked.

“I’m guessing it’s a cooling mechanism for the dessert. Something in the spell must be ramping up the chill factor and causing the ice laden breath. What we need is a diversion, something to distract it so we can get a look.”

Another crash and they peered around the edge of the boulder. The half frozen trees they’d stood by earlier swayed as the reptile forced its way through.

“I think we need an imp,” Cart said. “It can provide a distraction so we can get a look.”

“No!” Mona was as surprised as Cart at her vehement reaction. “If this person’s been working with the Lycoan they might also be striping imps of power. We can’t risk it.”

“We could outrun it,” Cart said thoughtfully. “Ignore it and keep going.”

Mona nodded, liking the idea. “Whoever sent it to delay us expects us won’t expect that.”

Without a word, Cart started off. Mona followed, hoping they’d get back to the trail soon. Although seeing the forest through the filter of Cart’s view was informative—she could spot where small critters hid from them—blazing a new route across the frozen ground was taking valuable time. At least now the sounds of the forest had returned. The birds calling, the chittering of squirrels, and the intermittent hum of cars nearby all resumed, as if they’d been turned on with a switch.

After a half hour’s walk they reached a road, on the other side of which was a large grassy hill. Mona looked at the open space with trepidation. After seeing the life force in the trees and bushes, the sloping field looked barren.

“There’s a better place to cross a little further down.”

Wait, were his teeth chattering?

“You should shift,” Mona said. “You’re using up too much energy just trying to stay warm.”

“I’d planned to risk shifting once we crossed the road.”

Risk? “Why risk?”

The purring of an oncoming car had them both moving off the berm and standing in the woods waiting for the vehicle to pass.

“Given how this person manipulates magic, I could see them doing something to lock me in my beast for a while.” Cart shrugged as if it wasn’t a big thing. Mona, though, heard the worry in his voice.

“Imp, if you can do so without exposing yourself to danger, please bring a winter coat for Josiah Cart Dupree,” Mona said. “I apologize for not waiting for you to appear before stating the request, but you understand the necessity. Thank you.”

“Are you crazy!” Cart whispered as the purr of the car’s engine morphed into the rumbling of a truck’s as it passed them.

There was a dull thud. They looked at each other before heading back to the road. A charity donation pickup truck disappeared around the bend, its back door flapping open. And on the salt dusted road a plastic bag lay, split open, with winter clothes spilling onto the black top.

Hauling the load to the side, they picked through, finding an enormous thermal shirt, which hung large on Cart, and a down vest with a tear along one seam. And a dark green rain poncho with a partial roll of duct tape in the kangaroo pouch. They tied the bag back up over the remaining items, and set it on the side of the road.

“You always this lucky?” Cart asked.

Fine for him to blame it on luck—Mona was more worried about how much of their circumstances seemed to be being manipulated. And, unless the goddess was using her hand directly, she had an idea who was dealing the card.

“It’s either luck or something that rhymes with it,” she said, reluctant to use his name, here.

Cart’s step hitched, then he kept on, acknowledging her comment with only a grunt. She didn’t blame him. If the Puck was as heavily involved as he seemed, then the goddess’ hand may well be being played too.

Chapter Twenty

After they crossed the road it took another half hour to get to the edge of the property Cart had been aiming for. She knew they were getting near once they started skirting the path again. Finally they reached a basin. Here huge pines marched up both sides of the trail, uniform and evenly spaced; their age made her wonder just how old the property was. The deep presence of the life force from the collective group had her in awe. And a presence it was, a power almost as strong as an ancient sentient being.

Cart stood looking at the pines too. “Every time I come here, I am reminded of the goddess’s power. This place has always seemed to be close to her heart.”

Yes. That was it exactly, the feeling that a small part of her was here, in this place.

Cart took her hand and gave it a squeeze before detouring around the trees and heading up the hill. Even to the side their power almost pulsed at her. Only when they were past did Cart speak.

“There’s a barn here, a tractor shed really. We might be able to use that to climb up and over the fence.”

Now that she looked for it, Mona saw the thin metal wires of the fence running between the trees at the end of the pine lined promenade. A strand every foot and a half and the top one, in the lower branches, faintly outlined with a spell.

For once it was a spell that didn’t bear the deep crimson markings of the person they sought.

“Oh, there’s a spell on the top wire isn’t there?” Cart squinted at the nearly invisible line. “I—” He stopped.

Silence again descended on them. Goose bumps raced up Mona’s arm and she shivered at the eerie sensation. Yanking on her hand, Cart took off at a run. They raced along the fence, the noise of their struggling through the brush the only sound in the still air. Around a corner and then ahead, faded white washed wood perched on a stone foundation came into view. Cart didn’t go to the door, instead he pulled Mona into the narrow space between the building and the fence.

They ran through and came out the other side and kept going, moving away from the wire fencing. Cart led them over cleared ground, making the hair on the back of Mona’s neck rise as they left the concealment of the building. He held them to walking quickly and their passage was almost silent. She didn’t like feeling so exposed but clearly the plan had changed.

Once again in the forest Cart stopped just inside the tree line behind another towering pine. He pulled a small army knife out of his pocket and opened it. He ran the edge over his palm, creating a thin line of blood. Mona, steeling herself against the pain, held her hand out so he could do the same. They each would need the boost to face this enemy. Plus, she sincerely hoped some of her immunity would rub off on Cart. The idea of his being badly hurt made her nauseous. Cart slid the blade across her palm and she bit down on her hiss of pain. Noise was the enemy here.

He clasped her hand in his. In the silence she could hear his heartbeat. His golden eyes looked down at her.

Hers. This man was hers. She could only hope and pray to the goddess that he was not going to embrace evil, because doing so would be an anathema to who he was. If he turned she would not be able to live with herself. No, she could not believe this man, whose soul was now part of hers, would ever turn.

Cart tensed and looked back down the path. Between the low branches Mona saw a woman—blond, beautiful. She stood in the path, her head cocked, looking at the building they’d slid by. Dressed eye-catchingly, if inappropriately, in low riding white cargo pants and a cropped fur trimmed jacket, she looked like she’d stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. If one discounted the tension in her shoulders and the tattoo up the side of her face.

Radiating around her was a cone of silence. Mona looked the runes and sigils over—crimson markings modified the working, making it suppress all animal sounds. Oddly, the spell wasn’t anchored on her, but was linked to something she wore, perhaps a necklace given where the power lines emanated from.

Mona didn’t see any evil in the woman; instead it was as if it was painted on her, layer after layer, until some stuck and clung and embedded itself in her flesh. Strange because Mona didn’t sense much ability to handle magic in her at all, but then with all the out layers distorting her view, she couldn’t be sure.

“What am I seeing?” Cart whispered, his voice so soft she barely heard it.

Mona assumed he meant the silence spell. After reading through everything again she leaned over to him, keeping her eye on the woman. No way was she going to not keep an eye on her.

“The larger forms are runes,” she whispered in his ear. “They are the what the spell is built on. This one has four—wall, sounds, silence, and one that can be manipulated to specify a distance. The squiggly links between the runes are sigils. They’re what the caster uses to create an order and hierarchy that give the spell its shape and purpose. The intent of the actions and the way the sigils are written aren’t something I can easily change. However, I can rotate the runes, modifying their strength or sometimes switch runes within the working to change the scope of the spell.”

He looked back. Given how his head swiveled slightly, following the parameters of the spell, she guessed he was sorting through what he saw.

The woman pulled out a small spiral notebook from her hip pocket. Mona hissed as the cacophony of magic embedded on the book flared. Cart squeezed their joined hands, either in sympathy or warning, she wasn’t sure. Snow bunny seemed unaffected and flipped through until she found what she was looking for. Tearing off the page, she closed the book and slid it back into her pocket.

Mona blinked, unable to process what she was seeing.

“She’s got a spell on that page,” Cart murmured. “How can she do that?”

However she did it didn’t matter, as the woman pulled the paper through her fingers, removing the spell. As the working lost its inertia she tweaked the runes and flung her creation at the house. A fireball formed and exploded as it hit the building, projecting shards of white washed wood into the sky.

Cart used the noise to cover their moving to a better position to watch the woman’s movements. Mona knew he was waiting for an opportunity to confront her. Hiding until she left was not going to be an option.

Watching the woman, they ignored the rain of splinters. Her mouth was open and there was a gleeful, anticipatory expression on her face. As the remainder of the building collapsed in on itself, the fingers of one hand stroked the inside wrist of the other. Magic pooled there, too. The woman seemed to have a number of magical pieces. They’d need to get close enough to disarm her.

A furious look crossed the woman’s face.

“Where are you?” She looked around, then focused on the trees they stood in.

“Stay here,” Mona whispered. “I can manipulate the spells while you work out how to take her down.”

Without waiting for his response she walked out of the trees. Good thing Mona kept her eyes on the woman, because she’d whipped out a spell from somewhere and flung it right at Mona. While she knew the spell should slide over her, there was a chance with Cart’s blood now mixing with hers she’d be vulnerable.

So she kept walking and flipped the speed rune over and the whole thing tumbled to the ground, now moving at a snail’s pace. Closer, she needed to get closer. She stepped around the working now sitting on the ground.

The woman laughed. “Oh, you’re going to be fun to kill.”

Another spell came at Mona, her opponent pulling this one off an index card she took out of her hip pocket. The working was not directly aimed at Mona. Instead, exactly like the spell she’d encountered at Smythe’s complex that had almost killed her early that morning many days ago, it was pulling slabs of stones out of the ground, which were racing up to crush her between them. Mona turned the rune, giving the working direction and the rumbling under her feet subsided as the stones headed down.

Ten feet away now. Cart was circling around behind the woman. Huh, she didn’t realize she’d feel him that well. Not only could she feel him, she knew anger and worry for her seethed under his calm calculations.

“We’re close enough that anything you send might turn back on you,” Mona said, moving closer.

“True.” The woman pulled a gun out of her parka. “Stop right—”

Mona kicked out, knowing she couldn’t let her bring the gun up and brace it for a shot. While she’d not gotten nearly as far as her brother, the couple of years of lessons weren’t forgotten. Her foot connected with her adversary and she felt a backlash of energy as she came in contact with the spell on the woman’s wrist.

The gun went off, startlingly loud this close. Shit, she hadn’t kicked it free. Then Cart was there, pinning the woman’s shoulders and arms to her side. Mona reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could react and raise the weapon.

Pain. The spell there sent shards of pain through Mona’s hand and spearing up to her elbow.

“You okay?” Cart asked as her knees buckled and she yelped in response. Mona nodded, although, really, she wasn’t. “Get rid of the gun if you can.”

Mona held on, squeezing and twisting to get the woman to drop the firearm. The woman stood there laughing, not trying to fight. Finally the gun dropped to the ground. Mona kicked it away.

Mona slid her hand up and away from the wrist, confused because she didn’t feel any jewelry under her now tingling palm. Cart’s hiss echoed hers as the tattoo and its magic were exposed.

“Pretty, isn’t it? Edward suggested I get it.” The woman flexed her wrist, making the dark markings writhe.

No, it was revolting. Mona looked over the woman’s shoulder at Cart, who looked as disgusted as she felt.

The tattoo was an ugly, nasty spell, one that pulled energy out of Folk and stored it for later use. Mona let go, repulsed by the images of people and creatures she was getting simply by looking at the design.

“I’d never consider killing others pretty,” Mona said.

“And you have so much experience, do you?” the blond sneered. “No, you’re too goody-goody, using your gift to Ward folk. They’ve got you brainwashed. ‘Your powers mean you serve to protect us.’” Her voice deepened, mimicking someone. “They’ve got it wrong. Our powers mean we can’t be touched. If you’re invincible you’re on top. And I intend to stay there. With or without Edward.”

The woman was looking at the tattoo, grinning in pleasure.

By the goddess, she was a Warder. Edward’s Warder, although not his Mate, or at least if she was they hadn’t completed their mating or she’d be tied to his fate. More importantly, Smythe had not been responsible for his son, this woman was supposed to have been. Somehow, some why, Smythe had missed training this woman, and she’d gone rogue. His ego? His denial? Mona would never know.

The woman looked up at Mona again. Eyes now narrowed. “I know you, you’re the bitch who tried to prevent me from ridding the world of that mother and her baby. The child destined to have all the powers. Too bad you didn’t succeed. Now you’ll have to wait years for another to be born. You were too late for that, Miss Goody Two-Shoes.” She bared her teeth in a feral snarl. “You made me lose several good men, something I’ll not forgive.”

Mona didn’t look at Cart. Didn’t want to give away that they were sure they’d saved the child. Wasn’t even certain it was true anymore. When was the last time she’d heard anything?

The woman was muttering under her breath. Mona saw a spell being built up. How many of these tattoos did the woman have? Remembering her brother’s advice she stepped back and aimed her fist at the woman’s jaw, easy to do as the woman was looking away, putting her weight behind the hit and following through. Cart loosened his hold and the woman’s head snapped back before she was knocked out. He kept the woman upright, despite her lax body.

“Shit, that hurts!” Mona shook out her hand.

“Get the Swiss army knife out of my vest pocket.”

Mona’s eyes went wide.

“You can’t mean. . .” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“I could kill her now.”

Mona saw the truth in his eyes—he’d do it if she said he should. But Mona couldn’t make the call. Wouldn’t make the call. Part and parcel of her being Warder, perhaps, but she didn’t think killing the woman, at this juncture at least, would solve anything.

He nodded, and she sensed his agreement. “You can use the knife to mar the tattoos and make them unusable and we’ll bring her back for Nic and Tania to judge. And we should start with that one.”

Dizzy with nausea at the idea of cutting the woman, Mona reached under the poncho and into his vest.

“Clean it first, I got most of our blood off, but there’s no reason to take chance on there still being some.”

Mona looked the compact knife over. The casing had a rough black texture and there were at least two blades. “Can’t I just use the smaller blade?”

Cart had the woman down on the ground and was wrapping her forearms together behind her back, being sure to keep her wrist clear.

“Yeah, might take longer, but sure.” He tore off a short piece of duct tape and placed it over their captive’s mouth. There was barely enough to tape her ankles together before he ran out of tape. Still kneeling, he looked up at her.

“I can’t do the work.” His voice was soft, calming, and Mona knew he wished he could. “I can be here, help you, but you know what the runes mean, how to nullify the spell, I don’t.”

Mona looked down at the knife in her hand, unable to fathom that she might use it on a person. “Will it be permanent? I mean, are we just going to do this and have it all go back?”

“You tell me. Can you change the spell? Rework the runes in a way she won’t easily be able to change it back?”

Kneeling next to him she looked over the tattoo, trying, trying not to think about cutting into this woman’s flesh.

“Moving the runes wouldn’t do anything. Flipping them, rearranging them, she’d just move them back. I could probably take a rune out.” Would she have to slice it out? Better to not think of it. “Which might collapse the whole thing or not, I’m not sure with the more permanent elements of this spell.”

Cart cupped her neck in one hand and brushed the tear she hadn’t realized she’d shed with the thumb of his other. The blood link was still strong; she felt his love and worry, his fierce protectiveness and his angst-ridden acceptance that there were some things he had to let Mona do.

“Is there a way for me to do this?” he asked anyway. “No, never mind. Look, do you remember when your brother cut Tania, then had to suck out the poison? Think if it that way. Having a spell with that evil an intent on her, it’s got to affect her in some way.”

Mona knew that to be the case. With all the spells their captive had embedded on her skin—and there were definitely more than the one on her wrist and collarbone—layers of evil were sinking in and permeating through her being. Mona placed a finger on the woman’s palm and tried to assess her magic beneath the layers of workings. Cart clasped her other hand, bringing their already healing scars into contact.

What she saw was very different than an elf’s or a Were’s abilities. Closer to what she’d seen on Kofi, the witch who had all her energies concentrated in her head. But unlike the witches, where magic only appeared that one place, and unlike those with elven blood, where the essence streamed like arteries throughout their body, her magic showed as if through a fine mesh, innumerable pinpricks at every single point on her body. Had Smythe looked like that? Mona didn’t think she’d ever thought to see how Smythe looked to her inner eye.

And the thread of evil was scattered through the microscopic dots via the ink in the tattoos. There was no way she’d ever get them all clear. Perhaps Tania, or Tania and Nic together, but she couldn’t do it.

“You don’t look like that,” Cart said. “You look like you have delicate swirls and curls of magic. When you look closely you realize each line is made up of many more, even finer lines, running next to each other to give the curves shape and depth. It’s quite pretty. Sexy even.”

Mona smiled at him, knowing she didn’t have to express her gratitude for what he’d told her, he’d feel it like she was feeling his joy. He leaned over and kissed her salt-laden cheek, for again she found herself weeping.

The woman twitched. Mona couldn’t delay any longer.

Folk.

Energy.

Death.

Mona wasn’t sure which rune to remove. Any pairing she’d leave—death with folk, energy with death, energy with folk—was still a potentially dangerous spell given they could all be manipulated to harm others.

She closed the knife and handed it back to Cart. “I need to try to take the whole spell off. Once I remove it we’ll need to jump away from here, immediately. Oh!” A stray thought popped into her head. She looked over the various spells and saw the thread she was looking for. Pulling on it, the spell that had changed the lizard came into view. Mona yanked, flipping the runes around until the creature was once again the right size. The ten inch reptile landed with plop by Cart.

Cart picked up the now comatose creature and put it inside his vest. “Any sign of the minotaur?”

She checked the lines that seemed most likely. “No. Hopefully Nic called him back.”

Cart nodded. “Can you do this standing up? That way if we have to leave in a hurry, we can.”

Mona shook her head. “I need to touch her. Unless you want to prop her up, I need to be down here.”

“Is there any economy of scale? I mean, if you’re taking off one spell is it just as easy to remove more at the same time?”

“No, I don’t want them getting entangled. It’s got to be one at a time. Ready?”

Cart reached down and grabbed her upper arm. Clearly he thought he might need to yank her along with him.

“Ready.”

Mona placed her hand above the working, concentrating on pulling the markings away. The wrist reddened as the first rune came free then blistered with the second. The marks repeated themselves on Mona’s palm, sending pain again shooting up her arm.

Cart’s hand tightened on her arm. He had to know the agony she was in.

By the goddess I can’t get sick!

“Breathe through your nose,” he said quietly.

Mona followed his advice, thankful she was as the last sigils and rune came free. Now the skin was raw and openly wept with ooze and blood. She forced herself to look at the wrist and ignore her discomfort. Using her free hand she turned their captive’s forearm to make sure all the sigils and markings were done, difficult with the bindings.

A jerk, then a muffled scream. Their captive awoke, rolling onto her side and clamping her bound hands around Mona’s ankle. Mona fell back on her ass, breaking Cart’s hold. Mona instinctively clasped the other hand over the spell, keeping it in place.

Pain!

He slid his hands under her arms and pulled her away from the thrashing woman.

“Jump!” Mona screamed. She needed to get rid of this spell now.

The dark with its faint shushing of colors surrounded them. Mona shook her hands, freeing them of the magical residue.

Freeing her ankle of its additional weight was going to be more difficult. She grabbed Cart’s bicep before she slid out of his hands. Reaching down, she tried to pry off the fingers with no success.

Not much time. She didn’t want to bring this woman to wherever Cart was taking them.

She slammed her booted foot on the bound wrists, using her grip on Cart’s arm for balance. Then she kicked out, shoving the body away. Mona had to believe that the woman wouldn’t be in this in-between place for eternity. That she’d come out somewhere, some short distance in the future if what Mona suspected about what lingering in the non-space would do was correct.

But for now she was gone.

They stepped out onto a dock that jutted out into ice-laden waters. The same place they’d jumped to once before. Cart stumbled a step.

“I thought she was still latched onto you.” He looked around the dock as if she’d appear there.

“No, I got her off while we were jumping.” Mona looked around. They were by the coal plant, so not too far from home, but plenty far from New Jersey.

“You left her in the void?” Cart frowned. “I’m not sure that’ll hold her, eventually she’ll come back out.”

“When she does, we’ll need to be ready.”

“Good job, you two.”

They turned around to see the Puck in a yellow rain slicker and rain hat and holding a pipe leaning against a pylon. He grinned at them, clearly pleased he’d startled them.

“Hi, Warder,” he nodded at Mona. “And you too.” His hand flicked in dismissal at Cart.

Mona felt Cart still beside her. If they weren’t still linked together she might have missed it, but she knew his mind was racing even though she couldn’t get a grasp on what his thoughts were.

“You keep doing that.” His voice was flat, unemotional.

“Cart, he’s just trying to yank your chain by not greeting you.”

Cart shook his head. “No, that’s not it. The Puck, he’s said the truth the whole time and we’ve missed it.”

“Knew you’d catch it.” The Puck’s small, pointed teeth glinted in the afternoon sun.

“What are you talking about?” Mona looked back and forth between the two of them, but they were too caught up in a staring contest to notice her. She clenched her fist in annoyance, only to hiss in pain as her fingers dug into her healing skin.

Cart immediately reached out for her.

“Never mind this.” She waved her hands out of his range. “I want to know what all you are talking about!”

“I—” Cart hopped and jerked. “Cracked acorns, this is not a good time for you to wake up.”

He pulled the lizard out of his vest. “Here, you take it.”

The Puck was already holding out his hands. He inspected the creature’s toes and tongue before flicking it into oblivion with a wave of his hand and a sparkling of imps.

Mona was not distracted. “Care to fill me in on the big secret?”

Cart walked over and stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders and leaning forward so his mouth was by her ear.

“Have you ever noticed how casually the Puck greets you?” He squeezed her shoulders gently when she would have said something. “It’s never hello, or hey, it’s always. . .”

He trailed off and let her fill in the gap.

“High Warder.” Mona stared at the small man. He’d snuck it in so subtly she never thought anything of it.

Love, worry, menace all rolled off of Cart. “So, what does it mean?”

The Puck ignored his question and focused on Mona.

“You’re going to be fine.” He nodded as if reassuring her. “We just needed someone a little stronger. With less elves being born, and therefore less wards, more evil is leaking out and affecting Folk. And you,” his gaze shifted to Cart, “you better be damned good at the protecting business, because she’s going to need it once the people gathering evil figure out who she is.”

He popped out.

“Wait!” Mona’s yell echoed out over the harbor. “I hate when you do that!”

She turned in Cart’s arms.

“I can’t.” The thought of him turning evil, that there was more evil leaking into people, and he might be one made her toughen her resolve. “I can’t do this. I can’t let you get hurt.”

Cart just grinned. “Did I ever tell you about how I met Randall?”

“No. I assume this is relevant?” A cold wind came off the lake, making her shiver.

Cart wrapped his arm across her shoulders and started them walking to shore.

“When I was in training, the Warder in Tallahassee—Marina, you’ll like her—nick-named me ‘Teflon.’ It seemed that even when my teammates came back with bits of evil residue I’d have none, and she’d started to notice. Then she happened to mention this to the Puck.”

Oh, Mona could only imagine Randall’s reaction. He’d want to test Cart, see if it was true. “That can’t have been good.”

“It wasn’t. Most of the guys thought I just had shit luck for assignments. Some of the crap he threw at me. . .” He didn’t finish the thought. “I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive him, even though knowing how much evil is out there helped me keep perspective when even my superiors were flipping out.”

“And nothing ever stuck.”

“Nope. It’s not that spells don’t work on me, I’m not a Warder. But when I got hit and then the spell was removed, you couldn’t tell I’d been around evil.”

They walked a few paces in silence, off the pier and onto the ground. If evil couldn’t stick to him, and she was High Warder, what the hell was coming down the pike?

Cart pulled her in closer, his warmth spreading up her side. “I don’t think we should dwell on the future. It’s out there, waiting for us. I want to live in the now, and I want that to be with you.”

There were no barriers now. Cart would not, could not succumb to whatever evil they would face.

Joy, the rapid, giddy beating of her heart and the lightening of a load off her shoulders. This was joy.

She could be with Cart and he’d be safe.

Only then did she realize they’d stopped and she was standing there grinning like a fool. He hadn’t asked a question, but seemed to be awaiting an answer. No way was he going to get off that easily.

Although she could tell by his answering grin that he’d read her emotions already.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

Cart rolled his eyes then knelt down.

“I didn’t—” She stopped, Cart’s raised hand forestalling her saying anything else.

“If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.” He took her hand and held it against his heart. “Mona Lisa Kubrek—”

He stopped and Mona felt his desire, joy, welcome.

She put a finger from her free hand across his lips. “I know.”

He turned his head and nudged her finger aside. “I’m still going to say it anyway.”

Mona didn’t realize how delighted she’d be that he persevered.

“And that’s why,” he continued, clearly picking up on her feelings. “There will be times when we don’t agree, when things will be tough, and I want you to always have this moment to look back on, to remember, no matter what, I love you with all my heart. You are etched onto my soul, stronger than the even the moon is entwined in my spirit. You will always be the center of my universe. Even when I may not show it or have time to be with you, you will be in my thoughts and in my deeds. I will protect you and ours with every fiber of my being. And I hope I will always be worthy of your love.”

Mona sniffed, tears of joy trailing down her face.

“I love you, Cart,” she said. “For everything you are, and that you will be, that we will yet become. My future would end today if you were not with me.”

Cart stood and wrapped his arms around her, holding her as tightly as she now held him. “I will always be with you, in spirit if not in body.”

“I know, I know, but there will be times you need to leave and I’ll worry. And there will be times I need to leave and you’ll worry. And, oh my goodness, what if we have kids? Who’ll stay around to protect them? There’s no way I’d ever leave them with—”

Cart cut her off with a kiss, deepening it and pressing her close until she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. He broke it off, leaving them both breathless.

“Why are you nervous?” Cart asked, dipping in for a quick peck to show he wasn’t expecting an answer. “Could it be you’ve heard rumors about mating sex?”

Best. Sex. Ever. Mona nodded, then gasped as the level of lust and need radiating off of him spiked to the point she thought she’d melt right there.

“Room, we need to get a room.” He grabbed her hand and headed left this time, to the hotel.

Unlike that night not so long ago when they’d gone to the diner instead, Mona knew this was right. This was the time to start her life with Cart. Some bad shit was coming down the road, she had no doubt, but they’d face it together. Somehow she thought they’d have help, and not just from Tania and Nic—she had a feeling this was a time when many new skills would come to the fore to face new adversaries.

“I hope they have room service,” Mona said.

“If not we’ll ask some imps to bring us food. We can indulge this weekend, nothing is going to happen to them.”

Cart was right, nothing was going to happen this weekend, they were more than due for some down time.

“Shit, I need to give a report. It’s what, noon? Yo, imp. I know you’re hanging around.” Cart stopped them halfway across the deserted parking lot. A blue green spark appeared between them. “Tell Tiffany we’re okay and to contact the Maven for more details. I’ll be in day after tomorrow with a full report. Got to do this mating thing first.”

“Got to do this thing?” Mona, interrupted, laughing, because while it so wasn’t romantic, it was so Cart.

“Got to, desperately want to, need to before I explode. And thanks for letting my whole crew know that. Cause you know Tiff will be opening that one in a crowd.” The imp blinked out.

“Oh!” Mona hadn’t meant to embarrass him in front of his group. He looked at her and they both laughed so hard they bent over, out of breath. “Shit, Cart, sorry.”

“Not like they haven’t figured it out.” He straightened and took her hand. “So, now can we go?”

“Yes,” Mona said. “Because, you know, Cart, I got to do this thing too.”

Epilogue

Mona looked at the pink-wrapped bundle in her arms. Soft swirls of dark hair delightfully capped the newborn’s head. She turned her head, futilely attempting to swipe her tears with her shoulder. Cart reached out and dried them with a tissue.

Raine’s baby had still been premature, but the extra three weeks she’d managed to hold on had made a critical difference in the child’s development. Raine had never told them, but Mona and Cart suspected the baby was Edward’s. According to the woman they’d left in the void, the child was destined to have phenomenal powers. All the more reason to make sure she was raised by someone who would keep her grounded.

“Don’t worry, Maya,” she whispered to the sleeping baby. “We’ll take care of you.”

There was a soft knock on the door. She looked over at Cart. They’d discussed this and both agreed it was the right track, hard as it was for Mona to let the baby go. If—when—the renegade Warder came back, Mona was a target and a child would not be safe with them.

She nodded and Cart opened up the door.

Averill stepped in, confusion on her face at the request for the four a.m. meeting, but smiling in delight when she saw the infant. Dressed in a hospital gown over her clothes, the fabric shushed as she walked over to Mona.

“She’s beautiful,” Averill said. “What’s her name?”

Mona cut her eyes to Cart, who nodded in reassurance. This was even harder to do than she’d thought it would be.

Mona cleared her throat. “Her first name is Maya.”

Averill looked down and cooed at the baby, who, Mona realized, had awakened and was staring up at Averill.

“Hi, princess. You are one lucky lady, yes you are,” Averill said, keeping her voice soft but didn’t slide into to squeaky baby talk.

Mona couldn’t go on. Cart came over and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

“Averill,” Cart said, and the pack leader’s head shot up. “Maya’s Folk, and we need someone to take care of her.”

She frowned and looked off, clearly running through her head who in the pack might be able to take the babe. Her pack was much smaller now. Many of the shifters the Lycoan had changed had been too far gone for Nic to call them back. And several of the men who had been turned back left rather than have a woman as a pack leader. Mona estimated the pack was half the size it had been, and mostly women. Nurturing, caring, resilient women, the strongest of whom stood before her.

“We want you to take her,” Mona said. “She’s special. Very special.”

Averill was weakly shaking her head.

“Her mother was the focus of much of the attacks, including the bridge collapse.” Cart’s baldly stating the fact didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“The mother could—” Averill waved her hand at the pink bundle.

“She died right after giving birth.” One month and the pain still sliced through Mona. By the time Raine had reached out to her, there was nothing Mona could have done to change the outcome, but it still hurt. Made her almost wish she’d let Cart kill the woman when they could have.

“What would I . . . How would I explain. . .” Averill’s voice drifted off.

Mona knew then that Averill would take Maya, that she’d care for her with the determination and love she’d shown when taking over the pack.

How would they explain? She and Cart hadn’t thought through more than convincing Averill she needed to do this.

“I can do this,” Averill said, nodding and thinking. “My brother’s pregnant wife moved back to her family in St. Paul. I can put out that the depression she was dealing with before her child was born has gotten to the point the family wants me to care for the child. Good thing I know that’s not true because I’d hate to wish her ill, she’s been through enough.”

Averill looked down at Maya, who blew a bubble. “I need a couple of days, though. Do I have them?”

Cart nodded. “We can do that.”

“Averill,” Mona said, looking down at Maya’s face and already seeing magic swirling through her even though she was far too young for any to be showing yet, then making sure she looked the other woman in the eye. “Protect her. There are people who, as her powers grow, will try to use her.”

“You have some time, though, I think,” Cart said, squeezing Mona’s shoulder in reassurance, “before you need to worry. She’s only a month old.”

“Just remember, Cart and I will always be an imp away any time you might need us,” Mona said. “Tania and Nic too.”

“Me too.”

Mona had known the Puck was there, hiding. The thought had niggled in the back of her head, waiting to be brought forth but had bloomed too late.

Cart must have too because he hadn’t tensed up in anger like he usually did when Randall appeared.

“Thanks, all of you,” Averill said. “I’m pretty sure once she starts showing some power I’m not going to forget who she’s got looking out for her. May I?”

She held out her gloved hands and Mona placed Maya in her waiting arms. Averill held her like a pro.

“Hey, princess,” Averill said. “You are going to come with me, okay? I have a big old bedroom I just painted yellow. I think you’ll like it. And the old ladies of the pack are all going to coo. It’s going to be a while before you have playmates though, not a lot of kids being born into the pack right now with there not being a lot of guys around.”

Averill looked up and grinned at Cart and Mona. “Did Tiffany tell you of the latest contretemps? One of the few able bodied men suggested we allow polygamy for a period. The women almost hounded him out of the pack.”

Cart frowned. “Did you send out a notice to the National Council? They’ll help.”

“It’s on their agenda. Anything you can do to hasten it being announced would be good.”

“If you open up the pack you’ll have a three year period to bring the pack up to minimum. If you don’t, you may have to agree to merge with another pack.”

“I know, we’ll have to cross that bridge when we get there. Right now, we just need able bodies. Perhaps not as small as this,” Averill smiled down at Maya, “but we’ll take anyone who passes the Maven’s inspection.”

With a sigh she handed the bundle back to Mona.

“Two days. I’ll be back in two days. Will I see you at the falls?”

“We’re heading there next.”

“Good. Just don’t mention anything yet, I need to lay the ground work.” Without a look back she left the room.

“What are you two going to do?” Randall asked as he reached up and took Maya from Mona’s arms. The baby’s arms flailed in excitement.

“You’ve been visiting her, haven’t you?” Mona asked. Of course he had. With things quieter and the imps no longer in danger he had more time.

Randall grimaced. “Been called back to Elfhaven a lot and she’s my present to myself when I get back.” He grinned down at the infant. “Yes, you are. And when you get older, I’ll take you to Elfhaven with me and they can see how strong we make them up there.”

“I don’t think I wanted to hear that.”

“They’re not happy that there is an Oberon here when there isn’t one there. While we’ve lost many of our ties, we’ve always had a parallel ruler.” Randall had found a bottle, or more likely conjured one, and was feeding Maya as he gently swayed.

“They’ll get over it, or someone will step up. We’ll see. You two should get going. I can handle Maya until Averill can take her.” He did seem to have things under control.

“You’ll not take her on any visits? You’ll keep her here?” Cart asked.

“No, she’s too young, needs another year at least, probably two.”

Mona didn’t know if he was teasing them or not but it didn’t matter. She and Cart did need to go, the Maven had called a convocation of all Folk in the region up at the falls and they needed to be there.

“Thank you, Randall. And yes, I know that may mean an obligation on my part. I’ll take the chance.” She leaned down and kissed the baby’s cheek. “We’re off to get ready for the Maven’s convocation. We’ll see you there.”

Whether he knew it or not, leaving Maya when she was in the Puck’s arms was easier then when she was asleep in her crib. The child needed more human contact, which is why they’d picked Averill, who would wrap her arms and heart around Maya.

“You ready to see if your brother has come to his senses yet?” Cart asked as they headed down the nearly deserted hall.

Nic had not accepted his changed role very well.

“If you’re ready to see if Tania will come down off her high horse.”

He laughed. “They are eminently suited to one another.”

Mona opened the door to the cold wet air of early spring. “Funny how fate works.”

About the Author

Ellie lives in SW Ohio with her three kids, two dogs (one of whom thinks he’s a cat), and one cat (who thinks he’s a dog). She’s thankful her kids have no such issues. When she’s not writing she’s encouraging other writers to submit their stories and follow their dreams. Or cleaning dog hair off, well, everything.

You can find Ellie on the web at www.EllieWrites2.com and follow her on Twitter @EllieWrites2.

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Lessons in Magic by Jessica Starre

The Kindred

Rachel James

Avon, Massachusetts

This edition published by

Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com

Copyright © 2012 by Rachel Schneider

ISBN 10: 1-4405-5574-5

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5574-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5575-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5575-6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123rf.com

This book is dedicated to Sheila, Fran, Ellie, Lois and M.J. Our friendships have stood the test of time. Romance, adventure, successes and setbacks. We’ve shared it all and we’re still here. And best of all, our story’s not over yet. There are still many more pages to turn.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

About the Author

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

Acknowledgments

My heartfelt thanks go to Jennifer Lawler, Imprint Manager, Crimson Press. Her unwavering dedication to publishing the best of the best when it comes to love and romance is awe-inspiring; and thanks for all the kind words you sent my way during the course of getting this book published.

My undying gratitude goes to Julie Sturgeon for her keen editing eye and savvy insights. She has proved that when the time is right, kindred spirits always find and connect with each other. Thanks, Julie, this book is a thousand times better because of you!

Special thanks to the Tuesday Night Writing Workshop, especially Michael, Mary Kay, Sheila, Sherry and Bob. Your never-ending enthusiasm for this book (and my writing) has enriched my life in more ways that I can count.

A special shout-out goes to Dan and Carole Duckworth who made theater come alive in my heart six nights a week, plus two matinees on the weekends.

Lastly, to the detectives at the Jupiter Police Department (you know who you are), thank you for showing me for fifteen years that heroes and heroines do exist outside the printed page. Your commitment, integrity, and willingness to put your life on the line day in and day out for total strangers, is a shining example of what every hero should be.

Chapter 1

THURSDAY — 10 AM — ASPEN, COLORADO

A shadow of alarm touched Janice Kelly’s face, and she stepped back from the three-legged easel, tossing her paintbrush into a jar of cloudy water. The painting before her had changed background colors again. On its own. No, she brought herself up sharply. Paintings did not change colors by themselves. She had done it. She had changed the colors. She let her gaze travel across the now bright yellow background, struggling with the uncertainty it aroused. Had her divorce from Jimmy finally sent her mind over the edge? If so, this mind-fugue was dangerous. She might hurt someone. She might hurt Sarah. Horrified, she raised a hand to her temple. Damn! If she weren’t careful, she’d work herself into a full-blown migraine.

Unaware of the streaks of brightly colored paint she was dabbing into her flaming red hair, she rubbed the sore spot vigorously. This was no regular headache she was battling. That’s why the pills she’d taken this morning had done nothing to quiet it. No, she’d experienced this kind of pain before, and she knew what it meant. Now, more than ever, she could not put off her trip to Maine tomorrow. She had to go and not just for the debt she owed to her mentor.

Fingers trailing down her temples, she strode back to the easel and began to pack up her paints. She needed sleep desperately — the dead-to-the-world kind. She had been on a five-state gallery tour for months, skipping meals, signing autographs and hopping trains. And now, just when she got home, she was leaving again. No wonder her face had looked pale and pinched when she woke this morning. She was so tired her nerves throbbed. “Mama, what’s a Si-Pip?”

Janice jumped at the sound of the high-pitched voice and quickly brought her gaze from the paints to the open doorway. Her eyes lit with pleasure as she spied her daughter, Sarah, bouncing from foot to foot in the middle of the alcove.

“Sarah, sweetie, I don’t think I know that word. Where did you hear it?”

“From Aunt Bibi.” She bounded through the doorway and sailed onto a cushioned workbench beside Janice. Once there, she eyed the huge canvas. “Is that my Daddy, Mama?”

Janice grinned, amused.

“No, sweetie, I don’t know who the man is.”

“Aunt Bibi told Uncle Roddy he’s your dream lover.”

Janice’s grin vanished, replaced by a quick frown.

“I’ve asked you not to spy on your aunt and uncle, Sarah, remember?”

“Uh-huh.” She tucked her feet beneath her rump and tipped her face to Janice. “Who is he, Mama?”

Her persistence brought Janice’s focus back to the painting, and she let her gaze sweep the dove gray breeches and matching topcoat. An absolutely gorgeous rake. And her sister was right. She was becoming enamored with the handsome figure she had painted, seemed inexplicably drawn to him.

“Mama?”

“He’s just a man I’ve been seeing in a dream, sweetie.”

“He’s handsome.”

“Yes, he is. Devilishly handsome.”

“Is he as devilish as me?”

The question was cheeky, and Janice chuckled, tweaking one of Sarah’s bright red curls. Sarah was an adorable poppet, no doubt about it. She took a moment to study the snow-blasted cheeks as Sarah began to riffle through her paints.

“Aunt Bibi says you’re a Si-Pip, Mama.”

Janice lightly smacked the prying fingers and gave a sarcastic laugh.

“Little pitchers have big ears.”

“What’s that mean, Mama?”

“Nothing, sweetie. C’mere.”

Dropping to the workbench, Janice opened her arms and wiggled her fingers. She must divert Sarah’s attention from the tubes of paint. Sarah toppled forward and sprawled across her legs eagerly. One hand flew beneath her cheek to wait patiently for an answer to her earlier question. But which question? Janice wondered. A contented sigh singed her ears, and Janice gave another bright laugh, tickling the round belly peeping between the folds of the yellow flannel jogging suit. Sarah squirmed and giggled, their hands entwining.

“Stop, Mama … you know that tickles.”

“But you have such a yummy laugh, I can’t help myself.” Janice cooed. She slid her fingers along Sarah’s tummy again, eliciting more spontaneous giggles.

“Stop … Mama … please!”

Hearing a serious hiccup, Janice stilled her fingers and, with a swift tug, righted Sarah to a sitting position in her lap. She dropped a quick kiss on her warm cheek and gave her a light bear-hug. Sarah’s face sobered, and Janice knew her attention was back again on getting answers to her questions.

“What is a Si-Pip?”

“Psychic. The word is psychic. I’m a psychic.”

She saw the flash of alertness in the eyes studying her face.

“What’s a Si-Kick?”

“It’s a person who can see things before they happen, see things that are way off in the future.”

“Like the gip … gip-sies who look into the ball?”

Janice craned her head thoughtfully.

“Umm … more like a television set. I see pictures in my head, sweetie, kinda like our television set downstairs. The pictures can be funny, sad, scary … ”

“Mon-sters?”

Janice smiled, once again brushing back a stray curl along Sarah’s temple.

“No, no monsters. At least not the kind you mean.”

“Does the television set hurt your head?”

“Why no, sweetie, what makes you think it does?”

“Aunt Bibi’s gettin’ you some ass … ass-prin from the drawer. She says your head aches.”

Janice rolled her eyes.

“Bless your Aunt Bibi.”

She gave Sarah’s cheek another brief kiss then slid her back onto the padded bench. Rising, Janice returned to the portrait and picked up her paintbrush. Why did she feel compelled to embellish on the yellow hue when the painting was already quite perfect? She didn’t know, but found herself less than a minute later ignoring the mocking voice inside and dressing up the background with a few flourishes of her brush. Beside her, she heard a light humming and joined in. It was marvelous the way she could tune into Sarah’s boundless energy. Recharge from it. Without warning, the sound of spit bubbles began to mingle with their humming.

“Pa-tew … pa-tew.”

Janice looked over in amusement.

“Whatever are you doing, you silly bear?”

“I’m spittin’.”

“I can see that. But why?”

“Aunt Bibi says I’m the spittin’ image of you, Mama.”

A choking laugh bubbled out before Janice could stop it. What a delightful ragamuffin she and Jimmy had produced. And so infinitely precious. Yet her sister’s comment was true. She and Sarah were unmistakably related. She swished her paintbrush into the water jar, stealing a peek at the appealing face now displaying Janice’s own familiar signs of thoughtfulness. Their faces were identical delicately carved facial bones, both blessed with the Mignon family trait of a full-bodied lower lip.

Scanning the young features, Janice sensed the face so pink with eagerness at the moment would eventually showcase high, exotic cheekbones like her own. As for their hair, Sarah’s was bright red, too, but not quite so crackling red as her own. She decided they were as alike as two peas in a pod — except for the eyes. Sarah had extraordinary blue eyes, as blue as the Aspen summer sky, while her own eyes gleamed emerald, like deep green ice.

There was another difference between them. But as of yet Janice couldn’t bring herself to discuss it with anyone, not even her sister. She knew without question Sarah did not possess second sight. She would hold no psychic tremors in the coming years. And that relieved Janice immensely. Not that she would have changed things for herself. But she was glad Sarah’s carefree nature would not be hindered, her eyes lose their sparkle when carrying the weight of the gift.

She looked at those eyes now, twinkling with untold mischief, and she heard the giggle, unmistakably Sarah’s own. Responding, Janice made a sudden dive for the workbench. Sarah screeched in delight and vaulted from the bench. She hit the floor running, and Janice marveled at her fleet-footedness. Was she raising a future track and field star? Perhaps not, since in the next instant Sarah collided with a pair of long, tanned legs. Janice’s sister, Bibi, glass in hand, reared back to absorb the unexpected impact, and Janice heard her call out sharply.

“Hey, slow down! I’m carrying a full glass.”

Sarah’s giggles echoed louder as she grabbed Bibi’s knees, using the tall, sturdy body as a shield.

“Mama’s gonna tickle me, Aunt Bibi. Don’t let her.”

“Have you been teasing her while she’s painting, you naughty munchkin?” She attempted to shake Sarah loose of her leg, but the motion only managed to slosh water over the rim of the glass. Seeing the juggling act, Janice sank onto the workbench in convulsive laughter. Across the space, Bibi prodded Sarah more sternly.

“Sarah Anne Kelly, you let go of my leg this instant! Your mother and I need to talk. Go help Peter out of his snowsuit this minute.” She gave a last shake of her leg, and Janice heard her say even more sharply, “Go!”

Janice caught a brief flash of yellow as Sarah bounded out on the landing and tripped down the hallway. Her sing-song call to Peter echoed back gaily.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Bibi entered the loft, her face finally turning up in the smile she’d fought from showing.

“She’s a sunny little thing, Jan. She reminds me a lot of Anna sometimes.”

Janice propped herself on the bench, swiping at her eyes.

“Anna?”

Her sister came forward, offering Janice the glass of water plus two aspirin tablets in her palm.

“Oh, she’s you through and through, but she has a tiny little imp inside her that jumps out every now and again. Like Anna.”

Janice took the tablets and glass with a nod and tossing the tablets to the back of her tongue, she swallowed them down quickly. Wiping her mouth, she handed the glass back with a sigh.

“Her temperament resembles Anna’s, too. She accepts things so easily. She pouts but never frets.”

“Or throws a nasty temper tantrum like you know who.”

A bemused smile trembled on Janice’s lips.

“Peter has his good qualities, Bibi.”

“Yes, he does.” Her voice became tender, almost a murmur. “I’m lucky to have him, aren’t I? Dr. Walsh said I wouldn’t carry to term, being the old broad I am. But I proved him wrong.”

“Dr. Walsh meant well, Bibi. Truly. Having your first baby in your forties is risky. Of course, he didn’t know you as well as I do. There was never any doubt of miscarriage.”

At her words, Bibi spun around and plunked the half-empty glass onto the worktable behind her.

“I hate it when you go all psychic on me, Jan. You know I have no defense against your damn second sight.”

“Does my being a psychic bother you after all these years?”

“Hell, no. I’d love you if you had two heads and fourteen arms. And as for your psychic powers, they awe me.” She broke off abruptly, and Janice saw her lift a photo frame from the worktable. “Lord, Jan, I didn’t know you still had this photo.”

Janice dipped her head.

“Ummm, next to Sarah, it’s my most treasured possession.”

Bibi caressed the glass, and Janice heard a wistful sigh.

“God, we were a trio back then, weren’t we? How old was Anna?”

“Thirteen.”

“That’s right. I remember now.” She raised her chin, and Janice saw a faraway glaze cloud her eyes. “You were a funny little twit then, Jan. You’d stand in the corner of your crib and stare and stare at Anna, who couldn’t help crying out in pain while Mama forced her lifeless legs to exercise. You’d stare as if sending her some kind of healing thought. And she’d be better. No one could see it outwardly, but I could. I knew you were gifted and special even back then.”

Janice crinkled up her face, determined not to cry. She hated that she always got teary-eyed when reminiscing about Anna.

“I don’t seem to remember that time clearly, Bibi.” she remarked. “Sometimes it seems so important that I do.”

Bibi replaced the photo quickly and moved away from the table.

“Hell, you were only Sarah’s age at the time — three or four — how could you? But you’d stand by her bed. And she’d be better … no, I swear it! Mama didn’t believe it, of course. She never believed anything she couldn’t taste, touch, or see.”

“Now, that I DO remember. “ Janice replied, sliding to the edge of the bench and hoisting herself up. Moving back to the easel, she ran a finger across the canvas. Was there now a hint of red streaks clogging the pores? She felt a warm presence beside her.

“You’ve changed the painting again, Jan. I like what you’ve done.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember repainting it.”

Distressed, Janice turned from the canvas. She wasn’t going to breakdown and blubber. Not over a stupid painting.

“You’re scaring me, Jan.”

She whirled back at the sound of her sister’s stricken tones.

“I’m being stupid. I’m sure I made the changes to the painting. I just don’t remember doing it.”

“That’s exactly why you should cancel this trip to Maine tomorrow. You’re burned out, and this memory lapse proves it. Why don’t you let me call Lloyd and tell him you’re too exhausted to attend this seminar?”

“Because I gave Lloyd my word I’d be there. I can’t renege now. I’ll be back in four days and rest then. Besides, Sarah and I have plans.”

“That’s why she’s a giggling idiot.”

“She’s the dearest, most precious thing in the world and don’t you dare criticize her!” Bibi grinned broadly at her, causing Janice to let out a long, audible breath. “When I come back, I’m going to stay put for a very long time. Enjoy Sarah’s company.” She reached out her hand to Bibi, who took it readily. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there after Jimmy walked out on us.”

Bibi flushed, and for once Janice realized she had caught her sister completely off-guard.

“Hell, Jan, I’d walk through fire for you and Sarah.”

She would too, Janice knew, through hell and back again. They exchanged warm smiles.

“Hearing her constant giggles thrills me, Bibi. She’s such a silly little bear, happy and alive.”

“And she teases you on purpose. She certainly knows which buttons to push on you.” Bibi’s face sobered again. “Anyone interesting going to be at this big seminar in Maine?”

Janice crinkled her nose.

“Well, let’s see … there’s Lloyd.”

“I said interesting. Not stuffy.”

“Lloyd’s not stuffy … he’s … ” She gave a smart ass little grin. “ … intellectually stimulating.”

“Forget the intellectual stimulation.” Bibi responded. “You need a red-blooded male with active sperm to stimulate you physically.”

“Bibi!”

“Don’t sound so shocked! I know you didn’t find Sarah in a cabbage patch. You’ve had your share of blissful nights beneath a man.”

Janice felt a warm rush steal across her cheeks and knew she was blushing.

“What’s got into you today, Bibi? Have you been reading those naughty romantic novels again for pointers?”

“Nope. I got Roddy. He’s all the outside stimulation I need. You want to get rid of your headache, Jan? Make love. Does the trick every time.”

Janice gave a hearty laugh, amused by her sister’s foolish banter.

“Sex with a stranger is dangerous these days.”

“Damn! You’re right. Guess your only hope is aspirin.” They broke into shared laughter again until Bibi prodded. “Go on. Who else will be at the seminar?”

“Jasper and Muriel Grisomb. She did the television series Dream Robbers a few seasons back. Her husband is a Lutheran minister.”

“Ummm … go on.”

“Adrian Magus … ”

“Aaahhh!” Bibi’s squeal was ear-splitting as she bolted upright on the bench. “You can’t mean that gorgeous hunk Roddy and I saw perform in Las Vegas last year?”

“Yep.” Janice dropped alongside her, gesturing for her to scoot over. “Was he as good as you said he was … as the papers say he is?”

Bibi shifted on the bench, and Janice saw her expression grow wistful.

“Are you kidding? He was incredible. And lord, what a bod!”

Janice took a swipe at Bibi who ducked.

“Will you stop already! If anyone’s hormones need adjusting, it’s yours!”

Laughing, Bibi hoisted herself up from the bench and struck a dramatic pose. Grinding her hips, she ran her fingers suggestively over her body.

“Well, if you don’t ska-rew that gorgeous hunk, danger or no danger … ” Janice snickered loudly. Bibi would never change. She would always be outrageously outrageous. At her snicker, Bibi dropped her pose. “Don’t think he won’t ask. That red hair of yours is like a magnetic flame. One look and they burn!”

“Burn out, you mean.”

Disgusted, Bibi took a swat at her arm.

“Don’t joke. I mean it. You need a man, Jan. Sarah needs a father.”

“She has a father.”

“Balderdash! I mean a father, not an asshole.”

“Bibi!” Janice’s voice turned brittle.

“All right, alright! I won’t harp on Jimmy.”

“Thank you.”

“Peter’s ready, Aunt Bibi.”

The shrill voice held a rasp of excitement, and both women turned simultaneously. An astonished shriek rent the air as Bibi bolted to her feet. Janice’s hand flew to her mouth, attempting to stem a ripple of laughter as she spotted her near-naked nephew poised in the doorway, clinging to Sarah’s hand.

“Sarah Anne Kelly!” Her sister flew across the space, and with a swift tug, scooped Peter up from the carpet and rubbed his goose-caked arms. “Stop laughing, Jan. It’s not funny. You know how delicate Peter is.”

Janice made an effort to contain her laughter by sitting upright. She knew Bibi was right. Peter’s health was fragile. However, one look at Sarah’s impish face, and she found herself dissolving into laughter again. Sarah joined in, all girlish giggle. Swiftly, she sailed in through the doorway and pounced onto the bench into Janice’s arms. Together, they studied Bibi, who Janice saw was alternating between keeping a straight face and trying to look outraged. Finally, she tore into the dimpling pair.

“You are naughty, Sarah Anne Kelly. Just like your mother.” She caught Janice’s eye. “And I hope you get snowed in at Carrington House with no one to make love to!” Janice’s laughter pealed again, and she began tickling the flesh wrapped in her arms. “Jan?” She looked up quickly. “Seriously, Jan, have you remembered to pack everything? Anna’s compass?”

Janice tilted Sarah and reached into her slack pocket. Withdrawing the small object, she held it up for Bibi’s inspection.

“Never leave home without it.”

Bibi nodded, clucked to the bundle in her arms once, and disappeared into the hall landing. Watching her go, Janice felt a tremendous surge of pride well within her. Bibi was right. She had been blessed. Only Bibi didn’t realize that she, Roddy, and Peter were the blessing. Feeling grasping fingers on hers, Janice released the compass into Sarah’s tiny palm.

“What’s this for, Mama?”

She peered down at the small face intently studying the arrow wheel pointing to a big red “N.”

“It helps people who go away to come back safe and sound.”

Sarah mulled that thought over for a few seconds, and then to Janice’s surprise, she bent her tousled head and kissed the plastic face. Janice reached out and brushed through a stray curl, touched by the gesture. Sarah had such an innocent abandon about her. She envied her that innocence. Cradling her closer, she placed her cheek atop Sarah’s head.

“I’ll be back in four days, sweetie. And then we’ll go to Hollow Lake.”

“And you’ll teach me to skate, Mama, right?”

“That’s right.”

“When I grow up I’m gonna be the bestest skater in the ekopades.”

“Escapades.”

“Ess-ca-pades,” Sarah mimicked, snuggling closer. A moment later, Janice heard a warm sigh and craned her head to view Sarah’s face. She was dozing already, eyes closed, her lips tilted at the corners. Janice began to rock her gently. Four days and she’d be back. Four days and she’d teach Sarah to skate. She gave a long, exhausted sigh and began to hum one of Sarah’s favorite ditties lightly. Four days. Not so long.

She felt a ripple along her left temple and lifted her gaze to the painting. Was there another change of colors? No, not this time. The breeches and topcoat were still surrounded by a yellow flecked background. She looked away hastily. She was tired and distracted and had repainted the background without thinking. That was all there was to it. Nothing mysterious, nothing abnormal. Still … her gaze swept back to the easel and she chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. If there was nothing mysterious going on, why hadn’t her gift of premonition set off in its usual way? Why all of a sudden had her gift chosen to be secretive, leaving her to feel as if she were the proverbial Alice about to tumble headfirst into the looking glass? She didn’t know, and not knowing could mean only one thing. She wasn’t going to like what was coming one little bit.

Chapter 2

THURSDAY — 10 AM — LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

Sensually attired in pure white, his skin-tight pants and shirt fringed with colorful light-catching spangles, Adrian Magus lost his concentration and stepped from the glare of a center stage spotlight. His movement brought the ongoing rehearsal to a grinding halt. The orchestra continued for a few more bars then labored to a stilted halt as they finally noticed the motionless group on stage. The house lights drifted up slowly and there was a silence as the crew waited for a sign.

Center stage, Adrian lifted long tapered fingers to his forehead and rubbed vigorously. Blasted headache! Down in the theater seating area, he heard his best friend and daily tennis partner, Todd Landis, call out loudly.

“Take ten, everyone.”

The crew scattered, spilling off the stage in half-groups, obviously thankful for the break. Grateful himself, Adrian waved his thanks to Todd. He stood a moment more, running his hands through his jet-black hair, massaging his scalp from crown to nape. The act of juggling reality and illusion twenty-four hours a day was exacting a toll, he could see. Lately, like just then, and in odd moments of his performance, he was besieged with an uncanny sense of displacement. As if his on stage life were the reality, and his offstage life were the illusion.

Disturbed by that thought, he gave a sardonic grin and lowered his tall, athletic frame onto a bulky set piece. He dropped his face into his hands and sighed deeply. What was happening to him? Was he about to split in two, giving birth to some new and preposterous schizoid personality? He heard the quiet thud of shoe heels across the stage floor and soon saw the tip of white penny loafers. He raised his head to see Todd’s craggy face wreathed in smiles.

“You’ve got to learn to pace yourself better, Adrian, old buddy. You can’t keep living life as if you’re white-water rafting and you’ll never have to face the white water. Lay back some. Rest on your laurels.”

“I can’t. The hype is what makes my act a sell-out each and every performance.”

“Man, oh man, who do you think you’re talking to? What makes you so great is your ability to hide from anyone and everyone that you have extraordinary psychic powers.”

“If I’m so good at it, how do you know it?”

“Elementary, old buddy. I’ve worked this strip for twenty years. Seen magicians good and bad come and go. Now, granted Siegfried and Roy had an illusion with a tiger I couldn’t fathom — never will, I daresay. But you? I can’t fathom any of your illusions, nary a one. And you know what? Neither can those who participate in it with you.”

“It’s just a case of the hand is quicker than the eye.”

“Don’t give me that rot. We’ve been friends too long for you to pull the old pea under the shell routine on me like some back street carney. You’re different. Special. And I know it.” He reached out and shoved a dangling spangle on Adrian’s shirtsleeve. “And hiding behind all this tinsel crap don’t mean that what you got ain’t there.”

“It’s there. I just have to channel it properly.”

“And lately it’s getter harder to channel?”

“Something like that. Some days it’s hard to separate the illusions from the reality.”

“It’s all in the perception. You taught me that. One man’s fantasy is another man’s reality. Follow your own advice or you’ll space out, or burn up, or do whatever it is you gifted people do when you’re in trouble.”

That was easier said than done, Adrian knew, since Todd didn’t know about the dream. Only Captain Jesuit knew, and Captain Jesuit was long dead. Yet nightly, more and more, Adrian felt his quick-silver mind insist on reverting back to when life was less complicated and his only worry was learning the identity of the red-headed woman whose face danced in his head. He felt a bump as Todd lowered his beefy frame down and Adrian shifted to make room for him on the block. He heard a wistful wheeze.

“How long we been friends, Adrian?”

Adrian shrugged.

“Fourteen years.”

“That long?”

“We’re pushing forty,” Adrian mocked him.

Todd grunted.

“Next you’ll be spouting I’m older than you.”

Adrian laughed in spite of the thin hammering in his head.

“Feeling a little long in the tooth today, are we?” he teased.

“No, just waxing philosophic.”

“You need more filler in your diet.” Adrian retorted.

Todd snapped his head around, chuckling.

“I thought I was supposed to be the comedian here.”

Adrian rubbed his forehead vigorously again. Todd noticed the motion and bumped his knee against Adrian’s.

“Perhaps you should call off this performance in Maine, Adrian. It can’t be that important. Besides, the weather is damn dismal this time of year up there, and your audience sounds like something out of fruitcake land.”

For the first time that day, Adrian felt himself fire up, a welcome response. He couldn’t be losing his mind if the blood in his veins could pulse with hot anger. His eyes, black as volcanic rock, impaled Todd.

“Before they make you a saint … ”

“Geez!” Todd interrupted, throwing up a hand. “Don’t start using that viperous tongue of yours on me. This is Todd you’re talking to. I know you don’t give a rat’s ass what I think of a group of psychics holing up in a research center in the dead of winter, but why do you have to subject nice Ginger to the indignity?”

“I can’t take the whole show and she’s willing to go.”

“Can’t the other guests fill in? By the way, who are the other guests?”

Adrian couldn’t help his grin.

“The list is about as interesting as a washing machine manual, so I won’t bore you.”

“That must mean you’re sorry you agreed to go.”

“Not sorry. Bitter. But I have a debt to repay Lloyd Marks from Iraq.”

They both fell silent and Adrian enjoyed the moment. The pain in his head was finally lessening. If only there were soothing fingers to massage the rest of his aches away. If only he could hear the sound of a certain woman’s laugh, smell her freshness, feel a rounded belly … he felt a sharp bump against his shoulder and forced himself back to reality.

“You ever sorry you and Katie didn’t have kids?”

Adrian snapped his head around. That was uncanny. Yes, he had been thinking of children just then, but not with Katie. His eyes met Todd’s and then dropped. He heard Todd’s soulful sigh.

“Yeah, me, too. “ He looked away, out over the row of tables, to the back of the theater and Adrian sensed his next thoughts. “I go into the lounge there sometimes and purposely stand next to a woman — any woman. Just to revel in the smell of her. Dammit, Adrian, I want a home, family, a woman to slap fondly on the buttocks. I want to press every inch of her body to mine. Not these teeny boppers who cram the stage doors, their tits … by the way, I like Ginger’s tits.”

“Good. I’ll tell them.”

Todd snorted, his chest heaving.

“You’re as screwed up as a Chinese fire drill, Adrian, old buddy. I bet if I asked you to describe Ginger’s breasts this minute, you couldn’t do it.” Adrian flushed. “I thought so. She’s just a front to keep those teenage nymphos from slipping their fingers into those skin-tight pants you pour yourself into every performance.”

“Are we attempting one of our rare excursions into humor now?” Adrian sarcastically countered.

Placing a hand on Adrian’s shoulder, Todd hauled himself up.

“We all have headaches, old buddy.”

“Those of us who have heads,” Adrian remarked.

Todd snickered this time, slipping his hands inside his pants pockets.

“You ’bout ready to go again?”

Adrian stood, nodding. His headache had all but evaporated.

“Tell Andy we’ll take it from Sylvia’s entrance.”

Todd left him then, hurrying toward the orchestra pit. Once there, he leaned over and Adrian saw him tap Andy’s shoulder and then dust off his hands. Seconds later, he was vaulting the stage steps two at a time. Passing the lounging theater crew, he gestured impatiently. They scrambled up at once, resuming their former positions before the break.

Center stage once again, Adrian waited for the house lights to dim. He started to readjust his pants, then caught himself, remembering Todd’s earlier taunt. He muttered a fierce curse under his breath then reversed his thoughts just as quickly. Dammit, but he did enjoy being called a sexy hunk. He enjoyed being the current darling of the circuit immensely. And dammit, he was even enjoying his brief fling as Ginger O’Toole’s current lover. It didn’t matter they had never slept together and never would. They shared satisfying kisses and enjoyed heavy petting sessions. Their arrangement worked. If it ain’t broke … yet, Todd was right. He was screwed up, but he had reason to be, didn’t he? The dream had resurfaced again, and he couldn’t push it away. Couldn’t push her image away.

He heard the tap of Andy’s baton tap in the pit and the spotlight snapped on. Wincing under the blinding ray, Adrian forced his mind to shift gears. The music tapered in and he set his shoulders confidently, raised his hands, and watched as the house lights dimmed to black.

Standing in the bright white light, his mind slipping away from reality, Adrian tried to imagine the shape and feel of Ginger’s breasts. Were they round? Firm? Supple? Todd was right. He didn’t know.

Chapter 3

THURSDAY — 10 AM — MADSEN, OHIO

The fiery, red Subaru ground its gears, rounded one curve of the church parking lot, and barreled out the driveway and down the steep incline of Chrysler Hill. Reaching the bottom of the incline, it sailed through the intersection, ignoring the blaring horns and the four-way stop signs posted.

Hearing the squeal of brakes, Reverend Jasper Grisomb eased his rangy-rugged frame back into the cool church interior. He shut the church doors firmly. Agatha Pryor was the devil incarnate when seated behind a steering wheel. Shortly, there would be no less than five irate phone calls to the parish house, imploring him to convince Agatha to give up driving once and for all and hire a chauffeur. He shook his head in amusement. He’d talk to her of course. Like always. And she’d listen attentively. Like always. And then? A slight smile tinged the corners of his mouth. Like always, out of sight, out of mind — she’d revert to driving any way she damn well pleased. God help him, he hoped when he reached senility, someone would have the good sense to chain him to his rocker. His mouth broke into a broad grin, and he chuckled for the first time that morning. Muriel. Muriel would chain him down — with barbed wire, most likely. Muriel. Her name seemed to dance in his head.

Turning slowly, he let his eyes adjust to the dimly lit alcove and the surrounding pews. Instinctively, he knew she was there, though as yet he couldn’t perceive her through the dim shadows. And then, like a room suddenly flooded with light, his mind connected with hers. Just as quickly, he jerked his mind away. As he always did — would always do. It had been an unspoken vow between them from the first, when as teens they had discovered they both possessed uncanny psychic ability. Only in his case, he carried the heavier burden of the gift. He was a master of mental telepathy and excelled in precognition. It was an ability that sky-rocketed his mind almost daily through myriad abrupt mood swings. He could read minds, easily, effortlessly, as a gentle breeze stirs a blade of grass. But it was refraining from it that constantly sapped his energy and strained his nerves. It was tricky to stay out of people’s minds, but in the last years, he had forced himself to do so out of self-preservation.

Flinching, he rubbed his forehead vigorously. Of course, since the headache had come, his precognition had been blocked in all ways. He didn’t understand why, or what caused it, but a small part of him felt immense relief. For the first time since he was ten, he had absolutely no idea what tomorrow would bring. For him. For Muriel. For the children. He enjoyed the emptiness a moment longer, then heard a discreet cough and glanced up.

Halfway down the aisle, Muriel sat decked out in her Sunday paisley dress with matching brimmed hat. She was staring his way, a burst of sunlight outlining her gentle face. God, he loved that face. Small, oval, moderately wrinkled, with sparkling blue eyes and genial mouth. Even if now at the age of seventy her once trim shape had meta-morphasized into overly plump, he didn’t care. She was his Muree, and he loved her. With a devotion so fierce it scared and overwhelmed him at times.

Jasper strode down the aisle with a light whistle. She was the lighthouse beacon in the worst of his storms — a home away from lashing wind and rain. Reaching her side, he bent and planted a brief kiss on her lips. She gave a delightful laugh and made room for him in the pew.

“Was that Agatha I heard leaving skid marks on our parking lot pavement again?”

“Who else?”

They both laughed in unison. Jasper pulled his collar free and stole a peek at Muriel’s face.

“How’s the headache?” he asked.

“Subsided about an hour ago.” She returned his stare. “Yours?”

“Finally subsiding.” His gaze found the pulpit stand. “Funny, though, I’m still having trouble concentrating. My energy is diffused and unfocused. It’s an odd feeling.” He swung his gaze back to Muriel. “I don’t ever remember feeling this way before.”

Jasper heard her sigh as she turned her gaze to the colored windows opposite them.

“We’ve shared a lot of things the last fifty-five years, Jasper, but I don’t remember us ever sharing a headache.” Her gaze found him again. “Strange as it is, I don’t sense any negative vibrations, do you?”

Jasper shook his head.

“No, I don’t sense fear of any kind.”

Muriel took his hand and squeezed it lightly.

“I called Dr. Wharton. Asked if it was possible the headache is an unexpected side effect of my stroke. He was adamant in his denial.”

Jasper grasped the fingers entwined over his.

“Called you a damn fool, no doubt. Probably even told you to take two aspirins and call him in the morning.”

Her bright laugh reverberated through the stillness, pleasing him. He loved the sound of Muree’s laughter. It was warm and enchanting.

“Indeed. Exactly so,” she bantered. They broke into another bout of laughter and then fell silent. Jasper was the first to share his thoughts.

“We can cancel the trip, Muree, if you’re not up to it.”

She swung around, her gaze challenging his.

“Cancel? Whatever for? You know we’ve both been anxiously awaiting this trip.”

Jasper swung his gaze away and, like her before him, studied the full stained glass etching of the Virgin Mary.

“Perhaps it’s too soon for you to travel after your illness. Sometimes headaches are warning signs.”

“Jasper Grisomb!” He heard the censure in her voice and flushed. “I have spent the last six months climbing up and down Chrysler Hill. You never once objected to that. Almost shoved me out the church door yourself. And now you’re worrying that I’m not well enough to ride for a couple of hours in an airplane?” She gave a sharp sniff. “This is really too aggravating of you! You know how I hate being coddled and fussed over. I wouldn’t let the children do it in the hospital, and I certainly won’t let you do it to me now!”

“Hold on, Muree, no need to get so lathered up.” Jasper cautioned, “I only meant it’s your first big trip since the stroke … “ He broke off, touching his forehead again. “Actually, it isn’t you I’m worried about at all. It’s not being able to see whether we should go. I’ve always been able to tap in and get some sense of what might happen. I’m totally baffled. And if the truth be known, it unhinges me not to be in control.”

He felt a gentle touch on his brow, felt warm fingers probing gently, brushing through his scruffy locks.

“That smacks of vainglorious pride, my dear.”

“Indeed, it certainly does. Right up my alley, to my way of thinking.”

They laughed simultaneously and then, patting his hand, Muriel signaled for him to rise. He stood, extricating himself from the pew, and then turning, helped Muriel to slip from the long bench. Once out in the aisle, he shrugged out of his long robe and handed it over to Muriel.

“I understand Adrian Magus is quite a showman, Muree.”

“Extremely handsome too, from the picture I’ve seen in the trade papers.”

“Well, if it comes to that, Janice Kelly is quite a knock-out in that department.”

“Indeed? And how would you know? I don’t remember seeing her picture on the front page of the New York papers.”

“Caught a fragment of her once.”

“You never said so before.”

“Didn’t seem important before. Besides, my head was aching at the time.”

Muriel reached out and plucked at his shirt collar.

“If the headaches don’t subside, we’ll call Dr. Wharton when we return.”

“Good idea.”

“Now, how about we go straighten up the vestibule?” Muriel urged. She offered him his robe. “Though Sam has promised to look in while we’re away, I don’t want to overburden him with responsibilities.”

Jasper took the robe and bent over, giving Muriel a feathery nuzzle on her neck.

“I love you, Muree. Did I tell you that today?”

“Not even once.” she scolded lightly. “And, indeed, I think it pretty shabby of you to forget.”

Jasper dipped his head in a mock salute, then stretching his arm across the back of Muriel’s left shoulder, he prodded her forward. As one, they made their way up the aisle and into vestibule, slamming the door behind them. A second later, a swirl of lights hit the closing door and bounced upward. A second after that, the stained glass window of the Virgin Mary rattled loudly and drained of all its color.

Chapter 4

THURSDAY — 10 AM — MACEDONIA, MAINE

It took only a moment for the smell of jasmine to penetrate Lloyd’s nose. He looked up from the check he was writing and surveyed the room behind him. There it was again. That sickly sweet smell of jasmine. He twisted further in his chair, his eyes casing the dimly lit shadows at the base of the ceiling. For three days straight, the smell had come and gone, sending the house staff through an annoying game of hide and seek. His housekeeper had tried to remain nonplussed by the search, but now she was nervous and crabby, and who could blame her? He was on edge himself. Houseguests were arriving in a matter of hours and tempers were flaring in the kitchens at the smallest of inconveniences.

Pushing back his chair, Lloyd arched his back. He was tired. So tired that he had given himself a headache again. He slammed shut the ledger in front of him and pulled his six-foot frame to its full height. No more pencil pushing tonight. He arched his shoulders, eliciting small cracks along the tired joints, and then sighing, he removed his reading glasses from his nose and flipped them to the desk. Jesus! He was learning to hate the smell of jasmine! He sniffed the air again and almost gagged. It was all around him, seeping into his pores, making him want to puke.

Forcing down the rising bile, Lloyd turned from the desk, urgently needing a fresh spot of air. He found it in the warmth of the blazing fireplace. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the aroma of burning wood chips and was grateful to have a different tang of air invading his lungs. Exhaling, he caught sight of himself in the mantle-piece mirror, and his mind tripped ahead one day. How would his houseguests find him? Handsome? Time-worn? A bright mockery invaded his smile as he listened to his own thoughts. The others be damned! How would Janice find him? Would she still think of him as only a tried-and-true mentor? Or could he make her see him differently just for once?

Lloyd’s eyes sought the framed photo displayed with special prominence on the otherwise barren mantle-piece. Janice Kelly had blossomed considerably since her university days. He smiled at the current photograph. It profiled a woman of extraordinary beauty — high cheekbones, red hair, green eyes, a tempting full bodied lower lip — just right for kissing.

Lloyd pushed that disturbing thought away with a growl, deeming himself an old fart trying to hold on too long to his vanished youth. He let his gaze rest again on his own reflection. Was he still attractive at sixty-two? He tried to assess himself through a feminine eye. His massive shoulders still filled the coats he wore. There were age lines around his mouth and eyes, but he thought they added strength to his character. His hair still held its bulk, texture, and color. An Iowa cornfield, Janice had deemed it once during one of their late night sessions. His jaw line was strong, forehead broad, mouth generous. He didn’t smile enough, of course. But then, the weight of running a seven-acre retreat nine months of the year didn’t leave him much time for smiling.

Lloyd bent to stoke the glowing embers, and again, the smell of jasmine invaded his nose. Damn! He shooed the air around him and straightened, feeling the first stirring of real pain along his temples. This goddamn smell was nauseating! He’d stress to his housekeeper the importance of using a strong air freshener before she left for the weekend.

Above him, lights snapped on, and Lloyd winced in surprise. Spinning, he saw the object of his thoughts scowling at him from the doorway. Standing in repose, Dora always reminded him of a cartoon character lost in folds of fat and fabric. He saw she was wearing the pink and white frilled apron that housed gigantic, bottomless pockets. Lloyd could already see her unspoken censure forming so he threw up a hand in protest and moved toward her.

“No need to look so disapproving, Dora. I haven’t been standing in the dark for long.”

He heard her tell-tale snuffle.

“I should hope not!” She met him half way, offering a glass and two aspirin tablets. “Here, take these!”

Grateful, Lloyd took the glass and tossed the tablets down.

“Have you become a mind reader in the last weeks, Dora? Perhaps I should have you tested along with the others.”

She sniffed disdainfully. A sniff that sounded to Lloyd like some large, aberrant animal wheezing.

“As if I’d let you poke around inside my head with all that magic drivel! Don’t care to know what’s rattling around in my head. Don’t care to have other folks knowing it either!”

Lloyd handed the glass back, marveling at its skillful disappearance into the folds of one large pocket. He pushed by her, settling in his desk chair once more.

“You’re eminently sensible, Dora. It’s far and away your best quality.”

She took a chair beside him, a noticeable creak emanating as she sat.

“Waste not, want not. That’s my motto.” She pulled a notepad from her other miraculous pocket and grinned at him.

“You’re a terrible snob, Dora,” he stated.

“Yes, sir. Proud of it.”

Lloyd let the remark slide and turned to retrieve his own typewritten sheet.

“Everything ready downstairs?”

“All taken care of and the solarium’s been arranged as Mr. Magus requested. His boxes arrived this morning.”

“Good.” Lloyd brushed at his temple. “I expect one hell of a show here next week, Dora. We spare no expense. No shortchanging the bed sheets.” At the half-censure, Lloyd expected to hear one of her haughty sniffs but it never came. He stole a peek at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face was relaxed; she was listening to him attentively. “Have we a final guest tally?” he asked.

“Five for the weekend, twenty-two starting Tuesday. I’ll return with the staff Sunday afternoon to finish up the room arrangements.” Dora stiffened suddenly. “There’s that obnoxious smell again.” She lumbered from her chair and approached the terrace doorway. Once there, she flung the latch back and began to fan the air repeatedly. “This room reeks of lilac and dead frogs.”

Lloyd scanned the room, his gaze coming to rest on Dora’s rigid figure.

“It’s jasmine, Dora, remember? We’ve been smelling the stench for three days.”

“Well, it’s obnoxious nevertheless.” She fanned the air again. “Shall I send Giles up to investigate?”

“Don’t bother. By the time he comes, the smell will have evaporated.”

“But suppose the guests should smell it?”

“Suppose they should.” Lloyd commented. He rose, seizing her elbow and propelling her to the doorway. “It’s not so bad. I’m actually becoming used to it.” He saw her look of repugnance and groaned. He never could tell a lie well. She was seeing right through him and he detested her for it. “Will you stop being a scaly prig and make one last check of the bed sheets?”

Taken back by his attack on her person, Dora pulled her elbow from his grasp and barreled out the doorway with a final sniff. Lloyd cringed inwardly again. That sniff said it all. He was dead meat. Well, at last he knew what that infantile phrase meant. He heard the door slam and released a long drawn-out sigh. Yes sir, he was dead meat. And all because of a damn sickly sweet smell and an overworked nasal passage.

Whirling about, he caught a whiff of clean, fresh air. No jasmine! Gone! Vanished, just as he predicted. He sought his pipe on the desk. And if the smell returned? Let it! He’d not be here to endure it. He had guests arriving over the next four days and all of his time would be spent getting them settled and seeing to their needs.

Stoking his pipe, Lloyd dropped into a turquoise recliner and shifted its angle more in line with the blazing fireplace. Leaning forward, he lit his pipe from a glowing remnant of ash and then settled back. At last his nose was clearing and the room was livable again. His eyes gravitated to the top of the mantle-piece and he laid his head back, studying the photograph. She was still there, smiling at him. He felt the hammering in his head begin to ease. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift. A vivid image of words began to dance in his head. He transported himself to an alpha state and once there, he could almost hear Janice’s lyrical voice offering inspiration.

Cherish yesterday. Dream tomorrow. Embrace today.

Chapter 5

FRIDAY — 3:30 PM

Squaring her shoulders, Janice inhaled deeply. The cold ocean spray splashing against her skin was invigorating — just what her tired, screaming muscles craved after a long day of traveling. She clutched the handrail, jostling her feet along the wooden deck and smothering a groan. If she didn’t erase the numbness that threatened to invade her lower limbs soon, she’d reach Carrington House curled into a tiny ball fast asleep atop the orange crates stacked nearby.

Pensively, she shifted her gaze to an orange life jacket hanging along the forward rail. ANNIE B. The words were bold, but fading. Her glance skimmed left. The ANNIE B seemed a sturdy vessel, trim and seaworthy as her bow coasted through the crested waves with a graceful rhythm. To the out-islanders cut off from the mainland, Janice surmised, the ferry would be a welcome lifeline, serving as postal, passenger and delivery ferry.

Jamming her hands into her pockets to ward off a blast of icy wind, Janice let her gaze drift to the horizon ahead. In the distance, the rooftop turrets of Carrington House were no longer mere silhouettes on the horizon. They were now towering peaks, inching closer by the minute. Studying them, Janice gave an unexpected shudder. Now, what was that for? she wondered. Her brain signaled a primitive warning. Déjà vu. Stuff and nonsense, she chided her inner voice, but the nagging refused to be stilled. Déjà vu, Janice, déjà vu. She glanced ahead again. Was there a vague familiarity about the twin peaks?

Overhead, the sky let loose with a somber rumble and Janice’s gaze shot upward. Now, what was that all about? Patches of light scurried in a series of alternating patterns through the clouds and she felt her breath catch in her lungs. Lightning storms in winter? She studied the light patterns more closely, enjoying the sporadic activity until a sudden rush of perplexing emotions sent her pulses racing.

Gripping the handrail for support, she fought to control the swirling emotions. For a brief instance, the world around her darkened, faded, then came back. Instincts kicking in, she stepped back from the rail and sought cover. She had almost tapped in. What had prevented her from doing so? Damn! She hated storms. They played havoc with her brainwaves, overloading and confusing her thoughts.

Seeking cover beneath a canvas roofing, Janice perched atop a packing crate filled with the zesty smell of lemons and oranges. She folded her arms across her chest and decided not to budge until the storm had run its course. Not even for Lloyd would she defy her intuition and stay out in the open. Her intuition was always right. And right now, it was warning her to be on the alert.

Smoke assailed her nostrils and Janice turned to find the ANNIE B’s captain studying the skyline with the same odd wariness in his eyes.

“It be powerful strange to see lightning in winter, lass.”

“Powerful strange.” Janice agreed, her gaze gravitating to the skyline with renewed interest. Seeing no ominous flutters, she brought her attention back to the man who had stopped alongside her. She had liked Captain Bowers on sight. Calloused hands, massive oarsman shoulders, thick sandy hair, fulsome red beard, he was the very picture of a ferryboat captain. She especially liked his deep, tobacco-roughened voice flavored with a light Scottish brogue. Obviously feeling her stare, he turned from his contemplation of the sky.

“Would’na thought you’d be part of the party going to Spook House, lass.”

“Spook House?”

“Aye.” He gestured with a firm, direct nod that Janice felt told a lot about him. “Leastways, that’s what folks ’round here calls her.”

Janice’s lips snaked to a smile.

“Is the chateau haunted, Captain?”

“Some say she be, back when she were Witchwood.”

“Witchwood?”

“Aye, lass. She be fancy Carrington House today, but she wasn’t always so respectable.” A merry twinkle appeared in his eye and his laughter was a full, hearty sound. His broad wink at her was mischievous. “The waters hereabouts used to be filled with pirates, lass. Cutthroats they was. Luring ships to their doom. Ramming them up against shoreline reefs.”

Janice’s eyes widened in astonishment, yet in spite of herself, she chuckled. She was sure Captain Bowers relished telling this tale to strangers. She was also sure if one searched his family tree, they’d uncover a pirate of their own.

A sharp bolt of lightning sprayed the sky, causing both of them to wince at the ripple.

“That no be pirates, lass.” Captain Bowers commented. “That be spirits. They be signaling from the sky to leave them alone. They no want to be disturbed.”

Janice managed to hide a choking laugh.

“Are you trying to frighten me, Captain?”

“Sure thing, lass. Them that spooks the spirits pays, don’t ye know. One way or t’other.”

Janice met his gaze and her response was heartfelt.

“I promise I won’t spook any spirits while I’m here, Captain.”

“I believe you, lass.” His thoughtful gaze scoured her face. “You be pretty to look at with that red hair — if’n you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

“I don’t mind, Captain.”

“They say them that has bright red hair has the temper to match, but I think it no be true in your case, lass. You be comfortin’ — if’n you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

Janice still didn’t mind and found herself telling him so. A deep chuckle greeted her.

“Ye be different from the other ones, lass.”

“Other ones?”

“Brought them over a whiles back, I did. Four of ’em. They be powerful different from each other. The tall one, he be fierce handsome — some s’lebrity, he is. Stood where you be sittin’. Watches the sky, he does. Don’t say nothin’, mind ye, just watches. Fairly gave me the creeps it did. The pretty one with ’im, she tries to chat ’im up, but he no be listenin’. Leastways, he no be listening to outside folks. I think he be listenin’ to inside his head. It be an eerie crossing, ’im speaking to spooks and all.”

Janice offered no comment. She wondered what Captain Bowers would say if she revealed she herself had almost “spaced out” moments ago. Was it a trait common to most psychics? She must remember to ask one of the others if they had had a similar occurrence on the crossing.

“Now, the other ones be right pleasant,” Captain Bowers continued. “T’were a couple, him big, her small. Like a China doll he treats her, fussin’ over her, worryin’ whether she be warm or not. She laughs at ’im. Prettiest sound I heered in a long time. ’Minded me of Hattie — she be my missus — fore’n she died that is. They be right ones all right.” he concluded. “Tipped me plenty, they did. Didn’t have to — no sir — but they did. They no be snobbish like some others I could name.” He gave a distinctive snort Janice could only conclude was meant to single out the master of the chateau that now lay only yards away.

A last ripple of lightning showered the sky, outlining the mansion atop the cliffs as well as the human shape pacing the landing dock below with long, purposeful strides. Even at a distance and after the long, passing years, Janice recognized Lloyd’s lithe form. Tall, straight and supple, his long legs resembled a vibrant engine in motion. From her perch beneath the overhang, she could just make out the outline of smoke rings drifting around his head, intermingling with his cold intakes of breath. She gave a faint smile. Lloyd still hadn’t managed to kick his cigarette addiction after all these years.

“I’ll say goodbye to ye now, lass, and wish ye luck.” Captain Bowers tipped his cap respectfully and shot her one last admiring glance. “Don’t envy ye stayin’, though. Me scalp fairly prickles with electricity. Somethin’s up.”

Janice nodded sympathetically, watching as he traversed the companionway and disappeared down the stairwell. She knew exactly how he was feeling. Her own arms were caked with goose bumps beneath the warm, plain leather coat she wore. And it wasn’t from the winter cold. Her senses fairly sang with electricity. The spirits were spooked. She gave a wide smile. It had been a long time since she imagined the spirit world as a living thing. Not since Anna.

Soon, the creak of rope against wood echoed and the ferry made a faint lurch. Slipping from the crate, Janice headed for the stairwell. Once on the lower level, she zig-zagged her way between two cars, then stopped alongside Captain Bowers who was unfastening the latch of a chain link gate. She quickly slipped him a tip and then her gaze met Lloyd’s across the space. He greeted her with a brief lift of his hand. She called out playfully to him.

“What an entrance, Lloyd! Did you arrange the fireworks especially for me?”

His rumbling laugh came floating back and he pitched his cigarette tip into the churning water beneath the bow. Stepping forward, he reached out and grabbed her hand.

“Quite a display, huh?”

Squeezing his fingers, Janice jumped across the tiny chasm to his side. As she landed, he spun her around for a careful inspection.

“You look terrific, Jan. But I knew you would.”

She executed a graceful curtsy at his compliment.

“You haven’t changed a bit either, Lloyd. You’re still telling lies to young women.”

“Well, you certainly fit that bill. You’ve hardly aged since the university.”

A deep foghorn blast belched loudly, claiming their attention and showering the air above their heads with cinder smoke. Diving away, both waved, catching sight of Captain Bowers’ massive frame outlined in the pillbox window of the wheelhouse. Another short blast bellowed and the ANNIE B slipped from the dock, churning sand, water, and sludge.

Lloyd bent and retrieved her standing suitcase and signaled her forward. He called above the engine whine.

“Stairway is just ahead.”

She nodded, falling into an easy stride alongside him, and tucking her hands deep into her coat pockets to ward off the icy breeze still kicking up. Lloyd’s stride increased alongside her.

“Saw your Stellar painting in the New York gallery last week, Jan. Super stuff.”

“Sales are strong.”

“That doesn’t please you?”

“Oh, the timing’s bad, nothing more. I’ve been on the road for months with the collection. Now it seems it’s going to start again. I don’t want to go. I’ve been away from Sarah too long. I miss her.”

“How is the little tyke? Watch your step. These first steps up are tricky.”

Janice gave him her hand and soon they were ascending a short spiky stairway. Rounding a sharp incline, the stairway finally widened and they fell into matching strides again. Janice picked up the threads of conversation.

“Sarah’s fine, Lloyd, a happy little thing. Never seems to let things get her down. Physically, she’s my mirror-image.”

“And psychically?”

“No. She doesn’t possess the gift.”

“Does that disappoint you?”

“Heavens, no. I’m thrilled for her. She won’t have to … My God, Lloyd!” The soft gasp had escaped Janice’s lips before she could contain it. They had reached the top of the stairway and were now staring at an ocean front masterpiece clinging to the rise of cliff walls. “You can’t mean all this is yours?”

Her gaze swept the main edifice before her. The house was a masterful blend of Old World architectural craftsmanship. Hearing Lloyd’s chuckle, Janice gave a gargled croak. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined such grandeur. Carrington House was simply magnificent. So versatile and dramatic in design. She craned her head upward and blinked. The walls, made of light pink stucco, seemed to be endless. Up and up, they stretched. Five stories? Janice tried to count and found her body swaying. She brought her gaze back to ground level. Beside her, Lloyd’s soft voice urged.

“It is overwhelming at first, isn’t it?”

Janice threw him a sharp glance. Who was he kidding? It was cataclysmic. She had never expected such wealth and splendor. Again, her gaze scanned the numerous windows and skylights dominating the architecture. How could one describe a corner of heaven? No words were adequate. Luckily, she managed a foolish stammer.

“It’s fabulous.”

Lloyd’s features became animated.

“I can’t wait for you to see its true grandeur though, Jan.” He pointed to their right and Janice saw more walls and skylights. “The old wing,” he offered, “was built by a young French baron in the 1700s.” Taking her elbow lightly, Lloyd prodded her forward. “Though I’ve refurbished the chateau completely over the last years, I’ve never been able to bring myself to touch the old wing. It carries too much history, I guess. Too many priceless antiques.”

“Witchwood?” Janice said, half-to-herself.

Lloyd’s head whipped around.

“Now, where in the hell did you hear that name?”

“Captain Bowers. He told me some lurid tale of pirates and sunken ships. Is it true?”

“Ghosts and goblins, you mean? Spook House?”

Janice nodded.

“Conjecture only. None of us here have ever felt a presence or been given a sign.”

Janice transferred her gaze from Lloyd to the cobblestone walkway they were now traversing. Ahead, she could hear the sound of tinkling chimes.

“But as psychics, Lloyd, we can’t discount the existence of the other side. Too many of us have experienced unexplainable visions throughout our lives. Speaking for myself, I know there is a spirit world. I have tapped into it on odd occasions. I know you have, too.” She slanted a peek at Lloyd’s thoughtful features.

“Believe me, Jan, we’d know if a ghost were haunting our halls,” he finally stated. “There’s too much psychic energy channeled here for a spirit to go unnoticed.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that, Lloyd. Still, sometimes, we really can’t see the forest for the trees, can we?”

Lloyd’s face broke into a wolfish grin as they reached the main door and he switched her suitcase to his other hand. Turning the doorknob, he pulled open the door and signaled her inside.

“We’re entering the house through the lower atrium.” His hand arced upward as she stepped inside. “The atrium is the place to be for the teens. Pool, music. Lots of those techy gadgets they love.”

“Nothing for techy adults?” Janice teased, glancing around.

“No, I have something better.” He picked up their stride, crossing the rec room to an outer hallway and heading toward an elaborate staircase housed in the middle of the house. He paused for a moment at the bottom of the steps. “First floor holds dining rooms, sitting rooms, parlors of all kinds. Second floor has ballrooms, music rooms, an art gallery, and solarium. That’s where Adrian is scheduled to perform, by the way. I think you will find him highly entertaining.”

“So I hear. My sister saw him perform in Vegas last year. She talked about nothing else for weeks.”

“The trade papers have dubbed him the darling of Las Vegas, but I think heavy is the head that wears that crown,” Lloyd stated.

“Amen.” Janice said, giving a sudden shiver. Seeing it, Lloyd commented.

“You’ll get used to the chill in the hallways, Jan. We all did. Trust me, your sleeping quarters are comfy and warm.”

Janice gave a grateful nod. She was feeling a strange chill all of a sudden, but she didn’t think it was from the cold air in the halls. Something … someone … damn! Why did she keep thinking that someone was involved in shaking up her senses?

Fifteen steps later, they had reached the new landing and entered a mammoth art gallery filled with elegant but understated paintings and furnishings. Lloyd set down her suitcase and signaled to the far side of the room.

“Over there, Jan. I’ve saved the best for last.” He pointed to a wall painting a few yards from where they stood and Janice found her curiosity bubbling over. It was sweet of Lloyd to remember she was partial to historical paintings. And by the look of things, he had inherited a magnificent set of portraits when he had purchased the chateau. Stopping at the second portrait she came to, she could almost feel the artist’s brush strokes saturating the canvas.

“Do you know who they all are, Lloyd?” she asked, scanning the masculine face outlined. He came to stand alongside her, studying the painting as well.

“They are the past masters of Witchwood and their families.” He pointed to a painting down the way again. “Come meet Baron Aubert Dumas.”

Janice found herself following eagerly. It had been a long time since enjoying a painting just for the sake of art, and if the paintings in front of her were any indication of the ones to come, she was in for a treat. A moment later, standing in front of a gorgeous oil painting, her heart did a gigantic flip-flop. Good Lord, it was him! The rake from her oil painting! He stood looking out at her, an exquisitely handsome man with the same dark eyes and devastating smile, yet in this painting, his dress was richer. Janice immediately sensed he had a monopoly on virility, knew it, and enjoyed flaunting it. She could feel his masculine charm clear to the tips of her toes.

“My God, Lloyd, I know this man. I have been painting his portrait for weeks. He’s Baron Dumas?”

“Yes. He built the chateau as a wedding present for his bride, the Princess Lisette Fantine.”

Janice’s gaze scoured the surrounding paintings. Which lady had captured such an exquisite man’s heart? She scanned the female faces assembled and couldn’t imagine the handsome baron drawn to any of them. They were overstuffed, overdressed, pampered dowagers, not one under the age of forty. All too quickly, she let her imagination run wild. The baron had lost his heart to a wild, sultry vixen who had kissed him hungrily and welcomed him into her body. A sharp nudge to her ribcage brought Janice back to earth.

“She’s over there.” Lloyd pointed to a section of wall further down the gallery. Janice sped away, eager to have her imaginings confirmed. When she laid eyes on the face and figure captured in oil, she gave an enraptured sigh. Now, this was a woman made to lie beneath a naked male torso. Janice Kelly, whatever possessed you to think such a starkly, sexual thought? It must be the damn lightning, she silently answered. It had short-circuited her brain waves, shoring up her libido. Or was it the sight of the woman with flaming red hair to equal her own that made her senses tingle? Janice studied the hair. Shade for shade, they were a match. But there the similarity ended. Lisette had a slim wild beauty, with jutting breasts and narrow waist. Her wedgewood blue eyes glowed with an inner excitement, as if she had recently been thoroughly and magnificently kissed. Brother, Janice, she admonished herself, you’ve got sex on the brain and it’s all Bibi’s fault! She started it with her infernal teasing about making love with perfectly total strangers.

Janice turned away from the portrait annoyed that her senses could be shaken so readily by a mere look at an oil painting. She found Lloyd studying her face. They shared a smile.

“Quite a beauty, eh?”

“Ravishing,” Janice agreed.

She saw Lloyd cast a wistful glance at the portrait.

“Wish I knew more about her. I can’t seem to find any reference to her in the old wing library. She reminds me a little of you, Janice.”

“Balderdash, as Bibi would say. We’re as different as night and day — except for the hair.”

“I don’t know.” Lloyd shook his head. “She has something I can’t put a name to.”

“I can. It’s called chemistry, the sexual kind.” Lloyd’s laugh was buoyant and seeing his honest enjoyment of her remark, Janice wondered why he didn’t laugh more. When he did, the lines in his face vanished, making him appear years younger. Responding with a wicked smile of her own, Janice linked her arm through his and, together, they retrieved her suitcase and exited the gallery door to the next staircase.

“Tell me about the other guests, Lloyd. What made you decide to bring us all together?”

He shrugged and Janice thought he didn’t intend to give her an answer, but as they climbed, he seemed to think better of his silence.

“Actually, I wanted to do it several years ago but couldn’t work out the scheduling.”

“Just as well. I couldn’t have come.”

“Neither could Adrian or Muriel. He was knee deep in ugly divorce headlines and her television series was in the top ten … here we are.” He broke off, taking the last two steps at a leap. As before, Janice found herself in a newly decorated floor of the chateau, this one more contemporary in design. Beneath the overhang of the double arcing staircase, two doors beckoned.

“Your suites are here to the left, Jan. Adrian’s there on the right, and Ginger is in the middle.”

“Ginger?”

“Adrian’s assistant. Although, between us, I think she’s more his girlfriend than assistant. Pretty thing.”

Janice gave another wicked smile. She ignored the distinctive click that sounded in her head. A torrid love affair going on right beneath their very noses! Just like olden times, wives, husbands, mistresses … light questing kisses, rough aggressive kisses … bodies surrendering to overheated senses … her thoughts derailed to find Lloyd staring at her with a questioning glance. She came back to reality immediately.

“Sorry, I spaced out, didn’t I?”

“It’s okay,” he nodded “This place is a psychic’s dream. Stimulates the senses and the libido.”

Janice had the grace to blush.

“I suddenly felt a strong sense of yin and yang.”

“We’ve all felt it at one time, Jan.”

“And you said there were no ghosts here, Lloyd?”

“There aren’t. Just strands of time to tap into and relive. But only in our heads. So don’t go having any foolish, romantic notions and start searching for secret passageways.”

“I’ll be discretion itself, I promise. Where are the Grisombs staying?”

Lloyd swung around, gesturing to a pair of twin stairways down the corridor.

“The West wing is a half floor up. My suite of rooms is there as well.”

“And above that?” Janice craned her head, able to view the decorative ceiling at last. It appeared to end within another two floors.

“More sitting rooms, a bona-fide chapel, an indoor palatial roof garden. This way, Jan.” She felt a tug on her arm and followed.

Janice gave a squeal of delight at the sight of the bright yellow room. Lloyd had remembered her favorite color after all these years. She surprised him with an enthusiastic hug as he set down her suitcase.

“Thank you for remembering I’m partial to yellow, Lloyd. And the crackling fire is heavenly.” She slipped her coat from her shoulders, reveling in the warmth emanating from the burning wood.

Lloyd gave a hoarse laugh, clearly amused by her sudden, contented sigh.

“Well, I see you’ve done all the exploring you’re going to do for the moment. Dinner will be served at six thirty, cocktails at six. We’ll be using the dining room at the left of the first floor staircase.”

Janice dropped into the plush settee in front of the fireplace. That was an hour away — plenty of time for a nap. Her head dropped to the sofa arm with a will of its own and she stared into the glowing embers.

“Watch the time, Jan. Can’t have you missing dinner.”

“You won’t. I’m ravenous.” Her eyelids drifted downward. Ummm, the room was marshmallow toasty. She was totally exhausted as well as sensually disturbed. Lloyd’s chuckle reverberated around her head.

“I mean it, Jan, don’t be late.”

She gave a leisurely wave and heard the door close softly a moment later. The click became the second-to-last thing she remembered as she nestled deeper into the cushions. The last thing she remembered was a fan of air along her right cheekbone. Contented, she gave a sigh and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 6

FRIDAY — 6:00 PM

Tuning out the lively conversation around him, Adrian leaned back and let his gaze scour the room’s speckled wallpaper. Why in the name of Holy Vegas had he allowed himself to be lured to this blasted seminar? He loathed reunions. He’d rather try to win a dog-sled race with a team of Chihuahuas than be part of a new-age seminar. He despised no-win scenarios even more, detested those who got caught up in them. And yet here he was — caught in one of his own making. For more than twenty minutes, he had been spouting all the polite words to his companions and hating himself for doing it. To make matters even more intolerable, he was cold. Why didn’t Marks turn up the heat?

Switching his focus to the blazing candelabra ensconced in the furthest corner of the room, Adrian realized it was more than the chateau’s coldness he detested. It was the vastness. It made him feel inferior. Threw up in his face how little in life he had accomplished in his thirty-five years. Sitting here made him ask vast questions of himself that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the answer.

He let his eyes sweep the frescoed ceiling and gilt furniture. Marks had become a wealthy giant over the years. Everything in the room spoke of money and class. His taste was excellent, hundred proof. Returning his gaze to the whiskey glass in his hand, Adrian gave a tight smile. Marks’ whiskey was hundred-proof, too, and extremely enjoyable. He tossed the last shot down, savoring the burning fire as it scorched his throat and lungs. And then dropping the glass to the table, he tugged his pullover down. He was underdressed for dinner but at least he was warm.

Slowly, he turned his attention to the sideboard table filled with steaming dishes of hot food. Would they ever get around to eating? He was starved. The gurgles in the pit of his stomach had been churning for at least fifteen minutes. He took a quick peek at his watch. How much longer would their host keep them waiting? He glanced a second time and caught himself. Jesus, he was on edge! He was becoming a god-damned shit-ass clock watcher!

Angered by his own foul mood, he took a deep breath. His jaded sarcasm was working double time, his obscenities worse than usual. Why did he feel compelled to know the time? He didn’t care a rat’s ass for time. Why should anyone? Time was merely a manmade word that catalogued man’s physical realm within limited parameters. Physical parameters that stung and hurt and fed on the soul like hungry piranha.

Not liking the slant of his dark thoughts, Adrian turned to find something more pleasant in the room. Ginger seated beside him was a pleasing eyeful in her red wool gabardine pantsuit. The material hugged her ample curves in all the right places.

He liked her blond hair piled on top of her head in lacy ringlets. He wondered if she had done it to please him. He banished the thought immediately as absurd. Ginger had no need to stroke his ego. He had been the one to pursue their relationship, not her.

Catching a whiff of her special brand of peach perfume, Adrian knew he had gotten the best part of their bargain. She was gregarious by nature; he tended to dark mood shifts. Her honest, open friendliness combated and, most times, quelled his jaded sarcasm. She was truly Beauty to his Beast.

Ginger was overly animated now as she and the spry woman across the table argued over favorite smoky cafes along Bourbon Street. Twirling his glass, he listened to their cheerful banter. He had never seen his assistant so relaxed or talkative. Did being around him and his increasingly sour moods dampen her natural, lively exuberance? He frowned thoughtfully. When they returned to Vegas, he would have a talk with her. Clear the air. Perhaps, finally offer a commitment. It was time to let the past go, cut the umbilical cord of dreams that chained and kept him from moving forward into the future.

At the thought of the future, Adrian found his gaze slipping to the couple across the table. Muriel and Jasper Grisomb were perfect together. As content with each other as field mice in a harvest bin. She was small and plump; he was big and compact. He liked their obvious respect for each other and he especially liked the way they shared secret threads of communication. The lift of her hand to his to gain attention, his return smile holding an emotional resonance that lingered long after she had found something new to draw his attention to. It had taken a lifetime of growing together to build those kinds of threads. He felt a slight ache above his ribcage and knew that he was envious of their happiness.

He set his glass down abruptly, ice clinking. He should never drink when he was feeling melancholy. It unleashed too many unpleasant memories. He felt a sharp jab in his side and slanted his gaze to his right. Ginger sat looking at him, a suggestion of annoyance hovering around the edges of her mouth.

“For heaven’s sake, Adrian, where are you? Muriel has asked you a question.”

Adrian’s mercurial black eyes narrowed, and tilting his head back, he peered at the older woman who sat with a sweet smile, patiently awaiting a reply.

“Sorry, Muriel, what were you asking?”

“I wondered how long you had known Lloyd.”

Adrian’s lips twisted into a cynical smile.

“We met once — in the psychiatric ward of an Army hospital.”

“You were the patient, of course.”

Adrian’s mouth twisted into a sneer.

“Of course.”

“My God, Adrian, you never told me that.”

The shock in Ginger’s voice was semi-accusatory, and Adrian suppressed a sigh. Where were the secret threads of communication when he needed them? Her shock had siphoned the blood from her face.

“It was a long time ago, love,” he teased. “I barely remember it.” Her slender fingers twisted together and Adrian knew she was dying to hear the whole sordid story. He returned his gaze to Muriel. “And you, Muriel? What’s your history with Marks?”

“Like you, Lloyd and I were friends for a short period of time. I interned at Duke University with him in the mid-eighties. As part of his Dream Laboratory Team.”

“And you, Jasper?”

The man who had been sitting quietly came to life. He removed his pipe stem from between his teeth and gave a conspiratorial wink.

“Never met the man until today. Like him, though.”

He returned his pipe to his mouth and the room fell suddenly quiet. Adrian realized they had now exhausted all the topics of conversation polite strangers could indulge in. He cupped the empty whiskey glass in his hand and gave it a twirl. Probing fingers touched the warmth of his outstretched hand and stilled the glass.

“I’ve often wondered, Muriel, why Adrian is so reluctant to discuss his second sight with me. He admits to it but he won’t let me inside to understand it. Are all psychics so reticent about their gift? I would like to understand, for Adrian’s sake. It makes him so black some days.”

“Get your hand off my behind, Ginger.”

“See, that’s what I mean. All I have to do is mention the gift and his sharp fangs appear.”

“Make your point, love. No need for Muriel to wait as long as an elephant’s pregnancy for the point.”

Adrian saw Muriel’s lips twitch in amusement.

“Are you really as jaded as you sound, Adrian? You’ll be the first psychic I’ve met who is.”

Adrian shrugged, not about to confirm or deny her statement. She didn’t seem to mind, though as he saw her swing her attention once more to Ginger.

“I myself am not so jaded about psychic gifts, my dear. I’ve had nothing but good luck attached to mine. But then, I am a trance channeler. I can pick and choose and turn the channel off when I want to. However, others, like Jasper and perhaps Adrian, are not so fortunate.” Adrian saw her transfer her clear gaze to him. “They suffer unwanted visions — visions that intrude and sap their energy. Visions that have haunted them since childhood in many cases.”

Adrian didn’t even pretend to hide his discomfort. She was picking up some strand of time associated with him, he knew. Could sense it in his head. Her probing could be costly. Already, she had Ginger staring at him as if he was dirt-under-the-fingernails poor and it was her job to haul him up from the gutter. He shut his mind down from Muriel’s probing and stifled Ginger’s curiosity with a curt command.

“Don’t ask about my childhood, O’Toole. Save your questions for our host … by the way, where the hell is our host?”

His question produced a scornful laugh from Jasper, who swiveled in his chair. His pipe stabbed the air.

“Meeting Miss Kelly. She was late in arriving.”

“I hate modern women who enjoy being fashionably late.” Adrian leaned over and refilled his whisky glass. His gaze met Muriel’s smile across the table. She was probing his mind again, trying to make him feel less surly.

“You’re really too unkind, Adrian. Janice’s flight was delayed. You can’t blame her for that. It’s the weather.”

A door slam echoed in the outside corridor and Adrian gave a heartfelt sigh.

“Well, it’s about time.”

Fingers clasped his wrist and Ginger’s voice was low and throaty in his ear.

“Behave please, Adrian. Stow that viperous tongue of yours. For me?”

Adrian suppressed another sigh, raised his glass, and saluted her wryly. Hearing approaching footsteps, he turned and saluted the doorway with a smug taunt.

“To late arrivals … may they … ”

The words froze on his lips at the sight of the red-headed woman crossing the threshold with Lloyd. For a fraction of a second, he heard a pop in his head and his pulse did a rapid nosedive. In its wake, an icy chill swept into the pit of his stomach and crawled upward to constrict his lungs. Holy Christ! It was her!

The glass in his hand began to tremble as his black eyes met her green ones across the crystal. A light, friendly smile greeted him. And then in the next instant, the glass in his hand exploded and the smile vanished. Shards of glass sprayed the air and Adrian shot to his feet with a painful yelp. His dinner companions bolted from their chairs as well.

“Sweet Jesus!” The curse was out before Adrian could stop it — and hurled directly at the woman before him. For a brief instant, the group stood paralyzed before Ginger took control, snatching up a napkin and grabbing his bleeding thumb, which caused another muttered curse to fly from his lips. “For Christ’s sake, woman, there’s glass in there. Why don’t you just rip my thumb off while you’re at it?”

She mopped at his thumb with her napkin.

“I ought to. What the hell happened?”

“The glass shattered; what the hell do you think happened?”

“But you weren’t even clutching the glass tight. It shattered by itself.”

“Give me a break, O’Toole. Magicians have been known to break things every now and then.”

Adrian cupped his thumb with his free hand in an attempt to stem the heavy throbbing that was now part of the digit. Beside him, Lloyd picked up the remnants of the shattered glass and held it up to the light. Adrian saw his unspoken confusion and bit down on a rising curse. No, he’d not say it. Instead, he stared at the woman across the table from him. He let his gaze rake every inch of her as she stood anxiously watching Ginger’s busy fingers. Adrian didn’t leave his eyes on her face long. No, he didn’t need to study her face. It was ingrained in his memory. Had been since he was ten years old, and she had come to taunt him in youthful dreams. It was the body he now looked at, his mind dislocating itself from the pain in his thumb. Holy Vegas! She was beautiful. With a body more rounded than ever he created for her in any of his wet dreams.

A sharp stinging pain assailed him and he snarled under the abuse.

“Jesus, Ginger!”

“Sorry, Adrian, I can see the sliver. If you just hold your hand still a little longer … ”

Her voice tapered off and Adrian smothered a second growl. He transferred his gaze to the group, and while he gave a tight-lipped smile for their benefit, inside he cursed the flesh that felt as if it were a raging ball of fire. Ginger’s finger tweaked the sliver at last and he inhaled with a sharp jerk as she muttered “got it.” Feeling the pain dwindling, Adrian signaled to his companions.

“Sit down, everybody. No use continuing to steal Miss Kelly’s limelight. She obviously needs to be the center of attention.”

Adrian knew from her quick intake that his viperous remark had stunned Janice. So much for making good first impressions, he thought. But what the hell? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except to stop the aching in his hand. And of course, the one closer to his rib cage.

“Adrian’s right.” Jasper echoed. “The scare seems to be over.” He sat himself quickly and Adrian saw him motion to the others, who dropped back to their places with less speed. Adrian didn’t miss the bewildered glance Janice tossed his way as she settled into a vacant chair. Holy Christ! He wanted nothing more than to offend her — to goad her into despising him. That way he could end his personal torture. Lloyd’s voice cut through the sudden silence and Adrian watched his attention return to the glass he still held in his hand.

“Can’t imagine how the glass came to break. These crystal glasses are hundreds of years old.” His gaze lifted to Adrian’s face. “Are you sure you’re alright, Adrian?”

“I will be if I can get Florence Nightingale here to wrap my thumb with a clean bandage.”

Ginger came to life beside him, snatching up a clean napkin and twirling the fabric into a make-shift bandage. She then tied it around Adrian’s thumb, giving him a tremulous smile when she finished.

“Too tight?”

He heard the tears in her voice and reached up and stroked her cheek.

“Buck up. You know what a clumsy lot we magicians are.”

Muriel’s lilting tones crossed the table.

“I don’t think you broke that glass, Adrian. I felt a strong electrical current just before it shattered. You felt it, I know, and I know Miss Kelly did. Her face gave her away.”

Adrian’s mind froze. Her face? What about his? What had he given away? His mind-rambling came to a screeching halt as Janice picked up the conversation.

“You’re right, Muriel. I did sense something just as the glass exploded.”

Adrian felt his throat constrict and closed his eyes. What had she sensed? His fear? His rising body heat? For no reason he could think of, he felt his heart beat begin to race in his ears. Across his mind, vivid images formed, invading his senses. His hands spanning Janice’s waist, drawing her to him … the whisper of his breath on her cheek … his mouth moving over hers in sensuous exploration … the piston-driving strength of his body possessing hers.

“Adrian?” Ginger’s concerned voice cut through his thoughts like a knife, severing the images. “You’ve gone completely white.”

“It comes from bleeding all over the tablecloth and having to endure Miss Kelly’s inane comments about shattering crystal.”

Adrian shot each of them a withering scowl in emphasis, saving Janice for last. Every curve of her body stiffened as she read his intense dislike and Adrian knew he was being a surly son-of-a-bitch. But what else could he do?

“Have I offended you in some way, Mr. Magus?” she asked politely.

“Of course you haven’t,” Ginger cut in. “Don’t pay Adrian any mind. He’s been in a black mood ever since the headache started.”

“Headache?” Her look was startled as she leaned in to him, her confusion seeming to evaporate with the news. “Have you been experiencing headaches?”

“One or two.” Adrian evaded. It wasn’t evasion enough, however. She turned toward the woman on her right.

“And you, Muriel?”

Adrian saw her brief nod.

“Jasper, too.”

“Lloyd?”

Adrian swung his gaze in time to catch their host’s reluctant nod.

“Psychics experiencing headaches is serious business,” Janice commented. “But for the five of us at the same time?” She let the sentence hang and Adrian heard the unspoken concern in her voice. What was she driving at? He drilled a probing stare her way.

“Make your point, Miss Kelly.”

She angled her head more toward him, her eyes boring back into his. Her tone was terse as she spoke.

“Do you still have your headache?”

Adrian wondered what she’d say if he told her he had an ache, but much lower down. Could he make her blush to the roots of her being? He had an urge to try.

“Do you?” she prodded.

He chickened out with a growl.

“No.”

She swung her gaze back to Muriel who shook her head and tossed a questioning glance to her right. Jasper shook his head and Adrian had the impression nothing much perturbed his even demeanor. Certainly not inane talk of linked headaches, which was what Janice was implying. Turning to the man seated at the head of the table, Adrian heard him verify their unspoken question.

“Gone.”

At the simple word, Adrian found himself the target of ice green eyes daring him to make a scathing retort. He refrained, listening to her sultry tones instead as she addressed Muriel.

“I felt a distinct ripple while coming over on the ferry. I thought for sure I was going to tap in but something — someone — kept me from doing it.”

“Someone?” Muriel asked, startled.

Jasper’s pipe tapped the table.

“Winter storms are often electrical in nature,” he advised. “Especially when it’s dismal like it is now.” He swirled his pipe in front of his face. “Don’t forget, as psychics, we run on electrical impulses.”

Adrian pondered that thought.

“All right, for laughter’s sake, let’s say we’ve all shared the same headache. So what?”

“Strangers, living hundreds of miles apart, linked to the same headache?” Janice responded. “All of us about to meet each other for the first time? What are the odds of that?”

“We’re all telepathically linked whether we know each other or not,” Jasper replied. “Given the right set of variables, I could tap into your thoughts from hundreds of miles away.”

Beside him, Ginger stirred in her chair and Adrian knew she was unnerved by the talk of sizzling heads and tapping in. Feeling for her, Adrian placed a reassuring hand on hers, surprised to find it trembling.

“Relax. Nothing more than shop-talk. If Miss Kelly were less free with her mouth and more inclined to stuff something edible into it, we could all face the next few minutes in a much better frame of mind. I’m starved.”

His sarcasm roused Lloyd from his chair immediately. Reaching out, he uncovered the steam trays on the sideboard behind him and called “dig in” over his shoulder. Adrian was the first to bolt to his feet. Finally, some food to counteract the alcohol buzz in his head. Behind him, he heard chairs scrape and knew the others were following his lead. As he dumped a heaping portion of roast beef onto his plate, he heard Muriel remark softly to Janice.

“Adrian’s rather hard to take at first, my dear. But once the shock of the first set down wears off, his barbs are highly entertaining. You’ll find it so.”

“I doubt it,” she responded. “I don’t hold a black belt in mouth karate the way he does.”

“All men are little boys and all little boys misbehave, my dear. Some more than others. Rather than losing your patience, it’s best to just search out the reason for their naughtiness and act on that.”

Adrian thought that a truly revealing statement and wondered what Janice would do if she learned outright why he was being so naughty. He forestalled further thoughts on the subject as slim fingers reached out and around him in search of a plate. Her light touch on his shirt back sent his pulses skittering again. When she straightened from him, the smell of her fruity perfume remained, mingling with the smell of roast beef.

Adrian felt his knees start to buckle and quelled the tremor by moving back to the table. Once there, he attacked his mashed potatoes with grim ferocity. Who was she? A sorceress out to rend him apart? First in his dreams, now in the flesh. He loathed her. For smelling good, for looking good, for touching him and not seeing the result of that touch.

He speared a broccoli stalk and stole a peek at Janice through lowered lashes as she rejoined the group at the table. He’d make her pay! Pay for all the torturous wet dreams he had suffered through as a teen. He tossed the spear into his mouth, and then tasting its blandness, he reached for the saltshaker only to have his fingers collide with Janice’s slender ones.

At the collision, their minds linked to an erotic image of wet-soaked thighs, rounded buttocks, and orgasmic rhythms. Caught off-guard by the unexpected mind meld, Adrian shut off the image, severing the shared link. He felt Janice’s guard go up and knew she had been as disturbed by the vision as he had. Well, he didn’t give a rat’s ass. Let her stew. And as for his thoughts … so what if she had tapped into his mind at the link? He had tapped into hers as well. And he liked what he had discovered. She had come to Carrington House prepared to like him, but after his earlier rudeness, she had changed her mind. Now, she wished they had never met.

Delighted to be the cause of her discomfort, Adrian tossed down a slice of roast beef. If she thought she had seen him at his worst, she was mistaken. He could be much, much worse. And he would be. She didn’t know it yet but her fortune cookie had just come up empty. His ribcage suddenly hitch-kicked and a staggering, sobering thought flashed through his brain. What if his fortune cookie had just come up empty, instead of hers?

Chapter 7

FRIDAY — 7:00 PM

Janice took a last swallow of cheesecake and forced the creamy wedge to slide down her throat. Now, if only she could make it stay there. Sometime during the last ten minutes, her stomach had turned sour and she wished she had remembered to pack a box of Di-Gel tablets in her purse. How quickly things could change, she mused. Only a few hours ago she had been looking forward to this trip. Now, she wished she had never agreed to come. Damn Lloyd for putting her in this uncomfortable situation. And damn Bibi for not putting her foot down more forcefully about coming.

Irritated, she laid her fork down and opted for a sip of ice water. She savored the refreshing wetness as it cooled her parched throat. Along with her churning stomach, she had managed to develop a mouth as dry as dust. Was it her body’s way of defending itself against the ego-bashing it was taking? Nothing had gone right since she entered the dining room. Now here she was, wishing more than anything she could cram a grocery bag over her head. Perhaps then Adrian Magus would leave her alone and find someone else to vent his acerbic wit on.

Janice listened for a moment as Muriel’s melodic voice to her left regaled Lloyd with a new procedure in dream work discovered by a former college mate of theirs.

Listening to the cheerful give and take, Janice decided she was glad she had come to Carrington House after all. If she hadn’t, she’d’ve never met the Grisombs. They were darlings, both of them. All during dinner, they had ordained themselves her guardian angels, one on either side of her. Their cheerful commentary served as a constant buffer to Adrian’s caustic tongue. He insulted; they parried with a droll story or change of subject. Finally, seeing through their subterfuge — or growing tired, Janice couldn’t be sure which — Adrian had given up his insults, leaving her to feel as if she been sucked into the eye of a hurricane and spewed out minus part of her senses.

Stealing a peek at the man across the table from her, Janice felt a pang of regret. Adrian was remarkably handsome, just as Bibi predicted she’d find him. She thought in another space and time, they might’ve been friends, perhaps even dated. But in this time and space, they were enemies. And she didn’t know why. They had never met or corresponded. What had she done to make him hate her so?

“Penny for your thoughts, my dear.”

A warm hand descended upon hers and Janice turned to find herself under Muriel’s interested scrutiny. Smiling, she squeezed Muriel’s fingers and lowered her voice.

“I was thinking how well some people go together. You and Jasper. Ginger and Adrian.”

Muriel glanced down the table for a second and then back to her.

“Fate does indeed pair strange bedfellows. Perhaps we’ve misjudged Adrian, my dear. Cutting his thumb like that must’ve hurt like hell. Such an odd happening. It would make any of us a bear, I dare say.”

“Can’t understand it,” Lloyd stated, joining their conversation. “He wasn’t holding it tight. All of us could see that.”

“Perhaps there’s a mischievous ghost in the chateau you’ve forgotten to tell us about,” Muriel commented cheerfully.

“I was telling Janice only a few hours ago, Carrington House has no ghosts,” Lloyd playfully chided. “And then this damn odd occurrence has to spring up. I don’t suppose she’ll believe anything I say about the house now.”

“Nonsense,” Muriel scoffed. “She’s a perfectly rational young woman. I can’t imagine her being ruffled by a ghost. Besides, if there are ghosts here, you really need to rout them out.”

“Better to leave them unknown,” Janice interjected, remembering her earlier conversation with Captain Bowers. She suppressed a shiver. She wanted to keep the conversation far away from talk of breaking glasses and restless ghosts. When the glass shattered, she had seen a vivid image of legs intertwined and two bodies consumed with naked desire. And when her fingers collided with Adrian’s minutes later, the unexpected happened. She had tapped into his mind, sharing the same, mysterious, disturbing, erotic image with him, only hers seemed to be in more detail. He had shoved her prying mind from his, like a door slammed shut by a howling wind, and her guard went up instantly. Why was he afraid of the image?

Hearing her name spoken, Janice returned her thoughts to the present, realizing Ginger had just asked if she had any children.

“Yes, one. She’s four. Her name’s Sarah Anne.”

“And your husband? Is he psychic, too?”

“No, he wasn’t. We’re divorced now.”

“Does your daughter resemble you, Miss Kelly?” Adrian cut in abruptly, a bemused smile staining his lips.

“My sister says we’re mirror images.”

“Lucky mirrors.”

Janice blushed at the unexpected compliment. Now, why had he said that? She had finally come to terms with his stinging wit and here he was saying something nice to her. She felt tears and turned away. Get a grip, Janice. Next, she’d be thinking his dislike is all an act — a continuation of his show. Ginger’s voice came again, still curious.

“Does your daughter share your gift, Janice?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You’re sure?”

Amused chuckles emanated around the table and Adrian placed his hand on Ginger’s forearm affectionately.

“She’s sure, O’Toole.”

Ginger fiddled with her fork, and sensing her embarrassment, Janice sought to comfort her.

“I’m thrilled Sarah has no psychic abilities. Truly.”

“But why? It must be wonderful to know the future and your place in it.”

Muriel’s hands glided through the air.

“Psychic gifts often ride the rails of opposites, my dear. Extreme pleasure or extreme pain.”

“Pain?”

“Psychic overload,” Jasper clarified. He removed his pipe for a moment. “The mental pain can be extraordinary.”

Lloyd nodded, dipping his head in Adrian’s direction.

“Just ask Adrian there. He’ll tell you about pain.”

All eyes swung to Adrian and Janice saw a tell-tale flush steal across his features. What had caused him to overload? A woman? He swiveled in his chair and Janice knew he wasn’t going to answer. But then, to her amazement, he did.

“Iraq. Early days there.”

Shock flew through Janice. He had joined the service? She had heard of an occasional psychic doing so, but thought them daft to put themselves in such a vulnerable mental and emotional state. Somehow, she hadn’t imagined Adrian would make a mistake as critical as that. She saw Ginger’s fingers wrap around the plaid fabric of Adrian’s sweater.

“That must’ve been hell, Adrian.”

He didn’t answer and Janice was certain this time he wouldn’t. Lloyd took up his tale.

“The best way to describe Adrian’s suffering is to have you imagine a nightmare-filled sleep but you’re awake. By the way, Adrian, did you ever meet that red-headed woman from your dreams?”

Adrian stiffened and his face shut down. Janice wondered why Lloyd’s question should disturb him so. His shoulders lifted in a shrug of mock resignation.

“No, never did.” His voice trailed away and Janice knew he was lying. There was a long, brittle silence and then he sprang to his feet, pulling Ginger up and fastening his arm around her midriff.

“Would you mind, Lloyd, if Ginger and I took a peek at the solarium for a half hour or so?”

“Not at all. I’ll show you.” Lloyd shot to his feet, pushing his chair back. He signaled to Janice and the Grisombs to stay put. “I’ll get Adrian settled, then join you three for coffee.”

Janice nodded her agreement, along with the Grisombs. As the trio exited, she sighed at the sound of footsteps tapping on the wood oak floor, a great weight lifted from her shoulders. Her sigh was followed by a sudden drain of energy and she admitted to herself that the vibrations in the room had been more intense than she realized. Next to her, Muriel poured coffee into her cup from a colorful beaker.

“You’re holding up very well, my dear,” she complimented.

Janice was surprised by her acute insight.

“Am I? I wanted nothing more than to find one of the bed sheets and cover my head. I’ve never been disliked on sight before. It’s an unpleasant feeling. Very ego-deflating.”

Jasper’s chair scraped closer to her and she heard his appreciative chuckle.

“Adrian doesn’t dislike you, my dear. Quite the opposite.”

Janice felt Muriel peer around her shoulders as taken back as she by such a bald statement.

“Have you sensed something, Jasper?”

“Eavesdropping, I’m afraid, Muree. Been reading Adrian’s mind quite clearly for the last ten minutes. He’s confused, doesn’t know what to do about Janice.”

“Do about me? Good Lord, what have I done to him? Have we met before?”

His denial was swift.

“Never. You’ve never met in person but he’s seen you many times in his dreams.” Jasper leaned in closer and Janice found his voice alluring. “My dear, you are the red-headed woman Lloyd mentioned to him a few moments ago.”

“But he said he hadn’t met her. You heard him.”

“Did you expect him to admit it in front of you? He’s got more pride than that.”

Janice cradled her head in her palm for a moment. She let one fingernail draw empty circles on the tablecloth. What a mess! Jasper was actually making her feel sorry for Adrian, and he didn’t deserve it. Not after the tongue-lashing he had bashed her with during dinner. Warm fingers closed over hers and stilled her lazy drawing on the tablecloth.

“I don’t see how you can continue to dislike a man whose only desire at the moment is to make mad, passionate love to you,” Jasper said calmly.

“What!” The squeak was out before she could stop it. In her ears, Janice reheard Bibi’s last whispered words as she boarded the plane: “Live a little, Jan, screw the gorgeous hunk.” She had bashed Bibi’s arm hard then, and now she felt like doing the same to Jasper. Instead, she curled her hands into tight fists in her lap and wondered what excuse she could use to leave the room and seek sanctuary somewhere else in the house. To stay meant hearing more disturbing nonsense. She was hallucinating and the sooner she went to her room and pulled herself together the better. Popping up from her chair, she offered a weak apology.

“I need to find a restroom … ”

Alarmed, Muriel rose from her chair, her hand floating to Janice’s arm.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I should’ve warned you that Jasper’s telepathy is exceptional. Obviously, he has upset you. He’ll stop now.”

Janice’s fingers fluttered to her neck. Why was she being such a killjoy? She knew in her heart Jasper hadn’t meant any harm. He couldn’t help being a telepath any more than she could stop her own visions. Sighing, she sent Jasper an apologetic glance. He rose quickly, offering his own apology.

“My dear, I had no idea I’d upset you. I only thought if you knew that Adrian’s as confused as you about the glass incident, you’d feel better. Like him better.”

“What does the glass shattering have to do with it? It was just an accident, wasn’t it?”

His eyebrows creased to a frown and when he spoke again, his voice was almost a murmur.

“Keep asking myself that very question and can’t get an answer. Keep getting blocked out.” He leaned toward Janice and in a level voice asked politely. “How good of a psychic are you, Janice? Can you mind link with another person easily?”

“I’ve never really tried,” Janice remarked in surprise. “My gift has always revolved around sudden tap-ins instigated by the other side.”

“I wish it was the other way around,” Jasper stated.

“Have you sensed some danger we should know about, Jasper?” Muriel asked anxiously. “You know that ninety-nine times out of a hundred when you sense a thing, it occurs.”

“Not this time, I’m afraid. I’m at a loss. However, I do have some good news for Janice. Her sister, Bibi, is pregnant again.”

“What!” Janice re-sat herself eagerly, her voice flushed with excitement. “Bibi’s pregnant? How did you pick up on that without touching me?”

He gave her a mischievous wink.

“Secrets of the trade, my dear.” He pressed a gentle kiss along Muriel’s rouged cheek. “Another cup of coffee, luv?” he queried.

Muriel nodded and Janice returned her attention to her own cup. Twirling it in circles, her mood suddenly buoyed. So Bibi was pregnant again. Tonight there’d be no shadows across her heart. No way. She had a striking thought and turned to Jasper eagerly.

“Is it a boy or girl?”

Jasper threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“I forgot to check.”

Janice’s laughter bubbled up, joining his. Beside her, Muriel’s sweet laugh chimed in.

“Psychic dolt!”

Laughter pealed again and the trio settled down, rewarming their coffee and waiting for Lloyd’s return. Janice was relieved to find her thoughts were a million miles away from erotic images, shattered crystal, and Adrian Magus.

Chapter 8

FRIDAY — 9:00 PM

Outside the solarium window, lightning specks arced wildly through a scribble of clouds, lighting up the ebony sky. Witnessing the spectacle from the window seat where he lounged, Adrian marveled at such brutal beauty. He had no clear view of the tall cliffs covered in ice and snow, but the snowflakes sticking to the glass pane inches from his face were undeniable clues that the weather outside had not changed since their arrival. It was still January, dreary trench-coat weather, accompanied by a bone-numbing cold. Yet as he watched another pitchfork of light fan and hang to the earth, he felt a familiar fear resurge within him. Which part of his life was reality and which part was the illusion? For so many years, he had been able to tell the difference and keep them separate. Now his life was as strange and mysterious as the lightning storm showering the winter sky.

Why did none of the others suspect the lightning overhead might be linked to their headaches in some way? Adrian put a sudden brake on the thought. Janice suspected. She had hinted as much at the dinner table earlier. To her credit, she had been born with brains as well as beauty. His mind braked down hard on that thought, too. He couldn’t allow himself to think of Janice’s beauty. When their minds had collided earlier, had they simultaneously tapped into some long ago memory, his wishful thinking, or an experience about to occur between them?

Hearing a soft creak, Adrian turned to find Ginger curling onto the window seat inches from his toes. Her eyes scanned the night sky with as much concern as his first had. His mouth curved upward and he reached out and brushed her cheek lightly.

“What’s the matter, O’Toole? Ain’t ya never seen a lightning concert before?”

She turned to him with a worried look and Adrian saw her usual exuberance had fled. It was obvious she was frightened and her stilted words confirmed it.

“I’m scared, Adrian.”

Adrian gave her cheek another light tap and chuckled.

“Scared of what?”

“This place … the glass exploding in your hand … ” She nailed him with a curious stare. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” Her tinge of panic urged Adrian to cover her hands with his.

“I’d be lying if I said I was holding the glass tight. I wasn’t.”

“Did she do it?”

“Who?”

“Miss Kelly. The glass exploded just as she entered the room.”

Adrian countered hastily, squeezing Ginger’s slim fingers.

“No. Miss Kelly didn’t do it.”

“How can you be so sure? What do you really know about these people? You’re strangers meeting for the first time.”

Strangers! Could he explain to Ginger that only two of them were strangers? That he knew one of them intimately, better than she knew herself? Adrian looked away, his gaze resettling on the outside darkness. For the moment, the night sky was quiet, devoid of any telltale patterns of light. Observing the inky blackness, Adrian realized it matched the dark foreboding in his own mind. Could he tell Ginger the unvarnished truth about his recurring boyhood dreams of Janice and expect her to understand? Could he add their recent mind collision to the story and expect her to understand what he himself didn’t yet? No, he couldn’t reveal the truth to anyone. Not while he remained in his present state of confusion. Maybe later — when he was more in control and had deciphered what it all meant.

“Adrian?”

Ginger’s voice pricked his thoughts and he lifted a hand. Slowly, he began to trace a figure eight on the moist windowpane in front of them and drew Ginger’s attention to it.

“Can you imagine your life following the pattern of this figure eight?” He saw her quick nod and continued on. “You flow round and round, ever-circling, never-ending. Behind you, another life traces the pattern, ever-circling, never-ending, different speed. And behind that life, another life doing the same. And another. And when there are hundreds of lives circling the pattern?” Adrian left the question hanging in mid-sentence.

“Eventually some of them will collide … here.” Ginger placed her finger eagerly over the point where the two circles conjoined.

“Exactly. They’ll be strangers meeting for the first time.”

“But they aren’t really strangers, are they?” Ginger piped up, satisfaction showing in her eyes. “They’ve passed each other numerous times before while circling the pattern. They’ve just never collided before.”

Adrian nodded, pleased by her astuteness, and then he saw one of her smiles emerge.

“Why do they collide, Adrian? What is the purpose behind it? I don’t think I’m spiritual enough to grasp it.”

“Of course you are. You sing about it every night in the third act of our show.”

She wrinkled her nose and Adrian soon saw her flash of understanding.

“Kismet, do you mean? Destinies tied to each other?”

Adrian nodded, wiping the figure eight from the glass pane and then drying his fingers along his pants leg. Ginger still wore a troubled frown. Lifting her chin, he mocked her fear with a grin.

“What now, O’Toole? There’s nothing to be scared of. You are perfectly safe. I’m here to chase away any pesky ghosts hiding in your bedroom closet.”

He heard her shaky laugh.

“Who’s gonna chase away the ones hiding in your closet?”

Adrian started to laugh then felt his heartbeat lurch as once again outside the window, lightning ripped across the blackness. Ginger’s fingers sought his for comfort and he clutched them firmly.

At the touch, a brief image of a lace-frosted white silk peignoir, shimmering with tiny pearls, floated across his mind. The image faded quickly, leaving Adrian no time to ponder its meaning. Instead, he attempted to make his body shut down the strange excitement mounting within him by gathering Ginger closer to him, clinging to her familiar curves the way a drowning man clings to a solitary lifeline. Above their heads, the ceiling lights dipped and quickly resurged. Ginger attempted to hide a feeble shiver.

“There’ll be no dress rehearsal if this keeps up,” she remarked.

“Nonsense, O’Toole. Where’s your sense of tradition? Don’t you know the show must go on? We’ll perform by candlelight if we have to.”

“Not me.”

Adrian smiled at the denial, knowing she had no intention of reneging on the performance. She was a trooper, a showbiz junkie. No one had ever been able to keep her from not performing.

Settling her more comfortably in the crook of his arm, they both were content to watch the snow flurries assaulting the windowpane for a few moments. However, Ginger soon began fidgeting.

“Settle down, O’Toole,” he scoffed, “Have I ever locked you in a box and left your there?”

“No, but there’s always a first time. You’re not yourself tonight. You’re distracted.” She lifted his fingers and caressed his injured thumb pad thoughtfully. “Your hands tell all your secrets, Adrian. I bet you didn’t know I knew that. Your face never gives anything away, but your hands? They tell volumes. Tonight, I watched them shake, and I don’t believe it was from the glass embedded in your thumb. You were afraid.” Adrian’s breath caught at her words, though she didn’t seem to notice as she continued stroking his right palm, giving a tiny sigh. When she spoke, Adrian heard the resignation in her voice.

“I always knew this day would come, Adrian.”

Adrian clenched his arms tighter around her waist.

“What? Consorting with psychics? Or having to nursemaid my injured thumb?” She broke his embrace, and Adrian let her go, watching as she tucked herself into the corner of the window seat and stared morosely at the darkness outside the window.

“Be serious, Adrian. I’m talking about us. We’re over.”

“What! Because of a stupid broken glass? I thought you were made of sterner stuff than that, O’Toole.”

“I am. But suddenly, my hair color is all wrong.”

Adrian held his breath for a second. Talk about slicing right to the heart of things. No appetizers here, just right to the main course.

“Get to the point, O’Toole. I gather you’re referring to Miss Kelly’s red hair?” he chided outwardly.

“You were mean and ugly to her on purpose, Adrian.”

Adrian shifted his legs, flexing the kinks out of his knees and pretending as much indifference as he could muster.

“I’m mean and ugly to everyone, you know that.”

“Yes, and you never spare a thought to the havoc you create. You couldn’t care less about anyone’s feelings in the matter. But you did care tonight. You shredded Janice’s self-esteem in front of us all and on purpose. You wanted her to despise you. Why?”

“Surely I wasn’t as bad as all that?” Adrian parried. He knew he had gone out of his way to goad Janice into disliking him. But what else could he do? She had stirred up old longings he had spent more than twenty years burying.

The window seat creaked and Adrian found himself impaled by Ginger’s piercing gaze. For someone not possessed of second sight, her stare was remarkably penetrating.

“You saw something when the glass shattered, Adrian. What was it?”

He hedged with a shrug.

“An image.”

“Of you and Janice?”

“No!” The syllable exploded from Adrian’s lips, startling both of them with its vehemence. He felt himself flush at once and cautioned, “Dammit, Ginger, let it lie! I don’t know what I saw. I had only a grasp of the image for a moment. The woman could have been anyone.”

Ginger’s face split into a wide smile and Adrian growled at his own stupidity. She had tricked him into admitting that to her. Her laugh echoed around the solarium wall and through his head. He studied her grinning features, and gave a second thunderous growl.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’ve never seen you naked before, Adrian. It’s a truly amazing sight.”

She had cleverly manipulated him on all fronts. She had sensed, without being told, that the image he saw was an erotic one. She wanted nothing less than the truth from him and she had gotten it.

Angry with himself for not seeing the guise, Adrian could only stare pointedly out the window. He wished he could see a ripple of lightning crack the night skies apart in the way he had just been cracked apart. He waited but no flash came. Beyond the window, darkness reigned supreme. But for how long?

Outside, a snow-chilled wind had sprung up and was gathering force. Somewhere nearby, he could hear a tree branch slashing against wood. Above them, the ceiling lights continued to flicker and dip and Ginger stirred. When she started to speak, Adrian lifted his hand.

“Shut up, O’Toole. We’re not canceling the dress rehearsal.”

“I know,” she stated, settling back with a sigh. She stroked the back of his right palm affectionately. “I don’t mind if it’s over between us, Adrian, really. I like Janice and you two look good together.”

“Shut up, O’Toole. Curtain in fifteen minutes.”

Chapter 9

FRIDAY — 9:30 PM

Janice uttered a cry of delight as she peered through the solarium doors to find the room totally transformed into a stage setting of a Victorian drawing room. Good Lord, how had Adrian managed to create all this in just an hour? Her glance slid right. She supposed the room wasn’t as real as it looked since magicians used the real as illusionary tools to fool their audience. If that were true, Adrian had certainly outdone himself. The set was impressive and she found the room’s transformation so delightful, she was almost willing to forgive and forget his earlier rudeness. He couldn’t be all bad if he could create such delicate beauty as this.

Hoping she had time to give the stage setting a closer inspection before the others arrived, Janice crossed the room and climbed the proscenium stage ramp. Once on stage, she perched on the arm of the sofa, surveying the rest of the set pieces. For illusionary tools, they were remarkably accurate. There was even a stuffed bird in a golden cage and Janice felt sure Adrian would bring the bird to life sometime during the performance. Her gaze skimmed the decorated boxes on the floor. They stood empty now, but no doubt Ginger would disappear and reappear within them throughout the performance. Janice closed her eyes for a moment. To be whisked away, only to reappear seconds later elsewhere. Mmmmm, she could almost imagine the joy of such a time slip.

With a contented sigh, Janice hiked her knees over the arm of the sofa and dropped her bottom into the belly of the cushions to continue viewing the set. To her left stood a fantasy bedroom, decorated with lace, ribbons, and roses. The main occupant, a four-poster brass bed, was straight out of an erotic novel and Janice’s pulse quickened at the thought of two bodies making heated love beneath the silken sheets. Dispatch that disturbing image to the back of your mind, Janice, and make it stay there.

Obeying the command, her gaze swung to the mini-fireplace and the oil painting housed above it. The vitality of the young woman in the portrait struck her at once. So who was the woman and what did she mean to Adrian? Janice let her imagination run wild. She was a long ago lover. No, that was too simple. She was the woman Adrian wanted but couldn’t have. Yes, she liked that idea. Adrian brought to his knees by a beauty who had twisted him around her little finger and then callously dumped him. No wonder he hated women.

“What a perfectly adorable set.” Janice jumped at the sound of the lilting tones and then hid a smile as Muriel dropped onto the cushions alongside her. “One can well imagine the grandeur of being part of Queen Elizabeth’s royal court,” she stated with a sigh.

“Or a love-sick debutante, courted by impetuous dandies,” Janice added.

“Exactly, my dear. We seem to be on the same wavelength again.” They shared another smile, and then Muriel was studying the room on her own, her eyes, too, finally coming to rest on the oil painting above the fireplace. Janice sensed Muriel was as moved by the portrait as she.

“I would never have suspected that beneath Adrian’s cranky exterior there lurked a sensitive, romantic side,” Muriel commented. “His jaded wit is so overwhelming, it quite takes your breath away. I think I have done him a grave injustice.”

“Do you believe the concept of the set is his?”

“I do. Don’t you?”

Janice gave a quick nod, realizing she did. Furthermore, as much as she hated to admit it, Adrian seemed to be loaded with artistic talent. Blast the rotten swine! Why did he have to have an eye for arranging beautiful things in a most sensual, romantic way?

“Never judge a book by its cover,” she quoted softly. “We all could learn from that lesson, don’t you agree?”

When no response came to her question, Janice swung about, expecting to find Muriel’s attention still riveted on the oil painting. Instead, she found her studying the entranceway, her lips tilted in delight. Janice followed her gaze to the door, and spying the star-spangled figure poised there, murmured a breathless “wow.”

Arms resting on the doorframe, Ginger stood in a dramatic pose, smiling at them provocatively. To say that she looked sensational was an understatement, Janice realized. She was quite literally a page out of a Victorian novel, and her gown, if it could be called a gown, sparkled and shimmered under the tray of overhead lights. As she walked toward them, the dress showcased her tiny waist and ample breasts. With a pang of envy, Janice tugged uncomfortably at her oversized, baggy sweater.

Reaching the sofa, Ginger made a small pirouette before them.

“Is this a sensational costume or what!?”

“You look absolutely ravishing,” Muriel complimented.

Ginger attempted a small curtsey in thanks, but ended the bow with a quick clutch to her bosom. She gave a bright laugh to cover her embarrassment.

“As you can tell, I’m an overendowed substitute for Adrian’s sexy stage sirens. They rarely stay clothed long enough to worry about popping out of their costumes.”

“Can we look forward to some Vegas nudity, Ginger?” Janice teased lightly.

“God, no. This performance is strictly PG-rated.”

“What can we expect?” Muriel asked quickly. “I must confess I’ve never seen a magician at work before.”

“We’ll be doing three of Adrian’s most popular illusions. He thought since Carrington House has such a rich historical background, he’d set the scenes Victorian style.”

“Is it his concept and design?”

“Every bit.”

“It’s magnificent.”

Janice saw Ginger’s lips curve upward.

“Trust me, it’s not nearly as magnificent as Adrian under the spotlight. His first illusion will astound you. It’s called the Vanishing Lady and I do mean vanishing. It segues immediately into the Artist’s Dream, my personal favorite.” She pointed directly at the oil painting nearby. “How Adrian accomplishes the illusion still baffles me every time I perform it with him.”

Janice’s gaze followed her pointing finger.

“Who is the girl in the painting, Ginger?”

Ginger’s look at the painting was brief.

“Sylvia Parker. Adrian’s number one assistant. Beautiful, no?”

“Beautiful, yes,” Janice replied, emphatically.

“Well, I better find Adrian,” Ginger said. “He always has last minute instructions before a performance.”

Muriel’s hand arced through the air.

“No need to go far — there he is now. And he looks as breathtaking as you do.”

Janice’s head whipped around, eager for a glimpse of Adrian in costume.

Muriel was right. He was breathtaking in his frills and satin, and like Ginger, he was a page out of a Victorian novel. Only he resembled no impetuous dandy. In his skintight breeches — and they were skin tight — he was every Victorian mother’s nightmare. A man who radiated a vitality that drew women to him like magnets.

Deep in conversation with Lloyd and Jasper, he didn’t seem to notice the hot looks in his direction. Janice wondered if he knew the effect he created wearing those breeches. Lord, he had to, she decided. There was a maddening air of arrogance that lived about him. Out of nowhere, she sensed he liked turning women on, perhaps even counted on his ability to do it. Disturbed by where her thoughts were heading, Janice realized forming an attraction for Adrian Magus would be fatal for a woman, a complete loss of her peace of mind.

He seemed in no hurry to join them, even seemed to ignore them. And then in the next second, his gaze was riveted on Janice’s face. He gave a slight bow in greeting and Janice wondered why she should feel so strangely flattered by that steady gaze. And then he was all business again, whistling for Ginger who hurried to his side and was catapulted out the door. In seconds, Jasper was jumping the stage ramp and skidding to a halt in front of them.

“We’re minutes away from the start, ladies,” he remarked. “Time to find our front row seats.”

He held out his hand to Muriel, who slid forward and allowed him to pull her up. Janice popped up and swiftly traced her way down the sloped ramp to the back of the solarium where Lloyd was finishing the final chair arrangement. He held a seat out for her, nodding.

“For you, mademoiselle.”

Janice dropped down with a cheeky grin, settling herself in for a comfortable stay. She felt a shadow by her side almost immediately and looked up to find Jasper hovering close. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and she responded by raising her eyebrow. He bent down to her ear level.

“I have been dispatched by Adrian to take your compass, Janice.”

“My compass!” Good Lord, how did Adrian know she carried a compass? She slid her hand into her slacks pocket and withdrew the oblong cylinder. “How did Adrian know?”

“I told him. He needed some personal effects for his illusion. He took my pipe. He wants Muree’s wedding band. And since you brought no purse, he’ll take your compass.”

Janice dropped the compass into the middle of his outstretched palm.

“I’m not sure I like it that you can read minds so effectively, Jasper. It makes it hard to keep a secret from you.”

He grinned affably, wrapping his palm around the compass, and then retrieving the ring Muriel held out to him.

“Harmless hobby, really. I never intrude where I’m not wanted.”

Janice laughed cheerfully, waving him away. Whirling, he sped out the door, but was back in seconds, pausing only long enough to switch the room lights off before slipping into his chair alongside Muriel.

In less than two minutes, music cut through the dark, streaming about their heads and bouncing off the walls. Center stage, a spotlight snapped on and Adrian stepped out of the dark into the light.

“Oh, my.”

The words were out before Janice could stop them. Gorgeous, he really is absolutely gorgeous. His smile broke then, warm and spontaneous, and his gaze penetrated the darkness between them. Janice had the uncanny feeling that he had been able to read her thoughts just then. She stifled a shiver; however, in the next instant, the shiver fled, cut off by Bette Midler’s rich, velvety tones and Ginger’s sudden appearance from between the parted curtains. Adrian held out his arms and she stepped into his embrace, pressed her open lips to his and immediately vanished from his arms and their sight.

In the same instant, Janice felt a sizzle along her temple, her mind suddenly colliding with another’s. In her mind’s eye, a vision erupted, drowning out the room around her and sending a faint buzzing along the rim of her eardrums. Caught off guard, she gripped the chair arms in preparation for the phantom pain she knew would soon begin skittering along her pulse point. She hated unexpected tap-ins. They were painfully unnerving. She tucked her chin into her chest but was a fraction of a second too late. A flood of light came, followed by the sudden clear vision of a frightened young girl cowering in a crawlspace.

The woman’s lips moved, but no sound emerged — at least none Janice could hear through the din clogging her ears — yet she knew the girl was calling for mercy from someone who was stalking her beyond the crawlspace. The vision lasted no more than thirty seconds before it began to fade, yet Janice attempted to hold on to it, hoping for a chance to memorize the young girl’s face. It was a struggle; the more she tried to center her mind’s eye on the girl, the more someone or something pushed the image from her mind.

And then the vision evaporated completely, leaving her dizzy and light-headed. The solarium room walls swam back into view and her gaze latched onto the drawing room set center stage and to reality. The buzzing in her ears ceased, and once again, Bette Midler’s dulcet tones filled her ears. On stage, Ginger rematerialized in Adrian’s arms and he lowered his mouth to hers. As their lips met, waves of nausea rocked Janice’s stomach and it took all of what was left of her flagging energy not to black out under the phantom jolt. And then, like thieves fleeing down a darkened alley, both Adrian and Ginger vanished from sight. Her nausea and pain fled with them, leaving her even more lightheaded. A second later, one perfect red rose appeared on the floor in their place. In her ears, Janice heard a last haunting refrain: “In the spring, becomes the rose.”

Chapter 10

FRIDAY — MINUTES LATER

Janice held her breath, her whole body wedded to the music. As the last tender strains of guitar strings faded away, the spotlight on the rose dimmed and the rose vanished from sight. At first, there was no movement or sound and Janice felt immense relief. It was heaven to have her pulse quieting and returning to normal.

Center stage, the birdcage began to twirl on the tabletop and though the tune was distinctly familiar, for the life of her Janice couldn’t remember its title. No matter, the sweet sound was like the tinkle of crystal bells and acted as a welcome tonic to her frayed nerves. And then the soft, breathless sound of Michael Crawford sprang from the speakers. With seductive entreaty, he identified himself as the Angel of Music and called out to his ladylove, Christine.

In response to the musical plea, the drapes over the window casing began to slide back. The mood music changed from mysterious to romantic. Tremulous organ chords gave way to strings and percussion, and a single spotlight came up on the drapes highlighting the window frame. To Janice’s surprise, the draperies revealed not a window as expected, but a life-size picture frame with blank canvas.

In sweet syncopation to the music, color began to seep through the pores of the canvas material and Janice gasped along with the others. Before their eyes, the blank canvas began to take shape and form, transforming itself into a life-size portrait of Adrian in all his Victorian splendor. And then the portrait came to life and Adrian stepped from it into the den.

Janice caught her lower lip between her teeth in surprise. He was good. Damn good — just as her sister had raved.

Mesmerized by his appearance, her eyes followed the seductive lift of his hands back toward the painting. A warm glow flowed through her as the painting transformed itself once again. Going blank, it rearranged colors, and to Janice’s delight, reformed into a portrait of Ginger seated upon a garden swing. And then the spangles on her spectacular gown took on life, shimmering profusely, and Ginger stepped from the swing into Adrian’s waiting embrace. They shared a brief kiss and the music swelled in perfect harmony.

Janice heard a low, pleasurable sigh emanating deep within her own throat and swallowed hard to keep it from being heard. She kept her gaze glued to the clinging couple, leaning forward in her chair, awed by the fusion of music and movement. Never had she seen it so skillfully blended or so ably executed. That it had been designed to create an emotional impact on the five physical senses was clear, right down to the seductive, soft fragrance of jasmine permeating the air. She realized Adrian had meant to move the viewer with the romantic beauty of the piece, and she knew that no viewer would be immune. She was moved by the illusion, sensed by their reverent silence the others were, too.

On stage, Ginger fled Adrian’s embrace, drew close to the portrait and vanished once more to still life. Adrian reacted instantly, raising his hand to the portrait hanging above the fireplace. With split-second timing, the two portraits traded places. Stunned by the quick change, Janice emitted another sigh of appreciation. She studied Adrian’s profile and saw his concentration was intense as he stared at the portraits. What was the secret? Where was the power? How was he able to maintain such a high level of energy, while being drained so physically and psychically?

The answer suddenly struck her. His hands! The power emanated from his hands. They were beautiful under the lights, expressive, mesmerizing. His entire act and stage presence were built around them. The way he smiled at the audience, flicked his hands. The way he paused for effect, like now, teasing them into catching their breath, making as if he were losing his concentration and the illusion would be lost. It was an incredible stage ploy designed to pull the heart out of an audience and cement them to him. It worked simply because it was the perfect symbiosis of his mind, heart, and soul with theirs.

Hearing the music swell, Janice returned her gaze to the portraits. They were shifting again, but now with an unexpected twist. Ginger’s portrait vanished, replaced by a portrait of a woman with flaming red hair. Janice recognized the painting at once, as did Lloyd beside her. He stirred in his chair with a gargled croak. Turning her head, she found him tossing on his glasses so he could inspect the window frame more closely. By the look on his face, it was clear that he had recognized the painting as an exact duplicate of Princess Lisette in the gallery across the hall. Janice saw his mouth form the word “how?” She didn’t know and the shake of her head told him so. He returned his glasses to his shirt pocket, stuffed them down and refocused his attention on the window frame. She did the same, though in her ear, she heard him mutter beneath his breath.

“He’s too damn good.”

Janice agreed completely, but before she could express the sentiment openly, the music peaked. The finale was in sight and she suspected its ending would be masterful and emotionally draining. She steeled herself for the onslaught and was surprised when a flicker of apprehension coursed through her. A quick, disturbing thought asserted itself like a neon sign in her mind. Danger. Watch out. Where had that thought come from? She must still be on edge from her earlier vision. She brushed at the goose bumps that pricked her skin and searched her mind. Nothing now. The thought had fluttered away as quickly as it had come.

Leaning forward in her chair, eager to be drawn into the last fusion of music and movement, Janice listened carefully as the Phantom’s words beckoned, offered her to share one love, one lifetime. One love, one lifetime. The words began to echo over and over in her head and she couldn’t make them stop. She shook her head for relief and felt an unwelcome sense of inadequacy sweep over her, followed by a light throbbing along her temple. Not again! She willed the pain away with another shake of her head and focused her attention on the continuing illusion. She’d not give into another aggravating vision. One a day was plenty.

The original painting reclaimed its home over the fireplace, Lisette’s portrait vanishing. Janice’s gaze flew to the windowpane, anticipating Ginger’s arrival. The canvas went blank, seeped bright colors but showed no distinct new pattern forming.

Janice stole a peek at Adrian’s face and her heart skipped a beat. He was in trouble, his concentration unraveling. She wasn’t sure how she knew; his expression telegraphed no sign of distress. It was his hands, she realized. They were giving him away. They were struggling for — no against — something.

Suddenly, she saw him break off in mid-concentration, grasp his temple and double over as if in pain. Simultaneously, she felt her own mind plunge into a vortex of white light. Grabbing the arms of her chair, she fought to anchor herself to reality. Heavens, she was slipping again. Only this time she was going to sink deeper than before. Her throbbing temple was visible proof of the danger. She heard muffled groans all around her and knew this time she was not alone. Each of them was sinking like a heavy stone to the bottom of a bright white sea.

In sheer desperation, Janice forced her head to turn, her hand groping for Muriel’s for support. Or was it guidance? Icy fear snaked around her heart when her fingers collided with Muriel’s only to find them pried to the chair arms like steel bands. Janice forced her vision to clear through the misty white. Promptly, she was rewarded with the sight of Jasper, head in hand, fighting off his own set of pain. Muriel sat staring vacantly into space, her face deadly calm. She seemed to be in no pain, but her blank expression scared Janice more than if her body was besieged and wracked by uncontrollable shudders. Someone unknown was controlling her.

Flashing images across the white light cut off Janice’s thoughts and she clutched her head in self-defense. Disjointed, garbled sounds began to assail her ears again and again. First came the knockings, rappings — distorted voices scrambling through her head. They all shouted for her to get out. Then she heard tortured cries, pleadings for mercy. Through the light, she caught sight of her earlier vision. Once again, a young girl in a cramped crawlspace reached out begging for mercy, her hands emphasizing her entreaty. Hands! Clawing hands! Adrian’s hands!

Janice felt a cold touch on her arm and jumped sky-high. Her elbow jammed against cold steel and the pain was so intense it brought her out of her reverie and back into the solarium room. The gut-wrenching image dimmed, leaving Janice immobile, her heart hammering wildly against her ribcage.

“Jan-ice!” Lloyd’s cry was breathless as if spoken through gritted teeth.

Janice turned her head, almost blacking out in the process. She clutched the chair arms again and braced herself. She must get a grip on reality, no matter the pain. Blinking rapidly, she forced her eyes to look at Lloyd, who was clearly struggling to control and center his own thoughts. With sheer force of will, he threw off the pain long enough to lift a finger and point center stage.

Though it was a struggle, Janice swung her head around again and guessed she was searching for Adrian. Her rapid eye movement made her head spin and she willed it to stop. She had to find Adrian. Screams began to sizzle through her ears once more, sending waves of nausea to the pit of her stomach. She willed the screams and nausea to stop. Where was Adrian? She needed Adrian. Why did she need Adrian?

Out of nowhere, the screams and pain died down, allowing her to fight past the blinding light and perceive him. He was struggling to his feet, balancing his head carefully atop his neck. Though he moved like a slug, Janice thought him lucky. He seemed to be the only one of them capable of moving inside the pain with any degree of success. She watched as he struggled to his knees, clutching the sofa for needed support. Semi-upright, he dragged his body sideways, away from the window frame. At the outer edge of the sofa, he went still and Janice wondered if he had blacked out. She couldn’t tell since his prone figure was backlit by the proscenium lights, which were fast becoming cloaked in a transparent blue haze. The jasmine scent was suddenly everywhere, causing Janice to wish she could cover her nose to keep from inhaling the noxious smell. God, would this nightmare never end? Her stomach was heaving enough already without the smell. As if on cue, her mind cleared to see a thin blue mist begin to seep slowly through the pores of the canvas frame.

“Janice!” The groan was anxious and she turned to Adrian, grateful he had moved again, this time able to reach the opposite end of the sofa. “Janice!” The call was more urgent this time. Filled with her own desperation now that the blue mist was rising upward more quickly, she stammered hoarsely.

“Here.”

“Get behind me,” he ordered. When she didn’t move, an emphatic growl followed. “Get behind me!”

Janice’s blood chilled at the command. Get behind him? What for? She tried to connect her mind to his but was thwarted. All she felt was emptiness, but the power of that emptiness propelled her from her seat. Bolting up the ramp, she scurried to the haven of Adrian’s side in less than fifteen seconds.

He was on his feet now, more in control of his body and moving past the pain. He pulled Janice behind his back, sheltering her from the mist that now hung in wide strips in front of the painting. Janice peered over his shoulder at the shimmering shape transforming itself into a distinctly feminine form.

“I don’t sense a threat, do you?” she whispered. Her fingers plucked at his shirt back for reassurance. The feel of his body heat seeping through the material steadied her as she awaited his reply.

“She’s waiting.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” he barked over his shoulder.

“Well, don’t take it out on me!” Janice barked back.

At their heated words, the shape before them surged upward, shimmering from blue to angry red. Janice’s heart dropped to her toes and she took a hasty step back. Adrian had the good sense to do the same. Had the mist sensed their anger? It must have. Why else would it continue to alternate from red to blue repeatedly as if soaking up their emotions?

Eyes glued to the mist, they watched and waited for a sign. When none came, Adrian called out loudly to the others.

“Can you move, Lloyd?”

His reply was swift.

“Think so.”

“Get over here.”

Seconds later, Janice felt her right shoulder shaded by a second barrier.

“Jasper?”

“Blinding headache, I’m afraid. Vision’s gone. No help to you.”

“Muriel,” Janice called out, casting a half-glance his way. “She’s out.”

At her words, he reached out and groped for Muriel’s pulse point. Locating it, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

“Can’t see her face clearly, my vision’s fogged, but her pulse is strong. She’s unhurt.”

“You better move away from her, Jasper,” Adrian cautioned as the mist began to drift down and away from the painting. “Our lady friend is about to make herself known to us, I think.”

Janice heard the scrape of Jasper’s chair and knew he had followed Adrian’s warning. It was a good warning, Janice surmised as she peered between the men’s shoulders and saw the mist had finished its transformation. Before them now floated a curvaceous, womanly shape.

“For three centuries, I have been empty.”

The voice was so startling clear that for a moment Janice thought it had come from the mist itself. But when Adrian and Lloyd swung their heads to the right, Janice realized she had erred. Muriel had spoken, or at least a melodious voice similar to Muriel’s had spoken. It spoke again, repeating itself.

“For three centuries, I have been empty.”

The spirit paused, obviously expecting a return reply. When none came, the spirit tried again.

“I cannot harm you. I am spirit, lost and empty. I seek release, only release, nothing more. I seek to speak to the woman. Will she speak to me?”

Adrian made a protective gesture as if to deny the spirit, but Janice thwarted him by slipping between the men’s shoulders. She felt Adrian’s fingers tug at her sweater back and was cheered by the support.

“I will speak with you. My name is Janice.”

“For three centuries I have been empty, Janice.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand the meaning of your words. Will you tell me what they mean?”

“Across time, I have come to show you their meaning.”

“Show?”

“Through you and the man.”

“Man?”

“The one who stands behind. The one who pretends to dislike you so.”

Adrian’s fingers twitched on her waist and Janice found herself liking the misty cloud. It didn’t beat around the bush. The spirit seemed to sense her acceptance.

“In the spirit world, all has purpose. Believe you this?”

Janice sobered, nodding her head.

“I believe it.”

“Then believe my single words. Another has interfered with my destiny. Altered its purpose. For that, I am imprisoned in emptiness.”

“In a crawlspace?” Janice asked, suddenly understanding her earlier vision.

“You have said it.”

“You seek the crawlspace?”

“Non, I seek not it. It is matter, nothing more. Rien plus.”

“I don’t know what you seek then.”

“Aubert. Until I am one with Aubert, there is only emptiness. That is my destiny. Do you understand this?”

“No, I don’t.”

The spirit drifted closer then, causing Janice to take a hasty step back. Adrian’s hand slipped around her waist to keep her from treading on his toes.

“Does the man who transforms matter understand my words?”

“I’m afraid not,” Adrian replied.

“Then believe you this. Until I am one with Aubert, this house shall serve as prison, as my soul is imprisoned.” The spirit waved her hand, and all around them, Janice heard the sound of sizzling fire. Outside the solarium windows, the night sky exploded with a fiery, red glow.

“What the hell? … ”

Lloyd’s curse was cut off as Adrian slammed his elbow hard against Lloyd’s ribcage. The spirit waivered, and in the distant regions of the house below and above, there was the rending sound of bolts soldered into place.

The spirit moved then, floating upward, startling them all with her agility. Janice took a half-turn back, colliding again with Adrian. She clutched his shirt collar for support, wondering briefly how much more abuse his toes could take. If she got any closer to him, they’d be breathing out of the same pair of lungs. Cautiously, she watched the mist drift its way back to the window frame and begin to dissipate into the canvas pores.

“Lisette?” Janice called out uneasily.

The mist paused in its evaporation. Through Muriel, it spoke again, its tone sad and wistful.

“That which was Lisette is non plus. Her body is lost, now remains only her spirit. Soon, without release, even that will be lost.”

The mist began to dissipate again, seeping through the canvas, leaving a collage of undecipherable patterns staining the canvas in its wake. From her chair, Muriel called out sadly.

“I ache. Je faire.”

As the words faded away, Janice saw Muriel’s head slump to her chest. Immediately, Janice’s mind link with the spirit and the others severed completely. Janice’s knees gave way and she would have collapsed totally if not for Adrian’s tightening embrace. Moving with an agility she didn’t expect, he spun her around and deposited her into the folds of the deep cushions of the sofa. Wearily, he plopped down beside her, brushing at the beads of sweat coating his forehead.

Across the room, Muriel gave a soft groan and her plump body began to slide from the chair. Jasper bolted from his seat, snatching her up as she came awake. It was obvious by her expression she was shocked to find herself being propped stiffly into the chair. Janice saw her inspect Jasper’s face first and then her gaze sought each of them in succession.

“Damn, I’ve missed the best part, haven’t I? A ghost?”

Janice saw her look to Jasper for confirmation. He patted her hand and nodded.

“A rather pretty one, Muree.”

Muriel’s face lit up even though it was clear she was disappointed.

“Was I her voice? I seem to remember a very pretty voice somewhere far off.”

Jasper nodded again.

“My dear, you were wonderful. The star attraction.”

Muriel waved him away and Janice sensed her annoyance.

“Well, I’m mad as hell. I hate missing all the fun. I was so enjoying Adrian’s performance. Wouldn’t you think ghosts could learn better manners?”

“Or better timing,” Adrian muttered wryly.

Muriel was the only one to laugh at his sarcasm.

“Dear me, Adrian, has your ego been inconvenienced?”

Amused by her cheerful barb, Adrian laughed — the first genuine laugh Janice had heard him utter since they had met. It was undiluted, deep, warm and rich. Hearing it, she realized they had all been wrong about him. He was far kinder than he wanted anyone to know. She found the thought disturbing — what had happened to make him jaded and callous enough over the years to hide his kindness?

At the foot of the stage, Muriel pushed herself up from her chair, then gave a start when she caught sight of the red hue blazing outside the window.

“What’s happening outside? Is there a fire?”

All smiles vanished at once, no one eager to be the one to explain things to Muriel just yet. Sensing their reluctance, she re-sat herself murmuring softly.

Jasper patted her hand and an uncomfortable silence descended now that the shared danger was at an end. For a moment, each stared out the window, mesmerized by the fiery red glow. And then a thunderous pounding erupted from the window seat box stage right, startling them all and sending Adrian to his feet with an anxious shout.

“Ginger!”

Lloyd sprang forward with Adrian, Janice following on their heels. Ginger’s cries were muted from the box at first, unintelligible, but as Adrian flung back the seat cover, she exploded in venomous rage.

“Damn you to hell, Adrian! How dare you lock me inside this box! You made me pass out! I near suffocated.” She hauled up her crinolines and climbed over the edge of the box. Tripping slightly, she knocked Adrian’s hand away as he offered help. “I suppose you think that was damn funny.”

“Ginger, I can explain.”

“It had better be good.”

She took a stance so intimidating Janice thought even the bravest of heroes would wither under the scrutiny. That Adrian was rattled by it was clear; he struggled to find adequate words to describe the last few minutes. Janice didn’t envy him. Nor could she help him. She hadn’t the foggiest notion of how to tell a rational, sensible woman that she had just missed conversing with a ghostly apparition. Finally, out of sheer desperation Janice supposed, Adrian settled for the truth.

“Oh, hell, Ginger. The illusion was stopped by a ghost. She broke my concentration.”

The slap was so unexpected and thrown with such incredible force that Janice almost felt its impact from where she stood. Though Adrian had been struck, it was she who took a step back, while the others remained frozen in place at the bottom of the stage ramp. The silence in the room became as chilled as a sheet of glazed ice. Ginger’s eyes never left Adrian’s face as she railed.

“I’m not some dumb bimbo you picked up outside your stage door, Adrian. Don’t you ever treat me again as if I were.”

She moved then, storming past the trio, down the ramp and toward the exit door. Halfway down the solarium, she spotted the red glow outside the window and veered sharply toward it. The group dashed after her, calling a simultaneous warning. Lloyd was the first to reach her; however, he was a fraction of a second too late as he made a grab for her hand to prevent it colliding with the glass pane. A red electrical charge snaked out and swiped at her fingertips. Ginger jumped back, too stunned to cry out. Eyes wide as saucers, she inched her way backward, slamming into Janice who steadied her. From the look on her face, Janice knew she needed rational confirmation that she wasn’t hallucinating. Her gaze finally swung from the window to Janice.

“We’re trapped?”

“Yes.”

“By a ghost?”

“Yes.”

Her gaze flew to Adrian for comfort but Janice saw his stare was centered on the red glow outside. By the stoic set of his shoulders, it was clear he wasn’t going to forgive Ginger for the slap. Ginger’s face fell and Janice’s maternal instincts kicked in. She stifled an urge to kick Adrian in the shins for his brutal hostility. He had no right to be so ugly to Ginger, or blame her for what had transpired. It wasn’t her fault. It was none of their faults.

Draping an arm around Ginger, Janice squeezed her shoulders in sympathy.

“We were all powerless to stop what occurred. Even Adrian, as brilliant a psychic as he is.”

Muriel shadowed her other side, slipping an arm around Ginger’s waist.

“Janice is right. It was out of our hands. Even if you had been awake, it wouldn’t have done any good.”

A tearful sob escaped Ginger’s lips as she embraced their waists in gratitude. Together, the trio turned and faced the window. Beyond the pane, the night sky fired up, turning an even brighter, angrier shade of red.

Chapter 11

FRIDAY — 10:30 PM

Wake up! The stark command sizzled through Janice’s brain and she came full awake, almost tumbling off the window seat she was perched on. Heart racing, she righted herself and swung her gaze to the dimly lit room behind her. Had she heard Lloyd’s voice? Squinting, she surveyed the shadows. Nothing. There had been no human voice calling, she realized, only her own inner voice chiding her to stay awake until the men came back from their foraging. She nibbled at her lower lip, wondering how long before the men would return. It had been an hour since they had disappeared into the main part of the chateau on a scouting expedition. What had they found? She shook her head, not at all sure she really wanted to know.

Nothing had changed outside the window in the last hour either. The fiery red glow stood vigil outside the solarium window, guarding them and the house. Prisoners! The word chilled her and Janice bit her lip again, this time tasting blood. Uncurling her feet from beneath her, she let them slide to full length along the window seat ledge. She felt the heated vibration on her pant leg and shifted her legs away. Oh no, you don’t, she admonished the glow silently. Once was enough.

Leaning her head back against the window frame, she sighed deeply. She knew in times of crises someone always seemed to remain calm and rational while everyone else involved fell to pieces. But why did it have to be her? She let her gaze travel to the reclining figures stretched out on the sofas pulled a few yards from where she sat and knew why. She was holding herself together for Muriel and Ginger’s benefit. For some inexplicable reason, she felt compelled to mask her growing anxieties from the women and project a confidence they could rely on. The question now was could she maintain the mask indefinitely?

She gave a sudden shiver, wondering if the purpose of this crazy situation was to sacrifice a human life for … what had Lisette’s spirit said? The release of her soul? Janice pushed the terrifying thought away. No, the spirit hadn’t seemed revengeful or heartless, only in great pain.

Turning her head, Janice rested her other cheek on her knees. She stared into the dark shadows of the room and felt her eyelids flutter wearily. Sleep, blessed sleep. If only she could succumb to its entreaty. Her eyelids flickered open immediately. She mustn’t sleep. Not until the men came back and she knew for sure how hopelessly stuck they were.

The human shadow came so quietly across the space that at first Janice thought she had imagined it. But as it neared and took form, she reared her head up quickly. Lloyd! In a flash, she was off the window seat and by his side. Her rapid movement alerted the two women on the sofas, who also sprang up.

“Anything?” Janice asked as the trio circled his form.

His expression was one of defeat.

“Nothing. It’s the same all over. The energy field is everywhere, blocking every window and exit.” His defeat changed to distress and Janice touched his arm.

“What is it, Lloyd? Are you ill?”

His expression grew more distressed and Janice sensed an inner panic within him.

“I can’t find Suzie, the serving girl who set the buffet. I’ve searched thoroughly. Nothing.”

“The glow outside has probably frightened her into hiding,” Muriel suggested. “She looked awfully young.”

“Barely out of her teens.” His scowl deepened. “What if she takes refuge in a hiding place?”

His meaning was clear and Janice found herself fumbling blindly for a chair to drop into.

“You do know where all the crawlspaces are, don’t you, Lloyd?”

He didn’t answer but stiffened at the question. Janice licked her lips nervously again. God, sometimes history repeated itself. Sometimes a spirit took a fiendish delight in creating déjà vu. She pushed the thought away as Ginger sank into a chair alongside her, dusting her hands nervously.

“Where are the others?” she asked.

“Still searching. They’ve gone to investigate the chapel on the top floor.” Lloyd fell silent and Janice saw his brooding scowl. She reached out and squeezed his hand.

“You mustn’t blame yourself for what’s occurred, Lloyd.”

“Of course I’m to blame,” he barked. “There were warning signs I simply ignored. I’m gifted. I can read people as easily as they read their watches. Why didn’t I see this coming?” He pounded his leg in emphasis. “I should’ve seen this coming.”

The self-censure in his voice touched Janice and she wished she had answers to give him. Since she didn’t, she felt it best to turn all their minds to something more constructive.

“What do you suppose is on the other side of that red field?” she asked. “I mean, what are the people across the water seeing when they look this way?”

“That’s an odd tack on things,” Lloyd declared. Janice knew her diversion had worked.

“But important.”

“How so, my dear?” Muriel asked.

“Is the glow we see real?” Janice responded. “Or are our minds being cleverly manipulated to make it seem so?”

She heard Lloyd’s snort as he tossed his head.

“The force field is real. Just ask Ginger there. When she made to touch it, it leapt out and sniped at her. You saw it. She felt the charge.”

Ginger shivered beside her and Janice knew Adrian’s assistant would rather not remember that moment.

“You think we’re imagining all this?” Muriel asked. “All of us linked somehow to experience the same vision as reality, like the headaches?”

“Part of me suspects that. But the energy that it would take to sustain the vision for seconds at a time, not to mention a full hour … no, I don’t think we could do it. One of us would give way. Crack under the mental strain.”

“We’re exceptional psychics, Jan,” Lloyd reminded her bitterly.

Janice shook her head.

“No, there’s only one exceptional psychic here, Lloyd, and that’s Adrian Magus. The rest of us have only one specific talent. He has myriad skills.”

Lloyd finally took a seat and hunched over, interrupting Janice.

“Adrian is a clever illusionist, nothing more.”

Janice gave him a black-layered look.

“How can you be so obtuse after sitting through his performance? The man transforms matter, Lloyd. He is a telepath, has precognition … he knew what was coming. I swear it. I saw it. It was in his hands.”

Lloyd scoffed with a wave.

“He was paralyzed by the pain like the rest of us. He succumbed to it.”

“But he moved through it all. While we were rooted to our chairs and to the pain, he moved through it. He knew before any of us that Lisette was coming across and he sensed at once she was looking for me. He sensed danger long before we did. Only an exceptional psychic could do that.”

“So, what’s your point?”

“Lisette asked Adrian if he understood her words to me.”

“And he denied knowing their meaning. I believe him, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.” Janice shrugged. “Jasper says throughout his life, Adrian has had a recurring vision of a red-headed woman. He says it’s me, but in the portrait gallery earlier, you mentioned how much I reminded you of Lisette. Suppose Adrian’s image in reality is Lisette? Suppose she planted it there?” She broke off, seeing the determined shake of Lloyd’s head. “Well, why not?”

“Because the image was you, Janice. I’ve seen it.”

“You’ve seen it? Where? When?”

He didn’t answer right away and Janice knew the question made him uncomfortable. She watched a range of emotions ebb and flow across his face before he finally gave a shrug and answered.

“Interrogating Adrian in Iraq was hell. He was on overload, absorbing the volatile emotions of the soldiers dying around him. As a parapsychologist, I did what I could to help under the circumstances, saw to it he was shipped home, but not before I garnered a brief glance of the image. It was you, but I never put two and two together. Not even after you and I met at the university. In fact, I never realized you were that woman until tonight when I saw the look on Adrian’s face as you walked in to dinner. Everything clicked in place, like the glass shattering.”

Janice’s heart skipped a beat.

“It was a forewarning none of us picked up on,” Lloyd continued. “Adrian wasn’t holding that glass tight. We all saw that. Still it shattered. Why?” He leaned in closer, his gaze steady. “Do you remember feeling anything unusual at the time, Janice?”

“Unusual?” Janice hoped the question sounded thoughtful, because inside her chest, her heart was beginning a strange tattoo along her ribcage and her lungs were beginning to constrict rapidly, like they always did when she prepared to tell a lie. Should she tell Lloyd about her mind link with Adrian? And the brief image of limbs entwined in sexual combat? She studied the inquisitive face leaning into her, waiting patiently for her answer. No, she couldn’t tell Lloyd. The image was too disturbing. At first, she had surmised the entwined limbs were hers and Adrian’s. But, now that Lisette had revealed her need to be reunited with Aubert, it was possible she and Adrian had tapped into Lisette and Aubert sharing an extremely pleasurable interlude. But she had to be sure before confiding.

“Janice?”

“Sorry. I was trying to relive the incident to see if there was anything useful for us to know about it. I can’t think of a thing. It happened so rapidly. Perhaps, Adrian could offer more. You might ask him.”

“That question will have to wait.” Muriel stated. “Our first priority has to be figuring out Lisette’s time line before she died. Tell us about her, Lloyd. How did she die?”

“Most people would want to know how she lived,” Lloyd countered.

“Well, then, how did she live? Who was she?”

“She was the Earl of Montagne’s first cousin. Spent her early life tucked away in a cold-as-ice convent. Her parents betrothed her to Baron Dumas when she was nine, he twenty. He owned a fleet of cargo ships. Sailed the waters to and from America for years and came to love the savagery of the new land. He decided to make his fortune and future here so he bought land and built Witchwood. When Lisette was eighteen, he sent for her, arranged a mammoth wedding.”

“Sounds like an idyllic love story,” Ginger interjected. “Boy meets girl, boy gets girl. What went wrong?”

“The records are sketchy but I’ve managed to piece together some of what must have occurred. They were to be married in the chapel upstairs. The day of the wedding, the staff rose early, eager to get a head start on the wedding preparations. You can imagine the scullery maid’s terror when she found the baron’s severed head sitting atop the banister stairwell. Her blood-curdling screams echoed up three levels of stairs. They found the baron’s upper torso in the West wing’s library. His lower torso rested in the East wing master bedroom.”

Janice gave an uncontrollable shiver.

“Mutilation?”

“Hmm. Gruesome, isn’t it?”

“Too much so. And Lisette?”

He gave an impatient shrug.

“Disappeared without a trace.”

“Locked in a crawlspace, you mean,” Janice replied. “Terrified and hiding. But from whom, do you think?”

Lloyd shook his head and Janice knew he had no answer. Leaning back, she realized their survival depended on learning the answer to who had killed the baron. It was somewhere through a heavy mist. Could they break through it?

An unexpected touch on her shoulder startled her to the present. Clutching her chest, she looked up to find Adrian staring down at her. He patted her shoulder lightly.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare the hell out of you.” He drew up a chair to hers and straddled it. “I assume you’re trying to piece together Lisette’s life?”

Before she could nod her assent, Jasper pulled a chair alongside Muriel and straddled it. His expression was grim as he cautioned.

“We better come up with something soon. Our investigation of the chateau has been fruitless.” His gaze found Janice’s. “We are truly trapped. Our only option is to reason this whole nightmare out amongst ourselves.”

Janice couldn’t agree more. The sooner they discovered Lisette’s murderer — and Janice was sure that being sealed in a tiny crawlspace whatever the reason did constitute murder — the better off they’d be. She leaned in, studying the men’s faces.

“Do either of you feel we are living in an illusion created by our own minds?”

“Impossible,” Jasper stated immediately. “We couldn’t maintain that type of illusion for any length of time.”

“Maybe one of us could,” Lloyd interjected and Janice knew he was recalling their earlier discussion. Beside her, she felt Adrian stiffen. She turned to find his gaze boring into her own.

“I assume Janice has been trying to convince you I’ve created this illusion somehow? A continuation of my Vegas performance, perhaps?”

Janice didn’t miss the smoldering anger beneath his sarcasm. Lloyd came to her defense without hesitation.

“She thinks nothing of the kind. If truth be told, Adrian, she finds you exceptionally gifted. Admires you tremendously for how you held us all together during the mind link.”

Janice felt her cheeks flame under Adrian’s sudden scrutiny of her face. He was speechless in his surprise and so was she. Damn Lloyd’s runaway tongue! She had voiced no such opinion of Adrian. Out loud, that is. Damn and double damn! She hoped the semi-darkness of the room hid the flush in her cheeks adequately or there would be hell to pay. Obviously sensing her discomfort, Adrian turned his gaze from her and then studied each face in turn.

“I’m going to say this once, and only once. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m as much in the dark as any of you.”

“I believe you, Adrian.” Muriel’s voice was filled with a defiance that dared anyone to say differently, and Janice found her protective instincts endearing. “We all have to work through this together,” Muriel continued, “if we want to get out of here alive, that is.”

“We’re all getting out of here alive,” Adrian countered. “Nothing else is acceptable. So, what’s our first move? Besides admitting the obvious bullshit that we’re trapped by a ghost who wants her soul freed.”

“No.” Janice corrected. “She wants to be reunited with Aubert. To be one with Aubert, that’s what she said.”

“Do we know anything about this Aubert?” Adrian asked Lloyd.

“Death by mutilation.”

“Horrible death,” Jasper muttered. “Is it possible his soul is trapped and needs release?”

Janice’s eyes lit up at his words.

“That makes sense. Lisette implied her destiny had been interfered with. Altered in some way. Is it possible that her soul is tied to Aubert’s and if we release his soul, we also release hers?”

“How do normal people release a dead spirit’s soul?” Ginger asked with a shiver.

“Good question, Ginger,” Adrian complimented. “Only one way I can think of is to backtrack and find Aubert’s murderer.”

Lloyd gave a busted laugh.

“Are you crazy? Do you know how long that would take? He died centuries ago. We don’t know a damn thing about his life or his enemies. There’s no way to backtrack, not fully enough.”

“Oh yes, there is,” Janice piped up. “The old wing, Lloyd. You said it’s still intact. Rooms, treasures, everything intact.”

She saw his thoughtful frown.

“Yes, but … ”

Muriel leaned forward, catching Janice’s excitement.

“Is there a library in the old wing, Lloyd?” At his nod, Muriel clapped her hands once. “There’ll be records, hordes of them. They wrote everything down back in those days. Diaries … ”

Adrian slapped his thigh, smiling with satisfaction.

“We start there. We go through every book and if that doesn’t work, we split up in teams and search the chateau thoroughly, every room! Agreed?”

Every head nodded in assent and Muriel added as a last thought.

“With our second sight, we should be able to time slip, tap in and put ourselves back there. Experience the moment. Alone, we’d never do it, but together, we might get away with it.”

“Can you really do that tap in thing?” Ginger asked with another nervous half-giggle. Lloyd reached over and patted her hand affectionately.

“Only in mind, not in body.”

Ginger’s face relaxed and Janice saw her give her first genuine smile since the dinner table.

“Thank God. I suddenly had visions of you all exploding into fragments like the glass did. Or worse, beaming up like they do in a Star Trek transporter.”

“Speaking of that glass, Adrian,” Lloyd said, turning back to the group. “I was telling Janice earlier that the shattering was a warning we failed to pick up on. Do you remember anything unusual at the time it happened? Janice says she recalls nothing.”

Janice could hear her teeth grinding into her jawbone at the pronouncement. Damn Lloyd’s free-spirited tongue. Why was he revealing their conversation to Adrian? Didn’t they have enough trouble without adding more fuel to an already out-of-control fire? She stole a peek at Adrian’s countenance. Would he reveal their mind link to the group? He disliked her enough to. His gaze locked with hers and Janice felt the air in her lungs suddenly drain. To her surprise, a silent message passed between them. Adrian was the first to pull his gaze away.

“I only know one thing,” he replied, flashing a grin at the group. “Things would be so much easier if ghosts came with a set of instructions.”

The group laughed at his remark and Janice felt her muscles relax. It was a good ploy on Adrian’s part to make them laugh. After all, if they were busy laughing, there would be no time for screaming. She glanced at Lloyd, who gave her the “thumbs up” sign and then stood. He signaled for them all to follow. Uncurling her legs, Janice rose, only to find Adrian blocking her way.

“Did you really say you admired me tremendously, Janice?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “If I focused everyone’s attention on your tremendous talent and skills, I’d no longer be the center of attention, and God knows, it’s all about me and the limelight.”

He had the sense to look embarrassed at her obvious reference to his earlier shredding of her character and for a moment, Janice almost felt sorry for him. Then she shook herself mentally. No, it was his fault they were enemies, not hers. She held his gaze, not about to be the first to look away this time. A niggling question surfaced as their glances remained locked in a silent battle of wills. Was Jasper right? Was he pretending to dislike her to cover up some irrational fear he had of her? No, that was ludicrous. She couldn’t see him wasting time with pretenses. Especially when he could use barbed insults so effectively.

Seeing his glance falter, Janice steeled herself for the upcoming insult and dropped her gaze. When it didn’t come, her glance shot up to find him grinning at her.

“Go ahead and say it, Miss Kelly.”

“Say what?” she hedged.

“That you find my humor provocative and extremely sexy.”

Janice’s eyes widened at his audacious wit. He was teasing her again, damn him. Well, she was through battling with his jaded wit. Squaring her shoulders, she met his gaze.

“Do something for me, Adrian?”

“What?”

“Go to hell!”

He bowed immediately.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way.”

With a springy bounce, he was gone, striding across the room to join the others. Once there, he took hold of Ginger’s shoulders and pushed her out into the corridor ahead of him. Laughter spilled back through the door and as it faded away, Janice knew she’d wasted her insult.

With a reluctant sigh, she took the same path to the door. Must Adrian’s every movement remind her of his sexual attractiveness? She rounded the doorframe and caught sight of Lloyd waving from the hallway landing. Behind him, the others were already disappearing up the staircase. As she reached the stairwell, she offered her hand to Lloyd, who squeezed it affectionately. Hand in hand, they ascended the staircase and soon caught up with the waiting group. Two flights later, the group had worked their way into the unused section of the manor. By the time they reached the mammoth library and spotted the massive bookshelves surrounding them, their expressions clouded over with worry. Ginger was the first to speak.

“How will we ever wade through all these books in such a short time?”

Seeing the same perplexed expressions all around, Janice took up the reins of command and stepped forward.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she quoted brightly.

Crossing to a bookshelf, she took down two large volumes from the top shelf and placed them on the floor, then repeated the pattern. Beside her, Adrian did the same, starting his own stack alongside hers.

“Spread out. Take a wall,” he urged.

Out of the corner of her eye, Janice saw the others split in three directions. Soon, the floor was carpeted with stacks of books. Janice tried not to let the enormity of their task daunt her. Somewhere in these stacks was a bridge back through the strings of time. They’d find it and cross it. They’d relive that last horrendous day and somehow make sense of it.

Pulling a gray wingback directly beneath the overhead chandelier, Janice dropped onto its plush cushions. Around her, the others did the same. Grabbing the top book of her stack, she ran her fingertips efficiently across the ragged book edge. Concentrating, she tried to tap in to its pages. Nothing. She closed the book, took another. Again, she ran her fingers across and along the bindings. Nothing. She took another, then a fourth. Soon, her first stack began to dwindle and soon, the only audible sound in the room was the careful, slow turning of book pages.

Chapter 12

FRIDAY — MIDNIGHT

For the fifth time in as many minutes, Adrian found his gaze straying from the printed text to the white brocade sofa where the women sat. His gaze centered on brilliant colored hair then dropped to view high cheekbones tinged with a musk-rose flush. If only he could explain this tendency he had to stare at Janice. Even now, he couldn’t stop thinking how arresting her face was in the glow of the off-white lighting. How the blue of her angora sweater heightened the translucence of her neck and face. It was insane to go on this way, a slave to an unknown prickling along his scalp.

Still, he couldn’t seem to budge his mind from thoughts of Janice. His gaze raked her face again, tracing the ridge of her Grecian nose, to the full lips rounded over even white teeth. Her eyes were hidden from him at the moment as she sat poring over the stack of books in her lap. Still, it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to see to recall their color. He had memorized those eyes the moment their glance had locked across the rim of the shattered glass in his hand. He would always remember their color, even when this hell they were currently experiencing was over. He would always remember her eyes, not because of her per se, but because they brought back the same stirring he felt as a child when he gazed at the sea-green water of Rocky Reef Cove.

Adrian let his gaze drop to her fingers as they skimmed each book edge with the expertise of a Braille reader. She was scanning three books to his one and it was apparent by the growing stack at her feet that she possessed an extraordinary talent in her hands. With just the delicate touch of flesh to paper, she was tuning into some long ago memory of the book owner. He wondered if she knew how transparent her face was in relaying the emotions she sensed beneath her fingers.

Adrian drew his gaze back to the book clasped in his own grip. Inwardly, he gave a sigh and willed his mind back to its task. His mind obeyed for a few moments, then it wandered off, choosing instead to drift into a vague, shadowy fugue of its own.

In his mind’s eye, a picture formed. He stood on one side of a large chasm, Janice on the other. The chasm was steadily breaking apart, taking her from his sight and from his life. The vision made his stomach curl as if an army of snakes were slithering in its pit. He scowled, wondering how he came to be acting like a love-struck fool. He — a man recently crowned the darling of Las Vegas — brought so low as to moon over the beauty of a woman. He clenched his jaw tighter. Next, he’d be down on all fours, baying like a lonely hound dog.

Taking himself to task again, more harshly this time, Adrian forced his mind into accepting reality. He had no woman to complicate his life. That was that. So what if for a few moments he had fantasized that Janice was his? A good fantasy never hurt a male ego. And what did it matter if he had allowed himself to hope that Janice’s abrupt arrival into his life meant an end to his empty, meaningless existence wowing crowds and indulging in wild parties? That didn’t mean a thing either. Hadn’t his life been empty and meaningless twice before? And hadn’t he come through both holocausts with the minutest of scars?

Pensively, he looked out across the room. Was his life empty? Yes, at the moment it appeared to be. Was it meaningless? No. Somewhere there was a woman for him, and she would be his life preserver on his stormy sea. With a will of its own, his glance again found Janice’s shapely form. Was Janice that woman? He didn’t know and not knowing rattled him. His gut instinct told him she mustn’t be and that worried him. Why, he wasn’t sure. He only sensed that when she returned to her life in Colorado, he would feel an extraordinary void worse than his present one.

Out of nowhere, Adrian felt a muscle spasm in the small of his back and grimaced. Damn the useless, wooded chair! He shifted on the padded cushion to release the kink. If only he could drown his aches and doubts in a good, stiff drink.

Snapping the book in his hand closed, he slid it along the tabletop and reached for another from the stack to his right. Flipping it open, he wondered if the others were experiencing small fugues of their own. Did they feel as drained as he did? He gave a cursory glance at each of their faces. Yes, they appeared tired, and worse, on edge. Who would be the first to crack under the strain of their captivity?

He slid his gaze right and studied the woman seated cross-legged on the floor, rubbing her back against the edge of the sofa. She was flipping through a stack of pages, and as she did so, her face collapsed into a complex set of wrinkles, her mouth puckered into a tiny rosette. Instantly, he realized Ginger was the one who would crack under the pressure. And soon. As he watched her begin to nibble at her lower lip, he once again felt that reptilian army marching in the pit of his stomach. Damn Lloyd for inviting him here and damn his own arrogant cowardice for coming. He hadn’t wanted to face the weekend reunion alone and in his self-absorption he hadn’t even given the briefest thought to what Ginger wanted.

Adrian shifted in his seat again, trying to stem the shooting pain that had now traveled to the middle of his back. How many more hours could he endure reading these damnable pages? He’d like nothing better than to hurl the stack of books to the floor and indulge in a drink, a smoke, and a woman.

As if conjured from his thoughts, a book sailed through his line of vision, hit the floor, skidded a few yards and then rammed the leg of the table where he sat. Adrian blinked in surprise, sure he was crossing over into some mind dementia where inanimate objects came mysteriously to life.

“I can’t do this anymore!” The whine was brimming with distaste. Around him, heads shot up, as startled as he by Ginger’s emotional outburst. She scrambled to her feet and stared at each one of them in turn, seeming to dare them to object to her words. “I want out!”

Her words were said in a rush and Adrian realized she meant to storm from the room in a huff. Knowing it wasn’t safe for any of them to travel alone at the moment, he bolted from his chair, intercepting her as she came round his table.

“You’re tired, Ginger. We all are. Use the couch over there. Get some rest.”

Her eyes iced over immediately.

“I want out of this house now, Adrian,” she declared, pursing her lips.

“It’s not possible at the moment,” Adrian reminded. “You know that.” She made a move to shove past him but he threw out his arm. Her face paled in anger.

“Let me by, Adrian.”

Adrian stood his ground, not about to let her pass. The snakes in his stomach inched up and around his ribcage.

“It’s not wise for any of us to split up, Ginger. Now, stay put.”

Her eyes took on an even more ferocious glitter.

“Get out of my way, Adrian, or I’ll hit you again, I swear it!”

A chill, black silence descended as her words sank in. Rapidly, the group came out of their seats, intent on warding off another ugly confrontation. Adrian should’ve been pleased by their concern but felt angered instead. Their hovering made him lash out at Ginger, the last thing he intended to do.

“Dammit, Ginger, you are not going out that door. I’ll tie you down if I have to!”

The threat pushed her over the edge and she flew at him like a shrew. Using both hands, she shoved him hard. Adrian stumbled back, knocking his hip against the table edge and emitting a muffled “oof.” It was all the time Ginger needed. Rocket-like, she was past him and dashing out of the library.

Stumbling up, Adrian swung about, ready to charge after her. Something snatched his elbow back roughly, halting his flight. Sharp fingernails dug into his sweater sleeve as Janice called sharply to Lloyd.

“Go after her, Lloyd. She’ll never find her way back to the main chateau alone.”

Adrian felt rather than saw Lloyd’s nod as he bolted past the table. He disappeared through the doorframe, calling sharply for Ginger to hold up. The rich timbre of his voice faded away along with receding footsteps and Adrian felt his stomach heave. Those snakes were having a picnic in his stomach now, hissing and coiling, preparing to strike. Janice’s voice cut through their din.

“Calm down, Adrian. Lloyd will see to Ginger. Her outburst is understandable. She’s scared.”

“Well, who the hell in the room isn’t!” he snapped.

“It’s different for her and you know it. She didn’t grow up in our kind of world.”

“Babying her won’t help the situation!” Adrian countered.

Janice’s accusing retort stabbed the air.

“A little understanding from your heart instead of your mouth would be a welcome relief to us all, Adrian. My God, why can’t you have some compassion for Ginger and look at this nightmare from her side? She must feel like an animal in a cage, who, even if the door was open, wouldn’t dare come out. We talk of ghosts and spirits the way she talks of music and composers. To her, we must resemble creatures from another world.”

“Or hell,” Adrian commented wryly.

Janice shot him a cold look, rancor sharpening her tone.

“Give your mouth a rest, Adrian. It’ll thank you for it.”

With a sweep of his hands, Adrian returned her sarcasm.

“Ginger’s got to stay tough and brazen her fears out with the rest of us. I don’t know what Lisette has in mind next for us, do you?”

“Of course not!”

“Well, my gut instinct tells me things are going to get tougher, not easier. If you weren’t so busy coddling Ginger just to spite me, you’d sense that!”

“Spite you!” Janice’s eyes flashed green ice. “I resent that remark from you, Adrian, I really do. I genuinely like Ginger. And if I’m coddling her as you say, it’s because I do feel sorry for her. Not because we’re trapped here like mice in a maze, but because I remember what it’s like to hang around an insensitive bastard twenty-four hours a day!”

Her words were meant to sting him to the core, Adrian realized, but it had the opposite effect. She was obviously comparing him to her ex-husband. The snakes in his stomach quieted, infusing him with an unexpected streak of honesty.

“I’ve been ugly to you, Janice. I don’t deny it. If I had a heart of stone, it wouldn’t be so bad being here with you, looking at you, wanting to make love to you … ”

He cut off his sentence in mid-stream as startled as she by the confession. Her confusion quickly turned to subdued anger. One look at the fiery glint in her eyes and Adrian knew she had misinterpreted his words. She thought them another of his ploys to be especially nasty to her. She stepped back and he guessed she was about to deliver the second stinging slap to his cheek in one night.

Inwardly, Adrian groaned, a part of him hoping she would hit him. If she struck him, there would be an end to the mounting dislike between them. If she hit him, both of them would be released — free to concentrate on getting rid of Lisette’s hold over them.

Adrian waited for the blow, his eyes locked in a silent battle of wills with Janice. Like cunning dogs defending their turf, they both assessed the other’s anger, neither giving way. When the silence between them deepened, Janice put out her hand, palm up to him. Adrian glanced at it, confused.

“My compass,” she said quietly.

Adrian nodded. She was leaving the room like Ginger before her. But she was going away in quiet dignity. Knowing he couldn’t allow her to go off on her own either, Adrian dipped his fingers into his shirt lining pretending to search for her compass. He came up empty and shrugged in dismay at her.

“Sorry. Must’ve dropped it in the solarium in all the excitement.”

Her face fell in disappointment and she withdrew her hand. Adrian heard a small sigh escape her lips as she took a step around him and headed for the doorway. Lightning-quick, he grabbed her elbow and spun her back around.

“We’ve got to stay together. You know that.” Her withering glare set the snakes in his stomach hissing again and he let loose her arm. Clenching his teeth, he swatted the air impatiently. “All right, go ahead. Get lost out there.” She remained motionless and he repeated his gesture. “Go on. Take your tight little ass out of my sight!”

She was gone with a graceful spin before he even finished the sentence and her retreat had him groaning aloud this time. Smooth, real smooth, he congratulated himself.

Staring at the empty doorway, Adrian parked himself along the edge of the table and wondered what to do now. His damnable luck when it came to women was still holding and then some. He reached into his shirt lining and withdrew Janice’s compass, curling his fingers around the cylinder. He sensed her life force immediately. Abruptly, his subconscious tossed up a single word. Anna. He tightened his hold on the compass, seeking Anna’s identity. Nothing came, only the word Anna singed in his mind. Anna. Anna was everything to Janice. Quickly, he shut the memory out, stared again at the empty doorway.

“Way to blow it, Adrian, old buddy,” he chided, mimicking Todd’s usual catch-phrase. “You never thought she’d walk out, did you?”

A discreet cough sounded behind him and Adrian sprang from the table, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder. Dammit all to hell! He had forgotten the Grisombs were even in the room. He groaned aloud. Sweet Jesus! They had heard every word between him and Janice.

Rapidly, his mouth went dry and he sought some witty comeback to cover his discomfort. Finding none, he re-parked himself along the edge of the table and began tossing the compass into the air and down again.

Mercifully, the pair kept silent, sparing him further embarrassment. Their silence allowed him a moment to regain his composure and, forcing a remote dignity to his tone, he finally dipped his head.

“I think I handled that rather well, don’t you?” Muriel’s laugh gave him a small, satisfying victory and he shrugged his shoulders. Seconds later, his gaze floundered under Jasper’s keenly observant stare. “I know what you’re thinking,” he stated. “I should go after her.”

Jasper heaved himself from the sofa at once, coming to rest alongside the table.

“No. Actually, I was thinking how well suited you and Janice seem to be.”

“Well suited! She can’t abide the sight of me!”

The older man grasped Adrian’s shoulder and shook him firmly.

“Nonsense. If you rub two sticks together long enough, you’re bound to ignite a fire.”

Muriel echoed his sentiment.

“Jasper’s right. Conflict is a natural state of affairs and the wonderful thing about conflict is that it stimulates one to new insights about themselves.”

Adrian gave a busted laugh.

“Insights! You saw her leave. She’d rather take her chances with a ghost than to stay in the same room with me.”

Muriel gave his forearm a pat.

“Yes, well, as a Don Juan, you have about as much finesse as a sloth on Librium.”

Adrian threw his head back, a genuine laugh spilling over. Muriel was a priceless pearl. She had coined a phrase out of his own barbed wit. Touched by her warm support, Adrian reached out and gave her an exuberant hug.

“You’re so like my foster father. I could never fool him for a minute either.”

She was obviously pleased by his words and squeezed his arm affectionately.

“There must’ve been a wonderful little boy inside you once, Adrian. What happened to him?”

“He got lost somewhere … like a bead from a broken string.” The admission was dredged from somewhere beyond logic and reason, and Adrian was astonished at the sense of fulfillment he felt in admitting it. A gentle caress raked his forearm and when he turned, Muriel’s eyes were filled with compassion. Before she could speak, he pocketed the compass and hopped from the table. “Too drained to explain further,” he supplied as he made for the door. “Let’s find Janice. I’m feeling uneasy all of a sudden.”

In two steps, they were at his side, ready to help in his search. Adrian signaled Muriel out first and she went quickly. About to follow, Adrian was halted by a clamp on his wrist. Instantly, his mind collided with Jasper’s and he heard the question as clearly as if it had been spoken between them.

“What really happened between you and Janice when the glass shattered at dinner?”

For a second, he thought of evading the question, then realized the futility of it. If Jasper really wanted to, he could find the answer by simply diving deeper into Adrian’s mind. But it wasn’t his style, Adrian realized. He didn’t intrude where he wasn’t invited. Their eyes met as the two exchanged a pact.

“A mind meld. A memory. An image of rough, raw lovemaking … ” he said aloud, then paused, aware that Muriel had returned and was staring at him curiously. “I don’t know what it was,” he finished lamely.

Jasper released his wrist, nodding with a hesitant shrug.

“Are you afraid the vision you saw is about to happen with Janice?”

“Worse. I’m afraid it’s not going to happen.”

His candid reply shocked both of them, but he didn’t wait around to see the look on their faces. Instead, he whipped past and strode down the corridor. A short moment later, he heard their footsteps tapping on the oak floor behind him.

Reaching an intersection, Adrian signaled the Grisombs.

“The main staircase is just beyond there. I’m going to circle back through the wing and pick up Janice.”

“You’re sure she’s back there?” Jasper asked with a tilt of his lips.

“Yes, because she’s blind as a bat without her compass.” Seeing Muriel’s mouth open, Adrian lifted his hand. “You’re right. It was a despicable thing to do, letting her leave without it. I’ll apologize as soon as I see her.”

He gave the pair no chance to cast any further slurs on his character and strode back the way they had come. Now, if only Janice would be as kind to him when he finally found her.

Chapter 13

SATURDAY — 1:35 AM

Staring down the expanse of a dimly lit assembly hall, Janice held back a childish desire to stamp her foot. Curse her rotten luck! She was right back where she had started from and more lost than ever. The swords and crossbows hanging like vultures on the crossbeams above her head were the same ones she had passed only minutes ago. Sighing, she finally admitted she had no idea where she was or how far she had come from the library. One thing was for certain though, she was traveling in circles and each minute that passed had her more unsure as to which corridor she should take. Damn her stupid pride! And damn Adrian Magus for not giving her the compass!

Janice swiped at an angry tear forming. He had her compass, the lying swine! She’d stake six months’ royalty checks on it. Why hadn’t she challenged him in the library to return it to her instead of fleeing like a stupid thief in the night? And why was he refusing to give the compass to her in the first place? He knew she couldn’t find her way alone without it. Why was he being such a donkey’s ass?

Janice did stamp her foot then, wishing the worst tortures of hell on him. And also on herself. She had let his barbed tongue goad her into leaving the library and it was a childish, foolish thing to do. What had she gained by it? Nothing. He was safe. She was lost.

“He wanted to keep you from wandering the chateau alone. He senses the danger coming.”

Janice stiffened, hearing the voice in her head as clearly as if someone had spoken it aloud. Damn it all to hell, go away, she commanded the voice. It drifted away at once, leaving her to notice a tangy aroma permeating the air.

“Raspberries,” she muttered beneath her breath. The word sent a sudden suspicious chill up her spine and tossing her head, she ventured a tentative question to the air. “Lisette?”

No response came and Janice stifled a chuckle. If her sense of humor hadn’t suddenly skipped town, her penchant for talking to ghosts that weren’t there would be hysterically funny. After all, hadn’t she promised Captain Bowers only this afternoon she wouldn’t spook any ghosts while here? So much for keeping that promise.

She cast a hasty glance left and right, swallowing the thick knot that was suddenly forming in her throat. She had to get out of here any way she could. Any door she could. Her gaze scoured the massive white pillars nearby and she shivered. Should she go back that way? Yes, she had to find Lloyd, Adrian, anybody real. If she didn’t, she’d run into an insane panic.

Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward, treading the wood floor as if walking on eggshells. With each step, she forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. Breathe in, breathe out.

Reaching the pillars, a new chill seized Janice, a frozen, frightened thing in her heart and, unnerved, she whirled. In the distance, she heard footsteps drumming on wood. Her hand fluttered to her heart as it began to thump wildly against her ribcage. Dear God, could ghosts produce human footsteps? No way, she cautioned, ghosts were spirit, nothing more. It was Adrian or the Grisombs coming to fetch her.

A single tear formed in the corner of her right eye as she peered through the shadows of the room toward its farthest end. Please be someone I know, she prayed fervently. She closed her eyes and listened, catching her breath as the footsteps paused, then suddenly resumed, moving away from her. They were leaving her!

Panicking, Janice tore down the hall toward the receding footsteps and a blot of minuscule light emanating beyond the doorway. Halfway there, she skidded to a halt as a shadow loomed up in the doorway. Adrian. It was Adrian. Bless him. He really didn’t hate her as much as he implied.

Janice picked up her pace again, clamping her lips to imprison a sob of relief. She didn’t care how much he insulted her from here on out. She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

He stepped into the room, spying her speeding figure and Janice slowed her steps, realizing how stupid she must look to him. No need to rush, she berated herself, you’re safe at last. Her heart slowed its wild thumping, calmed by her confident words. She could see Adrian’s face clearly as he neared and it cheered her. In a few steps, she would be touching him, touching his ruffled shirt to prove he was real, not just a hysterical delusion her panicked mind manufactured.

Halting inches from him, Janice lifted her gaze to his face. She thought she saw a pensive shimmer in the shadow of his eyes and had an unexpected, disturbing desire all at once to flee back the way she had come. In the next instant, he greeted her, his voice thick and unsteady.

“Hallo, Izzy, ma petite fleur.” Janice froze, stunned by the greeting. Izzy? Who was Izzy! A hand came out to stroke her hair and she drew back from the touch. “Non, cherie, do not shrink from the touch of my hand on your hair. Vous êtes toujours avec moi quoi que nous avons toujours partie.” The dark eyes clung to hers and Janice’s breath caught in her throat. Was that tenderness in Adrian’s expression and voice? And why the devil was he calling her Izzy and speaking French? And then it hit her. Izzy — Lisette! This wasn’t Adrian at all. In a suffocated whisper, she quizzed.

“Aubert?”

“Oui, mon amie.”

He spoke again, his voice almost a caress. He reached out and this time Janice let his hand brush a stray tendril of hair from her neck. “Do you know what a prized beauty you are? Your hair a tribute to rubies? For three centuries, I have hungered to see you, to feel the melting softness of your body.” His hand smoothed her hair, moved on to her cheekbone.

Janice held her breath, hypnotized by the invisible warmth of his touch. His knuckles caressed the line of her cheekbone and he was looking at her face as if he were photographing it for all time. Janice’s heart suddenly swelled with a feeling she thought long dead. Not since Jimmy had she felt so consumed by naked desire.

Before her stood, not Adrian, but Baron Aubert Dumas. And he believed her to be Lisette, was seeking Lisette.

“Never touched, always touching.” His husky murmur cut into Janice’s thoughts, accelerating her pulse. His hand slipped to the nape of her neck and pulled her toward him. “For three centuries I have hungered to feel your lips on mine.” He was going to kiss her, Janice sensed, unlock his heart and soul to her. The idea sent her spirits soaring, her knees trembling, and the blood pounding in her ears. “Embrassez moi. Come kiss me, Izzy.” His voice was sensually seductive as he lowered his head and his uneven breathing teased her cheek. She felt tears smarting behind her eyes and he saw them. His own gleamed more fiercely. “You have nothing to fear from me, cherie. I am your salvation.” His head dipped lower, his lips hovering inches from hers. Janice’s pulse skittered in alarm as his head blocked out all light.

“Adrian!” she called, scarcely aware she had called his name.

As if struck by a spasm, the lips halted their journey. Janice watched the eyes darken in pain, reflect glimmers of light, adjust, then regard her with a speculative stare.

“Was I about to kiss you?”

The question was crisp and clear, with a hint of sarcasm, and Janice knew the baron had vanished, letting Adrian’s consciousness take over again. Suddenly tongue-tied, Janice managed a suffocated whisper.

“No, you weren’t. Baron Dumas was.”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and he lifted his head away from her. Taking a step back, he stared at her in waiting silence. Janice could see her answer had rattled him and for a long moment, they merely looked at one another curiously. And then his eyes grew openly amused.

“I get it. You’re doing this to get back at me — for what I said to you in the library.”

Floored by such a ludicrous suggestion, Janice laughed.

“No, I’m not. The baron was here. You were him. He was you. Using you to talk to me … ” she corrected herself instantly, “to talk to Lisette.”

Adrian threw up a hand, cutting off her words. With his free hand, he fished into his shirt lining and came up with her compass. He held it out to her, offering an apology.

“All right, I admit I’m an insensitive jerk. I should’ve given it to you. I don’t know why I didn’t. Take it.”

Janice hesitated, seeing suddenly for the first time how much like a recalcitrant child he was. As if he had been caught with his hand in a cookie jar and now he needed to make excuses for being caught.

“You didn’t give it to me, Adrian, because you didn’t want me wandering the chateau alone,” Janice stated. “There’s danger ahead.” His shocked expression told her she had hit the mark. She pressed her point. “I’m not lying to you, Adrian. The baron was here. The baron was you. He’s seeking Lisette.”

Janice made him the victim of her stare and she could see her words took him beyond merely rattled to completely unnerved. Recovering quickly, he pushed the compass toward her and chided lightly.

“Take the god-dammed compass and let’s get the hell back to the others.”

Janice nodded, taking her prize. Immediately, she felt a thrumming in the middle of her palm and a wave of grayness washed over her. In her head, she heard a blood-curdling scream that rose severely in pitch and soon clamored in her throat to get out. Her body suddenly jerked as if struck by lightning.

“Janice!”

The call came from a distance but she couldn’t center on it. The voice was worried, asking if she was all right. No, she wasn’t all right. She was drowning. Someone was pushing her mind aside, pushing her consciousness down into a black vortex.

Disoriented, Janice threw her hands out, fumbling blindly to latch on to Adrian’s shirt front. She heard a dull clink and wondered what it was. Down, down. She was being swept away. Down to darkness. Down to emptiness. Down to nothingness.

Finally, she hit bottom and floated aimlessly.

Chapter 14

SATURDAY — 1:40 AM

For a second, no more, Adrian froze. He heard a dull clink as Janice’s compass hit the floor. Thinking fast, he reached out and caught her light frame as it slammed into his chest. For a second he thought they were both going down, but miraculously, his knees locked and held, allowing him to secure her weight. Quickly and carefully, he sank to one knee, using his raised thigh as a cushion for her back. He tapped her cheekbone.

“Janice!”

Her eyelids remained closed and Adrian felt a wrenching, jagged lurch in the pit of his stomach. She was out like a light. Now what? In his ears, he heard a thunderous pounding like horses’ hooves and realized the sound was his racing heart. Blood was sliding through his veins like cold needles and he was scared by Janice’s blank expression and seemingly non-existent breathing.

Pushing aside his fear, Adrian’s fingers darted to Janice’s nose to assure himself she was breathing. He felt a fan of air trail along his fingers but wasn’t encouraged. Somehow, Janice was literally being swept away from him and he didn’t know how to call her back. Think, Magus, think. She was probably only mesmerized by a marvelous ballet taking place in her head — her thoughts like gliding clouds, floating in and out of the heavens. When she woke … if she woke … the thought froze Adrian’s brain. His fingers shot to Janice’s neck artery, seeking a pulse point.

“Don’t you leave me, Janice Kelly,” he commanded. “We still have unfinished business, you and I.”

Adrian detected a distant movement beneath his fingers. Yes, there it was. He pressed the knobby ridge harder. Steady, strong and vibrant. He exhaled, euphoria replacing his panic. Janice wasn’t lost to him yet. She was alive physically. It was her mind that was in question. Where was it? What was happening to it? Remembering her earlier taunt about the baron, he had a sudden thought.

“Lisette?”

“Je suis ici.”

The words were an alluring whisper and for a second Adrian could only stare at Janice’s lips. Had they actually moved? A second later, his scalp prickled and he glanced over his shoulder. Above his head, the air stirred and he caught wind of a sickly, sweet fragrance. Jasmine. Lisette’s scent.

Adrian searched the crossbeams for any sign of her presence. Nothing. Instinctively, he gathered Janice closer. She’d have to go through him to get to Janice. He’d see to that. Almost at once, he was rewarded with another ripple along his scalp and knew she was nearby.

Willing his pulse to slow, Adrian peeked at Janice’s face, startled when he found her ice green eyes sweeping over his face with approval. She didn’t speak, but it didn’t matter. The pull of those eyes probed his soul and sucked him down. And then she reached up her hand and caressed his cheekbone.

“Je suis ici,” she repeated lyrically.

The soft touch on his cheek bespoke tenderness and Adrian’s skin tingled at the contact. Again, he caught a whiff of sweet jasmine. Lisette was purposely making him dizzy and light-headed. He had to stop her assault. She was shattering the hard shell he had built to keep Janice out. Janice! Sweet Jesus! He had to make Lisette send Janice back from wherever she had sent her. But how did he communicate when he found it almost impossible to breathe? He knew no French, yet he fought to translate Lisette’s words. Systematically, he tried to think them through. Je suis … je suis … I am. I am what? Ici … no, that was lost to him.

“I am here.”

She startled Adrian with her casual reading of his thoughts, then he sensed she wasn’t reading his thoughts at all. Rather, she was responding to the lure of an earlier lover’s call. Her caress skimmed his cheekbone, moved through his hair to the back of his head.

“I welcome thy kiss, mon ami. Je faim.” With a firm tug, she pulled Adrian’s head toward her own. Over and over, he heard her urge him sweetly. Je faim. I hunger for your kiss. Je faim.

Her lips hovered dangerously close before Adrian stayed his head. If he kissed Lisette, he’d violate Janice. He’d gain a kiss but would lose the thing he craved most from her — her respect. Adrian gripped the arm tugging at his head and pulled it away.

“No,” he murmured firmly.

At his denial, a keening wail tore from Janice’s lips and rose up into the shadows above his head. Its loud frequency plucked at the nerves in Adrian’s scalp. On and on the wail keened, until finally it dissipated into the very crossbeams around him.

Janice’s body gave a violent jerk in his arms and she came back to reality with a quick intake of breath, followed by a ragged, choking sound and a desperate gulp for air.

Adrian clutched her neck, hoping to anchor her to reality. The touch worked. She turned her head, hunched over and gripped his arm, squeezing the muscle to assure herself it was real flesh and blood.

Adrian exhaled. Thank God. She was back from whatever hell Lisette had sent her to. And it had to have been hell because she was shaking like a leaf and her fingernails were cutting a deep groove into his skin, right through the fabric of his shirt sleeve.

For a moment, no more, Janice clung to him, and then Adrian felt her body stiffen. She dropped her hands into her lap and Adrian knew she was ordering herself to get a grip on reality. He gripped her hands, stilling the fluttering fingers.

“You’re all right. You’re safe.”

She looked up at him then and Adrian heard a tearing sob leave her throat as she fully recognized him. She flopped onto his chest with a second busted sob and Adrian breathed a sigh of relief. Tears were a good sign. When you opened the floodgates, the torment had a chance to find its way out.

“So dark out there … so awful … so empty.”

Her sputtered words seemed to come from the depths of her soul and Adrian knew memories were crowding in like hidden currents. Once more, he patted her cheekbone and spoke softly, hoping to lull her into a relaxed mood.

“You’re back, safe and sound.”

She gave a small hiccup and Adrian heard wonder in her voice.

“Lisette?”

“Yes.”

“She sent me down to a gray nothingness. She wanted me to feel her emptiness. My mind just floated, went nowhere. I felt a great ache. Her ache.” She broke off and Adrian realized she didn’t want to remember the ache. He touched her cheek, this time with a wistful gesture.

“I don’t think she really meant to harm you. She was responding to the baron on some primitive, physical level.”

Both sat quietly digesting that thought and Adrian let her sit conquering her fears for a moment longer, then seeing her shudders subside, he pushed her head from his chest. Holding her close was proving dangerous to his frame of mind. Lisette’s sickly scent had departed with her wail, and now, in its wake, Janice’s fruity blend of perfume was making him heady in a different way. The smell of her hair tantalized him and he longed to lean down and nuzzle its texture. What would she do if he did?

As if sensing the question, she scooted along the floor away from him.

“Why didn’t you kiss Lisette?” she asked, swiping at her drenched cheeks.

Adrian grinned, brushing a stray tear forgotten by her fingers.

“How do you know I didn’t?”

“I would have remembered your kiss.”

Adrian turned his grin up a notch.

“You were out like a light, Janice. A herd of elephants could have stampeded in this room and you wouldn’t have heard them.”

“I would have remembered your kiss,” she repeated in a more composed voice. “I think women remember your kisses.”

“Careful, Miss Kelly. That sounds suspiciously like a compliment, perhaps even an invitation.”

Her hackles rose instantly, as Adrian hoped they would. They were treading on dangerous ground with their talk of kissing. He had to swing their thoughts to a safer subject. Her tears and anger he could handle. But her prying into his motives for not kissing Lisette? No, he wasn’t willing to discuss that with her yet.

She pushed a section of her hair back across her shoulders with an impatient flick and gave him a cool stare.

“Very clever, Adrian. You knew calling me Miss Kelly in that condescending way would divert my mind from Lisette. You don’t want to talk about what just happened, do you?” Adrian hedged, looking off into the shadows. “Do you?” She pushed him now, defiance written in her tone as well as a subtle challenge. Adrian wished he could pretend not to understand her look. Her mouth curved in faint amusement suddenly.

“My God, she rattled you. Big, strong Adrian rattled by a ghost. It’s priceless.”

Adrian’s lips puckered in annoyance at her obvious glee.

“Don’t gloat, it’s unbecoming.” He swung his hand out, groping for her shoulder. “How about helping me to my feet? My leg has one hell of a cramp in it.”

She scrambled up instantly, grabbing Adrian’s arm and hauling him up behind her. Adrian staggered once, caught his balance and then hobbled in a small circle to work out the kink.

“Thank you, Adrian.”

He looked up from his shuffle.

“For what? Not kissing you?”

“That and for not abandoning my mind to Lisette.”

Adrian flexed his knee.

“Don’t thank me yet. You may, before long, wish I had kissed you. We aren’t out of danger.”

“No. And now we’re facing a second spirit’s will as well. Any suggestions as to how we end this nightmare before it reaches the point of no return?”

Adrian eyed her suspiciously.

“We both have a pretty good idea where this entrapment is leading and where it will end. We both know, though we pretend to each other we don’t. Lisette’s intentions are getting clearer by the minute.”

“What we’re thinking is preposterous. A person can’t be forced to commit an act against their will. I’ve seen it proven time and time again with patients under hypnosis. You can’t make them do anything that is abhorrent to their basic, moral structure, no matter how hard you press.”

Her confident tone impressed Adrian.

“I hope that proves true in this case because I don’t remember a damn thing during those minutes you claim I was the baron. And as for you, I could have made love to you ten times over and you wouldn’t have known it. Your body was in my arms but your mind was gone.” Adrian saw her shudder at the remembrance.

“We have to talk to Lloyd immediately. He works with psychic minds all the time. He may know how to combat this. There has to be a way to keep our consciousness from being manipulated so easily.”

Adrian didn’t feel compelled to agree out loud, instead, he took Janice’s elbow and nudged her forward.

“Let’s go find the others. I don’t relish the thought of reliving the last five minutes, do you?”

Her grim expression was answer enough for him. Gripping her elbow more firmly, he pulled her along behind him. Six steps later, she yanked away from him and swung about.

“Wait, my compass.”

She back-tracked their steps and dropped to the floor in search of the fallen cylinder. Adrian gritted his teeth. She was actually delaying their departure over a dropped compass.

“Forget the compass, Janice,” he called sharply. Her hands swept in a wider arc, ignoring him.

“No. It means too much to me. It was a gift.”

From Anna. Adrian’s head finished the sentence, then danced on. Anna meant everything to Janice, and Anna was dead. It wasn’t the compass Janice feared losing. It was the memories the compass kept alive. Still, he couldn’t let her jeopardize their lives this way. Bending down, Adrian stopped Janice’s arm in mid-motion.

“Dammit, Janice, forget the compass. We’ll come back for it later with the others.”

“I’m not going without it.”

She jerked free of his grasp and skimmed the wood at a much more frantic pace. Watching her frenetic fingers, Adrian felt a glimmer of anger surface. Of all the stupid … no compass could be more important than her life. Hadn’t she just learned that lesson?

Losing patience, Adrian bent down and hauled Janice to her feet.

“I said, forget the god-dammed compass!”

She gave him an odd stare, and Adrian had the strangest feeling he had impressed her in some way. He had no time to quiz her on it before a vicious shove propelled him sideways and away from her.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Adrian?”

Adrian stumbled back, stunned by Lloyd’s assault. What in the hell did he think Adrian was doing? He was protecting Janice, that’s what. He had no further time to speculate as the rest of the group spilled into the room and rushed their way. Ginger reached him first, slipping her arm into his and laying her cheek against his sleeve.

“Thank God we found you, Adrian. Jasper’s been acting like a crazed man for the last five minutes. He’s tapped into something — I don’t remember what he called it — but it’s made him, well, not at all Christian.”

She shivered and Adrian realized she had good reason to be scared. Jasper’s sudden touch on his sleeve derailed his thoughts.

“Time slip. Someone’s coming over.”

Adrian tensed at once.

“Lisette?”

Jasper gave a quick shake of his head.

“No. Someone else.”

Adrian pushed Ginger toward Muriel’s plump form.

“Go stand with Muriel. I don’t have time to explain.” Ginger left his arms into Muriel’s protective embrace and Adrian swung his gaze to Jasper. “I think you’re about to be introduced to the Baron Dumas,” he stated.

The air stirred briefly and each member of the group glanced overhead. Adrian’s glance dropped to Janice, who was staring at him with a look of pure horror on her face. He shook his head.

“Relax. It’s the baron.”

But if anything, she looked more alarmed by his words. Adrian turned to Jasper. He didn’t know how much time he had before the baron’s appearance. But he was sure that once he lost consciousness, he’d be of no help to anyone. He surveyed Jasper’s face as intently as Jasper was surveying the crossbeams around them.

“Anything?” he prodded.

Jasper’s gaze never wavered from the crossbeams.

“Thirty seconds. Maybe forty.”

Adrian’s stomach lurched.

“Whatever happens, keep me away from Janice. It’s in her best interest.”

Jasper held up a warning finger.

“It isn’t the baron,” he remarked.

“What!”

Adrian’s hand sliced through his hair with blurring speed. A raised finger silenced him again.

“Three, two, one … ”

His voice drifted off precisely the moment a series of purple sparkles drifted from the wood beam. The sparkles swirled erratically at first, no vague shape or discernible form, and then a hideous putrid stench assailed the room. The last of the sparkles shot from the beam with a burst and the cloud reshaped itself into one big scribble of pulsing lights.

A hand gripped Adrian’s shirtsleeve and he jumped, startled by the unexpected touch.

“Sorry,” Janice stated with a shiver. “I had to touch something real.”

Adrian knew what she meant. The room and stench now resembled something out of a late-night sci-fi movie.

A fiendish laugh suddenly swept from the cloud like rumbling phlegm. It shot over their heads and bounced off the walls, growing in pitch and intensity.

“God damn, what is that?”

The question came from Adrian’s left, but he didn’t have time to offer a guess. The cloud intensified its crackling, festering like the hiss of a broom on wet cement. The laugh turned darker, as if feeding off the group’s agitation and its pulsing lights turned a darker, richer purple. The laugh then went sour, becoming a malicious, hideous sound.

“God damn, what is that?” Lloyd asked again and Adrian heard the panic in the question. Again, Adrian didn’t answer. He didn’t think Lloyd would like the answer he supplied.

The cloud ripped apart suddenly, relieving itself of objects like the muted crack of icicles. Before they knew it, the floor in front of them was littered with a myriad of books and trinkets. The laugh hooted wildly again, shooting by them and evaporating back into the cloud with a sizzling whistle. The dazzling blur crackled once, twice more, and then vanished back into the crossbeams as if sucked through a vortex.

The group stood in their stunned huddle, no one having the courage to break the unease that had been left behind. Then Adrian seized the moment. With a quick intake of breath, he dropped to his knees and riffled through the objects. His action galvanized the group out of their stupors.

“What is it, Adrian?” Ginger queried, peering over his shoulder curiously.

Adrian picked up a round cylinder, offering it to Janice.

“Your compass, I believe.”

She took it from him, turning it over in her palm.

“But how?”

Her words trailed off as Adrian picked up a second round object and offered it to Muriel.

“Your wedding ring, Muriel.”

She took it from him, just as confused by its appearance.

“You were going to use it for the rehearsal,” she reminded.

Adrian met her curious stare.

“Actually I had it in my shirt lining only five minutes ago.”

Muriel didn’t comment, merely slipped it on to her finger once more and stepped closer to Jasper’s side.

“But, what does this all mean, Adrian?” Ginger insisted. “What is Lisette trying to tell us?”

Instead of answering, Adrian picked up a book and handed it to Jasper, who dropped to his haunches inspecting the treasure. He began to thumb through the book casually.

“Looks like a ship’s log. Old as hell, but maybe readable.”

“From the baron,” Janice supplied, leaning down to inspect the book. “He’s aiding us in our search.”

“And this is Lisette’s diary,” Lloyd stated, picking up a second journal. A glazed, faraway look entered his eyes. “I’ve always sensed she kept a diary. Never could find it among the books, though.”

“Is this your ring, Adrian?” Ginger asked, holding a large ring out to him. Adrian scanned its markings and then shook his head.

“Could it be the baron’s?” Muriel asked, curiously.

“It could be … ” He broke off. Could the ring belong to a third spirit? A spirit with a laugh that spoke of dreaded things? “Perhaps it belongs to Lisette’s murderer,” he commented as if the answer was obvious.

“Three spirits,” Jasper said, spacing the words evenly.

“We can’t fight three spirits at the same time, can we?”

Ginger’s question had them all staring at the ring Adrian held between his fingers as if it were a crystal ball. When it remained silent, offering no verbal communication, Adrian chuckled.

“If wishes were horses … ” he stated, wryly.

The group laughed and the sound ignited a strange ballet in Adrian’s head. One that housed a bizarre twist of fate. Were they about to relive that fateful day three hundred years ago? If he were Aubert and Janice was Lisette, that meant one member of the remaining group was to be the murderer. He felt Ginger’s fingers on his shoulder and he shook his head, stalling her question.

“No, I don’t know what lies ahead, but my guess is we’ll soon find out.” He scanned each face in turn. “From here on out, none of us stays alone. Agreed?” Each head dipped in agreement. Exhaling, he slipped the ring back into his shirt lining. “Good. Now let’s get the hell out of here and find a more suitable place to study our treasures.”

They each scooped up one of the scattered items and headed for the door, Lloyd first, Ginger next. Reaching the door, Adrian paused, letting Muriel and Jasper go through ahead of him and then noticing Janice’s lagging gait, he waited for her. His eyebrow raised in surprise when she stopped by his side instead of exiting.

“Problem?”

“I had a horrible thought a moment ago.”

Adrian let his lips twitch slightly.

“Let’s hear it.”

“What if we’re about to relive the murder?”

Her intuition was so disturbingly like his own, it unnerved Adrian. It was time to divert their minds again with his special brand of sarcasm.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Miss Kelly, but I sense that if you were given the choice between making love to me and seeing me murdered and mutilated, you’d choose the latter.”

“God, what a horrid thing to say! I don’t want you dead.”

“How encouraging. And to think that only a few hours ago I dismissed you as a cold and sexless kewpie doll.”

Her lips twitched and then she laughed outright. Satisfaction pursed his mouth as she taunted.

“Would it be considered absolutely diabolical if I saved the ghosts the trouble and killed you myself?”

Adrian answered with a mock bow before he signaled her out. She slipped past him in a flash and he grinned appreciatively. He had been right not to kiss her. Now, there was a tangible bond between them that would be hard to break. Awareness, invitation, acceptance, all in a few seconds. The knowledge sent a surge of blood scurrying along his pulse and a rush of adrenalin to his legs. Quickly, they hurried to catch up with the disappearing group.

Chapter 15

SATURDAY — 2:15 AM

Janice knew by her shaking hands that she was coming unglued at last. Why now when she was safely ensconced with the others? Because now she was grounded to reality again and could feel the overwhelming fears burning in the pit of her stomach. She raised her head to study the speckled green wallpaper surrounding the dressing table. It should be reassuring to recognize a chair as a chair and a table as a table. To distinguish colors. Why wasn’t it? She knew the answer to that, too. Her mind had been stripped from her too easily. Sent to some empty hole to exist alone in an alternate dimension and she hadn’t been able to stop it from happening.

Janice studied her reflection in the mirror. She had been lucky. She could’ve been left in that void if Adrian hadn’t grounded her. Shivering, she dismissed the thought. Better not to think of Adrian, either. Leaning forward, she studied the green eyes reflected in the glass before her. Was she looking at the face of a woman who had undergone some kind of mad rebirth? Yes. In just a short twinkling of time, a transformation had occurred deep within her. She had traded places with another’s soul, experienced that soul’s life essence in a momentary flash, and had been thrust back into her own life, lucky enough to come away unscathed. Or at least partly unscathed.

Somewhere in the exchange with Lisette, Janice gained a new power. She had become empathic. There was no other word to describe it. Nothing else explained her heightened sense of awareness of space and time and things. Colors were brighter, voices were louder, matter seemed more real. Even now, through the open double doors, she could easily identify the murmurs of her companions. She could feel their movement, even their lack of it. What did it all mean?

Janice ran a finger along the rim of her lower eyelid. Surely she had aged decades in the last sixty minutes. Where were the lines? And where was her courage? It had suddenly gone underground. With a moan of distress, she pressed her hands over her flushed cheeks.

“Here, drink this,” came a husky voice, “it’s only soda but it tastes heavenly.”

The words drifted to Janice’s consciousness, followed by a cool wetness on the back of her right hand. She clutched the sweating glass, forcing herself to settle down. She took a deep breath, punctuated with several even gasps.

“You’re a peach, Ginger,” she applauded between gasps, “I’m tired, but most of all, I’m hungry and thirsty.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” Muriel remarked from the doorway. “I’ve fixed us some sandwiches.”

She bustled over the threshold, silver tray in hand, and Janice spun around on her stool. Food. She was starved. Not waiting for the tray to be set down, she scooped several of the sliced sandwiches as Muriel passed.

“I could eat a bear,” she declared, popping the first morsel into her mouth. She chewed it with relish.

“Bear is not on the menu, I’m afraid,” Muriel teased, dropping into the print wingback and setting the tray on the footstool between them. Like Janice, she popped the morsel of a sandwich into her mouth and savored its taste. “One thing about ghost hunting,” she remarked, “it creates an astounding appetite.”

“Don’t tell me the men are munching on finger sandwiches,” Janice exclaimed. She slipped a second wedge, this time egg salad, into her mouth.

“Those overgrown clods! They’re devouring giant double-decker sandwiches and it is NOT a pretty sight!”

Janice took a second sip of Coke and gave Muriel a bemused smile.

“You’re sounding chipper, Muriel.”

“I’m positively glowing,” she replied, “such mystery and intrigue!”

“You can’t mean you’re enjoying all this?” Ginger interrupted, shocked, her hand hovering over a tuna salad slice. “No one could possibly enjoy this insane captivity.”

“It’s not a matter of enjoying it, Ginger. It’s a matter of accepting the situation and adjusting to it. Once you do that, victory is possible.”

Janice wagged her head in agreement.

“You’re right. We’ve got to accept the problem and confront it.”

“Confront Lisette?” Ginger choked. “We shouldn’t get her mad, should we?”

Janice could see the genuine fright in Ginger’s eyes as she spirited away a tiny slip of tuna salad from her lower lip.

“She’s a kind spirit,” Janice reminded. “She’s not dangerous, just determined. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Is that why the men have let us have some breathing space?” Ginger asked. “I thought we were supposed to stay together.” She gave a familiar shiver.

Muriel bent over and patted her fingers.

“You can relax, my dear. Jasper’s on watch. His precognition has returned and he’s assured me that he’ll know in plenty of time if we’re about to encounter one of our ghosts.”

“Then why is Adrian afraid for Janice?” Ginger asked.

Afraid! The word chilled Janice and she took a long, cool sip of Coke, thinking on it. Why was Adrian afraid for her? Unsure, she inclined her head toward Ginger.

“Is he?”

“While we were fixing sandwiches a moment ago, he was comparing notes with Lloyd,” Muriel cut in. “Adrian’s concerned about his apparent blackout as the baron … my dear, was he really the baron?” Muriel broke off, not quite used to the story yet.

“He was.”

Muriel clucked sympathetically, picking up the tale again.

“It worries him. He has no recollection of the takeover, while you, according to Adrian, had an extreme physical jolt and displacement as Lisette.”

Janice jiggled the ice against the side of her glass and watched the carbonation fizz.

“It’s not as odd as it seems. Adrian uses his telepathic abilities daily. He has great practice moving in and out of the two worlds he lives in. I, on the other hand, have to wait for the other side to contact me with the message or picture.”

“So Lisette had no trouble breaking through your mental barriers,” Ginger surmised astutely. “Then why did she displace your mind?”

Janice dipped her head.

“I believe she felt if I experienced her pain and loneliness, I might be more agreeable to helping her. And from that, I might encourage all of you to help her.”

“And has she convinced you?” Muriel asked. “To help her, I mean?”

Janice felt as if a hand had closed around her throat. Was she convinced? Not if it meant surrendering her body to Adrian’s masterful seduction. If only she could openly express her growing fear to the women. More and more, the solution to their freedom seemed to hinge on her and Adrian. Aware that Muriel was still waiting, she arched her eyebrow and gave a hesitant shrug. Muriel leaned forward.

“Let’s be frank between us women. Something happened between you and Adrian when the glass shattered this evening at dinner. Adrian will only admit to seeing an image. I would like to know what that image was. In fact, I believe we all have a right to know. Though I pretend to be composed, I’m not. I don’t relish being murdered in a crawlspace.”

Janice saw Ginger’s apprehensive jerk at the image, and contained one of her own.

“Neither do I,” she agreed.

Muriel’s frown deepened. “If you’re hesitating to spare Ginger’s feelings, we can’t afford the luxury of being considerate at the moment. I sense what you saw was … embarrassing in some way?”

Janice lowered her voice.

“More unnerving than embarrassing. The image was an erotic one and extremely graphic.”

“The baron and Lisette,” Ginger exclaimed with a smile.

“That’s what I thought at first, too,” Janice agreed, pleased to hear someone else jump to the most obvious conclusion.

“But something has changed your mind,” Muriel coaxed. “You don’t believe anymore that’s what you saw.”

Janice marveled at Muriel’s accurately reading her thoughts. She leaned forward, eager to relieve her mind and conscience.

“Remember the portrait of Lisette down in the gallery? According to Lloyd, she came to America straight from the convent life. Yet, when I saw the portrait for the first time, I was filled with a sense of wildness. That portrait is not an innocent young maiden.”

Ginger shifted in her chair and Janice saw her face light with eagerness. She was getting into the mystery.

“She had a lover,” she concluded seconds later. “That’s the only answer.”

“But she was only eighteen and convent-raised,” Janice countered.

“Girls matured early in those days, were sold off to older husbands,” Ginger reinforced quickly. “She was young and beautiful. Perhaps an admirer seduced her.”

“No.” Janice shook her head decisively.

“Why do you say that so emphatically?” Muriel asked. “Ginger’s right, not all girls back then came to their wedding beds as virgins.”

“She was. I’d swear to it.”

“But why?”

“Because of the baron.”

A thoughtful silence fell among the women and Janice took that time to relive the moment in the assembly room when the baron had sought her kiss. He had been gentle in his asking, a considerate lover, one approaching an innocent virgin.

“What did the baron want, Janice?”

She didn’t pretend ignorance.

“To kiss Lisette.”

“How utterly romantic!” Muriel responded. Janice felt a warm flush steal over her cheeks at Muriel’s glib phrase. “And did you oblige the baron?” Muriel prodded.

“No, of course not!” Janice scoffed. “It wasn’t really the baron.”

“You just said you spoke to the baron.”

“I did. But he was speaking through Adrian.”

“Yet Adrian admits he has no recollection of the takeover, so technically you wouldn’t have been kissing Adrian, would you?”

Janice felt a streak of anger begin to saw at her stomach muscles. Why was Muriel being so obstinate in her probing?

“This is not about kissing Adrian and you know it!”

“Isn’t it?”

The two simple words sent Janice’s head reeling and the question took seed within her. Of course it was. It was about kissing Adrian. Seeing her unease, Muriel continued digging.

“You might as well tell us about the image. I’m quite relentless when I set my mind to knowing a thing.”

Fine, she’d stop beating around the bush.

“Who do I suspect was the couple in the image? I’m not sure.”

“Let me rephrase that then. Who does Adrian suspect is the couple?”

As if wired, Janice’s fingers suddenly curled into fists. Her glance locked once more with Muriel’s.

“He suspects it’s the two of us.”

A smile of satisfaction broke out on Muriel’s face. Leaning forward, she patted Janice’s clenched fingers.

“Well there, it’s finally out. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Janice uncurled her fingers, grimacing at Muriel’s subtle ploy to get the truth from her.

“Yes, it was,” she admitted. “The idea is utterly preposterous.”

“Do you think so? For myself, I’m relieved. I would so much rather be manipulated by romantic ghosts than murderous ones, wouldn’t you?”

Janice gave an unexpected shudder and alongside her Ginger did the same.

“I don’t see how you can joke about something so serious, Muriel,” Ginger chided.

“If I don’t, I shall start screaming hysterically. It’s not an appealing option.” She scooted to the front of her chair. “I will admit you and Adrian seem to be the main focus of Lisette at the moment, but we mustn’t forget that we were all brought here to serve a purpose. I act as the bridge for communication with Lisette. Actually, I think our spirit friends are being overly accommodating. When they find us slow to act, they prod us quite quickly.” Muriel paused and Janice saw her features grow taut. “We must speak with Lisette again. And if she won’t come, we’ll summon the baron.”

“And if he won’t come?”

“We’ll summon our third friend.”

Friend. That fiendish laugh echoed in Janice’s ears. She’d rather not talk with that spirit if they didn’t have to. She’d bet it didn’t know what the word friend meant.

“We won’t take no for an answer,” Muriel muttered crossly. “We’ve got to end this growing tension. Now, how to convince Jasper of my doing it.”

She fell silent and Janice knew her mind was sorting and discarding all her options. Options! What options? Quickly, Janice wrenched her mind from the terrifying absurdity that they’d never get out alive. They had to get out of the house. That was the only option.

Chapter 16

SATURDAY — 2:20 AM

The aroma of pipe smoke permeated Adrian’s nose, and he broke off reading, glad of the distraction. Over the last several minutes, the printed words had begun blurring and his back had stiffened with a pressing pain.

Straightening, he raised his elbows, finding his arm muscles stiff as well. He heard a distinct crack as he flexed his shoulders. And then, arching his back, he brought his spine to an even deeper curve. Again, he heard a crack, this one louder than the first. He was tired. The resounding crack proved it. He was warm again, though, thanks to Lloyd’s quick scrounging in a nearby closet. His newly donned shirt and trousers fit loosely, but their warmth more than made up for their bagginess.

He closed the book in front of him with a decisive snap. He was journaled out. It was time for his mind to digest what it had learned, just as his stomach was currently digesting that sub sandwich. He stole a peek at his companions and realized they too were digesting — both in mind and body.

Leaning back, Adrian propped his legs on the coffee table and let his gaze focus on the smoke rings drifting in upward spirals around Lloyd’s head. He supposed he should break the silence, but for the moment, he couldn’t summon the energy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he detected a movement. Jasper, too, was coming out of his stupor, stretching his arms above his head to restore circulation.

“I could use sleep in a real bed,” he commented. “Dare we try to sleep for a couple of hours?”

“You’ve got my vote,” Lloyd seconded, coming to life. He withdrew his pipe, stifling a yawn.

Adrian roused himself as well.

“I suppose we should give a shot at interpreting these journals first,” he advised. He swallowed down his own yawn and dropped his feet to the carpeted floor. Idly, he pushed the sheaths of paper back and forth with his fingers. “We’ve each read the journals, so what do we know?”

Neither man across from him ventured a guess and Adrian realized everyone was waiting for someone else to speculate first. Finally, with a resigned sigh, Lloyd rose from his chair and crossed to the fireplace. There he tapped the pipe stem against the palm of his hand, then deposited the ash into the glowing embers. Pocketing the stem, he sat again, his glance meeting Adrian’s.

“They set sail from France in the spring,” he began, “expecting to arrive in the Americas in late summer. Captain Enoch Waters was in charge, Lieutenant James Arthur, his first mate … ” Lloyd broke off suddenly, his glance moving past Adrian’s shoulder.

Hearing movement behind him, Adrian swung about and spied the women. Muriel came first, dropping onto the couch alongside Jasper, who laced his fingers within hers in welcome. Adrian greeted Ginger with a brief shift along the couch and a swift pat of the cushions alongside him. Bringing up the rear, Janice propped herself on the arm of Lloyd’s wingback and Adrian saw her give their host’s arm an affectionate squeeze.

The women took one look at the closed journals on the coffee table, waiting for an update. When no one took up the tale, Janice piped up curiously.

“What have you found?”

“More than we bargained for,” Adrian drawled. “Go ahead, Lloyd.”

Lloyd leaned forward, flipping the closed journal open once more. He tapped a page.

“The passenger list consisted of Lisette; her abigail, the Lady LaCoer; and a cousin the captain refers to as Simone Villashay, most likely Lisette’s best friend. The baron’s younger brother, Chase, was also a passenger. His destination was New York City, though why he was going there isn’t stipulated anywhere.”

Lloyd fell silent and Jasper took up the tale.

“We know the voyage was good at the start. Captain Waters writes so. However, a month into the voyage the weather turned nasty. The ship spent three additional weeks skirting the storm.” Jasper leaned forward and flipped through the journal, never losing his train of thought. “It’s obvious Waters and young Chase became enemies early in the voyage. At least eighty percent of the captain’s log entries refer to the boy as ‘that deviant bastard,’” Jasper paused in his riffling to give the group a speculative glance. “I suppose if the boy was a mental case, he might be our third spirit with the hideous laugh.”

Adrian nodded and leaned over the journal, following Jasper’s current train of thought.

“Waters also makes reference to ‘the rutting rake,’ though we can’t be sure if that’s the first mate Arthur or for young Dumas,” Adrian added. “A trip of that length must’ve been hard on the balls … ” He broke off, realizing the women were present. “Sorry. It’s hard to imagine any of the men aboard remaining celibate for the entire voyage. They had to have craved sex with Lisette.”

“Or the abigail,” Jasper countered. “The captain describes her as … “ he paused and leaned over an ear-marked page. “‘a well-put together widow, with ample breasts.’” Jasper looked once more at Adrian and then the women. “Our captain seems a trifle deviant himself. Perhaps he lusted after the fair Lisette, too.”

“Not exactly a lunch bucket type of crowd,” Adrian agreed. He continued the tale this time. “They arrived in late September, minus young Chase. The baron was in Philadelphia when the ship anchored, so Waters deposited the girls in a coach-and-four sent from Witchwood. The captain ends his log entries with a final cryptic entry.” Adrian flipped to the end of the journal and read aloud. “‘Tis well rid of the scurvy lot, I am. God take the whoremonger and his whore. May their souls burn in the everlasting pits of Hades.’” Adrian looked up from the pages. “Anyone care to hazard a guess about that wretched curse?”

Jasper shook his head, clearly stumped. Muriel offered the only comment.

“It could’ve been any pairing. The boy, the cousin, the abigail, the first mate … ” She leaned back with a frustrated groan and Adrian knew the feeling. They were going to waste precious hours piecing together what had occurred once the passengers had departed the ship. Lisette’s diary had shed no light on the matter. Once the ship docked, the entries in her diary were relatively scarce.

Leaning back, Adrian gave a half-smile.

“More and more, it looks as though the murder was a crime of passion.”

“Any mention of ages?” Janice asked, curiously.

Adrian reached out and tossed Lisette’s diary to her. She caught it deftly and her fingers thumbed through it casually as he answered her question.

“We know Lisette was eighteen. It appears the other women were in their early twenties. We suspect the first mate was also in his twenties. The brother was possibly fourteen or fifteen.”

“Sixteen,” Janice interjected swiftly. “He was cloddish, suffered with a hare-lip.” At her pronouncement, every head swirled about, impaling her with direct stares. Her eyes lifted in surprise. “I don’t know how I knew that,” she stuttered. She followed the confession with a small, uncomfortable laugh. “Just an intuitive flash, nothing more.” She tossed the diary back to the coffee table obviously, confused by the momentary insight. Lloyd must’ve sensed her discomfort too, because he captured her fingers and squeezed them with a small shake. Adrian saw her flash him a brief smile and then she turned her attention to the group once more.

“If the baron’s brother was only sixteen,” Jasper continued aloud, “why wasn’t he accompanied by a man servant and why was his destination New York instead of Witchwood?”

“Perhaps he stowed away,” Ginger guessed. “A boy that age might long for a sea adventure, especially if he suffered from low self-esteem.”

“Very intuitive, Ginger,” Jasper applauded. “But there’s no mention of the word stowaway, just ‘deviant bastard.’”

“You’re sure the phrase was meant for him?” Muriel asked, swinging about. “Deviant bastard brings to mind a rather older rake. One who’s had some years to build a naughty reputation.” She hesitated. “I suppose boys became notorious rakes early in those days. He might’ve been a hellion.”

Adrian gave the papers in front of him an impatient shove.

“Guessing, that’s all we doing. We’re no further along than we were an hour ago. And at the rate we’re going … ” he left the sentence unfinished.

“Let me solve the problem,” Muriel offered. “Let me channel one of the passengers. We know what questions to ask now, so let’s ask them.”

Jasper clamped Muriel’s arm, a frown surfacing on his brow.

“No. Until we learn which of them owns that hideous laugh we heard an hour ago, I don’t want you channeling. If our friend is the baron’s brother, he intends harm. And you will be especially vulnerable as the channeler. I won’t risk your life in such a slip-shod fashion and I won’t let anyone else do it either!” His look to the rest of the group spoke volumes and an uncomfortable silence descended among them.

“We’ll sleep on it,” Adrian finally stated. He saw Jasper’s dark glare and ignored it.

“Is it safe to sleep?” Ginger asked, slipping her arm through Adrian’s while trying to suppress a shiver. Adrian sighed loudly.

“Safe or not, we’re going to. We all look like hell. Sleep is the cure. We’ll sleep in pairs though. Jasper, you and Muriel take the west bedroom.” He dipped his head left then right. “Lloyd, you and Janice, the east bedroom. Ginger and I will make do on the couches here.” The group rose at the command and started toward their designated areas. “Move the beds as close to the doorways as you can,” Adrian called to their backs. “That way, we’ll be within earshot of each other. Remember, if you feel dizzy or strange or sense anything out of the ordinary, shout out!”

The group disappeared from view. Seconds later, Adrian heard a vitriolic curse, followed by Janice’s bubbling laughter. Looking over, he saw the outline of a huge canopy close in on the doorway. Looking left, another silhouette appeared in the west bedroom doorway. Satisfied the group was taking his advice, he swung his own couch to a ninety degree angle alongside Ginger’s to ensure he could see both doorways. Lloyd re-entered the room, blankets in hand.

“The room should stay warm for a couple of hours at least but here’s covers just in case.” He tossed a pink blanket to Ginger, who snuggled under it gratefully. Pivoting, Lloyd tossed the remaining blanket his way. Adrian caught it and settled quickly into the cushions. He didn’t know if sleep were possible but at least he’d give his body a rest. What his mind chose to do was its own business.

Rolling the blanket in a ball, he tucked it beneath his head. Nearby, he heard a shifting motion and the room went dark around him. A tired sigh told Adrian that Ginger was falling off to sleep in rapid fashion.

Stretching out full along the couch, he listened to the settling quiet and closed his eyes. Blessed sleep. He needed it badly. Soon, the only sound he heard was the occasional snap of wood chips in the fireplace. Muscles relaxing, he let his mind drift into a thin veil of half-sleep.

Chapter 17

SATURDAY — 3:15 AM

Through a distant grayness, Janice heard a frightened shout. At first she ignored it, continuing to float along in her dreamless state. Then it hit her — someone was in trouble. She came awake with a start, her eyelids flying open with alarm. Someone was calling, needed her help. Rolling over, she oriented herself to the room and squinted into the surrounding darkness. She searched the shadows for an identifiable shape. Who had called for her help? Lloyd?

Propping herself on her elbow, Janice located his shadowy form. A light, continuous snore assailed her ears, and she realized he was dead to the world. Had he called out in his sleep? Not likely.

Rolling back around, Janice slid to the edge of the bed and hung out over it. Was it Muriel? Blinking rapidly again, she adjusted her eyes to the gloominess of the interior living room. Across the way, she could just make out two dim silhouettes and a bed. The Grisombs appeared to be soundly asleep, too. Adrian?

She swung her head, locating the angled couch. He was sprawled out, and like the others, appeared to be in no difficulty. Still, she couldn’t shake the nagging notion something was wrong. Something odd was beginning and it was nearby. It was up to her to check it out. None of the others seemed to sense it.

Swinging up, she slid from the bed and tiptoed into the darkened living room. The room’s iciness hit her full blast. Damn! Of all the times for the fire to go out. She cast a glance toward the fireplace and froze. The wood chips were burning as bright as ever. The hairs on her arm prickled suddenly and she knew instinctively she was not standing alone in the darkness. Light, Janice. Turn on the light, she urged herself. She whirled on point then skidded to a stop. Wake someone. You need a witness. She was at the angled couches in three seconds flat, bending down and calling Adrian’s name.

He came full awake, even as her whisper left her lips. His face loomed close to hers and Janice was taken back at his alertness.

“What is it?” he whispered.

His breath fanned her cheeks and there was a gentle softness in his tone.

“The room’s cold.”

“The fire’s gone out,” he commented, as if the answer was obvious.

“No, it hasn’t.”

He came up rapidly, not bothering to check over his shoulder, and Janice could’ve kissed him for believing her without question. Did he know how endearing that made him to her at the moment? She pushed the thought away as she found her fingers clenched tightly. In the next instance, she was trailing behind him in the dark, heading for the light switch on the far wall. Once there, Adrian snapped the light on. Around them, the room filled with light and its sudden, shocking glare brought the sleeping couple in the west bedroom off the bed in a hurry and on to their feet.

“What is it?” Jasper asked, circling the bed and stepping into the living room. His gaze darted about, seeking answers.

Janice and Adrian did the same, swiveling their heads in search of their unknown intruder. And there was an intruder. Janice was sure of it now. The hairs on her neck had joined the ones on her arm in a stand-up salute.

“Fuck!”

Adrian’s muffled oath sent Janice’s stomach into a dizzy flip-flop and above her ribs, her heart began a clumsy foot race with her lungs. The hand holding hers trembled then jerked, and Janice followed Adrian’s gaze upward.

Oh, shit.

From the ceiling directly above Ginger’s sleeping form, a white mist was showering down droplets. Reacting, Janice made a movement to warn Ginger and found herself hauled back roughly.

“Don’t be an idiot!” Adrian barked. “It’s our fiendish friend.”

Janice wondered how he could identify anything from only a white mist. She got her answer immediately. A familiar stench rolled over them, and above them, the mist turned into a haze of shimmering purple lights. It laced itself down and stretched lengthwise over Ginger’s prone form.

“Do something, Adrian,” Janice whispered.

As the words left her lips, Ginger stirred on the couch, sensing the light and voices. Her eyes popped open. She didn’t see the cloud of lights at first, her gaze searching for Adrian on the companion couch. Not finding him there, her glance swiveled right and left, the first sign of apprehension appearing on her face. And then she glanced up. Absolute terror erased all other emotions, and Janice didn’t know what kept Ginger from screaming. The sparkling mist was descending now, stalking her form, as if aware she was about to bolt.

“Ad … ri … an!”

Her voice squeaked the last syllable. Ginger was working to be brave on the outside, but her stutter was a dead giveaway that she was frightened beyond belief. The cloud sagged suddenly and Ginger slid from the couch, seeking refuge against the side wall.

It was a good try at escape, and any other day, it might have worked. But the cloud had anticipated her flight and followed immediately, stalking her cowering figure and galvanizing Janice into action. Tearing at Adrian’s fingers, Janice attempted to pry her wrist loose.

“Let go, Adrian.”

“God damn it, Janice, be still! She’ll be all right.”

As if to mock Adrian, the mist ballooned out, encircling Ginger and cocooning her with its sparkling form. The swift attack galvanized the men forward in one fell swoop. Anticipating their approach and suddenly angered by it, the cloud billowed upward, transforming part of itself into a new shape. When it was finished, it resembled a misty octopus with shimmering ionized tentacles that hung high over the couch. The tube-like pincers sprayed outward toward the approaching men as if to rend them apart. The air sizzled around their heads like the crack of whip meeting flesh, and Janice quaked uncontrollably. In front of her, Adrian and Jasper ducked under the spray of electricity, just barely managing to dodge its stinger.

The spirit was furious with their show of bravado, had every intention of punishing them for their audacity. Falling back, the men crowded into the women, forming a protective shield against the tentacle of light. Seeing the maneuver, the cloud doubled its show of force. Two more tentacles snaked upward, releasing a menacing hiss from somewhere in its central core. The sound chilled Janice’s soul as she clutched Adrian’s shirt back, ready to solder herself to it. The hiss continued like a steam boiler about to burst which unnerved the men as well, Janice realized when she heard Lloyd’s shaky curse.

“God damn bastard! He’s not going to let us near her.”

At his words, the tentacles halted in midflight and held their station. As if now having proved their superiority, they no longer needed to intimidate. This spirit was indeed arrogant, Janice thought. With an ugly, vindictive nature.

Above their heads, the sparkling lights danced and curled for a brief second longer, then vanished completely. With the dissipation, the main cloud of light returned to cocooning Ginger. Again, the room was filled with the sound of crackling static and suddenly the cloud thinned, exposing Ginger’s rigid form to the group’s stare. Through the opaqueness, Janice could see her fright and a stain of tears. The sight of them brought a tight knot to Janice’s throat. It wasn’t fair for anyone to be so incredibly terrified.

“Somebody do something, or I will,” she stated defiantly.

Lloyd stepped in close to her body and lowered his voice so Ginger couldn’t hear. Or maybe so the spirit wouldn’t hear, Janice thought bleakly.

“I don’t think we have any choice now but to let Muriel channel the spirit,” he stated.

“I forbid it!” Jasper growled, overhearing. “That spirit is deranged. It would just as well kill us as look at us. Muriel could end up being its pawn.”

“We’ve got to do something,” Lloyd argued.

“We can’t leave Ginger stranded this way,” Janice stressed. “Please don’t abandon her.”

“We won’t have to,” Jasper intervened, signaling toward the sparkling lights. “Our friend is tired of baiting us. Look.”

The group swung around in unison. Across the way, there was a new change. The lights surrounding Ginger’s form were increasing in intensity and obliterating her from their sight once more.

“Is she all right? Can anyone tell?”

Janice felt her heart plummet along with a sinking feeling they were all doomed. One by one, they’d be picked off by this malevolent spirit. The men beside her closed their eyes. Jasper was the first to respond.

“She’s about to blackout.”

True to his pronouncement, Ginger toppled from the cloud of light. She slid to the carpet, ending in a crumpled heap at the foot of the couch. No one moved to help her. Rushing to her aid was out of the question, Janice knew. The cloud was still her hovering guardian, although Janice suspected that circumstance could change any second. No sooner had she finished the thought when the spirit shifted shapes again, this time morphing into a snake-like appendage streaming across the flat ceiling. If the situation weren’t so horrifying, Janice could admire the spirit’s ability to transform itself at will. It ballooned, it mushroomed, it re-energized itself with little effort. How wonderful to control such freedom of time and space.

Janice quelled her preposterous mind rambling, reminding herself that the spirit was not admirable. It was dangerous and they had no idea what trick it would play next. It might intend a second victim. And she might be that victim. Janice’s heart rate quickened at the thought, and as fast as her heart began to pound was as fast as the cloud began to crawl across the ceiling toward the side wall and down. It snaked its way, sure of its destination.

As it approached the wall mirror to their left, Janice’s fingers dug into Adrian’s shirt back and came away wet. He was sweating, sweating profusely in an ice-caked room. Well, she couldn’t blame him. Her own pullover felt damp against her ribcage.

“Dare we try to get to Ginger now?” Muriel asked, plucking at Janice’s sweater sleeve.

“In a moment,” Adrian cautioned. His gaze remained glued to the cloud’s misty form, which was now disappearing behind the wall mirror and seeping into the paint pores. When the last of its white tail vanished behind the mirror, Adrian moved fast. Janice moved with him, not about to stay put any longer. The others must have had the same idea because they all reached Ginger’s crumpled form within seconds of each other.

Adrian lifted Ginger to the couch swiftly, as Jasper grasped her wrist in search of her pulse point. His eyes closed, delving deep into the recesses of Ginger’s mind, and Janice chewed on her lower lip. He was back again quickly and she saw the worry increase on his brow.

“She’s not? … ” Janice left the sentence unfinished. She couldn’t say the word they all dreaded.

“No!” Adrian’s snarl was emphatic. He hovered closer to Ginger. “Don’t anybody say it!”

Janice’s glance locked with Jasper for reassurance. He nodded briefly.

“She’s out like a light but her pulse is strong. Her mind is intact, no damage to her brain. She’s simply … ” he paused, struggling to find the right word.

“Free floating?”

He nodded quickly.

“Yes, that’s good, Janice. Was that what you felt when Lisette displaced you?”

“Yes. And a great darkness that was terrifying.”

“How long can she maintain this free floating episode, Lloyd?” Muriel asked. She reached out and brushed a stray blond curl back from Ginger’s face. “You must’ve seen some kind of mind control in your work with the students. Can her physical body maintain this type of stress for any lengthy period of time?”

No answer came and Janice turned along with the others, surprised to find Lloyd missing from their huddle. A quick look backward and they found him still frozen in place, his gaze centered on the mirror to their left. What was he looking at?

“Lloyd?” He ignored her call. “Lloyd!”

He swung about as if stung by the sharpness of her tone.

“What!” His tone was belligerent, almost hostile and Janice flinched. She had the inescapable feeling he resented her intrusion on his thoughts.

“Have you seen this kind of mind controlling before, Lloyd, in any of your experiments with the students?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze gravitated back to the mirror.

“Filthy bastard! Sneaking around! Why doesn’t he just show himself and tell us what he wants? No, instead, he swats at us like a cat teasing a grass yard lizard. Damn his mocking presence! Damn his fucking impertinence!”

The curse was heated, sliced with raw anger and Janice was shocked to hear the tirade. True, the episode was scary for them all, but Lloyd’s tone was distinctly edgy. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was coming unglued at the seams. Though his posture showed no stress, his behavior reminded her of the dinner table scene in Alien. One minute the crew had been dining, chatting happily; the next a terrifying alien popped from their crewmate’s ribcage.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Look!”

Lloyd’s voice broke off and Janice swept her gaze to the mirror. Her pulse skyrocketed at once. Reflected in the glass was a human feminine face — a quiet oval face, dark and rather delicate. Billowing hair blew about the face and the beginning of a smile tipped the corners of a rosette mouth. And then the image changed. Now a bulbous nose dominated meaty features — a glum-faced man whose mouth was pulled into a sour grin. And then the derisive grin changed to an open, friendly smile and it was feminine again. This time ebony curls swung about proud shoulders. No, now the hair was fiery red. Now, a cobweb of silvery gold.

Janice couldn’t keep up with the shifting features. Like a slide cassette gone berserk, images danced and alternated in lightning speed across the glass. What were they seeing? Faces from the ship’s log? The images began to repeat and Janice found herself moving toward the mirror. She stood before it, mesmerized by the ballet of color-laden images. Her suspicions had to be correct. They were seeing images of Lisette, the ships’ passengers, and crew.

Janice felt a light touch on her elbow but she didn’t turn.

“My dear, didn’t I say our ghosts were most accommodating?” Muriel whispered. “When we’re slow, they prod us.”

“But I don’t believe Lisette is producing these images in the mirror,” Janice replied, turning back to the reflections. “I think our third spirit is.”

“But why?”

“To draw Lisette out,” Lloyd snarled, his voice still thick and unsteady.

Fortunately, no one noticed the tremor in her own voice as she asked matter-of-factly. “Why draw her out, Lloyd?”

She was instantly sorry she had asked the question. Lloyd’s eyes narrowed and his back became ramrod straight. Janice felt that same nervous tic in the pit of her stomach. The look on Lloyd’s face said she was a fool not to know the answer.

“It wants to kill her.”

Janice was surprised by the declaration.

“But, Lloyd, it has already killed her. Three hundred years ago.”

A touch of madness came into Lloyd’s eyes at her words and Janice flinched under his withering stare.

“You fool! It killed her body, not her soul! It wants her soul. It will kill all of us to get it. I’ve got to stop it.”

Before Janice knew it, Lloyd seized an ashtray from a nearby tabletop, and hurled it at the mirror, shattering the glass and spewing shards in all directions. Flabbergasted, Janice jumped away. Could this nightmare get any worse? She stepped back to study the jagged fragments still intact in the mirror and became conscious of a low, tortured sob.

Instinctively, Janice knew a terrible regret was assailing Lloyd for what he had done. Cracking under the strain, his face was bleak with sorrow and his teeth were starting to chatter.

Janice closed her eyes, her heart aching for him. Is this what they all had to look forward to? To succumb to a torment eating at them from the inside out? She kept her eyes tightly closed, unable to bear the sight of Lloyd without breaking down herself. It was wretched to feel so helpless. And then the sobs moved away and Janice opened her eyes.

Jasper was leading Lloyd away with Muriel trailing several paces behind. Janice felt a sick yearning to have this nightmare over — even if it meant sacrificing her body to a hot tide of passion with Adrian. Making love would be a humiliation but one she could quickly forget. If making love to Adrian … she broke off her thoughts and sank into the nearest chair. My God, she was actually entertaining the thought of making love to Adrian without the proper safe-sex precautions. Was she out of her mind? Yes, that was it. She was losing her grip on reality, like Lloyd. She clasped her fingers together in her lap and stared down at them. She hoped when it came, her breakdown would be swift and that she’d have no recollection of it. It was all right to be insane if you couldn’t remember the details. A tear dropped onto her thumb and she felt movement in front of her. Strong fingers appeared and covered her white-knuckled ones.

“That won’t happen to you,” Adrian stated.

Janice met Adrian’s dark eyes. She released her fingers from his grasp and scrubbed at the wetness on her cheeks. Though her mouth felt like paper, dry and dusty, she managed a shaky reply.

“I wouldn’t have thought it would happen to him either. Lloyd’s the strongest man I know.”

“Let’s not judge him until we have all the facts.”

“You mean his behavior may have been manipulated on purpose?”

“Yes. To cause dissension among us. To split us apart.”

Denial flew from Janice’s lips immediately.

“But you’re wrong. It isn’t to split us apart. It’s to bring you and me closer together.”

Surprise siphoned the blood from Adrian’s face and he stared at her as if she had suddenly grown a new head. Then his face twisted into a lopsided grin and he patted her fists lightly.

“Can’t be done. If ever two people were worlds apart, it’s you and me. I hate you. You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Adrian.”

“Of course you do. I’m an arrogant bastard, you said so yourself.”

“Well, you are. But I don’t hate you for it.”

Adrian cocked his head and Janice had the feeling he was staring into her very soul.

“Do you want to make love to me, Janice Kelly?”

Weary of the question, her answer was half-hearted.

“I don’t know.”

“You are cracking up.” His retort dripped with sarcasm and he withdrew his hands from hers. Acknowledging his sarcasm, she pressed her hands over her eyes.

“I must be. There’s no other explanation for such stupidity.”

Adrian stood then, bringing her up with him. He swept her into the circle of his arms and his lips descended on hers. It was an empty kiss, lacking real heart and emotion, but still the pit of Janice’s stomach did a wild somersault. When he raised his head again and they were staring curiously at each other, Adrian sent her a wry grin.

“There now, we’ve got the damn kiss behind us. We both felt nothing. Now, maybe we can concentrate on getting the hell out of this place.”

He swung about and strode to the bedroom, leaving Janice to stare after him in alarm. Did he think that empty kiss settled matters between them? If so, he was a fool. The kiss had made things worse, if not for him, at least for her.

Janice sat down hard again in her chair, pressing her hands once again over her eyes. He probably thought a cold kiss would prove to their captors the futility of pushing them together. The kiss had started a funny kind of singing in her veins and on her lips. Her whole being was filled with unanswered longing. Janice gave an impatient groan. Damn Adrian! He had doomed them. She hadn’t been fooled by that ice-caked kiss, and if she wasn’t fooled by it, the ghosts certainly weren’t either.

Chapter 18

SATURDAY — 4:15 AM

The west bedroom was swathed in half shadow, half light, and from where she stood in the doorway, it was hard for Janice to imagine a more serene picture. Yet she knew the chain of events that had occurred in the last hour didn’t even remotely resemble serene. Nothing seemed real in the last ten minutes. Not Ginger’s cocooning, not Lloyd’s breakdown, not Adrian’s empty kiss. It was if time had simply surrendered itself into Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone.

Adjusting her eyes to the dim light, Janice studied the four-poster bed silhouetted before her. It stood like a giant wasp, an alien creature with tasseled wings. In its stomach, Lloyd slept peacefully, oblivious to the world, barely seeming to breathe. Muriel was alongside the bed, her arm draped on the coverlet. Janice watched her fingers pluck continuously at the tufted quilting as she kept a vigilant eye on Lloyd’s rhythmic breathing. Stepping into the room, Janice headed for the bed.

“How is he?”

A silent wave signaled her to a chair and she sank into the deep green cushions, glad to be able to give her own body some restful downtime. She rubbed her eyelids and then settled her gaze on Muriel, who was thoughtfully contemplating Lloyd’s sleeping form.

“How is he?” Janice asked again. Muriel’s whispered response was low and filled with compassion.

“He’s asleep at last. Poor man, he’s exhausted. It must be hell to be so defenseless. To have to listen to garbled voices in your head and not be able to cast them out!”

Janice stole a peek at Lloyd’s sleeping form. If there were voices chattering in his head, it wasn’t apparent on the surface. He seemed lifeless, almost comatose. Janice wondered if he was somehow slipping away from them on purpose, out of self-preservation. What was he hearing in his head? It was awful not to know. Perhaps if they did, they could help him ease the pain.

Janice returned her gaze to Muriel, averting her thoughts from Lloyd’s breakdown. “You don’t look so refreshed yourself, Muriel,” she commented softly. She hoped the worry in her tone was adequately disguised. They all had enough troubles without saying the obvious.

“Too much excitement,” Muriel replied. “And not enough time to process it. It’s as if time has been suddenly suspended and what we do in the next few moments will seal our destinies.”

“Perhaps it will,” Janice remarked. The women exchanged knowing glances and Janice found herself leaning forward, stilling Muriel’s restless fingers. “Do you trust me, Muriel?”

Muriel’s eyes widened in surprise at her question.

“My dear, how can you even ask that? Surely you know I’ve grown exceedingly fond of you. It is my dearest wish that when this nightmare is over, you’ll let Jasper and me come and visit you in Colorado. I want to meet that precious daughter of yours.”

Janice felt a rising knot in her throat and swallowed it down. Muriel had to be the dearest, the sweetest woman she had ever met. If only things weren’t so muddled. She squeezed the fingers in her palm affectionately.

“I’ve grown very fond of you too, Muriel. That’s why you must listen to what I am going to say with an open mind.”

“I’m a trance channeler. If there’s one thing I’ve got, it’s an open mind.”

Janice stifled an urge to laugh. Muriel was incorrigible, her sense of humor indestructible. Even now, when things were at their worst, she was still able to poke fun at their plight. Janice felt a sudden inner pang; she envied Muriel’s ability to remain buoyant no matter the adversity. Perhaps if she herself had a better outlook on what was occurring, she would be able to handle the gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach. As it was, continuing to hold back the pain set her teeth on edge more and more, she realized. She had to make Muriel see things as she did. Leaning in, Janice took the initiative.

“I can’t stand what’s happening to us, Muriel. If I have to stand by and watch another one of you shut down like Ginger, I’ll go out of my mind.”

“My dear, who’s to say that you won’t be next? We don’t know what our spirit friends intend.”

“I know,” Janice replied. “I’ve known ever since I met the baron. What’s happening here is between Lisette and the baron. It’s that simple.”

“What are you suggesting, Janice?”

“Help me convince Adrian that we must separate from the rest of you.”

Muriel pinched Janice’s fingers.

“My dear, that’s nonsense. None of us stands a chance alone. We must stick together.”

“But we won’t be alone. Adrian and I will be together.” Muriel’s frown deepened and Janice added quickly, “Don’t think I haven’t thought of the danger. But if this nightmare is to have an end, it will be because of me, of what I do. There’s no use lying to ourselves anymore. Lisette intends to free her soul and only I have the power to free all of you. Though we all skirt the issue, I am the key. Lisette needs me, needs my physical body.”

Muriel’s fingers pinched Janice’s again, her horror apparent.

“Surely you’re not intending to give yourself over to Lisette? That’s crazy talk. Though she seems a benevolent spirit, we could be misinterpreting her pain. She could be lying, preying on our goodness.”

“I wouldn’t really be giving myself over to her. When she comes, I don’t have any recollection of it. Whatever she makes me do, I won’t remember it.”

“And Adrian?”

“He won’t remember either.”

“I don’t like it!” Muriel scoffed. “For you and Adrian to sacrifice your bodies … I don’t like it!”

“If there’s another way, I’m willing to listen to it,” Janice commented. She saw Muriel’s frown pucker deeper.

“I don’t know any other way.”

“Then you’ll help me convince Adrian?”

“It’s useless, my dear. Adrian will never agree to it, and I say, thank God!”

“He’ll agree. He’s attracted to me physically.”

“And that’s just why he won’t agree to it.” Muriel argued. She gave Janice’s hand a sympathetic pat, meeting her baffled gaze straight on. “Can you imagine Adrian agreeing to make love to you knowing full well he won’t remember it when it’s over? He won’t do it. Mark my words.”

“He has to. Because he knows the same as I that if he doesn’t, he will put the rest of you in jeopardy. For all his jaded wit, I don’t think he’ll let that happen. He’ll agree — if you and Jasper convince him of it.”

A look of alarm crossed Muriel’s face at once and she lowered her voice so only Janice could hear her words.

“I can’t burden Jasper with this. He’s a man of the cloth. It’s his job to counsel unmarried couples to abstain from sex, not indulge in it.”

Janice felt a warm flush stain her cheeks. Heavens, she had never thought how perverse her suggestion might sound to a minister. Lord, had she lost all shreds of decency? Her hands sought the shelter of her lap once more and she stiffened her resolve. No, she’d not change her mind. No matter how sinful a minister thought it was. She was going to end this nightmare.

Across the way, Muriel shifted in her chair, remaining silent to allow Janice a chance to regain her composure. Pulling her thoughts back in line, Janice let her gaze drift back to Muriel, who took charge again.

“No, I won’t discuss this with Jasper. But I will talk to Adrian.”

Janice felt immense relief well up.

“Bless you, Muriel.”

A warning finger flashed before her eyes.

“I’ll talk with Adrian. But I won’t press him.”

Janice had a moment of indecision, but she stamped it down where it belonged. They were getting out of here alive. All of them. Anything else was unthinkable.

“I trust Lisette, Muriel. I know it’s foolish to believe a ghost, but I don’t think she will let any harm come to me. And I don’t think the baron will harm Adrian.”

“If we were just dealing with the baron and Lisette I should feel safer. But that fiend of a spirit intends harm to you. To Lisette.”

Janice brought her hands to Muriel’s and cupped them for a change.

“You let me worry about that horrid, spiteful ghost. Besides, what could you do to keep it from harming me this very minute if it wanted to? You saw it before. We were powerless to stop it.”

Muriel slipped her hands from beneath Janice’s.

“I hate it when you’re right.” She plucked at the collar of her dress. “That hateful ghost has made me quite cross. And I intend to tell it that if it dares to show itself again.”

Janice did smile then, knowing full well Muriel wouldn’t do any such thing. For all their bravado, each of them was sufficiently kowtowed by the spiteful cloud.

Muriel gave a busted sigh, bringing Janice’s attention back to the matter at hand.

“Well, sitting here won’t get the thing done,” she remarked, rising. She padded across the carpet and was gone before Janice could offer a heartfelt thank you.

Leaning back, all bravery gone now that her task had been accomplished, Janice sighed. It would soon be over. They’d be going home. A tear welled up suddenly, saturating her lower eyelid. No tears, she chastised herself, swiping at the bead. The time for crying is long past. Another tear followed the first and soon Janice found herself continuously dabbing at her wet cheeks. Janice Marie Mignon Kelly, you are the stupidest of fools. Just because you have to sacrifice every shred of decency in you and make love to the handsomest, most infuriating man you’ve ever met … her thoughts derailed instantly. Heavens, that wasn’t why she was crying at all. She wasn’t crying because of what she had to do. She was crying because she wouldn’t recall one wonderful minute of doing it.

• • •

“Driving yourself this way is foolish, Adrian.”

Warm fingers descended on Adrian’s collar and probed the cords along his neck. Adrian dropped his head forward, enjoying Muriel’s fingers as they massaged a knotted ridge along his upper back.

“I feel so useless,” he stated. He stole a peek at the comatose woman alongside the ottoman where he sat. “I know she can’t see or hear me, but I at least have to prove to myself I didn’t abandon her.”

The fingers dug deeper into his flesh, massaging a stubborn kink.

“Ginger knows, Adrian. She trusts you completely.”

Adrian raised his head at the comment, his lips curling to a sneer.

“She’ll never speak to me again when this is over. And she’d be a fool if she did. I had no right to bring her with me. I just couldn’t face this reunion alone. Damn my egotistical pride!”

The fingers on his neck paused and soon, Adrian saw a flash of pink. When he looked up, Muriel was settling in a chair in front of him.

“You brought Ginger along to entertain Lloyd’s guests. It was exceedingly smart on your part to do it. So if you want me to feel sorry for you because things haven’t turned out as you expected, let me tell you right now, I won’t do it. None of us had any choice in this arrangement. We were all called to this moment, for good or ill.”

“One of God’s never-ending jokes on mankind,” Adrian quipped, then fell silent as a disapproving frown appeared on Muriel’s brow. He inspected her clouded expression closely. He hoped his own was guarded because he didn’t want her to see how worried he was by her appearance and words. She looked drained. The wrinkles along her cheekbone seemed more pronounced than he remembered. Take a look in the mirror, he chided himself at once. You might be surprised by your own face. Living through hell on earth tends to age one quickly, he informed his alter-ego. Still, he hoped his face wasn’t as easy to read as Muriel’s. Something was on her mind. She was staring at him with the same intensity as he was at her.

“Has something happened?” he asked, when Muriel continued to keep her own counsel.

“Janice wants me to convince you it is necessary for you and her to separate from the rest of us.”

Adrian felt a tremor explode deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Has the woman gone completely insane? We can’t split up. It’s out of the question.”

“Is it because you are afraid to be alone with her, Adrian?”

“What!” Adrian barely kept his seat but managed to put a leash on his temper. What was Janice concocting against him now? He had apologized to her for being a surly bastard. What more did she want from him? He shot Muriel a heated glare. “Has Janice been black mouthing me to you, Muriel?”

“Of course not. You know she never would. I merely asked that question because Janice sincerely thinks that if you two separate from the rest of us, Lisette will follow and the rest of us will be safe.”

“She’s right of course. That will happen. But that also leaves both of us in a potentially dangerous position.”

“Yes,” Muriel agreed. “Janice believes the ghosts will quickly take over your physical bodies. She believes Lisette intends to consummate her love for the baron, thereby releasing both their souls.”

“And do you believe that?” Adrian asked, surprised to find himself banking on her answer. No, he chastised himself, he was really seeking her approval.

“The idea has merit, although I wouldn’t admit as much to Janice. She’s quite the bravest woman I’ve met in years. It’s not every woman who would sacrifice herself to a man to save people who were unknown to her only several hours ago.”

Adrian’s mood blackened and a deep scowl etched his eyebrows.

“Don’t you mean it’s not every woman who would sacrifice herself to me to save lives?”

“No, I didn’t mean that at all,” Muriel intervened. “I think you are quite the bravest man I’ve met next to Jasper.”

Adrian felt his lips twitch unexpectedly.

“Well, at least I’m in good company.”

“Be serious, Adrian. I need to know what you think. I’ve told Janice you won’t do it.”

“And I won’t.”

“Yes,” Muriel nodded at him. “You strike me as a man who relishes the feel of a woman. I don’t think your manly pride could stand making love to an unconscious woman.”

Adrian’s lips twitched to a broad grin.

“Guilty on all counts.” He found himself sobering suddenly. “And I don’t relish making love to a woman when I don’t know I’m doing it.”

“Exactly,” Muriel concurred, “then we’re both agreed. You and Janice will stay with the rest of us.” Adrian found himself nodding, although he wished he hadn’t when Muriel’s next words washed over him. “You’ll have to tell Janice. I haven’t the heart. I don’t think she will take it well. She seems sure that this is the only way to end this predicament. I’m not sure I don’t agree with her.”

“I’m not making love to Janice,” Adrian stated flatly.

“Yes, I can see you’ve quite made up your mind.” Muriel eased herself from the chair and Adrian came to his feet, gently taking her elbow. As he did so, she slanted a peek at him. “You know, of course, when you tell her, it will end any chance you have of winning her?”

“Winning her? “ He looked down at the eyes boring into his.

“She’ll never forgive you. And when the rest of us become victims like Ginger, she’ll do everything in her power to see that you pay for it.”

“Is she as bloodthirsty as all that?”

“This is not a laughing matter, Adrian. Think carefully before you turn down Janice’s suggestion. If, as she says, we are taken down like Ginger one by one, the result will be the same. You and she will be left alone to face Lisette and the baron.”

Adrian gripped Muriel’s elbow tighter.

“I’ll talk to her. I’ll judge for myself whether she’s got a point or not.”

“And if she does?”

“We’ll separate from the rest of you.” A long sigh emanated and Adrian sucked in his own breath. “No promises, Muriel. I think my answer will be the same. I’ll not make love to Janice.”

“Not even to save my life or Jasper’s?”

An ice-cold chill trickled up Adrian’s spine. Put so baldly, his words proved him to be a horse’s ass, uncaring and unfeeling. Did Muriel think him that way?

“I don’t intend you or Jasper to come to harm, Muriel. You have my word on it.”

Muriel gave a grave nod.

“Janice knows you far better than you realize. She said you’d do the right thing.” Adrian chuckled, and hearing his amusement, Muriel urged, “Now, don’t make me cross, Adrian. My part in this discussion is ended. You and Janice must make the decisions from here.”

“You’re washing your hands of us, eh?” He stepped forward and Muriel did the same.

“I should say so. Old folks should leave young folks to work out problems by themselves.”

“Yes, Grandma,” Adrian mocked. “Well, let’s go and see if we can convince Janice to give up this hysterical crap she’s suggesting.”

“I hope you’re going to be more subtle than that with her.”

“Of course.”

He saw her skeptical glance and pinched her arm good-naturedly.

“Trust me, Muriel. I’ll be discretion itself. C’mon.”

Chapter 19

SATURDAY — 4:30 AM

What was keeping Muriel? Surely a simple yes didn’t take a full five minutes. He was refusing to agree to her plan. That was all there was to it. Janice choked back a despairing sob, willing herself not to cry again. What would she do if Adrian refused? Lord, she hadn’t figured on that. She’d strike out on her own, that’s what. Then Adrian would have to follow her. Her runaway thoughts stopped in midstream as Janice felt nauseous at the thought of traveling the house alone. No, she wasn’t going anywhere in the house alone. No one could make her. As if to prove it, she snuggled deeper into the folds of her chair. Absently, she began to pluck at the textured arm. There had to be a way to convince Adrian she was right.

“How long have you been playing nursemaid?”

The crabby question startled Janice. Her head shot up and whipped around. Probing eyes met hers and she immediately sprang from her chair in relief. Across the way, Jasper shot to his feet, charging around the bedpost directly opposite her. In a flash, he was bending over Lloyd.

“How are you feeling?”

“As if the top of my head has been sawed off,” Lloyd exclaimed. “How long have I been out?”

Janice’s hand glided through the air to his shoulder.

“About thirty minutes.”

He gave another muttered groan and let his head sink deeper into the pillows. Janice knew he was experiencing the same feeling of disorientation and time lag as the rest of them.

“Feels like a century,” he remarked. He swiveled his head to keep Janice in view. A bleak look came into his eyes and he raked his fingers through his hair as if trying to push something aside. Seeing the movement, Janice tensed, steeling herself for the possibility of a recurring attack of madness. Madness was tricky, she knew. It could come and go at will, like the cushioning silence of fog. “Did I hurt anyone?” The question was sane and sensible and Janice felt an instant spark of relief. Lloyd couldn’t be going mad if he was worried about harming them.

“No,” Janice assured him quickly. “No one is hurt.”

“Thank God!” His relief was immense and so was Janice’s. For a brief moment, she felt invincible. Lloyd had beaten the evil mist at its own game, and if Lloyd could come back from the brink, there was hope for each of them when their turn came.

“Do you remember anything at all?” Jasper asked, dropping onto the edge of the bed and studying Lloyd’s face.

“I heard a snap in my head, followed by a tremendous flood of hate and an insatiable desire to kill someone … anyone … everything goes blank from there,” he finished.

“Are the voices still bothering your head, Lloyd?” Janice asked, trying to keep the conversation light and away from murders and mutilations.

“No, they’ve gone.” He rolled over and propped himself on his elbow and Janice saw him survey the shadows again. “I’ve got to see Ginger,” he muttered, suddenly. Again, Janice pushed him down into the pillows.

“Ginger’s fine, Lloyd. She’s in no pain.”

“It’s all my fault,” he stressed, grasping her fingers and pushing them away from his chest. “Don’t coddle me as if I need babysitting. I’m back among the living again. I won’t hurt you.” He struggled to a sitting position and Janice took a step back, stung by his sharpness.

“I never thought you would, Lloyd.”

He didn’t believe her. Janice could see it in the set of his chin and the scrutiny of his gaze on her face. His next words confirmed it.

“I’m no fool. You all think I planned this damn insanity — brought you here for it.”

“Lloyd, I assure you none of us believes that for a moment,” Janice stated.

“Janice is right,” Jasper added. “None of us believes this is your fault.”

“Lloyd, how wonderful to see you awake.” Janice turned, suppressing a sigh as Muriel breezed through the doorway and charged the bed, pleasure written all over her face at the sight of Lloyd sitting up and chatting. Rounding the bedpost, she flicked her fingers at Janice, who slid gracefully from the bed. “You’re looking much better, Lloyd,” she said. “We were so frightened for you. How are you feeling?”

He was ready with a curt reply.

“Spaced out.”

“Yes, well, you have a right to be. Your mind has certainly taken you for a ride.”

Janice saw Lloyd nod again and his shoulders slouched as he commented brusquely.

“I’m tired.”

“Of course you are,” Muriel soothed, “that’s why you’re going to take another short nap.” She reached for the coverlet and he started to object but her clucking defiance cut him off. Capitulating, he dragged his body back to the center of the bed, gave them all a brief smile, turned his head and closed his eyes.

“I’ll sit with him,” Janice offered.

“No, you go and sit with Adrian. He needs cheering up.”

Janice cast a glance over her shoulder to the doorway where Adrian lounged. He certainly didn’t seem as if he needed cheering up. He was watching the proceedings with his usual disinterested expression.

Reluctantly, Janice crossed the carpet. As she passed Adrian, she had the uncanny feeling she was going to be the one to need cheering up. By the look on his face, the next few minutes would not be pleasant. At least not for her. Behind her, she heard movement and knew he had hoisted himself from the doorframe. She quickened her steps.

Heading for the ottoman by the sofa, Janice reminded herself she could be very persistent when she chose and she had no intention of letting Adrian browbeat her into submission. She sank to the ottoman only to find her wrist snatched roughly and her body propelled back up and pushed toward the outside hallway.

“We can talk out in the hall,” Adrian stated.

They were out the door in seconds with Janice barely remembering how they got there. He was being polite, she noted, extremely polite. Intuitively, she sensed Adrian was at his deadliest when being extremely polite. What was she in for?

Stepping onto the corridor landing, Janice heard the door slam closed behind them. Deep inside, she heard a similar slam, as if the door to her heart had suddenly shut, too. She began shoring up her reasoning for the battle to come. What argument could she offer Adrian to make him see the sense in separating from the others?

Studiously, Janice looked out over the banister to the floor three stories below. The distance between hers and Adrian’s hearts was as far from where she stood to the ground floor below. How could she ever hope to win Adrian over when he so plainly refused to like her?

Beside her, Janice heard a cough and knew Adrian’s patience was wearing thin. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him begin to pace the corridor. He strode away, past pewter candlesticks and back again. He repeated the pattern a second time, his rapid pacing that of a caged animal, anxious for release. Yes, he resembled an animal ready to pounce while she was a coiled spring ready to snap. She withdrew her gaze from Adrian and searched the ceiling overhead again.

“Where do you suppose the mist will strike from next?” she asked, finally breaking the silence. Adrian halted his stride and gave her a dismissive shrug.

“It won’t for a while. We aren’t stressed enough yet. It’ll give us plenty of time to imagine the worst. It wants us to anticipate our downfall.”

“I understand the cloud’s behavior,” Janice stated. “As you say, the longer it stays away, the more effective its power over us. But what holds Lisette at bay? She knows I’m willing to help her.”

Adrian stopped pacing and perched his bottom on the banister rail. He hooked one leg around a brass pole to hold his balance. His countenance turned thoughtful before he announced brusquely:

“Fear.”

“Of her soul being snatched from her?” Janice saw Adrian’s nod. “No, I can’t buy that. It’s against all the principles I know to be true about the other side. Something else keeps her away.”

“Release of her soul is a pretty powerful hunger. Don’t underestimate it or her. In her own way, she’s as dangerous as the sparkling lights. It would be a good idea for you to remember that.”

Janice swung about, reflecting on Adrian’s remark. Lisette did have a powerful motive, she wasn’t denying that. So why lay back? What was Lisette really waiting for? Approval! The word flashed into Janice’s mind and her heart leapt in surprise. Yes, that was it. She was waiting for approval. Not hers but Adrian’s approval. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. Swinging back to Adrian, Janice couldn’t keep the eagerness from her tone.

“She’s waiting for you, Adrian. She knows you’re reluctant to help me. Until you agree, she’ll stay away.”

“She’ll have a long wait,” Adrian stated. “I have no intention of making love to you to get us out of here.”

Two hours ago, Adrian’s pronouncement would have thrilled her, but at the moment she found it disconcerting. Quite suddenly, she wondered what she had done to make Adrian change his mind. Muriel had been so sure that Adrian was attracted to her, she had let herself believe it too. Had Muriel been mistaken?

Janice quieted her racing thoughts. Who cared what Adrian thought? You do, her pride nagged stubbornly. Her marriage to Jimmy taught her that men never refused an offer of free sex, so why was Adrian turning her down?

When no satisfying answer came, Janice let the small of her back rest gently against the banister. She began to chew on her lower lip. She stole a peek at him out of the corner of her eye. Like her moments earlier, he was studying the ground floor below showing the same thoughtful intensity. She looked away. Why didn’t Adrian want to make love to her anymore?

“Janice?” He snapped his fingers to catch her eye. She picked up the threads of conversation instantly.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised. Muriel did warn me you would refuse.”

“How could you think I’d agree?” Adrian asked. He shifted his torso as if to relieve a knotted kink.

“I guess I thought you of all people would see the sense of it,” Janice replied.

“Sense! Where’s the sense of putting our minds purposely in danger?” As if shot from a cannon, Adrian hopped from the banister, sliding past Janice to an alcove surmounted with a huge Georgian shell. He fingered the shell absently. “If you were so eager for me to put my life in danger, why couldn’t you ask me first instead of going to Muriel? You’ve worried her unnecessarily.”

“I knew you wouldn’t agree if I asked you myself,” Janice argued. Foolishly, she found herself staring at the edges of the brass rail instead of Adrian. She began to finger it. “You’ve been as nasty as you can be to me. And all because of an image in your head. Though I didn’t put it there, you blame me for it. I went to Muriel because I thought she could accomplish what I never would. You seem so genuinely fond of her.”

“I am. And because I am, I don’t upset her needlessly.”

Janice flushed, hearing the censure in Adrian’s remark. Blast it! Why did he have to be right? She had been extremely inconsiderate of Muriel but it was just as rude of him to point it out. What did they do now? She stopped fingering the banister, coloring even more fiercely. She lifted her gaze and caught Adrian’s eye.

“I was wrong. I see it now. I’m sorry, Adrian. Fool that I am, I believed that you wanted this nightmare to end, too.”

“I do want it to end. Apparently more than you do.”

“How can you say that? I have a child waiting for me at home and the thought of never seeing her again hurts so much that I am willing to risk my sanity to get home to her.” Janice pushed her point. “If we separate from the others, you know the ghosts will follow, Adrian.”

“You’re damn right they will and so will our murderous friend. What’s to keep it from possessing one of us?”

“Lisette will.”

Intense astonishment stained Adrian’s face and Janice knew her words had floored him. Not to her surprise, he stopped fingering the shell and riffled his hair in exasperation.

“How can you stand there and tell me you’re putting your faith in a ghost who not more than a few hours ago displaced your mind and abused your body?”

“I don’t know but I am.”

Adrian’s fingers trailed down his temple.

“You’re nuts, you know that? As crazy as Marks in there.”

“Why? Because I’m willing to end this madness right now and you aren’t?”

“No. Because you’re willing to end it by giving yourself over to Lisette and the baron without a fight. And you expect me to do the same.”

“I don’t expect you to go willingly, Adrian.”

“That’s a relief. You’re not a total airhead!”

Janice shot up from the banister with an annoyed hiss. Why had Adrian’s jaded wit chosen this moment to resurface?

“You can’t fight off the baron, Adrian,” she snapped.

“I won’t know until I try. And neither will you.” He advanced a few steps toward her and Janice saw his hands arc through the air in emphasis. “We have the ship’s log and Lisette’s diary. They contain all we need to get out of here.”

Janice’s disdain turned quickly to exasperation. Was she the only one with any brains left between the two of them? Couldn’t he see they wouldn’t have time to decipher the logs? She took a deep breath, hoping to disguise her irritation long enough to reason sensibly with him.

“I don’t believe we’ll be allowed the time to decipher the logs. If we piece together the events in their correct sequence, we will have identified Lisette’s murderer. Knowing that, we will have the power to release her soul. The cloud isn’t going to let us get that far. No … ” Janice added, with a slight smile of defiance. “We’ve reached a dead-end here. What’s it going to take to make you see that? When Muriel’s mind is spun around like Lloyd’s? Or Jasper’s? And Ginger … ” Janice broke off, stepping forward. “Change your mind, Adrian, please! How can either of us be so selfish as to leave Ginger like that? Let’s separate from the others and save them. Let’s face the ghosts one on one. If we don’t, the others will be shut down and in the end, we will still face the ghosts one on one.”

She paused to catch her breath and Adrian seized the moment to comment brusquely.

“Suppose we both blackout and only one of us wakes up? Have you ever thought of that?”

Janice disguised her unease. She had thought of that. In fact, she thought the possibility was quite likely. But if she admitted as much to Adrian, he would never agree to help her. Mulishly, she remained silent, withstanding Adrian’s penetrating gaze without dropping her own.

“Has it ever occurred to you that we could both blackout and neither of us wakes up?” Adrian persisted.

Janice swung about, glancing back across the space to the red glow silhouetted in the stained glass panel. Death! At the word, a memory ruffled through her mind like wind on water and Janice deliberately let her mind run backward. A name lingered around the edges of her mind.

“For days after my sister Anna died, I had recurring visions of her standing at the edge of a lake. She was healthy and whole, no sign of the muscular dystrophy that had ravaged her body since birth. She stood waving at me … ” Janice felt the familiar prickle of tears. She swung around to find Adrian’s face a misty blur. “I wonder if you can imagine it. Anna standing. Anna who had never experienced a day without Mama forcing her little legs to try harder. Anna who only saw the world through a bedroom window. She was standing, Adrian. And each night in the vision she waved to me. And each night she was farther away from the edge of the lake and harder for me to see. I may have been only six years old but I suddenly knew what complete happiness was. I understood that in death Anna was free from pain and joyously happy. And she wanted me to know it.”

Janice felt her throat constrict and her gaze miraculously cleared, locking with Adrian’s. “A moment ago you wondered how I could conceive of putting my faith in a ghost. Anna’s the reason why. Anna’s soul was freed from physical torment and it was blissfully free to move on. Lisette seeks that same bliss, nothing more. And I don’t have the courage to deny her that. If our positions were reversed, she’d sacrifice herself willingly for me. I have to do the same. If I don’t, it would be as if I were betraying Anna somehow. Can you understand that?” Janice felt a hot tear slip down her cheek and swiped at it hastily. “Damn! I wish I wouldn’t cry when talking about Anna. It’s such a childish thing to do!” She whirled around, offering Adrian her back. It was bad enough when she cried in front of Bibi, but to cry in front of a man she hardly knew was just plain ridiculous. Quite suddenly, she felt a presence at her back and Adrian’s voice was oddly gentle as he echoed her own longings.

“If I agree to separate from the others, you must promise me that if there is another way out of this nightmare beyond the physical, you’ll take it.”

Janice whirled about, a smile breaking across her mouth.

“I’ll take it,” she promised. “Besides, I can’t imagine you want to make love with me anymore that I want to with you.”

“You underestimate your beauty, Janice. You really do.”

“Beauty?” Janice stuttered in surprise.

“Don’t fish for compliments! I know you own a mirror.” He pushed her toward the closed door. “And right now, your coyness is as scary as changing a flat tire on a congested freeway.”

“And obviously as popular as a tax increase.”

The tip of her shoulder was pushed roughly again.

“You’re giving me a King Kong headache, Miss Kelly. Open the door!”

Janice did as she was ordered, grasping the doorknob and pressing the door with her fingertips. When it refused to open, she jiggled the handle harder.

“It’s stuck.” She smacked the panel.

Strong hands thrust her roughly aside.

“Get out of the way.” Gripping the door handle, Adrian heaved his shoulder against the wood. A seam cracked, but the door remained tightly wedged. “Son of a bitch!”

Above her head, Janice felt the air stir and the hairs on the back of her neck felt the light prickle. Instant panic seized her and she muttered in Adrian’s ear.

“The door, Adrian! We’ve got to get inside. Hurry!”

Adrian slammed his shoulder against the door more forcefully but even though the seam cracked, adding a second stitch, the door held its placement. Tucking herself into the doorframe, Janice began to pound on the wood.

“Muriel! Jasper! Open the door!”

“Save your breath,” Adrian cautioned, stepping back in a hurry. He captured Janice’s hand and she realized he was experiencing a new stirring. Looking up, they both studied the cathedral ceiling overhead.

“Which one is it?” Janice asked. “Can you tell?” His guess never materialized as above their heads a purple flash ignited. “Oh, shit!”

“Right,” Adrian drawled quickly.

Jerking Janice forward, he bolted for the stairs, ignoring her pained yelp as he accidentally twisted her wrist. Before she knew it, they were barreling down the staircase like frenzied rabbits fleeing a pack of hungry foxes. Tripping onto the second level stairwell landing, Janice had no idea where they were heading. And at the moment, where didn’t matter. They had to find shelter. Lisette’s murderer was coming for them. She could tell by the smell and the ruptured hiss trailing down the staircase behind them.

Chapter 20

SATURDAY — 4:40 AM

Footsteps clattering down first one flight, then a second, Adrian could only hope that Janice was hot on his heels. He didn’t dare take time to look for her over his shoulder. They had to get away as far and as fast as they could from the roaring din swirling about their heads. Myriad garbled sounds, voices, murmurs, and poppings were thrumming like pigeon’s feet on a roof and each second that passed, the din grew louder and closer to them.

As if in a foot race, Adrian increased his pace down the stairs, taking the last two steps to the main floor in one jump. When sure of his footing, he twisted around in search of Janice only to find himself slammed back hard as she barreled into his chest, arms flailing. Thinking fast, he managed to lock his knees and capture her waist, miraculously keeping them both from crashing to the floor.

“Which way?” she gasped, clutching his shirt front with knotted fingers.

Adrian spun her around and shoved her toward the arched columns a few yards ahead of them.

“The back staircase,” he muttered between a labored gasp.

She whirled back around, eyes wide as saucers. From the look of alarm permeating her face, Adrian knew she hated the thought of thundering down another set of staircases. Her legs probably felt as bad as his, the leg muscles cramping from the sudden, fevered use. Still, he hardened his heart. They had only one option — to keep moving until they could find a safe hiding place.

Snatching her hand, he bolted down the corridor and shot through the columns only to skid to a halt as disjointed sounds and strangled groans began to mewl and wail in the distance ahead. Out of the sounds, Adrian saw the showering sparkle of purple lights.

“Wily bastard,” he snarled. He gave a quick glance left and right, searching for any feasible bypass they could use to outfox the lights. Finding none, he whirled, hauling Janice back through the columns and into the front hall of the house again.

Reaching the southern staircase, the pair began a rapid climb back the way they had come. Hitting the second level, Adrian veered off sharply, racing down a side corridor and into the back part of the chateau. The yammering mewls were muffled from their hearing and Adrian wished he had the breath to waste on a hearty thank you. But he couldn’t. They had to take advantage of their good fortune by continuing to distance themselves from the lower levels.

Once again, Adrian veered off sharply, ducking into yet another side corridor and new staircase. Reaching it, he started up, taking the steps two at a time. For two levels, he felt Janice shadowing him closely and then her foot must have miscalculated a step because he heard her stumble. Stopping dead in his tracks, he whirled, hoping to right her before she crashed into the banister. Miraculously, she regained her footing without his help and flashed past him, on up the staircase to the next level. Adrian overtook her at the top and began to rush them down a corridor back to the front of the house. In tune again, they tore through the second floor corridor, past the solarium into the connecting hallway. Adrian could only hope their erratic dash had confused their tracker. Jesus, forget their tracker. He was confused. He had no earthly idea where they were or where they were headed.

Rounding into the south third floor wing, Adrian felt a stabbing pain in his chest and knew his lungs were caving in. They were stressed to the max and screaming to shut down. Drawing up, he bent over and gave into a spasm of hacking coughs. The coughs elicited a sharp twinge between his shoulder blades and he shot upright again, clutching his chest. Jesus, now the muscles on the right side of his ribcage were screaming for relief. He rubbed the sore spot vigorously, feeling his heartbeat thumping erratically in his chest. Suddenly remembering Janice, he glanced over his shoulder to see how she was faring.

She was sitting on a marble bench off to the left, her hands tugging at the neckline of her sweater. Even disheveled and out of breath, she was a knock-out. Her cheeks were scarlet from the climb and her hair was a tangled web etched around her head. Thanks to their frantic dash, her colorful hair clips had literally gone with the wind. She licked her lips and swallowed hard, and Adrian fought down an urge to cross the space and sweep her into his arms. He thrust the thought away, cursing himself. Why was he thinking of kissing Janice when he should be thinking of escape?

Escape! The word triggered his adrenalin and he came alive. Though they were both exhausted, he knew they couldn’t spare another moment to rest. Not now. They had only two flights left to hide in and he didn’t like the absolute silence that now surrounded them. Their stalker was up to a new trick. He could feel it along the edges of his mind.

Holding out his hand, Adrian summoned Janice with a wiggle of his fingers. She took one look at his hand and shook her head.

“Leave me. I can’t climb another step.”

Right, he was going to leave her. What kind of horse’s ass did she think he was? He saw her cradle her head with one trembling hand and wave him away with the other. Adrian strode to the bench.

“Get up, Janice. Get up or you’re going to die!” His words washed over her as if never spoken. She remained impassive, choosing to ignore the warning. Didn’t she care that they got away from the stalking cloud of lights? Labeling the thought absurd, Adrian bent over, stretched his arm across her shoulder and barked a more serious warning. “Get on your feet, Janice, or that precious daughter of yours will be an orphan by morning!” She bolted from the bench immediately, all signs of exhaustion submerged. She looked to him for directions and he managed a tight smile for her. “Don’t count us out yet. We have time on our side. We don’t have to transform matter to get where we’re going. It does.”

Grabbing her elbow, he steered her forward and they were on their way again, mind and bodies finally moving through the space together. Reaching the fifth floor columned arches, Adrian caught a whiff of a sharp, carbolic odor and drew up. The smell reminded him of sweat and piss, and he drew Janice into the protection of his arm. Ahead, through the arches, a barricade of sparkling lights stretched itself from wall to wall.

“Clever bastard!” He felt Janice’s shiver of unease and encouraged softly. “Relax. We’ll outsmart it.”

“I don’t see how,” she stuttered. Her fingers inched up his shirt and Adrian stilled them.

“I thought you wanted to face the ghosts one on one,” he stated. “Well, here we are.”

“I never thought we’d actually have to do it.”

“Now, you tell me,” Adrian quipped. He pushed Janice from his arms. “Let’s see how badly it wants to stop us. When I say go, pretend to head back to the stairs. The cloud should follow. That will open up the corridor ahead of us. The chapel’s beyond. Make for it.”

Spinning on her toes, Janice swung out of his arms. Immediately, the barricade of light dissipated as Adrian hoped it would. It wanted Janice, wanted her badly. Following his instructions, Janice whirled on her toes and shot past him. The corridor had been left open but Adrian didn’t discount the cloud’s intelligence. It would see their ruse and be back with a vengeance. Swiveling around, he dashed after Janice. In seconds, he was tailing her closely and protecting her back.

The last fifty yards to the chapel door were the longest thirty seconds of his life. At every step, Adrian expected to be showered with sparkling lights and knocked unconscious. Or worse, killed outright. When he reached the chapel doors unharmed, he thrust out his arms, slammed the door open and barreled inside. Janice sailed in on his heels, and as one, they spun and slammed the doors closed with a heavy swipe. The resounding clang echoed unbelievably loud in the silence of the sanctuary, causing Adrian to grind his bottom teeth into his lower lip. Next to him, Janice gave an involuntary shudder and collapsed against the door.

Following suit, Adrian leaned his forehead on the wooden frame, grateful for their good luck. Behind him, he could hear Janice’s sudden wracking coughs. They were winded but they were alive. At least for the moment. Hoisting himself around, he found Janice staring at him between coughs.

“Why the chapel?” she stammered.

Adrian flushed, wondering if he dared tell her the truth. Why not? He couldn’t appear any more foolish to her than he already did.

“Let’s just say, I foolishly believe that the devil won’t set foot in God’s house.”

To his amazement, she seemed impressed with that answer and nodded at him with complete understanding. She followed the nod with a flashing smile.

“If there’s a joke in all this, I sure would like to hear it,” he said.

He hands arced up and swept toward the pew, altar and crucifix.

“God’s house … marriage … vows … Lisette … the baron … you … me.” She began to laugh then and her laughter held a sharp edge. Adrian caught the irony immediately. They had exchanged one danger for another just as likely to take their lives. He didn’t find the irony amusing in any way. Her laughter changed abruptly into an unexpected sob and Adrian darted across the space and gathered her close to him. He shook her shoulders in a firm warning.

“Don’t fall apart on me now, Janice. I need you. It’s going to take both our minds to outwit the ghosts.”

She sobered at his warning and pushed herself from his arms. Her fingernails tapped his chest.

“I’m not going to crack. At least I think I’m not. I hope I’m not.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and there was a trace of laughter in her voice once more as she teased. “I hope you’re taking notes on the spirit’s performance. The illusion is simply spectacular. You could probably use parts of it in your act.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“No, I mean it. That barricade of light was simply smashing. Think of it under stage lights. The effect would be mesmerizing.”

“Thanks for the advice but my act already has a finale with laser lights.”

“Erotic and sexy, I’ll bet,” Janice added lightly.

“And all of it done with the use of satin sheets,” Adrian remarked. He let his glance become lazily seductive as it traveled up and down her long-legged, slender form. His scorching gaze brought a fresh flush of color to her cheeks and he saw her shiver at the husky tone of his voice. Had that been a trembling thrill he noticed? Was she hungry for his touch and unaware of it? He stilled an impulse to reach out and gather her in his arms again, this time to do more than calm her fraying nerves.

Turning his gaze to the avant-garde crucifix over the altar, he wondered if he found Janice so desirable because she was so unattainable. No. His need for her ran deeper than that.

It was more compelling than sexual fulfillment. It crossed more barriers than just the flesh. And because it did, it stabbed his heart to know that when this hell was over she would leave him. Carefully, he blocked his mind from the cutting edge of loneliness that thought brought and tried to concentrate on the Stations of the Cross along the chapel wall.

Janice’s laugh was like a whinny when it came, her smile singularly sweet.

“Muriel is right. Your jaded wit can be highly entertaining.” She left him then, sliding into the back pew closest to the door. Quickly, her fingers shot to her hair, attempting to restore the curls to some semblance of sanity. Working out the kinks, she shot Adrian a serious glance.

“What do we do now?”

He moved to the pew opposite her, dropping down with a groan. He offered her a wry smile and a shrug.

“We wait.”

Chapter 21

SATURDAY — 4:50 AM

Stroking his chin, Jasper carefully regarded the gold doorknob. Why he thought that the door would budge under his forceful prodding this time when it had refused to budge the last five times was a mystery to him. The door was firmly sealed from the outside and they were very cleverly trapped on the inside. No use lamenting, no use pushing or prodding it. The ghosts had tired of waiting on them. They now had every intention of ending the cat and mouse game currently underway. Janice’s prediction showed every sign of coming true. They would be shut down one by one in the next few minutes.

But why? Jasper couldn’t imagine — well, he could — but since only crazy dogs sat uselessly baying at the moon, he decided he wasn’t wasting his energy worrying when he might need that energy for something more important, like his and Muriel’s survival. Something was coming, something bad. Every nerve ending in his body told him so. What had happened to Adrian and Janice?

A tattoo along his right temple had him suddenly wincing. Drat, he had been concentrating so hard on piercing through the wood to find the couple that he had given himself a headache. And his precognition was blocked again, as if a shutter lens had suddenly closed to block out rays of glaring understanding. He didn’t know where Adrian or Janice were — couldn’t sense their life forces. But he did know one thing. His mind was being manipulated to keep the couple’s whereabouts a secret from him.

Raising his gaze to the ceiling, Jasper listened to the silence surrounding them. Was the invisible tension in the air part of his mind blockage? It had to be. Otherwise, he’d be able to sense Muriel probing his mind for answers. Quickly, he dropped his gaze and found her. Immediately, he saw the two deep lines of worry between her brows. Seated beside Ginger’s sleeping form, her head was slightly bowed as she remained in an attitude of frozen stillness. She looked tired and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. He was usually so in tune with her life force that it was hard to tell where she ended and he began.

She sat staring at Ginger but Jasper knew she wasn’t really seeing the girl at all. She was working out their new predicament in her head. Her unseeing stare signified it. Whether mildly disturbed or severely rattled, Jasper knew she had the power to shut down, go inside herself and seek God’s solace and answer. He envied her that trait. For all his ministerial prowess, he was unable to connect with God’s solace by the same method. By the look on her face, he guessed she was worrying about Janice and Adrian’s disappearance. He had to admit she had reason. He was more than worried himself.

Unsettled by her intense concentration, Jasper had a sudden inexplicable feeling of emptiness. For a brief moment, his senses warned him he was going away from Muriel. Was his death imminent? Was that why his mind was blocked? To shut off the knowledge from him? He murmured a prayer of hope that his senses were wrong. He didn’t want to leave Muree. Not quite yet.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he shelved his worry and crossed the small distance to the ottoman where Muriel sat. He wedged himself into the seat next to her. His touch on her elbow was light, yet protective.

“They’ll be all right,” he said, quietly.

Not to his surprise, she came out of her reverie, understanding his words without interpretation. She scanned his face, feature by feature.

“Can you sense them, Jasper?”

“No. I’m being blocked out. I can’t read any life force, not even yours.”

She must have sensed the hidden worry in his word because Jasper found his hand clutched tightly. Her voice was patient and encouraging.

“It’s not so surprising really. You pose the biggest danger to the spirit. With your ability to tell when it’s crossing over, it can’t use the element of surprise on us.” She leaned her forward, her voice turning overly serious. “You’ve changed a lot of people’s lives by pretending you can’t read their future, Jasper. And I love you for it. But this is not the time to be silent. You must force your mind past the blockage. I’m worried for Janice. If forced to, she will sacrifice herself to the spirits to save us. She may have already.”

Jasper dismissed the thought with an airy wave of his hand though his expression grew thoughtful.

“She’s with Adrian, and he will see to it she doesn’t do anything foolish.”

“I’m not so sure. Janice was going to convince him they must separate from the rest of us.”

“Yes, I heard.”

She directed a stare at him that spoke volumes about eavesdroppers.

“Then you already know Adrian said he wouldn’t agree, but what if he had no choice?” They’d both heard Janice’s frantic screaming through the wooden door earlier. Even now in his own head, he could hear the panicked shout followed by a desperate pounding on the doorframe. “You heard her voice, Jasper,” Muriel continued, “she was scared. Something was happening to them out there. If only we knew what it was.” She lifted her eyes, seeking his comfort and Jasper immediately caught her hand in his. He squeezed her fingers with more encouragement that he actually felt.

“Adrian’s not about to let anything happen to Janice. You’ve seen the way he looks at her. His eyes smolder with passion one minute, brim with tenderness the next. Unless I read him wrong, and I haven’t,” he stressed quietly. “Adrian will sacrifice his life for Janice if it comes to that.”

Muriel nodded dubiously.

“Janice can be quite persuasive. And quite stubborn.” Without warning, she lifted her fingers and caressed his cheekbone. “I love you, Jasper. Have I told you that today?”

Jasper’s pulse skittered in response and he drank in the comfort of her nearness.

“In every glance you gave me, Muree.” Unexpectedly, he found himself stilling her fingers, flipping her hand over and pressing a kiss in the center of her palm. “This isn’t exactly how I envisioned this trip would turn out,” he commented. “I was hoping we’d have some romantic moments together.”

Her gentle laugh rippled in the air.

“Why, Jasper, we’re literally surrounded by romance. Ghosts have traveled across time to rekindle a love that was lost and two young people we just met have fallen madly in love and don’t know it yet. And we’ve been locked in a room together with two bedrooms. Now, if that isn’t romantic, I don’t know what is.”

Jasper threw back his head and snorted good-naturedly. God, he did so love Muree’s Pollyanna sense of humor. In a flash, a busted laugh joined his and he cradled her into the circle of his arms. Spirits soaring, he kissed the tip of her nose, then her eyes, and finally, his lips descended and captured her mouth.

At first her lips were warm and pliant beneath his and then like a sudden blast of icy wind, her lips turned cold and she pulled away. She raised a hand to shelter her eyes from him and Jasper had the uncanny sensation of emptiness again. Something’s coming, something bad. The warning had him almost jumping out of his skin. He leaned forward, knotting his fingers with Muriel.

“What’s going on, Muree? Tell me.” Her gaze never left his face but Jasper sensed a slight withdrawal from her. “Are you ill?” he prodded again, this time more urgently.

She shook her head.

“Not ill, experiencing pain.”

Something’s coming, something bad. The words seemed to reverberate like an echo down a well. He let go her hands, his palms suddenly beginning to sweat.

“How long?” he quizzed. “What kind of pain?”

“I’m having difficulty concentrating,” she murmured as she raised her hand to her temple to massage the flesh. “I’m short of breath and I feel an odd draining of energy, as if someone’s trying to pull open a locked door.”

Offering his unspoken support, Jasper touched her elbow lightly. A sharp gasp burst from her throat at the touch. Her body twitched once, twice, and then stiffened with a taut jerk. In the next instance, she threw her hands up in front of her face as if to barricade herself from some unseen presence.

“Crossover.”

The word startled Jasper as she toppled forward, sinking into a sudden, total blackout.

Lightning-quick, Jasper made a dive for her slumping body. He absorbed the weight of her fall, and neatly hoisted her up and about, settling her into the deep green cushions of his vacated chair. Wrapping his fingers around her pulse point, he sought entrance to her thoughts.

He met fire. Angry fire. Waves of it. Reeling under the invisible heat, he pulled his mind back and frantically shouted toward the doorframe to his left.

“Lloyd!”

Waiting for no response, his gaze returned to Muriel, attempting to connect the mind link again. He had to know if she was all right. He shut his eyes, driving his mind deep into hers. A second later, his mind collided with two life forces instead of the one he expected.

Feeling the power of the presence, he tried to force the alien entity out of Muriel’s mind. Instead, he found himself taking the brunt of a savage fire bolt along his forehead. His physical body jerked backwards, as if stung. The entity wanted him out, would drive him out if he resisted.

Well, he wasn’t going. He wouldn’t leave Muriel to the mercy of such blind rage.

Steeling himself, Jasper pushed his energy into overdrive, fighting to keep his mind linked to Muriel’s. Shock. Anger. Fury. Hostility. Sensation after sensation of pure hate hit him, yet Jasper refused to drop his mental barriers. He intended to block the alien link with just as much force as it was blocking his.

Little by little, through the stabbing pressure, Jasper began to perceive random thoughts. The entity was furious, had been thwarted in some way. Jasper tried to fathom the impulses. Perhaps if he delved past the unintelligible thought patterns. He tried and it worked. A vivid image of a cross flashed across his mind’s eye, almost severing his mind link. He threw up another mental barrier against the pain, and immediately tried to bring the image into focus. It came this time, a pure, strong shimmering shape of God’s cross.

Suddenly, Jasper understood. A cross could only mean one thing. Janice and Adrian were safe, had taken refuge in the chapel one floor above. Somehow, miraculously, they had escaped the spirit’s wrath and had bought precious time by hiding themselves away.

Now having been shut out by the pair, the spirit was intending to exact revenge on the remaining trio. Another searing bolt of pain rocked his forehead and he knew the spirit had deciphered and understood his own thoughts.

Gritting his teeth, Jasper shifted his mind and energy to locate Muriel. Their minds collided, held for a moment, then severed completely. Bounced from the mind link, Jasper attempted to bring one firm thought pattern with him. The one that came tore at his heart.

Muriel was wilting under the spirit’s ongoing pressure and in her weakened physical state, he knew her ability to hold on was doubtful. The spirit’s hammering impulses would be too much for her. Somehow he had to short-circuit the spirit’s power. But what could he try?

He had no time to find out as he felt his shoulders jerked back roughly. The mind link severed completely, bringing Jasper back to the physical room around him. Something was shaking him so ferociously, he lost his grip on Muriel’s wrist. In his ear, he heard Lloyd’s crazed snarl.

“For God’s sake, man, what’s going on?”

Jasper ignored the question. He had no time to explain. He had to re-establish the mind link with Muriel. Recapturing her wrist, he clamped down, seeking entrance. He found none and he groaned as a fearful image began to build in his head. Muriel’s breath cut off. Muriel’s mind fluttering away. Muriel lost and broken. He pressed down on the pulse point, praying for a sign of entrance.

Her eyes flew open at his touch and, stunned, Jasper withdrew his mind. He took a small step back and felt a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. Something’s coming, something bad. Hatred blazed in the blue eyes probing his and a voice that seemed to come from a long distance emerged loud and clear from Muriel’s throat.

“You cannot stop me,” the voice warned with cool authority.

The words washed over him, stinging his senses, and Jasper realized what Muriel’s last, mysterious word “crossover” had meant. Before him now sat, not Muriel, but Lisette’s murderer. The throaty voice spoke again without inflection.

“You cannot stop me. Do not try.”

Disconcerted, Jasper took another step back. Beside him, Lloyd did the same. Neither spoke but they both knew the entity was beyond intimidation. It had no intention of letting them fall from its spell. Muriel’s lips parted in a curved stiff smile and Jasper heard a deep breath punctuated with several even gasps. Then the voice ordered belligerently.

“I want the woman you are protecting from me.”

Jasper answered quickly, hoping to stem the spirit’s increasing hostility.

“We don’t know what happened to her.”

The spirit twisted Muriel’s face into an expression of loathing and Jasper’s heart chilled at the disfigurement. Again, the voice spoke, this time its tones filled with cold contempt.

“You lie. My thoughts have been yours. You know the woman is above. With the man who guards her from me. You can summon the man through your mind. I saw you do it one time.”

Jasper offered no comment. Beside him, Lloyd offered a brusque warning.

“Don’t tell it a damn thing. It’s bluffing.”

Jasper thought so, too, but at the moment they had to be cautious. Muriel’s hand arced to her chest, her fingers clawing at the region as if intending to rip the chest cavity open.

“You will summon the man and woman from above or I will harm the woman’s body further. She is weak, but I can prolong her pain as I choose.” To prove the threat, Muriel’s body pitched forward and slammed back with a vicious jerk. Immediately, her fingers fluttered to her head and sharp gasps burst from her throat.

Sickened by the defilement, Jasper didn’t know how he managed to keep from launching himself across the space to Muriel’s side. Probably because he knew without doubt that the spirit would terminate her life before Jasper could reach her. Still, he knew he mustn’t back down from the spirit, so he shoved his hands into his pants pocket and hunched his shoulders forward. Eyes darkening with pain, he spoke in a suffocated whisper.

“Release my wife and I will summon the woman you seek.”

Jasper felt an iron grip on his arm.

“It’s bluffing, do you hear? If it weren’t, it would have already killed Muriel. Don’t let it feed off your concern for her. Make no promises. Let’s see the bluff out.”

Jasper removed Lloyd’s iron grip from his arm.

“Stay out of this. I know what I’m doing.” Jasper faced the spirit again. “You will release the woman you hold or we will not help you,” he stated calmly.

At his decree, a resounding mewl spewed from Muriel’s lips, and to Jasper’s horror, Muriel’s body was yanked to its feet. From the very air above, a circle of lights began to cascade down. An icy blast of wind followed, hitting the pair full force. They fell back at the assault, and then thinking better of it, both men planted their feet firmly on the carpet and stood their ground.

Behind them, as if propelled by an explosive force, the hallway door tore from its hinges and slammed to the floor with a walloping thud. The sound animated the whirling cyclone of lights. In a flash, it had propelled Muriel by them and through the door, leaving the air above the men’s heads filled with deafening cracks of thunder.

The pair leaped through the door, in full pursuit of the cyclone. Through the corridor, down the staircase, the cyclone kept the lead. Jasper and Lloyd stayed close on its heels and before Jasper knew it, they had descended two floors and were entering the second level portrait gallery. The circle of lights sped to the south end of the room, subsiding its mewling as it stopped before the portrait of Lisette.

The men followed at a more leisurely gait, cautious of drawing too close to the spirit in its present whirlwind. And then the swirling lights turned opaque and offered Muriel’s plump form to their view again. Simultaneously, the cloud shifted to the left side of the portrait and boasted arrogantly.

“I would hear from your lips the name of the woman in the portrait. If you can tell me, I will release the woman I hold.”

“It’s a portrait of Lisette,” Lloyd whispered swiftly.

The cloud spoke again, this time its tone held a rasp of excitement.

“Be careful of the name you call out. It is possible to see what is not there. Your eyes may deceive your mind.”

“It’s full of shit,” Lloyd said strongly.

Jasper studied the portrait before them. No, not this time. The spirit was in deadly earnest. He strode forward and examined the portrait more closely. The woman etched in oil was a vivid beauty with crackling red hair. For a moment, he could see how Janice could be mistaken for her. Their hair colors were exact. But there he thought the similarity ended. The woman in the portrait had a wild quality about her whereas he knew firsthand Janice’s nature was compellingly serene. Was the portrait of Lisette? He didn’t know. If only he could pierce the canvas. Sense the model.

“Arretez! Stop! I forbid it!” The command was like a thunderous cannon echoing on the battlefield, and at first, Jasper thought the spirit hurled it at him. And then he saw it. The portrait before them began changing, the colors seeping and bleeding into each other. “Stop!” The cry came again and this time, Jasper was physically thrown aside, out of the cloud’s path. It swirled before the canvas, ordering loudly. “You will stop! I demand it!”

Righting himself with Lloyd’s help, Jasper kept his eyes glued to the portrait. The colors were dissipating through the pores of the canvas faster, replaced by a new set of colors saturating the fabric from the reverse side.

“Non, you will not have him!” The voice raised an octave and then faded to a hushed stillness. Soon, a keening wail emerged from the center of the cloud. The wail was so tormented Jasper could almost feel the spirit’s pain within his own mind. The colors were finally settling in the portrait. Through the pores, a new portrait was forming. All at once, Jasper felt his mind open up. Across the darkness, images and thoughts one after the other began to bombard him.

At first, the thoughts were disconnected, a curious form of double think, and then he was given one cold, lucid thought that replayed sickeningly in his head. Tuning into it, he suddenly knew what was coming. There, just around the corner of his mind, he caught a glimpse of the swimming future. As he picked up the strings of time, memories from the past opened before him like a curtain drawn back on a string.

And just like that, Jasper knew the identity of Lisette’s murderer. Saw the undeniable truth. He cast a curious look at the circle of lights pulsing nearby. How wonderful to hold the key to the terrible secret at last.

Chapter 22

SATURDAY — 5:00 AM

Seated on the lower slab of altar steps, Adrian wished he wasn’t so damn bad at waiting. Since his declaration that they would wait the spirit out, the silence in the chapel had grown oppressive, making his insides feel like a taut cable wire. Though he hadn’t been to church in years, he still believed in an all-powerful God, and right now he didn’t think God would approve of them using his house of worship as a battleground. But what else could they do? They were safe nowhere else in the house. No crawlspace or corner would keep them immune from the cloud of sparkling light.

Frustrated, he rubbed his forehead. He had to think of a plan — any plan. However, he was currently devoid of ideas. And concentrating with such fervor to find one only forced his head to ache. He let his gaze do a long, slow slide to the chapel doors at the rear of the aisle way. What was the cloud’s next trick? Would it be a fiendish revenge for their success in outwitting it so far?

He heard movement nearby and remembered he wasn’t alone in his apprehension. Janice was exhibiting her fair share of nerves. In fact, her restless pacing back and forth in front of him was getting under his skin. With each turn of the room, her edginess raised a few more notches. Well, it was understandable. Fear of the unknown was knotting his own stomach. Should he reassure Janice? No, he didn’t think it would calm either of their strained nerves. Anyway, he wasn’t sure he wanted Janice to be calm. Fear kept the senses heightened and if Janice were scared, she wouldn’t relax her mind. For the last few minutes, he couldn’t chase away the unsettling thought that if either of them dropped the barriers of their minds to a relaxed state, their attacker would seize the opportunity to overwhelm them.

Adrian watched a flash of blue streak by his line of vision again. Sweet Jesus, the silence around them was enough to give anyone the screaming meemies. A blue pant leg flashed by again, striding away and then back again. Adrian stretched one leg out, barring Janice’s path.

“Stop. You’re making me dizzy.”

She stood there, facing him, but managing not to look directly at him.

“Sorry. I keep thinking that if I don’t keep moving, my mind will be snatched away.”

They were on same wavelength, Adrian thought. Both sensed the same danger. Both knew the consequences. Adrian cocked his arm and patted the cold marble slab beside him.

“Come sit down. Let me entertain you.” She hesitated, a momentary look of unease crossing her face. Adrian grinned, patting the slab beside him again. “C’mon. I don’t mean what you think. I’m not going to touch you. I thought we might wile away the time with a little magic.” Sighing, she plopped down beside him, wrapping her arms around her knees and casting him an attentive glance. Adrian reached out his hand. “Your compass, please.” She forked it over quickly. As his fingers collided with the plastic, a mewling wail screeched beyond the chapel doorway, rattling the nails on its hinges, and sending both of their glances to the back of the chapel in alarm. Behind their heads, the stained glass windows began to vibrate under the bellowing wail.

“Sweet Jesus!” Janice muttered, grasping Adrian’s arm and huddling closer to him.

Adrian’s head whipped around, stunned to hear his favorite vulgarity leave her lips. She had been around him too long — not only was she thinking like him, she was starting to swear like him. He switched the compass to his left hand and the mewl hissed away, cascading over their heads like the hum of live power wires. Adrian squashed an urge to duck under the invisible heat. It wouldn’t do to let the spirit sense their agitation. He listened to the silence that fell instead. When no other sound taunted them, he wrapped his fingers around the compass and turned to Janice, clearing his throat.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted.” He raised his hand, flashing the compass at Janice, who nodded. Sure of her attention, he rhythmically moved his fingers, making the compass vanish from his right hand to his left and back again. He heard her swift intake of breath and explained, “The one thing that makes an act better than average is showmanship. Showmanship makes the ordinary extraordinary. This is called the French Drop.”

Adrian began a series of now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t swaps. As his fingers flexed through the motions, he felt an unexpected surge of enjoyment. It was good to see a face register obvious pleasure in his illusion. It made him feel young again, when as a boy, the joy of magic had been the center of his universe. He had done magic for the love of it then. It helped take away the edge of his loneliness. With one last flow of his fingers, he raised both hands to Janice, displaying empty palms. She inhaled sharply.

“How did you do that?”

Adrian lowered his hands.

“Tricks of the trade.”

“No, really, Adrian, where is the compass?”

Adrian’s lips tilted in a boyish smile, liking the way her eyes sparkled at him with a combination of disbelief and eagerness. He leaned forward, his right hand searching her left ear. Pulling back his hand, he revealed the compass once more to her. She tore it from his grasp. Wonder filled her voice as she turned it over in her palm.

“How did you do that? I was watching carefully.”

Adrian’s mouth snaked to a wry grin.

“Obviously not close enough.”

She seemed to accept that answer, though she didn’t look up at him again. Instead, she continued staring at the compass and twirling it. Adrian wondered what she found so intriguing to think about.

“What happened to you, Adrian? What happened to you to make you so jaded and cynical about life?”

She asked the question with such sincerity and caring that Adrian responded unexpectedly with the truth.

“Death. That’s what happened to me.”

Her head shot up then, her glance searching his.

“You lost someone you loved very much?”

Adrian tore his gaze from her searing one, to a point beyond her right shoulder.

“Not just someone. Everyone. My life is one long trail of people dying and me moving on. I never knew my parents. They were killed in a sailing accident. I was washed up with the boat wreckage and eventually found by a retired sea captain. Life was good back then. He loved me a lot. No one’s ever loved me that way since, not even my ex-wife.” His gaze sought Janice’s face and he noticed her expression was pained, as though she had been wounded. His laugh sounded broken even to his ears.

“He recognized my gift of second sight long before I did and encouraged it. He saw how good I was with my hands. Taught me what little magic he knew. The rest came from books. He said it would help to ease the loneliness of living with a crusty old bachelor.” Adrian smiled, suddenly amused. “He was right, the old salt. Magic became the center of my universe.”

“You saw his death coming, didn’t you?”

Adrian dropped his gaze, scanning the slim fingers caressing the compass.

“Yes. I suppose being the foolish boy I was back then, I thought my gift could overpower death. It was a devastating moment for me when I realized I couldn’t save him.”

Reaching over, Adrian plucked the compass from Janice’s fingers and began to flip it in and out of his palm. She watched the nervous gesture a moment before commenting softly.

“I once saw a film where a character said how we face death is as important as how we face life. That thought stuck with me for a long time. In a small way, it wormed its way into my paintings, which in turn have given meaning to a lot of people who can’t cope with their lives as they are.”

Adrian spun the compass between his fingers. He ventured a subtle question.

“What would you tell a patient haunted by visions of a red-headed woman?”

Her reply was husky.

“Was it as bad as all that, Adrian?”

Adrian lifted his gaze from the compass.

“No, actually your image was comforting. I could always rely on it, no matter how many foster homes I was moved to. It would go away for months, but, like the proverbial bad penny, it always came back.”

Slim fingers plucked the compass from his grasp and Adrian twisted his head to find Janice staring at him pensively.

“I don’t suppose this will mean much to you coming from me, Adrian, but my sister Bibi saw your act in Vegas last year. She talked about it for months afterwards. Tonight at the rehearsal, I saw what impressed her so. Watching your illusions, I never felt so connected to the beauty of sight, sound and movement. And the others in the room felt it, too.” She pinned him with a long, silent scrutiny and though he wanted to look away, Adrian found he couldn’t. She was mesmerizing him with her sexy, husky contralto. “You’ve been blessed, Adrian, though you can’t see it. And you’re luckier than most. Some people never find anyone to love or anyone to love them. You’ve been loved by a sea captain, a wife, and an adoring public.” Adrian felt her open his palm and drop the compass into its center. He looked down at the fingers curling his own over the plastic and took comfort from the warmth. “You’re a nice man, Adrian Magus,” she murmured, “and all your barbed insults can’t ever make me dislike you again.”

She removed her fingers, leaving him to stare at the compass in his palm. He felt a strange wetness forming behind his eyes and willed it away.

“You’re one hell of a counselor, Doctor.” He closed his fist and cleared his throat. “You’d make one hell of a lap dog.”

She gave a bright laugh and Adrian swung about, depositing the compass on the floor in front of them.

“Now,” he grinned boyishly, “here comes my best trick yet.”

Janice bent down, wrapping her arms around her knees, her attention glued to the compass.

Adrian raised his hands confidently, feeding off her excitement. Abruptly, the compass vanished, replaced by a small book. Adrian’s fingers froze in place.

“What the hell? … ”

“That’s amazing, Adrian!” Janice exclaimed with a clap of her hands.

He cut her off with a growl.

“I didn’t do that. I can’t manipulate matter.”

She panicked at once, inching closer to him with a gasp and quickly scanning the air around them.

“Who did it then?”

The question needed no answer. They both knew who had done it. Adrian reached out and picked up the book. Absently, he flipped through the pages.

“What is it?” Janice asked, peering over his arm curiously.

“Lisette’s diary.”

She snatched the book from his fingers and Adrian suppressed a desire to snatch it back. What was this new trick sent their way? Janice began flipping pages, scanning the passages.

“The answer is here, Adrian,” she declared. “Why else would Lisette transfer the book to us here?”

“We don’t know it was Lisette.”

“I know,” Janice stated. “Like Muriel said before, when we are slow to act, the ghosts push us along.”

Adrian wrenched the book from Janice’s fingers.

“I tell you there’s nothing here.” He flipped through the pages with annoyance. “It’s a typical diary, filled with romantic, fairytale notions about Prince Charming.” Adrian sent Janice a side-ways squint. “In this case, call Prince Charming the Baron Dumas.”

She yanked the book from his fingers once more.

“We just haven’t seen the clue, that’s all.”

Adrian swiped the book back.

“I tell you there’s nothing here. Just a lot of female gibberish about living happily ever after. Lisette was a typical ditz.” His gaze scanned the last pages of the journal, studying the sporadic passages of writing. “At least we can be grateful that once the ship docked Lisette didn’t have time to write more of that romantic hogwash.”

“What did you say?!”

Once again, the diary was ripped from his fingers and Adrian fought down an urge to box Janice’s ears. She was being a royal pain in the ass with her insistent grappling of the journal. He watched as she eagerly bent over the dog-eared pages. What the hell was she looking for?

“Of course!” she exclaimed, a moment later. She smacked the pages and flashed the book at Adrian. “Right there all the time — beneath our noses.”

Irked, Adrian peered over at the scrawled, faded handwriting.

“What’s there?”

With a hiss, Janice bolted to her feet and spun around.

“It’s so clear, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Lisette never left the ship. Those last entries aren’t hers!”

“Don’t be absurd!”

She bounced back down, slapping the pages of the book in emphasis.

“I’m right, Adrian. I feel it to the depths of my being. Lisette was murdered on the ship.” Her hand swept the air. “The crawlspace isn’t in this house. It’s on the ship. Lisette never made it off the ship.”

Adrian frowned, digesting her words. Could she be right? He inspected the scrawled writing closer. It was similar but he couldn’t swear it was the same. And she had a point. The whole tone of the diary did seem to change at the end.

“I’m right, Adrian, you know I’m right,” she insisted. “You hit it on the head before. Lisette was filled with romantic notions, the diary’s full of it — except at the end. Trust me, Adrian, an eighteen-year-old girl is not going to stop fantasizing in her diary just because a ship has docked. If anything, with a wedding day approaching, she is going to be even more of an airhead … what’s that smell?”

Janice’s fingers brushed her nose. Simultaneously, Adrian’s own nostrils filled with a sickly stench that cut off his breath and sent a series of sharp pains rippling across his forehead. The pain was so acute and unexpected he almost slipped from the steps. Holy Vegas, someone was trying to invade his mind. He dug his heels into the floor, throwing up a mental barricade. Beside him, he heard a stuttered cough and caught sight of Janice now holding her sweater to her nose in an attempt to keep from breathing the noxious odor.

Adrian knew it was useless. The spirit had finally found a weapon to use against them. Damn, there was that probing pain again in his head. Someone was seeking entrance, hammering at him with a muted strumming.

“I’m going to pass out, Adrian,” Janice mumbled through the folds of material.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Adrian cautioned, leaping to his feet. Snatching her wrist, he dragged her up from the steps and toward the sacristy door. As they fled, the stained glass windows over the mounted crucifix began to rattle in their frames and behind them, a strangled groan wheezed.

Passing under the crucifix, Adrian felt a second sharp sizzle across his forehead. The probing was more insistent now, getting harder to keep out. He clutched Janice’s wrist tighter and rushed them both through the sacristy door in two seconds, into the small room and out into a deserted atrium beyond.

The fresh air hit Adrian at once and he began to gulp in streams of it. Janice did the same, collapsing against the wall and bracing herself against it.

“I can’t make it, Adrian,” she murmured between a stuttered gulp. “I think I’m going down first.”

Adrian opened his mouth to deny her words but the probing pain sliced off his breath. Clutching his head, he doubled-over.

“Adrian!” He heard Janice’s call but it became distorted in his head. He willed the probing to stop, pleaded with it. It didn’t. He felt fingers digging into his arm. “For God’s sake, Adrian. Tell me what’s happening to you. Let me help you.”

“You can’t,” he groaned, “it’s a mind meld.” Another wave of pain shot across his temple and Adrian slumped, shoving Janice away from him. “Get away. Stand back.”

She took a hasty step back but went no further.

“I’m not leaving you, Adrian. You can’t make me.”

Her words caused another stabbing pain to rip along his scalp. It was coming for him. Sweet Jesus, why him first? His question was lost in the hiss of static that bounced off the atrium walls and slammed him back hard against the cement piling and away from where Janice stood. The sharp wrench gutted his shoulder blades and collarbone and seared his lungs. Shit, but the spirit was as strong as Hercules. He struggled to gain his footing, ignoring the rousing pain emanating in his right shoulder.

In the next instance, a sparkle of multicolored lights appeared out of thin air before him. Stupidly, he reached out to ward it off and felt an immediate connection. The pain in his head subsided completely as the lights swallowed his fist. Fascinated, Adrian stared at the lights tripping up his arms to his shoulders, across his neck and rippling down his left side to his pants and on to the tips of his toes. He was going down, he could feel it. He was going to leave Janice at the mercy of the baron.

Swinging his head, he sought Janice through the scrim of light. His eyes lit on her frozen figure. She stood in stark terror, staring at the sprinkle of lights encasing him. Immediately he knew she thought he was being possessed by Lisette’s murderer. If only he could find his voice, tell her not to worry. If only he could tell her he was in no pain. If only he could beg her forgiveness for what the baron was about to make him do.

A caressing urge bade him close his eyes and he did so, finally giving into the pull of the feathery caress on his brow. Ahead was darkness, a resting place. He felt his knees buckle and knew he was falling. He hit something hard, but couldn’t name what it was. He was only aware of a deep voice calling softly in his head.

“I will do you no harm.” The words were oddly comforting and Adrian felt his pulse rate begin to descend downward into a slow crawl. Willingly, he surrendered his mind to the lullaby in his head. “Dormez. Sleep. I will do you no harm.”

Chapter 23

SATURDAY — 5:15 AM

Janice felt as if whole sections of her body were torn away. A harrowing headache pounded her forehead and the heaviness in her energy felt like a millstone. Emotionally, she was spent, spiraling downward into a deep chasm. This couldn’t be happening, she reasoned. Someone was trying to invade her mind. It was if she stood in the middle of a burning lake of herself, unable to escape. What did the invader want? She tried to think it out, but only found her thoughts murky and muddled. Save. Save someone. But who? Adrian! The word was a whisper of terror running through her mind.

Her gaze fluttered left, to the floor, to the body encased in swirling lights. Beneath the core of sparkles, Adrian’s body was motionless and Janice’s heart plummeted. Adrian was past helping. If the evil cloud hadn’t spun his mind around and killed him, the resounding crack of his head against the atrium floor surely must have.

Janice felt her eyes watering and then a glaze seemed to come down around her brimming eyes. Now someone was probing her very soul, the invasion arousing fear and uncertainty. She felt a sudden nervousness slip back to grip her. Something disturbing was about to happen, but what?

A sharp pain ripped across her forehead and her knees buckled under the assault. Unable to catch herself, she hit the floor with a wrenching crack to her knees and right wrist. A sizzling fire shot up her right forearm. Broken! The word echoed and re-echoed in her mind, but for some reason Janice couldn’t place it, connect it to any other word she knew. What was broken? She should know. Why didn’t she know? Why wouldn’t the probing go away? She’d will it away.

Throwing her head back, Janice tossed her hair across her shoulder in a gesture of defiance. The action brought doubled pain and instant understanding. Her left hand flew to her right, cradling it gently. She had broken her wrist. Sucking in her lower lip, she braced herself against the throbbing pain. Get out! Get help! The words reverberated over and over, taunting her mind. Get out! Get help!

Janice twisted her head, searching for the nearest exit. Get help? But from where? And from whom? She couldn’t see a door and didn’t know where to look. Distressed, she choked back a frustrated cry and tried to concentrate. There had to be a doorway out of this nightmare. Oh, why couldn’t she think straight? Or see the room clearly? Why were the walls shimmering as if they were alive?

Suddenly, it struck her. They were alive. She wasn’t hallucinating. The atrium walls were beginning to crinkle and fold in on themselves. What a wonderful illusion. She knew a man once who did illusions, didn’t she? Who was he? Oh, why couldn’t she remember his name!

Mesmerized, she continued to contemplate the receding walls. They were dimming, growing smaller, leaving behind a current of air that tickled her nose and fanned the ends of her hair. She was moving, but not moving. How wonderful. The atrium walls receded to a tiny pinpoint, finally replaced by an orange glow, then a purple, then a green and then back to the band of bright orange again.

Watching the colorful pinwheel, Janice suddenly felt a burning sensation in her chest, as if her lungs were being snatched from their cavity. She attempted to raise a hand to the area in self-defense but found her brain and arms malfunctioning. She was slipping away — stalked by a sparkle of lights that had appeared inches away from her knees. Dizzy. The colored lights were spinning toward her, making her dizzy. Time slip! She was time slipping. But to where?

The air around her colored to a cobalt blue and Janice felt her mind reel in confusion as jumbled phrases and thoughts tumbled through her head. She was going back in time. Sarah! She was going to see Sarah. Happiness. Joy. No, Anna. She was going to see Anna. Sadness. Despair. No, Aubert. She was going to see Aubert. Elation. Relief.

Janice tried to stop swimming through the haze of feelings and desires, tormented by the conflicting emotions pummeling her senses. Why was her own loneliness clawing at the back of her throat to get out? Silence. She waited. No sound emerged, just a well of tears that spilled over, moistening her eyelashes and staining her cheeks.

And then the pinwheel started again. One hundred years. Two hundred years. She was dying. Janice felt a wretchedness of mind she’d never known before. She was going to die. Like Lisette before her. Like Anna. Like Mama. Death was stalking her, like a black plague devoid of hope. The thought so depressed her, she flung out her hands pleading for mercy. This time her arms responded, galvanized by a suddenly functioning brain.

“Don’t do this to me!”

At her plea, the color wheel ceased and the air around her stabilized. Pungent sea air invaded Janice’s nose and she felt her mind connect to another’s. Her pain subsided at once and its disappearance scared her almost as much as the darkness she was now kneeling in. No, correction, not total darkness.

Janice lifted her head, Lisette’s head, and peeped through the square holes of an iron grate to a blazing blue cobalt sky. In the distance, white cloth flapped in the breeze, blocking out the sunlight. Janice heard a ship’s bell toll off to her left. Now, Janice felt — Lisette felt — the rocking motion of the ship. She had been time slipped three hundred years by Lisette. She could feel her presence. Feel her emotions of fright.

Janice focused her mind closer to Lisette’s and was startled at how easily the merge was accomplished. In a flickering, their minds collided and held. Janice saw what she saw, knew what she knew, felt the strange wetness around her knees.

Janice glanced down. Tidewater was seeping into the crawlspace. She was below deck, a long expanse of bulkhead only inches from the top of her head. The space was small and cramped, barely room for one. Yet there were two heartbeats pounding in her ear. Hers and Lisette’s? No. Janice’s pulse skittered in alarm. Off to her left side, she could hear a muffled boyish moan. Chase? Janice refused to look over, confirm her fears. Instead, she reached up Lisette’s hand and felt the brittle crack of weathered wood. And then she heard the soft, snapping sounds of the white sails in the breeze and looked out the grated iron holes again.

Two human shapes stood peering down the holes at her, at Lisette. The woman was vividly beautiful, dark and voluptuous, dressed in a rich, scanty evening dress. A wealth of jet black hair flowed up and back from a center part. In the glare of the dazzling sunlight, the woman broadcasted a regal certainty and flair.

The man beside her was magnificent, on the tall side of six feet. Janice could see the glimmer of gold buttons along the front of his uniform. Lieutenant Arthur, the first mate. His adjutant posture and bushy mustache bespoke a rakish nature. For the moment, he was relaxed, fingering a loose tendril of hair on the woman’s cheek. What was her name again?

To Janice’s astonishment, to Lisette’s astonishment, the man wrapped his fingers around the dark fabric of the woman’s sleeve and then slipped his fingers beneath the shoulder strap. The material slipped away at once, exposing one full, rounded breast. Gently, the man’s palm caressed and circled the dusky nipple, teasing it to a pebble hardness. The woman remained impassive, ignoring the lightly stroking fingers. She looked past the man’s head to meet Janice’s stare head-on. Janice recognized the dangerous, crazed glitter as the woman murmured harshly.

“You’ll never be a baroness, Izzy. I’ll see to that. You’ll never know the fire of Aubert’s touch. You’ll never hear the ragged whimpers of sheer need escape his lips.” A soft gasp of her own departed the woman’s lips as a tousled head buried itself against her breast.

Janice looked away instantly, wishing she could flee. She shouldn’t be watching, didn’t want to watch. Lisette called her mind back and Janice found herself staring out the grated holes once more into sneering eyes.

“Aubert should’ve been mine, Izzy. You know that. My blood is bluer than yours. You’ll never feel the sensual heat of his naked skin. Never feel the eager tremors of ecstasy with him.” Abruptly, she gripped the tousled head at her breast and ran her fingers through dark locks. Janice felt herself reaching up.

“Save the boy, Simone. If you must kill me, me tuer. But save the boy.”

Janice’s hand snaked to her left and collided with cold flesh. A muttered groan responded to the touch. Adrian? Janice ripped her mind away. No, not Adrian, Chase. The baron’s younger brother, Chase. Janice peered up again through Lisette’s eyes, out at Simone Villashay, her once best friend.

“Aubert will never marry you, Simone.” Janice heard herself murmuring. “He gave his pledge to the king. Only the king can sever the betrothal.”

Simone stiffened at the words and tossed the man suckling her breast away. She bent down giving a snarl, forgetting her half-dressed state. Janice drew back, frightened by the vehement glitter in her eyes. The iron grate above her rattled on it hinges as Simone shook it fiercely.

“I was going to kill you fast, Izzy. But now I think I’ll do it trés lentement. Very, very slowly.”

Janice heard the murderous edge to Simone’s voice as she stood up and signaled to her companion. A knot of sheer terror ripped through Janice. Lisette knew what was coming, while, she Janice, was living through it for the first time. She looked beyond the holes to the bright sky. Mother of Mercy, if there is a God, please help me. I don’t want to die. Janice’s eyes found Simone again. She was hauling her evening dress up, hiding her nakedness. Once more, Janice saw her signal to the man beside her.

“Seal the grate. Slide the trapdoor.”

Janice’s body went rigid and for a moment she thought she had stopped breathing. Above her head, the trapdoor clanged shut and a cold darkness enveloped the space. The air stilled and a wave of grayness washed over Janice, over Lisette. Death was coming. Janice threw back her head, her own scream echoing Lisette’s guttural cry of terror.

As if cued, Janice felt the roaring of blood in her ears and thousands of electric jolts jagged through her. She was slipping again. One day, two days. Janice felt herself coughing. Her thoughts tumbled over themselves, jumbled, nonsensical. Hungry, so hungry. Three days. Four days. Somebody please find me! Five days. Empty limbs, cold numbness, smell of low tide and crawling things. Oh, God, please stop the smell of crawling things!

Janice’s prayer mingled with Lisette’s. Please release my mind. I can’t die like this. Please don’t let me die like this. Dying was glorious peace. Anna said so. No pain, no fear. Give up. No use. Janice felt her mind connect again to Lisette’s despair. No use. Janice’s eyes flickered upward. Trapdoor sealed.

Her eyes fluttered down again. Her mind began to float and drift aimlessly. Is this all there is to dying? Janice wondered. It is a great ache, an ache that crosses great distances but finds no relief. Is there no merciful God to take pity?

A loud click sounded and the trapdoor over Janice’s head lifted. Janice’s eyes shot open. The iron bars were gone, a dazzling white light spiraling outward in its place. Janice dragged a weary hand to shade her eyes from the overpowering glare.

“Give me your hand, Izzy. I am here.” The voice was deep, caring. It called softly again. “Je suis ici.”

Janice dropped her hands and stared into the white light. She saw it more clearly without a glare. It had a vague, male human shape, a vague human hand reaching out. Janice reached out for the hand and felt her mind pulled back at once. In her head, a voice urged pleasantly.

“Non, Janice Kelly. You cannot travel this path with me. You must stay behind. And sleep. Fear not, your sleep will be an instant, no more.”

Janice felt her whole body engulfed in tides of weariness and tried to arouse herself from the numbness weighing her down. She wanted to touch Lisette, ask her questions, see Aubert. Janice’s eyes fluttered down, then up. A second white light floated beyond the crawlspace, a vague feminine shape alongside its companion.

“Merci. I thank you, Janice, for thy compassion.”

Janice felt a curious wetness stinging her eyes at the pronouncement. Lisette was going away, leaving her without a glimpse of her face for the first and only time.

“Our souls will meet once more beyond.” The shape shimmered as if gesturing. “I shall call you friend and you will know me. Now, sleep and fret not, your body will come to no harm. I will use it a brief instant and be gone.”

“And Adrian?” Janice felt as hollow as her voice sounded.

“Like you, he is safe. Now, sleep.”

Janice felt her eyelids flutter downward as if touched by feathery wings. Unable to argue, she let her mind go. Sleep came in a waft of sweet raspberry perfume.

Chapter 24

TIME SLIP

“Why are you crying, mon amie? Are you in pain?”

“Non. I cry in joy for I thought never to see you through human eyes again.”

“Nor I you. For three centuries, I hungered to feel the breathless wonder of your kiss. Two lifetimes on the earth plane I sought you out. I called for you, but you did not respond.”

“I heard you, but could not respond. The darkness held me imprisoned, but now there is only light. There is passion in your kiss, mon ami, and our tongues dance together in silent melody.”

“The man’s face pleases you?”

“Certainment. On the earth plane, he is trés handsome. Is the woman’s face pleasing to you?”

“Oui. She bears a striking resemblance to you, when you were human.”

“She gives herself to the man with sweet abandon.”

“Oui. The man’s body does fit her well. Even now, fire bolts of desire arc through him.”

“Yet he fought against you taking him.”

“His will is strong. He worries the woman will not catch fire from his flame.”

“Yet she welcomes him into her body gladly.”

“The man loves the woman. If he did not, nothing would have compelled me to answer your summons. But fret not, he will remember nothing.”

“You will cloud his dreams?”

“He will have no pain except for that which his own mind makes.”

“Trés bien. And now, we must away. The woman’s body is stressed. She cannot longer endure the two of us as one. I must away.”

“I do miss you already, Izzy.”

“Your pain will be only for a moment, mon cher. Fear not, you will see me again on some distant plateau.”

“Oui. And I will take your hand again. Your heart will be my heart.”

“It has always been so. So it shall be again.”

“May the Supreme Light guide you to a safe haven, Izzy. Though you do not see me, I will always be beside you. Now, come kiss me. One final kiss to last perhaps an eternity.”

“I love you, Aubert. Skin to skin, we are one.”

Chapter 25

SATURDAY — 5:30 AM

Janice heard a drumbeat throbbing loudly in her ears. Why didn’t Bibi turn down the stereo? She couldn’t sleep with that steady racket going on. No one could. The sound grew louder and Janice gave an exasperated sigh. She’d have to turn down the volume herself or she’d be deaf before morning. She forced her eyelids up, then sighed as they closed again. Good heavens, she felt drained and hollow and lifeless. And her back ached between her shoulder blades. She had to throw off this lethargy. Her eyelids flickered again and this time stayed up. The drumbeat was still hammering unbelievably loud. What the hell was that noise?

Suddenly, it hit her. She was hearing a heartbeat. Was she lying on someone’s chest? She blinked her eyes rapidly and felt a light tickle of hair along her eyelashes. Tiny tufts of black hair swam into her vision. Adrian! She was lying on Adrian’s naked chest! She craned her head and studied the stubbled chin inches from her face. He was sleeping, dead to the world — more handsome in sleep than when awake. She gave his face and forehead a once over, spotting a knotted lump along his right temple. She winced uncomfortably. If Adrian thought he had a headache before, wait till he woke with this one. Absently, she made a move to brush the swollen area and cried out as a white-hot pain seared up her forearm.

Rolling over on her back with a jerk, Janice clutched her right wrist, giving another yelp as the pain doubled its intensity. She tore her fingers away and brought her arm up in front of her face, choking back a gasp when she spied the mottled flesh. Good heavens, her wrist was three times its normal size. Broken! How had that happened? Understanding dawned at once and she swung her gaze to Adrian’s forehead. She broke her wrist in the fall the way Adrian’s knotted lump had appeared from the crack of his head against the atrium floor. But they weren’t in the atrium garden any longer.

Janice looked up, trying to get her bearings. They were in a bed with white sails. White sails! The words sent an unexpected, icy chill slicing down her spine. Now, why should thinking of sails bother her? Lifting her head, she studied her surroundings more closely. Draperies, a table edged in a red glow, a small musical birdcage. Her brain skidded to a halt. How in the hell had they gotten from the atrium garden into the solarium and onto the bed that was part of Adrian’s set pieces?

Janice thrust the question away. She didn’t want to know. The thought was too disturbing since all she could envision at the moment was herself and Adrian transformed into some flesh-eating zombies roaming the chateau with no will of their own. She brought her glance back to her throbbing wrist and cupped it gently. Her wrist needed attention. But how to get it? she wondered.

Her gaze sailed away to the solarium windows still drenched in red. Nope, scrap that option. A doctor’s help was out. They were still prisoners. She’d have to make do, tolerate the pain. That is if she could stop shivering long enough to think coherently. Why was she so blasted cold? She glanced down at her chest and gasped. She was stark naked, her breasts and stomach caked in goose bumps. Where in the hell were her clothes? Had Adrian taken them?

Her head whipped around, catching sight of lean muscled buttocks and thighs and she choked back a groan. They had made love, she was sure of it. Why else would their clothes be missing and her skin still tingling as if thoroughly caressed?

Shaken, Janice slid to the edge of the bed, peered over it and spotted a speck of blue peeping from the hem of the silken sheets. With a hasty swipe, she gathered it up with her good hand then searched the floor for her missing bra.

“Great.” she muttered, a second later. Her bra was nowhere in sight. Swinging upright, Janice tossed the sweater over her head. She needed to get warm fast. Her teeth were beginning to chatter from the chill hanging in the room. Carefully, she babied her sore wrist through one sleeve. This was unbelievable. She had just made love to a man and couldn’t remember one second of doing it. Her good hand slipped through the remaining sleeve easily and she pulled the fluffy material down and around her torso. How had she sunk so low? How could she have let Adrian make love to her when she knew he was adamantly against it? How could she have let him touch her in the most intimate of ways?

A sputtered moan broke her reverie and Janice felt the bed jiggle beneath her buttocks. Swiftly, she sprang from the bed and swung about. Adrian was stirring, finally coming out of his imposed exile. The thought of him waking and spotting her hovering over his nude body sent a wave of panic through her. He would say something spiteful, she knew. He might even make a cruel joke about what had happened between them. She couldn’t bear that. Not when she didn’t know what kind of lover he had been or how responsive she had been to him. She had to get out of the solarium before he wakened fully. Where in the hell were her slacks and underpants? God, why wouldn’t her wrist stop aching?

Diving around the edge of the bed, Janice searched the floor, relieved when she spotted another flash of blue. From the top of the bed, a second muttered groan shattered the air. Diving for her slacks, she scooped them up and returned to the empty side of the bed. She had to find her underpants. Her gaze raked the sheets, finally spotting a flash of white lace peeping from beneath Adrian’s stomach. Could she extricate her panties without his feeling it? No, not without the use of both her hands. She’d have to abandon the panties.

Grimacing, she looked out over the set pieces, her glance falling on the tiny, musical birdcage. It had once made beautiful music, but now sat idle and silent. Suddenly, she felt like the small stuffed creature perched inside. Janice cradled her wrist gently and dropped back on the bed. How long had they been unconscious? Her jumbled thoughts currently held no memory of time. She did have a vague recollection of a handsome face looking down at her, but whether the image belonged to the Baron or Adrian, she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps, when her brain found its natural rhythm again, it would supply the answer to that question. If her arm stopped aching long enough, that is.

• • •

The portrait continued its metamorphosis. With each passing second, new images stained the canvas. Watching the transformation, Jasper realized he’d never again doubt the existence of mind over matter — the ability to control substance and its density. It was truly remarkable to stand and watch the marriage of time and space, see how easily the symbiosis could occur. Something out of nothingness. If ever he had doubted the power of the human soul to survive beyond the grave, here was the proof there was life beyond. No living, human entity was projecting the images seeping onto the canvas. The only question left was who was directing the matter? Lisette or the baron?

Jasper was sure the wailing spirit next to him knew. Otherwise, her keening wail would’ve subsided. It hadn’t. As each feature became sharper, more recognizable, the spirit’s wail became more tormented. He switched his thoughts abruptly. Why did he keep referring to her as “the spirit” when he now knew her human name? Simone Villashay. The name had sliced across his mind the moment the first spots of color saturated the painting in front of them, miraculously restoring his precognition powers in the process. He was himself again and it felt good.

Concentrating on the portrait, Jasper understood the spirit’s devastation. The striking red-headed woman etched in oil only a few moments ago had vanished completely. In her place stood, not one figure, but two. Jasper had no doubt he was seeing the images of the baron and Lisette as they had once appeared in earthly, human form. The woman coming into view had vivid red hair, too, the only similarity to the image that had vanished. However, the face depicted now was heart-shaped and daintily pointed instead of curved and regal. The body type showcased slender limbs, petite and flower-like, rather than a statuesque figure. Studying the dainty features, Jasper agreed with the baron’s choice. He, too, would have preferred Lisette’s delicate looks to Simone’s sultry, wild demeanor.

The fusion of color began to subside as quickly as it had come. In seconds, the portrait finished its metamorphosis. With its ending, Jasper’s ears popped under the forceful impact of the spirit’s sudden wrath. The keening wail lost its shrillness, rumbling into a deep gargle as it shifted rapidly from torment to anger. Deep and ferocious anger.

Immediately, Jasper took a hasty step away from the portrait to avoid what was coming. Over his head, the air stirred and beneath his feet the wooden flooring began to vibrate. He slanted a quick peek at the circle of lights. Once more, the cloud resembled a whirling cyclone, showering the room with crackling static. Muriel’s body was lost to his view through the scrim of lights, and Jasper felt his heart plummet. Every minute Muriel was forced to endure the spirit’s presence, her life force moved further away from his.

The vibration beneath Jasper’s feet intensified and a lone portrait toppled from the wall. He felt an urgent tug on his forearm and balked, not wanting to leave Muriel so defenseless. In his ear, he heard an urgent growl, a fiercer tug on his arm.

“Come away, man. You can’t help her. Not at the moment.”

Jasper’s heart took another nosedive, realizing the truth of Lloyd’s words. To make any hostile gesture toward the cyclone at the moment would surely get Muriel killed. A figurine exploded on the north wall of the room and sprayed the floorboards. A second figurine shattered in its wake. And then a third.

The circle of lights moved then, startling both men with its agility. Jasper backed up, his senses shifting into high gear. As before, he felt his mind collide with the spirit’s. Only this time, she forced the contact. Once more, Jasper felt a searing fire bolt rip along his forehead. He severed the mind link and took a second step back. As he did so, the chandelier above his head began to shimmy, clank, and jerk. He shied away, his senses now fully alert. She was coming for him, her rage escalating from simmer to a full-blown boil. But why was she striking out at him? It made no sense. He posed no threat to her, not as long as she held Muriel prisoner.

As she swirled across the floorboards, each small object within her wake came alive, magnetized by her growing energy level. The air filled with flying debris, piano keys, vases, and urns. Like missiles on a specified trajectory path, the objects hurled at Jasper. He ducked, shielding his head, had to duck again and again as the sheared fragments found new life within the whirling cyclone and struck out at him.

A hurled candlestick struck Lloyd full force and the other man stumbled back under the impact. A howling wind from deep within the cloud’s central core began and Jasper covered his ears in self-defense. The howling inched to a powerful screech.

Reaching the center of the gallery room, the spirit stopped its advancement as if now that she had gotten their attention she intended to speak. Still, Jasper didn’t lower his defenses or move a muscle. They weren’t out of danger. The spirit’s agitated state was merely a prelude of what was about to happen, and Jasper knew with certainty the spirit had every intention of venting her rage wherever she could. She would use every portion of the room, every nook and cranny as a weapon against them. At last, through the howling wind, she spoke and Jasper’s nose twitched under the familiar odious stench.

“Do you seek to confuse me?” Her voice was no longer one but many — male, female, hideous in pitch. “I know the woman will not succumb to the man. I see your treachery. I have seen the magician transform matter. He creates what is not there. His illusion is strong but he shall pay for his treachery. And you shall see the woman I hold die before your eyes.”

Jasper knew the last words were meant for him — to tear his heart still beating from his chest. For a moment, he thought about surrendering, giving into the spirit’s domination and then in the next second, bright images of Muriel’s face flashed across his mind’s eye. One stark, clear word followed. Survive. Intense astonishment touched Jasper’s face. Deep within the circle of lights, some part of Muriel was still alive. Some part begging him to stand firm, no matter the pain.

Rejuvenated, Jasper faced the circle of lights squarely. She sensed his defiance at once and as if to prove her superiority and intent, she let a sprinkle of lights ripple. From the base of the cloud, a small stream of fire shot across the floor toward the base of the east wall. Striking the baseboard, the wall casing exploded outward, showering the main floorboards with white plaster. Jasper ducked but not before spying the gaping hole left in the center of the wall.

A blood-curdling scream pierced the roaring din and Jasper swung around. Around him, one by one, the family of portraits began to topple from the wall with a thunderous clang.

Chapter 26

SATURDAY — 5:50 AM

Adrian rolled over with a snarl.

“Who took the sledgehammer to my head? Was it you?”

The confirmation reply was swift and Adrian heard the strained curtness.

“No. You hit your head when you blacked out.”

Adrian attempted to sit up and the movement made his stomach roll and pitch. He fell back in self-defense. Sweet Jesus, what had happened to him?

“I’m going to throw up,” he stated loudly. He forced his eyes open and then swiftly threw his arms up to cover them from the blinding glare of light. Holy Vegas, he felt like a hibernating bear, finally awake from months asleep in a darkened cave. He dropped his hands, his eyes finally adjusting to the light, which he realized wasn’t all that bright. It was just that his mind was choosing to creep back to reality at a snail’s pace while his body was screaming to get on with it.

Raising his head quickly, he was sorry a second later that he had. Throbbing pain ignited along his temple and he reached up and brushed his forehead gently with his fingertips. His fingers collided with a knotted lump. Well, Janice was right. He had smacked his head against the atrium floor while trying to ward off the sprinkle of lights. Had he given himself a mild concussion? He lifted his head again, and this time, the ache was not so acute. Better. No concussion. His vision was clearing.

His gaze strayed to Janice’s frozen form at the lower edge of the bed and sailed away again. Where in the hell were they? His gaze landed on a familiar set piece. He was in the solarium. In bed with Janice. He rolled to his side and studied the rumpled sheets. They had made love. And not so very long ago. Her fruity perfume still lingered on the pillow and his naked body. He’d recognize her smell anywhere.

Adrian let his gaze rake Janice’s profile and noticed the tight lines of her posture. She was tense, biting her lower lip. And she was clinging to her slacks as if they were a lifeline. Was she scared of him touching her again? Why? Had he hurt her? The thought made him sit up rapidly and had Janice tossing her slacks across her naked thighs and scooting down the sheets away from him. Why was she so jumpy? She couldn’t be blaming him for what occurred between them, could she? It was no one’s fault. She scooted over again, to the very edge of the bed and Adrian found himself barking sharply.

“Relax. I’m only looking for my clothes.”

True to his words, Adrian looked down the length of the bed in search of his trousers. Nothing. Twisting around, he began to search the bed, his hand arcing across the silken sheets. A second later, his fingers collided with bits of white lace stuffed beneath his buttocks. He pulled out the offending fabric and found himself suppressing a chuckle. Well, these weren’t his. He hadn’t come to wearing bra and panties yet, had he? He tossed the undergarments across the bed.

“Get dressed.”

She didn’t move or comply with his command and Adrian wondered for a moment if she had gone deaf. Had she been hurt in the mind swap with Lisette? A grim thought sliced through that one. Had he forced himself on her? He had to know.

Scrambling to the edge of the bed, he started up, teetered precariously and clutched the edge of the bed to keep his knees from buckling. So much for doing that. Firmly, he willed the room to stop spinning. When it did, the stage floor swam into view and he spotted his missing shirt and trousers.

Quickly, he snatched up the pants and slid them on. Behind him, Janice remained poised like a statue on the bed, ignoring his movements. She was giving him the silent treatment on purpose. And it was starting to piss him off. Did she think to make him pay for what they had done by freezing him out? Well, let her. Though how in the hell she could be blaming him for what was neither of their faults, he couldn’t fathom.

“Get dressed!” He ripped the words out impatiently, defying her to cross him this time. When she didn’t move a muscle, Adrian twisted across the bed, grabbing her arm. “I said get dressed!”

Her scream was ear-splitting and Adrian reeled back in astonished confusion. What the hell had he done now? His eyes followed her hands as she cupped her arm gently. Sweet Jesus, her wrist was twice its normal size. No wonder she had been sitting like a zombie. She was in excruciating pain and keeping it from him.

Adrian’s throat constricted suddenly. My God, had he broken her bones? In a flash, he was around the bed and dropping to his haunches in front of her. She gave him a brief glance, sucking in her lower lip, and then rocked back and forth absently. Adrian studied her pale cheeks and the beads of perspiration coating her forehead. He didn’t know how she was managing to keep her cries concealed. Her arm was a hideous purple color. The skin was already bloating, would soon resemble stretched rubber. Infection would set in next.

Unable to mask his inner torment, Adrian broke the silence between them.

“For God’s sake, did I do that?”

She looked straight at him finally, gritting her teeth.

“I broke it when I blacked out, I think.”

“You think?”

Adrian felt the corners of his mouth twist in disgust. She stopped rocking then and they stared at each other across a sudden ringing silence. Like him, she wasn’t sure and he could see it in her eyes. Adrian’s head swirled with doubts and his heart refused to believe what his mind was telling him. He had forced himself on her. She had fought against him making love to her and when she had, he had broken her wrist to keep her subdued. Sweet Jesus, he hadn’t thought he could be such a bastard. To hurt a woman for not wanting him, refusing his advances? Had his subconscious wanted her that badly?

A muscle tic flickered along his jawbone as his gaze took in her white face and clamped lips. Should he beg her forgiveness? Explain he didn’t remember hurting her? Would she believe him and accept his apology? Judging from the glassy tint to her eyes, she wouldn’t. He wouldn’t if he was in her place. If he were her, he would be compelled to seek revenge.

Hell, he’d apologize to her anyway. He owed her that. Reaching out, he laid a hand on her right knee.

“Janice, I’m … ”

Her good hand came down on his rapidly.

“Don’t,” she begged, “don’t say anything. I don’t think I can bear it.”

Hearing the trace of tears in her voice, Adrian snapped his mouth shut. He looked down at her swollen flesh.

“If you won’t let me apologize for making love to you, at least let me apologize for having to help you get dressed.”

She colored up furiously at his words and it took all Adrian’s willpower not to sweep her into his arms and kiss her soundly. If she would just let him kiss her — give her one drugging kiss that would prove to her how crazy he was about her. Prove to her he loved her with a fierce, abiding devotion beyond the physical.

A piercing scream shattered the air, startling the pair.

“Did you hear that?” Janice asked, glancing up at him. An explosion of the wall next to the bed was her answer. She came up off the bed and into his arms so rapidly that they both shivered at the contact. Adrian was the first to move.

“We’ve got to get out of here.”

He bent down and pulled Janice’s leg through frilly lace. The scream doubled in pitch, redoubled again. Matching his motion, Janice hauled the frilly lace up around her hips and into place. Just as swiftly, he had her slack legs in place and she was stepping into them. The scream switched to a heavy thrumming and to Adrian’s ears, it seemed to be nearing the solarium doorway down the room from them.

Adrian gave a last upward tug and Janice’s slacks fell into place. Hastily, he struggled with the zipper, barely getting it in to the top before a second explosion rocked the stage floor and blew a hole in the solarium wall that housed the fireplace. The pair staggered back, stunned by the fire bolt singeing the wall and the acrid smoke billowing through the gaping hole. Around their heads, the air stirred and both anticipated the hideous shrieks seconds before they began.

Thinking fast, Adrian captured Janice’s good hand and pulled her down the proscenium steps. Hitting the main floor running, they just managed to stay ahead of the showering fire bolts popping along the baseboards at their feet. The hideous shrieks were another thing. They remained unfazed by the pair’s rapid escape and took up the chase aggressively.

Rounding the doorway into the corridor, Adrian could only hope history wasn’t about to repeat itself. If it did, this time he was sure he and Janice would not get through it alive. A moment later, Adrian was forced to slide to an abrupt halt with a heated curse. Janice careened into his back, almost toppling them both. Righting herself, she peered over his shoulder at the small puffs of smoke filtering through the baseboards, blocking their way.

“We haven’t a chance,” she stated a second later.

“We’re not out yet,” Adrian replied. Now, if he only believed it.

Chapter 27

SATURDAY — 6:00 AM

The air shifted overhead and the shrieks became clotted jargon, inhuman screams that hung like strips of cloth above their heads. Adrian scanned the charred streak of black lining the corridor wall, wondering what they did now that they were boxed in perfectly. One forward step and the wall would blow. He felt a light tap on his shoulder.

“We’ve got to chance it, Adrian. The Grisombs need us.”

Adrian nodded, tapping into the same sense of foreboding that she did. It was payback time and Lisette’s murderer had summoned all the dominions of evil to her side. Survival was now the name of the game. Janice’s fingers slipped into his palm in a gesture of encouragement and Adrian took heart from it. She didn’t hate him, at least not totally. His gaze found hers.

“We go on three. Ready? One … two … three!”

Adrian took off, charging into the billowing smoke with Janice tightly in tow. To his amazement, the walls around them stayed intact, making their race through the scrim of smoke seem almost ludicrous. That is, until they reached the gallery doorway and the walls behind them blew out in a series of popping explosions.

Looking back at the showering plaster, Adrian realized nothing had been left to chance. They had been allowed to pass unharmed on purpose. And now, the gathering forces meant to box them in further. Force them into the gallery room to accept whatever fate awaited them.

Straightening his shoulders, Adrian took a deep breath. Beside him, Janice did the same. Together, they dove into the room. Adrian ducked immediately, barely dodging the flying debris soaring in the air above him. Across the way, he could hear the gutted strings of a harp as the catgut was rapaciously torn from its frame. Anger! Sheer, white, hot anger. An anger so consuming it was burning away the very room around them.

Adrian cast a glance to his left, searching for the cause of the angry tirade. His gaze settled on the swirl of dark lights. Like a tornado straight from the bowels of hell, the mass of darkness hooted and bawled. The shrieks above their head shot in to the cloud core, releasing a fetid stench that reached Adrian’s nostrils and had him drawing back from the festering mass. His eyes scanned the space around the cloud.

He spotted Lloyd and Jasper at once, both dodging a hurled candelabra. Adrian grasped the situation immediately. Both men had obviously tried to oppose the dark cloud and their insolence was being neatly rewarded. But where was Muriel?

His mind connected with hers at once. From inside the avenging cloud she called to his mind. Save Janice. It wants Janice. Beside Adrian, a portrait skidded across the floor wreathed in flames. He side-stepped its path with a lumbering hop. Before his eyes, the dark swirl of lights turned opaque, revealing Muriel’s dainty features and plump body.

Adrian heard a gasp from beside him and barely managed to hold onto Janice as she made to rush past him. She had every intention of helping Muriel and he couldn’t let her. To do so meant instant death for her.

“Let me go,” she hissed, struggling against his stranglehold. “I can save her. I know who holds her prisoner.”

“You can’t save her,” Adrian growled, “she’s beyond help.”

“Not yet. I know who holds her and what she wants.” To Adrian’s amazement, Janice called out to the swirling transparency. “I’m here, Simone. It’s me, Izzy.”

Beside Adrian, another fiery portrait careened and skidded. Another harp string twanged from its confine. The dark cloud mushroomed outward and moved forward, bringing Muriel’s captive form with it. It swirled toward Janice, and Adrian pitched himself in front of her. A reedy laugh burst from the central core of the cloud. Muriel’s lips began to twitch.

“And still the man thinks to protect the woman from me. You cannot. She will sacrifice herself for the woman I hold prisoner. Do you not see that?”

Adrian did see that. He also saw clearly that Janice’s sacrifice would be useless. If Muriel was not already dead, she was nearing it. Her body was nothing more than a puppet for the dark mass to threaten them with. Adrian scoffed openly.

“What I see is a spirit so cowardly, it preys on old women because it does not have the courage to drain the life from strong ones.” He spoke contemptuously, hoping to gall the spirit’s vanity. The spirit he was facing down had once been a beautiful woman consumed with jealousy. She had desired the baron for her own and Lisette had gotten in the way. Adrian felt a sudden spasm of relief wash over him at the knowledge. If, after all these years, she still clung to that jealousy, he could bring her down. Her vanity was the key.

A vase hurled itself from the side bar at Adrian’s head. He and Janice both ducked, the porcelain whizzing past their heads and crashing to the floor with a huge splatter. It was clear by the misdirected impact the cloud was confused by his verbal attack. His mind connected again with Muriel’s. Though barely alive, she was mixing his thoughts with the cloud’s, infusing it with the disturbing, erotic image Adrian had seen once before across the rim of a shattered glass. Now, Adrian saw it in full, understood it in full. Legs intertwined, Janice’s body vibrated with liquid fire under his steady thrusts of possession. With each deepening thrust, Lisette’s soul was being set free. Adrian pulled his mind from the image, determined to show no sign of relenting.

“I wanted the woman and I took her,” Adrian stated. “You are too late.”

At his words, a keening wail spiraled from the cloud.

“You lie! The woman hates you. She would never submit to you.”

“She had no choice. I forced her.” Adrian swung about, seeking Janice’s wrist. He prayed God would forgive him for what he was about to do. Grabbing her swollen arm, he held it up to the shimmering spirit, ignoring Janice’s tortured outcry. “See for yourself. Her wrist broke in the struggle.”

A mewling wail whimpered and Adrian knew the spirit was confused by the swollen proof.

“I will hear it from the woman’s own lips.”

Adrian stepped into Janice at once. He knew she was angry with him. He could sense the fury behind her tears of pain as she opened her mouth to seal his doom with the cloud. He edged closer, lowering his voice.

“You tell her the truth and you will have killed Muriel as surely as if you took a knife and plunged it through her heart.”

His threat stung and Adrian saw Janice’s mouth snap shut. Her gaze scoured his face.

“You’ve touched minds with her and the cloud. I can sense it.” A frown saturated her brow. “Muriel’s dying, isn’t she?”

The question was frank and Adrian answered with a ring of finality.

“Yes, I think so.”

“You arrogant sod,” Janice stated simply.

The air around their heads crackled and a last fiery portrait sledded by their toes, startling them both. Janice whirled, studying the transparent cloud. Adrian didn’t think he would ever forget a single detail of her face as she cloaked her feelings and challenged the spirit with deceptive calm.

“I resisted. He broke my wrist and then he took me. You are too late. Lisette’s soul is free.”

A terrible, keening moan sprang from the cloud and Muriel’s lips. Beneath their feet, the floor shook with the cloud’s fury. Turning dark again, the cloud shielded Muriel from their sight.

Willfully, it began to spin once more, whirling like a tornado and sending an intense level of noise from its central core. Hateful words were hurled at the group, bouncing off the gallery walls and sounding like the desecration of a temple. Next to him, Janice covered her ears in self-defense.

Soon, the voice became many, hideous in pitch and suddenly there was only a single laugh and the laugh became a soft ghost thing in the distance. The swirling lights gave one last flash and then vanished abruptly, leaving Muriel to crumple like a tossed away rag doll.

The men dashed across the space in an attempt to catch her up. Jasper was there first, lowering her into the cradle of his arms. Janice fell to her knees, placing her good hand lightly on her chest.

“Muriel!” The call was urgent and Adrian felt his heart skip a beat as Muriel’s eyelids flickered open at the call.

“Out of danger?” she asked, breathlessly. Her eyes transferred from Janice to Jasper. “Out of danger?”

Before he could respond, her eyelids flickered down again and Adrian knew she was fighting with her very last breath to stay alive long enough to hear his answer. Jasper reached out and stroked her cheek.

“Out of danger, Muree,” he answered.

Her nod was barely discernible and Adrian swallowed a rising lump in his throat.

“Fight, Muriel,” Janice pleaded, tapping her chest. “Fight to stay with us.”

Muriel’s eyes flickered open again and settled on Janice’s face.

“It’s no use, my dear,” she murmured. “My lungs … are gone, and I feel … a great pull. There is somewhere … I must go.”

Janice shook her head vigorously, refusing to let her give up.

“I know you can fight through it if you just try. Please try!”

A hand covered hers rapidly and Adrian heard a smothered sob escape Janice’s lips.

“No tears,” Muriel urged. She lost her breath and then gathered it again. “I anticipate … it will be a great adventure where I’m going.” Her gaze drifted left, found Jasper’s bright stare. Taking a deep breath, she gathered the last of her energy. “I love you … Jasper. Have I told you that … today?”

He took hold of her hand and squeezed it firmly.

“It was said in every glance you gave me, Muree.”

“I’ll wait for you … Jasper.”

“I’ll find you,” he stated earnestly. Bending his head, he planted a light kiss on her lips. A light wheeze trickled from between her lips.

“Your kiss always could … take my … breath away.” Her lids slipped down over her eyes and, giving a small pleasant sigh, she stopped breathing. In his mind, Adrian felt a brief piercing and knew Muriel’s spirit was wishing them all a last farewell. Beside him, Janice broke down sobbing. Lloyd’s arm came around her, sharing her pain and offering her comfort.

Feeling her anguish, Adrian felt his own gaze cloud with tears. Swiftly, he forced himself to look away, too moved by Jasper’s careful gathering of the still figure into his arms.

Searching the balcony window across the way, Adrian saw that the red, dazzling glow had fled. In its place, a dark cowl of blackness again. He gave a choked, nearly hysterical laugh as he caught sight of the rounded moon. It seemed bent on scurrying from one dark cloud to another. The darkness pressed down on him and he gave another desperate laugh. History did indeed repeat itself. A life for a life. Lisette was free and so were they, but at what cost?

Adrian closed his eyes, listening to Janice’s soft weeping and knew that cost. In each of their chests, there was a hole where their hearts used to be. And as always, as in the past, death had come to surround him. He would have to be moving on again. It was a bitter pillow to swallow and he didn’t know how he was going to make it go down.

A hand descended on his shoulder, cutting into his dour thoughts. Glancing up, he found Lloyd feebly gesturing. Turning to the window, Adrian spotted Janice’s slender figure perched on the window sill, her gaze studying the night skyline.

Adrian clambered to his feet, responding to Lloyd’s unspoken request at once. Six steps later, he was at the window, leaning against the opposite frame and studying the tiny black streaks of mascara staining Janice’s cheeks. She ignored him purposely for a moment and then her gaze drifted to his face.

“Stay together, isn’t that what you said, Adrian? Stay together and we’ll all get out alive? Well, you were right all along. We should’ve stayed together rather than opening the door on a lot of old, black memories that should’ve stay buried.”

Adrian folded his arms across his chest, his gaze sweeping her face.

“We can’t go back and do it differently. So why agonize over it?”

She shot him a withering glance.

“Why? Because there were other options. Other choices!”

“None that mattered.”

“God! I hate when you do that! You argue out of spite. I say black, you say white! Well, do me a favor, get out of my face! I can’t stand the sight of you!”

Her gaze swiveled back to the skyline beyond the window and with deliberate coolness, she ignored him again. Chilled by her hostility, Adrian hoisted himself from the frame, drawing a step nearer.

“If it’s any comfort to you, I can’t stand the sight of myself either.”

Turning on his heel, he strode away, sidestepping the mangled scraps of debris littering the gallery floor. Hearing his name, he ignored the summons and continued his trek to the door. Escaping into the hollowed-out corridor, he bent and began the arduous task of digging a pathway through the pile of rubble.

Chapter 28

SATURDAY — 11:00 AM

Ignoring the noise and bustle of the milling work hands, Janice stood at the edge of the pier studying the gray, green gloom of water slapping against the wood pilings of the loading dock. Just beneath the rim of the surface, she could see a school of minnows darting to and fro, scooping up nourishing bits of algae hanging from the barnacles littering the posts. Watching their frenetic swish, she gave a sigh. She was as hungry for food as they seemed to be. However, she knew her stomach would balk if she put anything in it. Eating in her present mood was useless, as impossible as growing wings on her back and flying home to Aspen.

Sighing a second time, she let her gaze arc up leisurely, following the blinding dazzle of the sun’s path on the churning sea, across to the web of inland coves. For a moment, she was content to let her mind scale the smooth shoreline, blocking out the distant crashing of waves against the craggy cliffs about her. She was going home and high time. Her nerves were shot.

Forcing herself to relax, she took a deep breath, inhaling the bitter sea air. The icy breeze kicking up was invigorating, chasing away the long hours of imprisonment. All that was left to do now was to board the ferry standing dockside. The sustained whine of idling engines droned through Janice’s consciousness and she spun on her heels.

Hastily, she tuned into the hive of activity before her. The ANNIE B’s departure was only moments away, the raucous laughter forgotten as the engrossed dockhands now struggled through the last stages of hauling in the mammoth towline. Had it been only yesterday she had stepped onto this pier for the first time? Yesterday, she had promised Captain Bowers she wouldn’t spook any ghosts. Well, she had kept her word. She hadn’t spooked them; they had spooked her.

As if pulled by a magnet, Janice found her gaze drifting upward to the roof top turrets barely visible above the surrounding seawall. Witchwood had beckoned her to cross an ocean and solve a three hundred year old mystery. Why had she been chosen? Her gaze slid to the prism of light cascading through the stained glass alongside the turrets. That answer would remain a mystery to her, at least in this lifetime.

Someone sharply called out her name, and Janice swung to see the figure striding the timbers toward her with a brief wave. In seconds, she found herself buried in Jasper’s warm embrace. Laying her head on his chest, she remained silent, content to listen to the steady, strong beat of his heart through his overcoat. How was he able to maintain such a stalwart front with Muriel gone? He was a veritable fortress and she was a total wreck. His embrace became an affectionate bear hug and Janice heard his voice raise a notch to be heard over the din of work hands.

“You mustn’t blame yourself, Janice,” he soothed. “Simone took Muriel within seconds. Even I couldn’t break the meld, though I tried.”

“We should’ve stayed together,” Janice mumbled, swallowing the growing lump in her throat. “Muriel would be alive if we had.”

He pushed her from him and studied her face.

“Are you so vain as to think you were the only one in that house willing to sacrifice yourself for the others?”

Janice detected the subtle censure in his question. A contrite apology quickly formed on her lips.

“Jasper, I didn’t mean … ”

He cut her off with a tight squeeze.

“We were all faced with choices. You chose your path. Muree chose hers.”

Janice buried her face once more into Jasper’s chest, feeling the sting of tears caressing her lashes. Did he mean there was some good in Muriel’s death?

“One wonderful soul reached out across time to us,” he mused. “That soul asked for nothing more from us than compassion. We answered that summons, each in our own way. We connect so rarely with each other here on this earth, but for one brief instance, when it really mattered, we proved that all who have passed on still live and there is hope in the life beyond, for even the most sinful … little child, big soul,” he finished confidently.

Janice reflected on his words, her throat tightening. The truth was so eloquently simple that she had missed it. Jasper was right. Last night had been horrendous but it had also affirmed life after death. It had been the beginning of a new identity. Giving a warm smile, she patted the front of Jasper’s overcoat.

“Little child, big soul,” she repeated.

“They’re ready for you, Janice,” Lloyd’s voice cut through the space and Janice peered around Jasper’s imposing form. “Your suitcase is on board and Dr. Graves has the hospital on standby for you.”

“You’re not coming with me, Lloyd?”

He shook his head slowly.

“No. The police aren’t finished up at the house yet. Besides, my goodbye would only consist of begging your forgiveness.” His quick look at her bandaged wrist had Janice murmuring softly.

“It’s not anyone’s fault, Lloyd. You know that.”

“Yes, well, that doesn’t make it any easier,” he replied. He cleared his throat and signaled her again. “Captain Bowers doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Janice nodded and then held her hand out to Jasper.

“Will I see you in Aspen, Jasper?”

He clasped her fingers.

“In the summer. I’ll bring the twins. We’ll picnic at Hollow Lake.”

“It’s a deal,” Janice replied. With a last toss of her head, she started down the walkway toward the gangplank. As she walked, she steeled herself against the one final goodbye she was dreading. Adrian. Silently she prayed he was already on board — as eager to ignore her as she was to ignore him. She couldn’t face a formal goodbye. If she did, she knew she’d break down, perhaps even blurt out she hadn’t meant the hateful words she had hurled at him in the gallery. And that she couldn’t stand. She had to break clean from the weekend. No matter what.

Glancing ahead, a suffocating sensation twisted her lungs. She wasn’t going to be lucky. Adrian stood at the entrance ramp, Ginger by his side. They were awaiting her arrival, and for a moment, Janice slowed her steps. Then realizing how foolish she must appear, she picked up her gait again.

Rubbing her bandaged wrist nervously, Janice sensed the air of isolation that hung about Adrian’s slouched shoulders. His black hair gleamed in the dazzling sunlight and she wondered if she would forever be haunted by his good looks. Haunted. She gave a shiver. Not the best word to use in the situation. Three steps from the ramp, Janice cast another prayer heavenward, asking for strength and pleading for Adrian to stay silent.

Toes touching the gangplank, Janice knew God didn’t intend to make their parting easy. Adrian stepped forward, touching her coat sleeve tentatively.

“Janice, I … ”

She didn’t let him start. She cut him off in mid-word.

“Get away from me, Adrian. The sight of you makes me sick.”

The words jarred him and, though he managed to pretend indifference, Janice knew she had wounded him to the quick. Gathering his dignity gallantly around him, he touched his forehead to her in a mock salute. In a flash, he had vaulted from the pier to the deck of the ferry, ignoring the small walkway. He disappeared quickly among the stacks of crates and packages and bodies and Janice felt a stab of guilt bury itself deep within her chest. That had been a mean thing to say. He hadn’t deserved it. She hadn’t realized she harbored such a cruel streak when it came to him. She wanted to hurt him thoroughly and she had. Janice felt no surprise when Ginger’s thoughts echoed her own.

“Why didn’t you just plunge a knife through his heart? It would’ve been kinder.” Janice’s gaze pierced the small distance between them. Ginger was angry with her, deeply angry. It showed in the purse of her lips. “That was too cruel,” she emphasized when Janice remained simply staring at her.

“I know,” Janice finally admitted, “but it had to be done.”

For a moment, Janice thought Ginger would understand her reasoning but her next words were far from sympathetic.

“He cried over you, you know. Cold-hearted Adrian who never gives a damn about anybody but himself. He didn’t think I saw him but I did. He loves you desperately but he doesn’t know how to tell you.”

Janice looked away. Dear God, how much more could she bear?

“He’ll forget and go on,” was all she could manage to mutter. Ginger moved away at once, stepping onto the ramp, and then as if having an afterthought, she turned back again.

“It shouldn’t be so easy for people to throw love away.”

Their eyes caught and held for a brief instant and then Ginger whirled, leaving Janice to climb the ramp alone. Alone. The word echoed in her mind and sternly mocked her. She’d have a lifetime of alone thanks to her runaway tongue.

Unexpected tears blocked her vision and Janice felt her toes hit the edge of the gangplank. Whoa, she cautioned herself. If she weren’t careful, she’d be having more than her wrist fixed at the hospital. Slipping her toes back onto solid board, she hopped the last yards onto the lower promenade. Immediately, she crossed to the stairwell and wound her way to the second level promenade, coming to rest when she reached the aft guardrail. Seconds later, the lurching vibration of revving engines rattled the flooring beneath her feet and she knew the ANNIE B’s departure was underway. A short horn blast confirmed the fact and with a stuttered creak, the ANNIE B scratched the wood pilings and began to backwater away from the mooring.

Leaning over the railing, Janice spotted Lloyd and Jasper, who exchanged a brief wave with her and then left the dock, striding from the pier to the cliff stairwell. Following their path, Janice’s gaze shot ahead to the house at the top of the cliff wall. In time, she would heal and so would Adrian. Hadn’t her father always said not to worry, that time was the wind that blew down the corridor slamming all the doors? Yes, but life had taught her that, once slammed, the door could never be reopened. Ginger was right. It shouldn’t be so easy to throw love away.

Clinging to the rail, Janice closed her eyes. She had seen too much in the last twenty four hours, experienced too many painful scenes. And now she was going to face a lightless future without Adrian. Or try to. Suddenly, Janice realized she was beyond pain and caring. From here on out, she would simply hang onto survival.

Chapter 29

SIX MONTHS LATER — MACEDONIA, MAINE

Lloyd studied the portrait before him. How many more nights would he find himself leaving the solace of his bedroom to stand before the canvas? For six months, the painting had haunted him. For six months, he had awakened from deep sleep only to seek out the portrait. He didn’t think it had anything special to impart to him. No, all that needed to be said was etched in the lines of the loving couple portrayed. Lisette had found freedom at last — in the arms of her true love. It was there in the excited light of her eyes and the shared embrace. Lloyd could almost feel the baron’s uneven breathing on Lisette’s cheek as he held her close. He could almost feel the tangible bond between them. The invisible heat of attraction they shared.

A creak on the floor board signaled a new visitor to the room.

“Have I disturbed you again, Dora?” he asked, swinging his gaze to find the woman in question plowing across the room toward him. Her sniff was dutiful as she reached him and a glass was shoved into his hand proving it.

“Warm milk. It will make you sleep,” she stated tartly.

Lloyd hid a smile at the matronly cosseting. He took a quick sip of the liquid.

“You’re a prig, Dora. Have I ever told you that?”

“At least six times a day. Don’t make no matter to me. You don’t mean it. It’s just your way.”

Lloyd swatted the thin line of white coating his upper lip.

“Yes, it’s my way.”

Dora scanned the portrait before them.

“You never did tell me which room you found this beautiful, old portrait in,” she commented.

“Don’t remember,” Lloyd evaded.

Her tell-tale sniff boomed again and Lloyd suddenly grinned as her ample bosom twisted toward him.

“You’re too young to have bats in your belfry, Lloyd Marks! Of course you remember. You just don’t choose to tell me.”

Lloyd let out a boyish laugh and then drained the remaining swirl of milk. He loved nothing better than making Dora squirm with curiosity. Flinging out his free arm, he tossed it carelessly across her shoulders and spun them both around.

“I have told you the truth, Dora, plenty of times. The portrait was left by a ghost.”

She wrenched away from him, throwing her head back and placing her hand on her hips in defiance.

“Still standing by that story, are you? Well, you may have fooled everyone else around here with that mumbo-jumbo, but I’m not fooled. You found that painting in the old wing. Plain as the nose on my face! Ghosts that leave pictures indeed! Fairy tale mush!”

Lloyd laughed again, scooping her fingers from her hips and depositing the empty glass into her palm. Quickly, he placed his hands on the small of her back and nudged her forward.

“I never could fool you one bit, could I, Dora? You’re absolutely right. I found the painting in the old wing attic.”

“Just so,” she commented, sailing out the door in front of him.

Stopping at the light switch, Lloyd cast a backward glance at the portrait. “Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy gets girl back. The very best of fairy tale endings, eh, Dora?”

Her fractured snort said it all.

“Bats in the belfry, that’s what!”

Lloyd flicked the light switch, giving a wry smile. No, not bats, ghosts. Ghosts in the belfry.

Chapter 30

SIX MONTHS LATER — MADSEN, OHIO

The rectory door clanged shut on its hinges and Jasper gave a small sigh of relief. The last of the congregation had finally dispersed and he had the rest of his Sunday all to himself. What to do first? Easy. He’d call the twins and finalize their travel plans to Aspen. Decide which of them would pick up and pay for the tickets.

For some inexplicable reason, Jasper felt an unexpected surge of excitement at the prospect of seeing Janice Kelly again. He didn’t know why he should. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t talked. They had talked incessantly over the last six months, each swapping stories of their childrens’ busy lives. He was lucky, he knew. Lucky to have her for a friend. Her frequent calls to the rectory had sustained him in his first, lonely months without Muriel.

Adrian had called at first, too, offered support, but over the last two months, the calls had dwindled and finally stopped. Had Adrian’s world taken a further downward spiral? He thought so. Should he invade Adrian’s time-line and check on his health? No, that would be an invasion, an intrusion of his soul. Better to offer up a prayer of encouragement instead.

Strolling up the aisle, he did so, and then selfishly he added a second prayer, one of matchmaking. Janice and Adrian belonged together, like he and Muriel — he’d stake his collar on it. There had to be a way to bring them together. He’d think on it. He’d pray on it. And in a moment of quiet thought, he’d slip his mind away and ask Muriel’s opinion on it. Muree! Funny, how effortlessly his thoughts flew to her these days. And funny, how he had always thought death would part them forever. It hadn’t. She was still here, sharing parts of his everyday life.

Jasper’s eye caught the cross etched in the stained glass window above the altar mantle. For a moment, he studied the bank of rainbow prisms. She hadn’t left him, not his Muree. She was always there, just around the corners of his mind. And she listened. And she believed in him. She always would.

Making a hasty sign of the cross and a half-genuflect, he started up the altar steps to the sacristy, disrobing as he went. Passing beneath the stained glass etching, he sent up a small hello to Muriel. A moment later, the air stirred above his head and Jasper smiled knowingly. That was his Muree. She never could let him have the last word on anything.

Chapter 31

SIX MONTHS LATER — LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

“God damn it, Adrian, how can you live like this?”

The question was edged with apparent disgust and Adrian winced as the overhead light snapped on, interrupting his melancholy brooding. The glaring light filled the room and instantly set up his hackles. He wished Todd would go to hell. And if he didn’t know how to get there, he’d damn well tell him how. Was it daybreak already?

Eyeballs smarting from lack of sleep, Adrian shaded his lids, but he knew the motion was more a reflex action to keep Todd from seeing the haggard, desolate light in his eyes. He heard approaching footsteps on the carpet and then caught sight of familiar patent and leather shoe tips. A second later, Todd’s snarl rolled contemptuously over him.

“Jesus, Adrian! You look frigging anorexic!”

“And a gracious good morning to you, too.” Adrian cajoled sweetly. He thought his cool response disguised his simmering rage adequately.

“As if it were morning!” Todd snorted. The shoe tips disappeared from view and Adrian lifted his head, following Todd’s path to the dining room table. Once there, his friend deposited an assortment of letters and a small package on the tabletop. “It’s ten o’clock at night, if that means anything to you,” he stated, sarcastically.

Tucking himself deeper into the chair, Adrian ignored the barb and went back to his brooding. Or tried to. Todd’s repeated oaths as he snatched up discarded clothing from the floor kept Adrian from fully concentrating on his melancholy. Soon, the shoe tips appeared in his line of vision again.

“Jesus, Adrian, why don’t you just blow your brains out and be done with it?”

“Go away, Todd,” Adrian snarled, nastily.

When the shoe tips remained, Adrian lifted his head. A second later, he was glad that he had. If he hadn’t, the circle of keys heading for his face might’ve done some major damage to his right eye. He dodged the attack, deflecting the keys away with a swat. They ricocheted off the back of the chair and dropped to the carpet with barely a sound.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Todd growled at him. “You’d like to be left alone to rot.” Adrian offered no comment, trying to keep a lid on his simmering temper. “How long since you ate anything?” The question was so unexpected and asked with such real concern, Adrian tried to answer it. He couldn’t remember how long, so he hedged.

“A couple of days.”

“You want something now?”

“No.” The syllable was more swallowed than spoken.

“Jesus, Adrian, if you’re this crazy in love with the woman, go tell her. If she’s all the things Ginger says she is, she won’t turn you away.”

“Screw Ginger!”

A chiding growl reverberated around his head and Adrian knew he was straining his friendship with Todd to the max.

“That’s nice talk,” Todd replied. “Did you learn that from the baron?”

“Fuck you!”

“Ah, that’s better. Now, will you call the woman and ask her to marry you or shall I?” Adrian made no comment, choosing to let a cold silence become his answer. “She lives in Aspen, right?”

Todd moved away, striding toward the desk phone. Adrian was out of his chair in a flash, barreling after his receding back. He’d tear the son of bitch’s heart out. See if he didn’t.

He wasn’t quite fast enough though, or else Todd sensed his coming, but Adrian found himself plowing into Todd’s chest and bouncing off it as he whirled about. Feet planted firmly, fists clenched, they stood glaring at one another, each silently daring the other. Suddenly, Todd’s face split into a lopsided grin.

“My God, you fucker, you’re scared! You’re afraid she’ll turn you down.” He snorted out a laugh and Adrian knew the snort was one of pure glee. He fought down an impulse to ram his fist through the nearest object.

“Of course, she’ll turn me down,” he snapped. “She should. I broke her wrist, raped her!”

Todd’s grin died instantly.

“Neither of you knows that for sure. You were both caught up in some damn fugue. Why are you putting yourself through this hell?”

Why? He couldn’t do anything else, Adrian knew.

“You’ll never understand, Todd,” he quipped, suddenly deflating. Just as suddenly, he realized how sick in mind and body he had become. He drifted to the window and opened the shades. A glittering array of marquee lights lit the night skyline. He stared at the crowd of passers-by walking the strip. Todd thought he felt guilty. He didn’t. No, the pain stemmed from his inability to remember what making love to Janice had been like. He had had one shot at loving her and he didn’t remember it and the knowledge gnawed at him like a cancer. He hoped he had been a giving lover, riding the currents of desire clear to the top, finally exploding in simultaneous fulfillment? He hoped her face had glowed in the aftermath of climax and she had whispered she loved him. He hoped … that’s an awful lot of hopes, Adrian, old buddy.

Adrian felt a light touch on his shoulder but didn’t turn.

“I do understand, Adrian. And for what it’s worth, I believe that making love was a mutual consent — for both of you. Forget your damn pride. Fly to Aspen and talk to Janice. Get down on your knees if you have to and beg her to marry you. Better yet, camp on her doorstep till she says yes.”

“It’s not that easy, Todd. She’s got a daughter.”

“For Christ’s sake! You’re a frigging magician! Kids are crazy about magicians. Everyone knows that.”

For the first time in months, Adrian found himself grinning. Todd was a sappy son of a bitch — a true closet romantic. Hiding his grin, Adrian turned from the window and gave Todd a brief nod.

“I’ll think on it.”

“And that’s all you’ll ever do on it,” Todd replied in disgust. He spun on his heel and strode back to the table. Snatching up a banded stack of papers, he began to riffle through them one by one. “Jesus! How long since you answered mail or paid any bills?”

“Two … three months.”

Todd gave a soulful sigh.

“More like four or five. You better come take a look at these and tell me what needs paying. I’m assuming you’re not ready to work again?”

“No!” Adrian’s snarl was loud and emphatic.

“Okay, okay. Simmer down. I’ll call Jilly and tell her to turn down the Stardust offer.”

Adrian grunted, whirling from the window and joining Todd at the table. Flipping through a second banded stack, his heart plummeted. There was an appalling number of e-mails. Was he that popular with audiences? Did they miss his performances that much?

Resigned to the fact that perhaps they did, Adrian sat down and glanced at the first e-mail. He read a few words and then pitched it. A second followed the first, then a third. Perusing the fourth, his scowl became fierce. Damn teeny boppers. Nothing but stage door groupies and star wannabes writing him. Were they the only ones enamored of him? Didn’t anyone his own age enjoy his performances? He picked up another sheet, read a few lines, and pitched it.

“Well, I’ll be fucked!”

Adrian glanced up, surprised by Todd’s vehement curse. He found Todd staring at him, a curious light in his eyes.

“This one’s from Aspen,” he announced. He raised a small envelope and Adrian saw him take a quick sniff of the edges. “Definitely feminine.”

Adrian’s heart began a wild foot race with his stomach and he chided himself for reacting like a lovesick fool. Janice wouldn’t write him. She hated him with a passion. No, there were loads of people living in Aspen who considered themselves his fans. This letter was from one of them.

“Guess we can toss this one,” Todd said briskly. He pitched the envelope into the garbage can alongside the table.

Adrian came out of his chair with a fevered curse.

“God dammit, Todd, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, did you want to read that one?” he remarked casually. Adrian bolted around the table and fished the envelope from the trash. “Sorry, thought any correspondence from Aspen was garbage.”

“You’ve shit for brains,” Adrian mumbled. He studied the handwriting and return address. What had prompted her to write to him after all these months? Hadn’t everything been said that day on the pier? Was she having second thoughts about that day? Sending him an apology? No, he couldn’t be that lucky. The stars would fall out of the sky before an apology would be issued from her lips. She hated him. He sank back in his chair, ignoring Todd’s piercing stare. Slashing the envelope open, he read the colorful missive enclosed once, then reread it a second time.

“Sweet Jesus!”

Todd leaned in, closing the gap between them.

“What is it, Adrian?”

Adrian passed the card to Todd, not at all surprised to hear an astonished whistle leave his lips a second later. The card fluttered to the table in front of him and Adrian plucked at it absently. What did he do now? Beside him, Todd leaned back in his chair, blowing through his cheeks.

“Jesus, Adrian, I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

Stunned by the question, Todd shot upright in the chair. He exchanged a quick glance with Adrian and then, all of a sudden, both began to laugh uproariously.

Chapter 32

SIX MONTHS LATER — ASPEN, COLORADO

The sound of doorbells chiming filtered through Janice’s consciousness and she stopped painting. Beyond the doorway, she heard the patter of tiny footsteps on the hall carpet. She lifted her head in expectation, her eyes glued to the doorway. As she thought, a flash of blue jeans streaked by at a reckless pace, heading for the staircase. Janice’s mouth tilted upward as she listened to the tiny thumps on the carpeted steps. Sarah was off to answer the front door again, the little minx. She supposed she should stop her. Over the last several months, she had grown impossible about answering the door. When the chimes sounded, she responded. If she was upstairs, she ran down. If she was outside, she ran in.

Janice frowned suddenly. Should she be worried about her behavior? Her actions were amusing, and so far she had chalked the behavior up to just that. But now her habit seemed off-kilter. Was Sarah’s preoccupation with answering the front door a delayed reaction to Jimmy’s non-presence?

Looking back at the recent months in her mind’s eye, it dawned on Janice that Sarah was answering the door as if she was expecting someone. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Sarah was obviously sure someone was coming to visit. But whom? Janice tossed her paintbrush into the fresh jar of water beside her easel, grimacing at the resulting blue-green tint. Sarah couldn’t be expecting her father. She had said as much.

“Are you still painting?”

Janice jumped, startled by the question. Her glance slid to the doorway once more. Seeing her sister’s plump form, she hid a smile. Nine months pregnant and all stomach, she surmised. If Bibi didn’t have the baby soon, they’d have to take to calling her the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Janice’s smile snaked its way out.

“All finished.” She dropped her palette onto the makeshift worktable by the easel and sighed. “It’s finally done. Come see.”

Bibi sped to the easel, her eagerness showing in her hurried waddle. Coming to a halt in front of the finished portrait, she drew in a sharp breath.

“It’s the best thing you’ve ever done, Jan,” she said sincerely.

Janice’s gaze traveled to the finished colors. Yes, she thought so, too. It was the best thing she had ever painted. But then, she thought, why shouldn’t it be? The painting had come from the depths of her soul.

“Jasper will love it,” Bibi said quietly.

Janice studied the faces and figures depicted.

“I’m going to call it Across Time. What do you think?”

Bibi cocked her head left, then right.

“Yes, I see that.” She turned from the painting and gave Janice a knowing smile. “You’re not quite over that experience yet, are you?”

Janice hid a smile. You’re not quite over Adrian yet, are you? That’s what her sister really meant. Grinning suddenly, Janice stroked her protruding stomach.

“Ask me that again after the baby’s born.”

Bibi gave a stuttered groan and sought a resting place along the edge of the bed.

“Honestly, Jan, I hate you. I’m as big as a house. And you’re simply rounded.”

Janice caressed her protruding stomach.

“He may be small, but he’s an active little thing. For the last two days, he’s done nothing but kick at me. I think he wants out.”

Bibi tossed her a reassuring smile.

“You’re sure he’s a he?”

Janice chewed on that thought for a moment. Yes, she was sure. She had had a brief flash in the early days. Not enough to see clearly. But she had sensed that the life growing within her was definitely a male child. She grimaced at the direction of her thoughts. What was wrong with her? She had the urge to blame Adrian for wishing a boy on her, when she would’ve liked her next child to be a carbon copy of Sarah. As always, Adrian had had the last joke on her. If he wasn’t going to be around to provoke her, he was going to annoy the hell out of her with a Mini Me of himself. A perfect mirror image that she would have to look at every day. Year in and year out.

Pulling her thoughts back sharply, Janice realized she was being stupid. Adrian didn’t even know about the baby, much less determine its gender. Meeting Bibi’s curious stare, she realized her sister was still waiting for an answer.

“He’s a he,” she stressed confidently.

Her sister grinned.

“Boys are nice.”

Janice started to agree, but lost her train of thought as Sarah raced into the room, screeching her name.

“Mama! Look! I knew it would come. I knew it wasn’t lost forever.”

What is it, sweetie? What’s come?”

Sarah barreled into her knees, stretching her tiny hand up to Janice.

“See, Mama, your compass.”

Staring at the plastic circle cupped in the tiny palm, Janice’s heart did a rapid flip-flop and the air in her lungs seemed to evaporate as if sucked out through a straw. Her compass! Reluctantly, she took the round circle from Sarah’s proffered hand, trying to keep her voice steady as she did so.

“Sarah, sweetie, where did you find this?”

“The magician found it.” She began a light hopscotch from one foot to the other and Janice’s pulse skittered in alarm. Her hand flew to her throat and for a second she thought she was going to pass out. She studied Sarah’s nimble hopping and then found herself stuttering stupidly.

“Magician? Here?!”

“Uh-huh. He’s downstairs with Uncle Roddy. He’s very handsome, Mama.”

Janice’s hands flew to her mouth. Adrian here! But how and why? A flash of white began to move across her line of vision and spinning, Janice spotted Bibi edging her way to the door, a notorious crimson flush staining her cheeks.

“Don’t you dare move another step!” she commanded. Quickly, she returned her attention to Sarah and lightened her tone. “Sarah, sweetie, you know how when guests come to our house we’re good hosts? How we offer them something to drink?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I need you to be a good hostess right now and offer the magician some of your lemonade.”

She didn’t wait for Janice to finish the sentence. She exploded into a clumsy pirouette and bolted from the room, hollering for Peter as she ran. Sighing heavily, Janice gathered her strength and spun to confront Bibi. Her words were heated.

“You sent for him? After I expressly forbid you to?”

Bibi gave a mock shrug.

“I didn’t send for him,” she hedged, “I promised you I wouldn’t.”

“Well, then, why is he here? He wouldn’t come without a reason.” That there was a reason was clear by Bibi’s awkward rocking. “You called him?” Janice asked in disbelief.

“No. I didn’t call him.”

Janice’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Just what did you do, Bibi?”

This time her sister had the good sense to cringe and Janice was glad she did because otherwise she was sure she would have launched her entire set of paintbrushes at her.

“I sent him an invitation to the baby shower,” Bibi murmured softly.

Janice let out an astonished screech, surprising herself as much as startling Bibi, who shied away quickly.

“You told him about the baby! After I said you were not to?!”

“He has a right to know he’s going to be a father.”

“I was going to tell him,” Janice snapped, “but in my own way.”

“When? When the kid’s going off to college?”

“That’s a rotten thing to say and you know it! I had every intention of telling Adrian about the baby.”

“Is this a private fight or can anyone join?”

“Adrian!”

The words were stuttered in panic as Janice swung about. His tall figure lounged against the doorframe and Janice found herself magnetized by the sight of him. Lord, he was gorgeous.

Thin, but still gorgeous. With the lift of his eyebrow, he scanned her stricken features. Immediately, Janice felt a rush of color to her cheeks.

“Well, at least saying my name no longer makes you sick,” he said quietly. “I would hate to think I made a pregnant woman nauseous.” Janice flushed again, stung by his sarcasm. What a memory he had. He was throwing her last words to him up in her face. “You look good, Janice. Very good.” Janice felt herself coloring up even more furiously. He wasn’t going to make this reunion easy. His gaze darted quickly left and Janice saw him study her sister intently. “You must be Bibi. I gather I have you to thank for the invitation?” She didn’t reply or nod, speechless by the turn of events. If the whole situation weren’t so preposterous, Janice thought she would laugh. She regretted the thought in the next instant as Adrian signaled to Bibi politely. “I’m sure there’s something you want to do downstairs.” Janice heard the emphasis on “downstairs” and knew the words weren’t a request.

A flash of relief crossed Bibi’s face at the edict and, seizing the opportunity, she bustled forward. As she reached the doorway, Adrian stepped aside, giving way to her stoutness. His lips curled up derisively as she sped out onto the landing.

Her departure left a void of silence behind that neither seemed to know how to fill. Flustered, Janice tried to think of something appropriate to say besides the obvious Hello. In the next second, Adrian had saved her the trouble and worry.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?”

Though his caustic reminder shook her up, Janice managed to look him directly in the eye.

“How are you, Adrian? You look thin.”

“I’ve been sick,” was his instant answer and Janice immediately regretted the question. He made it sound as if his illness was her fault. Was that true? Janice began to twist her fingers nervously. The gesture made her even more self-conscious.

“Are you getting better?” she managed to ask, then wondered how she could be firing off such inane questions when her only urge was to fling herself into his arms and beg his forgiveness. He made no comment, just stared.

Biting her lower lip to keep it from quivering, Janice wondered how she had ever thought she would forget him so easily. Even for all his thinness, he was devastatingly handsome. The sight of him was slowly draining the air from her lungs and causing her heart to flutter nervously in her breast. And now he was lifting an eyebrow curiously at her. Was that nervousness she sensed? His next words confirmed it.

“My health depends on you, Janice.” She didn’t like the sound of that. “Rather, it depends on whether I can convince you in the next minute to let me kiss you.”

Janice’s mouth dropped open in surprise. God, he wasn’t going to start this foolishness all over again about kissing, was he? She couldn’t bear it if he did. She had to distract his mind. But how? Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the standing easel and spun toward it. She knew instantly she had guessed right. He sprang from the doorframe and followed close on her heels.

Halting before the painting, Janice could only hope that the beauty of the portrait and its subjects would catch his fancy. It did. He came to a halt beside her, his gaze riveted to the figures depicted.

“Do you like it?” she asked hesitantly. She stole a peek at him, realizing his answer meant the difference between pain and pleasure.

“Very much,” he replied, no trace of sarcasm lacing his voice. Janice breathed a sigh of relief. “Are you planning on selling it?” The question was so unexpected, it overwhelmed Janice. Was he thinking of buying it?

“No, it’s a present for Jasper. He’s coming to visit next month with the twins.”

At her pronouncement, Adrian’s head snapped around and studied her face, as if memorizing it. For one thrilling moment, Janice felt her heart stop. He was going to kiss her and she was going to let him. He knew it and she knew it. Disturbed by the smoldering desire rising in his eyes, Janice found herself spinning around. Dear God, she couldn’t kiss Adrian. If she did it would be all over. She’d end up married to him.

The feel of warm arms encircling her waist from behind startled her, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she looked down at the long slim fingers lightly resting on the top of her stomach. A warm breath tickled her ear as he muttered hoarsely.

“Don’t send me away, Janice. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t work. I can’t even concentrate. Your image haunts me more than it ever did when I was a boy. Please tell me you didn’t mind what happened between us. Tell me you’ll love this baby because I’m its father.” He paused to catch his breath and Janice took a moment to interrupt.

“Adrian … ”

He cut her off immediately.

“No, don’t say it. Don’t say it can’t work out. It can. I know it can. If it’s Sarah, I’ll win her over. I’m not so hard to take, am I? No, don’t answer that … ” He must’ve realized he might get an answer he didn’t want to hear because he released Janice’s waist and spun her around so fast she had to clutch onto his shoulders to keep from falling. Again, their gazes met and held. This time Janice saw him grin sheepishly. “At least, let me kiss you. I know if you let me kiss you, I can prove to you how crazy I am about you. I have great lips.”

Janice’s lips twitched with a will of their own at his arrogant bragging. He was being boyishly charming, and a charming Adrian was a deadly Adrian. She shook her head.

“Every time you kiss me, Adrian, some part of my anatomy seems to swell up.”

He caught the sly reference at once, and chuckling, hauled her into his arms. His lips swooped down and devoured hers swiftly. It was a long, drugging kiss and the assault sent a shockwave clear to the tips of Janice’s toes. Her knees suddenly gave way, turning to jelly, and she found herself collapsing into his chest. He absorbed her weight easily with his own and all lucid thought fled from her brain as his tongue swept the roof of her mouth. And then, just as if it seemed the kiss would never end, he let go her mouth. Janice managed a breathless choke. He raised her chin upward and then his fingers found their way to her mouth. Suggestively, he outlined the curve of her moist lower lip.

“Told you I could prove it,” he whispered arrogantly.

Before she could object, his mouth covered hers again hungrily. Swept away, Janice’s arms automatically wound around his neck. He was right, damn him. He did have great lips.

A sudden screech split the air.

“Aunt Bibi! Come look! Mama’s kissing the magician!”

Adrian twisted free of Janice’s lips and turned toward the door. A flash of blue jean streaked from the room at a breakneck pace.

“She’s a lively chatterbox.”

Janice dropped her forehead onto Adrian’s chest, sighing pleasurably.

“She’s a notorious tattletale. We’ll have no secrets.” She lifted her chin and nuzzled into his throat. His knuckles found the side of her cheekbone and caressed it affectionately. Her sigh resembled a delighted purr and Adrian chuckled again, taking hold of her chin. With a ragged breath, he planted a kiss on each side of her lips and then along her cheekbones.

“I have dreamed this moment a thousand times in my head. How I would kiss you … make love to you … ” His lips found her earlobe. “Say you forgive me, Janice. I’d give everything I own to go back and relive that night. Change things. Keep Muriel alive. You’ve got to believe me.”

Janice pulled away, meeting his tortured gaze. Did he still think she blamed him for Muriel’s death? Standing on tiptoe, she brushed her lips lightly across his.

“None of that matters now, Adrian. Honestly.”

He tugged on her waist, drawing her back into his embrace.

“You smell heavenly. Come kiss me.”

She responded to his words, melding her body into his. A secret smile softened her lips.

“Je suis ici, mon ami.”

He gave her a lop-sided grin and dipped his head.

“Vous parle Français trés bien, mademoiselle.”

Inhaling sharply, Janice pulled back again. A curious glint entered her eyes.

“A gift from the baron,” he replied, quickly.

Grabbing the back of his head, she pulled his face toward her.

“C’mere. Let me show you a little something the baron taught me.”

Adrian grinned boyishly.

“I’ve a better idea. Let me show you a little something the baron showed Lisette.”

A minute later, Janice knew what it was to be thoroughly kissed.

About the Author

Rachel James is a lifelong reader of romance and has been writing romance since the age of thirteen. She spent many decades in theater and film (both off-stage and on) and holds an Associate Arts Degree in Music. Besides being a prolific writer, she is a Spiritual Guidance Counselor who coaches clients via the Metaphysical Arts. She currently resides in South Florida.

More from This Author
The Sacred Circle by Rachel James

The Amulet

Chardy Walker Lieb

Avon, Massachusetts

This edition published by

Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com

Copyright © 2013 by Charlotte Susan Walker Lieb

ISBN 10: 1-4405-6826-X

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6826-8
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6827-8
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6827-5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123rf.com; istockphoto.com/ghekko

I would like to dedicate this book to Martha Ferris, Nancy Hall, and Judy Harvey — the best writers’ group any author could ever have. Not only are they the most talented writers I have read, but their continued support, boundless encouragement, and unconditional friendship mean the world to me. They are, and always will be, my inspiration! I also have to thank a few of my non-writer friends who have been there with me every step of the way — Nancee Brown, Rita Pond, and Cathy Rhoades. Your continued support makes every single word I write mean more to me. Thank you all.

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

About the Author

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

Chapter One

Jack Hawthorne dangled the necklace between his thumb and middle finger and held it up to his office window for a better look. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this, Max?”

Twenty-three stories above downtown Boston, the sky was blue and clear. Typical for October. He eyed the interesting gem in the daylight then turned to face Maxine Spencer, his one and only secretary for the past ten years of his law practice.

“My e-calendar slated it for today, so I pulled it from the vault.’ Maxine slapped both hands on her hips and shrugged. “I log every task, and my schedules don’t lie.”

“I wasn’t questioning your — ”

“It says to locate the client named in file number 1692 today and bequeath this necklace.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Jack grinned out of respect. The woman was fifty-ish, or so he guessed, and had never been married. Tall and thin, she wore tailored suits; sensible heels; and galoshes, when it rained. Maxine prided herself on taking care of business, specifically Jack’s law firm, in the most straightforward, efficient manner possible. “Who’s the recipient?”

“My records indicate a Miss Abigail Corey.”

“Abigail,” he repeated. As Jack spoke the suspended stone seemed to respond, twirling counterclockwise between his fingers. He dropped the chain. “Son of a — ”

“Beg pardon?”

Jack scooped the necklace off the floor. “Did you see that?” he asked, but the blank look on Maxine’s face answered before she did.

“Well, I saw you drop the bequest, if that’s what you’re asking.” She shook her head. “You’d better put it away, or you’ll break it before we ever find the owner.”

He slipped the amulet back into the small pine box and met her stern expression. “Okay, let’s do it, Max.” He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “Locate this Corey woman.”

Before Maxine could close the door behind her, a striking, dark-haired beauty sidestepped her with the grace of an NBA point guard. “Excuse me, Nadine,” the woman breezed.

“Maxine,” the secretary corrected in her no nonsense, drill sergeant tone. Standing her ground, she added, “Mr. Hawthorne is busy, you’ll — ”

“It’s okay, Max,” Jack assured her, considering Bridget had practically done a pick and roll to slip into his office. A feat that no doubt would have been impossible had she not caught Maxine in a revolving door of sorts.

When Max slammed his office door — hard, Jack gestured to the seat opposite his. As Bridget sat, her crimson cape parted, exposing a black knit dress with a neckline cut just low enough. “Why the hell do you do that?” Jack’s lip twitched which should have told her to tread lightly — had she known the first thing about him.

Bridget crossed her legs and arched one dark brow. “Why do I do what?”

Another slight twitch.

“The woman is your secretary, Darling, not your wife.” She offered an unapologetic grin.

“And neither are you, Darling.” Jack didn’t smile. As beautiful as Bridget was, and she was damned beautiful, something about her, besides her obvious edge, had really started to rub him the wrong way. He met her pale blue gaze. His voice was low and even — another warning sign Bridget should have recognized, if she knew him at all. “Don’t ever speak to her like that again. Got it?”

She arched one brow. “Loud and clear, but — ”

“Good.” He checked his watch. “Why are you here?”

She crossed her legs and frowned. “I’m beginning to wonder the same thing.”

Impatience focused his attention. “Exactly what can I do for you?” His words were clipped, and he meant them to be. “Look, Bridget, I’m busy.” He watched her pale blue eyes narrow. Unimpressed, he told her, “I’m in the middle of executing an inheritance.”

She toyed with the jangle of silver bracelets cuffing her wrist. “Doesn’t exactly sound like brain surgery.”

Jack allowed her frosty comment to slide, this time, but only because he remembered her jewelry expertise and decided to exploit it. “Well, since you’re here, take a look at this necklace for me, will you?”

She continued to fiddle with her bangles. “Well, I don’t know, Darling. You’re awfully busy. Maybe I should just go.”

“Okay.” Jack shrugged. “Forget it then.”

The first to break the uncomfortable silence between them, she sighed. “Oh, alright. Let me see your precious bauble.”

He heard her tone soften as she slanted her striking gaze his way. Unaffected, he pulled Abigail Corey’s amulet from the box. “What do you make of this?”

Bridget jumped up so fast she tipped over the chair.

“Are you okay?” Jack stood, but she held up one hand to stop him.

“Just a cramp in my foot,” Bridget said, quickly righting the seat and standing behind it rather than sitting back down.

Jack stared. The woman looked like she was using the damn chair as a shield. Why the white-knuckled grip? And why did she sound so breathless — and not in a sexy way?

“Where did you get that?” she demanded without letting go of the chair.

“This is the inheritance I’m working on.” He dangled the necklace for her to see again. When she visibly flinched, he took one step forward. “So, what do you think? Ever seen a stone like this before?”

“Never.” Bridget shook her head and took a step back. “Looks like junk to me.”

“Junk?” Moving two paces closer to her, he twirled the chain between his fingers and watched it catch the light. “Really?”

Still facing Jack she backed up and fumbled for the doorknob. “Probably old costume jewelry.”

He watched Bridget grope for the door. She never took her eyes off the stone. “Are you sure?” he pressed, closing the distance between them.

“Positive.” She backed into the wall.

Jack shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.” Extending his hand, he offered her the necklace. “Here, take a closer look.”

“No!” She slapped his hand away.

Her vehement refusal made no sense. He stared at her — plastered against the door, both palms flush against the smooth oak, cheeks flushed. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” she insisted. “I have to go.”

“You never said why you’re here.”

“I thought we’d, um, have coffee.” Her hand fumbled behind her back and finally found the knob. “But I remembered something I have to do,” she insisted, blue eyes still fixed on the necklace.

“Immediately.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. This can’t wait.”

It wasn’t until Jack slipped the amulet into the pocket of his sports jacket that Bridget met his gaze. “Suit yourself,” he told her and meant it. Beautiful or not, he was done with her. Maybe next time he’d switch it up and try something new. Like dating a woman with a little more character and a little less cup size.

When the door slammed for the second time this morning, Jack barely noticed.

Chapter Two

Salem, Massachusetts

15 September

Year of our Lord 1690

With each careful step, Bridget Bishop’s candle flickered, less from nerves than the deep seeded thrill of anticipation. She steadied the trembling light and prepared for the first time to perform the passion sleeping ritual. Her mother had coaxed her father into a moonlit walk, so her daughter could cast her spell as she had instructed her to do. Bridget’s breath quickened as she carefully set down the candle and searched through the kitchen knives. Selecting the very sharpest, she picked up the blade and watched the metal gleam in the candlelight as she ran her thumb down its length. She was careful not to cut herself — not just yet.

Relishing the sensation — the overwhelming feeling of power and freedom — Bridget’s black lashes fluttered shut. She enjoyed the sharp, cold metal’s feel against her skin. She loved the way her breath quickened and her pulse pounded at both wrists and temples. Slowly and deliberately she opened her eyes then in one fast, deliberate gouge, she pricked the ring finger of her left hand. She found the pain exciting. Just as her mother had promised, the blood that spurted, staining her pale skin, made her feel more alive than anything she had ever experienced before.

Bridget pinched the wound hard and smiled as her blood dripped into the cup of water she had drawn from the well at sunset. Dipping a robin’s feather into the mixture, she painted a piece of parchment, turning the paper a rosy shade of pink. She placed the damp sheet before the crackling fireplace to dry while she gathered together the remaining ingredients that were need.

A pinch of cinnamon. Some sandalwood. Several dried patchouli leaves. Bridget sprinkled the triad into a stone mortar and used a pestle to grind the mix into a powder. She transferred the mélange onto a large, flat rock at the foot of her bed and used the candle flame to burn the fragrant blend into ashes.

Bridget wrote the name Jackson Hathorne on the now-dried, pink paper and slipped it beneath her pillow. She scattered rose petals on the floor around her bed before pulling back the cover and getting in. Bridget realized she was a novice at her craft, but she also knew she had followed her mother’s instructions perfectly and would repeat the same ritual for the next six nights. By the full moon, Bridget was certain her spell would be successful, and she would get exactly what she wanted. Not only would have a passionate, sensuous dream of Jackson Hathorne, but she would be one step closer to making her fantasy a reality.

• • •

Patience had never been Bridget Bishop’s strong suit. Tapping the toe of her black Jimmy Choo stiletto against the industrial-strength tile floor, she raked her blood-red fingernails through her hair. This should have been impossible. After all these years, how the hell had this happened? Not only was the damned amulet here in Boston, but Jack Hawthorne had it. And that could only mean one thing. She would follow. Unless, of course, someone stopped her. Bridget licked her lips at the thought of taking care of that bitch once and for all. Knowing the timing was not right for that, at least not now, she had to make other arrangements.

After leaving Jack’s office, Bridget had made the appropriate phone call and set up the meeting. She checked her watch — 11:00 A.M. exactly. This guy had better be on time. The last thing Bridget needed was to be seen talking to him, but under the circumstances, she had no choice.

Seated on the two-sided bench that faced the south entrance to the mall, she waited. As the crisp October breeze scattered dried leaves across the sidewalk, their skittering sound reminded Bridget of her cat running across a hardwood floor. The sun felt comfortably warm through her lightweight cape. And then the air chilled.

She sensed the muscular man’s presence before he slipped onto the seat directly behind her. Settling his broad shoulders against the slatted wooden back that separated them, she knew before he spoke that this was the man she had contacted.

Without turning, she angled her head in his direction and asked their prearranged question. “Excuse me, do you have the time?”

“Midnight,” Zeke answered.

“As I told you on the phone, the timetable has changed,” Bridget whispered. She pulled a slip of paper from her cape pocket. Passing it behind her back, she handed it to him. His large hand was every bit as rough as his reputation, and nothing could have pleased her more. “This is where she lives.”

Chapter Three

With Bridget gone, Jack pulled the necklace from his jacket pocket. This time he palmed the stone and noticed it actually felt warm. As if it drew heat from his skin. He had held it in the sunlight earlier; maybe the unusual stone absorbed or conducted heat.

The mental image of a woman flashed in his head so quickly, he didn’t have time to blink before the sensation passed. Strawberry blonde or auburn hair — not dark. Brown or green eyes, he wasn’t sure which. Definitely not blue. The details weren’t clear, but the recognition practically crystallized. The impact of the vision or hallucination or whatever the hell it was punched him hard in the gut. And just as quickly, she was gone.

Momentarily blindsided, Jack rationalized. He’d been working way too hard lately. Too many cases. Too much court. Too few earthly pleasures. But then that was easy enough to remedy. It always had been.

And that’s when he heard it. A soft, sweet laugh that was as exquisitely feminine as it was familiar. Laughter so identifiable that he actually looked around. So unmistakable that he would swear the woman was standing next to him.

Either this was nuts, or he was. Jack Hawthorne did not believe in hocus pocus bullshit. That said, why did he know that the laugh he’d just heard belonged to the mysterious woman who had flashed through his mind? He couldn’t explain how he knew. He just knew.

One thing for sure — whatever was going on, somehow the necklace had triggered it. So, he took a closer look. The chain was plain, nothing fancy. Appeared to be gold, but that wasn’t a given. The length was pretty average — maybe eighteen or twenty inches. Nothing special. But the stone … now that was a different story. In comparison, it was about the size of a nickel, and the rich color reminded him of honey. Except for the tear-shaped design in its center, the gem was flawless. For all he knew that marking might make it more valuable.

Other than the necklace, there hadn’t been anything else in the old wooden box except the yellowed, handwritten note scrawled:

Deliver to Miss Abigail Corey — Springfield, Illinois — by October 31

Unwilling to ride this bizarre little sci-fi merry-go-round one more minute, Jack took a leap of faith and jumped off. He put the amulet back in the box and checked his calendar. Maxine had scheduled a one-week time frame to find the Corey woman. He buzzed her.

“Yes.”

“Just curious,” he began. “When did we receive Miss Corey’s heirloom?” He heard her fingers clicking computer keys faster than seemed humanly possible.

Silence.

“Maxine”

“Yes.”

“Got a receipt date?”

“Well, hmmm, this says October 31, 1692.” She cleared her throat then quickly made a connection. “I obviously logged the file number as the year. I’m very sorry about that.”

A dark cloud momentarily obscured the sun, casting a shadow across Jack’s desk. “Forget it.” Maxine never made a mistake like that. Never. When it came to work, the woman was a machine. In fact, he couldn’t remember her ever making any significant kind of clerical error. So, what gives with the date? The last time he had a hinky feeling this strong, one guy got his eye poked out, two went to prison for life, and a monkey lost his tail. “On second thought,” Jack added, “do some more digging, will you? Maybe you can track — ”

“Wait a minute,” Maxine said. “That date is correct.”

“It can’t be.” As he listened to her computer keys tap dance, a larger, darker cloud replaced the first in the late morning sky.

“It is,” she insisted and left it at that.

Her I’m-right-and-you’re-wrong silence always amused Jack. “Okay, Max, then you tell me exactly how — ”

“Because, this is an account you acquired — ”

“What do you mean?” Now it was his turn to interrupt. Jack watched the dark clouds pass and blue sky reappear. He propped the phone between his left ear and shoulder and listened to her explanation.

“You acquired it,” she repeated, “when you bought out Parris, Goody, and Lynch.”

“And you’re not kidding?” Jack asked without thinking. When he heard her mutter about having bigger fish to fry, he remembered Maxine Spencer did not joke. “So, this time-dated execution, for lack of a better term, has actually been passed down from law firm to law firm for more than three hundred years?”

“According to my records, that is correct.”

“Can’t be.” His tone was definitive. “Springfield, Illinois, did not exist in 1692.”

“I know it didn’t, but — ”

“No buts.” He tapped his pencil on the desktop. “Not possible.”

“But,” she insisted, unwilling to be stopped, “I just called up the entire account history, and we have the paperwork to back this up.

Jack stopped the pencil mid-tap and thought a moment. “Not only was there not a Springfield,” he spoke as much to himself as to Maxine, “but no one could have known this Abigail Corey would exist.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Maxine stated.

“Seriously?” Jack snorted. “I’d say an inheritance passed down over three hundred years naming and locating some yet-to-be born woman in some yet-to-be established city is pretty damned — ”

“Doesn’t matter,” she repeated. “We have the necklace. We have the paperwork,” she told him as if there was nothing more to be said. “It’s our job to find her.”

Jack noted Maxine had said “find her,” not try to find her. He had heard that matter-of-fact tone way too many times in the past decade to do anything but step back and stay out of her way. The woman had a sense of duty that took no prisoners, and this little execution was no exception.

“Well then, get cracking, Maxine. I’d say waiting three centuries to search for someone is long enough.” When she didn’t even chuckle, he cleared his throat. This had to be the wildest God damned goose chase he’d ever been on. His only reply was the woman’s haunting laughter as it echoed through his mind again. He shook his head. “Check it out and see what you come up with in Springfield.”

Chapter Four

The rental car Zeke Taylor had chosen to drive tonight was, in a word, nondescript. The black Toyota Camry was a popular model, not too flashy but nice enough not to raise suspicion in a decent, law-abiding part of town. It would blend in, and that’s exactly what he needed. He drove by the first time to locate the address Bridget Bishop had given him.

Halfway up the street and just as it had been described, the ornate, cast iron lettering spelled out Aromatiques, the name of the Corey woman’s shop. After driving around the adjacent streets for ten minutes or so, he pulled to the curb about a half a block from the two-story, brick building he targeted. He killed the headlights and took a long, careful look. Satisfied he had a clear view, he put the car in park and turned off the ignition.

Zeke unhooked his seatbelt and lit a Marlboro. For some reason, waiting had never been a problem for him. It actually felt like an exercise in restraint. And if there was one thing Zeke liked, it was the feeling of control. Whether that was behind the wheel of a car, on top of a woman, or holding a gun to someone’s head.

Positive or negative, as long as he held the reins, nothing else mattered. He would go to any lengths. In that respect he always thought he’d have made a great Navy seal. As part of their training he’d heard they had to stand motionless in a pond filled with snakes for hours. That kind of discipline trained them to focus. To put the mission above all else. To rise above their fears. Without a doubt, Zeke bet he could do that without blinking. Especially if it meant killing all the snakes on command when the exercise was completed. That he would like.

Checking his watch, Zeke realized he had not only made damn good time flying from Boston to Springfield, Illinois, but he couldn’t have planned his arrival better. The surrounding businesses had been closed for several hours, so foot traffic in this part of town was practically nonexistent. The streetlights lined the sidewalk opposite the building, so they didn’t illuminate the particular entrance that interested him. Not that it really mattered.

Somehow, despite his six foot, six inch height and powerful frame, Zeke could pick a lock in broad daylight without being noticed — and he had. He was really that good. He took a long drag off his cigarette and blew a string of concentric smoke rings. One perfect circle followed the next until he smiled and broke their form. From where he sat, this job would be the easiest ten grand he’d ever made.

At least what he was doing tonight wouldn’t be as messy as last week. Not that he couldn’t do wet work, because he sure as hell could. In fact, from time to time he liked blood. Really enjoyed it. And if there was one thing he liked best about contracting out his services, Zeke decided it would be variety. Always something new and different. He sure as shit never got bored. Not many people could say that. Zeke opened his window and started to flip out his cigarette. Instead, he ground it out on the side of the rental car and slipped the butt into his jacket pocket. No sense leaving DNA on the sidewalk where some Barney Fife might accidentally stumble upon it.

As a cab pulled up in front of Aromatiques, Zeke grabbed his small binoculars and slouched in his seat. He watched as a young woman got out and paid the driver. Shoulder length hair. A thank you wave at the curb. A confident walk toward the front door. Bag and purse in hand, she hurried up the sidewalk and let herself in the building. He smiled and lit another cigarette. Now there was a bonus he hadn’t counted on. He didn’t think the Corey woman was supposed to be home tonight. Oh, well. That was her problem, not his.

A few minutes later he saw the second floor lights go on. He sat ever patient and gave the Corey woman plenty of time to settle in. Eat. Bathe. Get ready for bed. It was the least he could do, Zeke thought. Hell, everyone deserved a Last Supper.

Since her surprise arrival was not a part of his plan, Zeke thought long and hard about what to do with her. He got off on power of any kind. The power of victory. The power of deception. But this particular power — the power of deciding whether someone lives or dies — was by far the most intoxicating aphrodisiac he ever experienced. Like God, he could choose to save her. One phone call could have her out of that apartment. Or he could proceed as planned and kill her as an unexpected casualty — a bonus, of sorts. Or he could have a little fun with her first and decide what to do with her later.

Like that job in Las Vegas a year ago, a traveling companion might be nice for a week or two. He could use her until he got tired. Or bored. And then, well, she might end up like that sweet kindergarten teacher he’d snatched at the mall. What was her name? Emily? No. Natalie … something or other … Ah, Vegas, something about the irony of a cold desert night made disposing of a body so much easier. It felt like nature was out of whack, so why not the rest of the world — which Zeke happened to believe was a fact. He might be fucked up, but the universe had him beat fifty ways for Sunday.

One hour later, Zeke had made his decision. He stepped out of the car and ground out his cigarette butt with the heel of one shoe before closing the door. Walking to the back bumper, he carefully scanned the street. Satisfied there was no one around, he opened the trunk. He removed the red, plastic container and crossed the street like a regular guy who had simply bought some gas for his lawnmower.

As for the woman, Zeke knew the end would be the same — whether it was tonight or two weeks from now. The time in between, he decided, was his for the taking, if he wanted it. And he’d always had a thing for a longhaired, city girl with smooth, soft skin and legs up to her ass.

Grinning, he whispered, “Hi, honey, I’m home.”

He paused a beat at the building’s entrance and set down the container, still careful to assess his surroundings. Pulling a leather envelope from his jacket pocket, he retrieved the slender lock picks and within ten seconds he heard the familiar click. One turn of the knob and he was inside. No fuss. No muss. No problem.

• • •

Wangling her Save-The-Earth shopping bag, her fabulous new Dooney and Burke purse, and her keys, she managed to unlock the ornate front door before the cool September breeze chilled her entirely to the bone. Funny, she thought, it hadn’t felt nearly that chilly when she’d hailed the cab less than half an hour ago. Once inside, she paused before going upstairs.

As always the appealing, satisfying scent of Aromatiques greeted her. As many times as she had crossed that threshold, she never tired of the inviting aroma, because it hung in the air like an invisible safety net. That spicy, homey fragrance met her at the door and shadowed her every step throughout the shop. So, why — tonight of all nights — did something feel different? Just the dark and the chill of autumn, she decided as she flipped the lock behind her.

Looking around, the mission style, Tiffany nightlights placed throughout the store not only cast a comforting, warm glow, but they even made turning on the overheads unnecessary. Besides, she loved this place, knew it backwards and forwards, and could make her way through every aisle blindfolded. She frowned at how quickly she had lapsed back into victim mode. One skittish moment and she had faltered. That was just not acceptable. Shaking her head, she tossed her keys into her purse and shifted it to one shoulder. She straightened her spine and reminded herself of the mantra she had selected shortly after vowing to change her life. Always a Poe fan, she had chosen the one word that summed up her decision like no other could. “Nevermore,” she whispered.

Before Aromatiques, her life had been drastically different. Frightening. Tumultuous. Violent. Her hand touched one cheek as she remembered the first night she had spent in this building. Battered and confused, she had been broken and alone with nowhere to go. All she had known for sure was that escape was her only way out, and this shop had proven to be a much-needed soft place to land. This place, these brick walls had not only given her shelter, but they had provided her with exactly what she’d needed — a fighting chance. Since that fateful night, she had known that being involved in Aromatiques had been the single smartest thing she’d done in her entire life. And tonight she knew for a fact she’d been right. As bitter as those memories were, they made her news tonight all the more sweet.

She smiled, made her way through the store and took the stairs in the back room to the second floor. Stepping inside the apartment, she flipped on the light and headed for the kitchen where she ceremoniously removed the chilled bottle of Dom Perignon — her biggest splurge ever — from her bag. Filling an ice bucket from a nearby cupboard, she snuggled the champagne between the cubes and smiled. She pulled the envelope she’d received in the mail today from her coat pocket and carefully laid her good news on granite counter. Hardly able to contain herself, she rifled through the drawer next to the sink, found the corkscrew and set it next to the bottle. This is what she’d been waiting for and working towards for what seemed like forever. And, finally, it was right there in front of her … literally within her grasp. She touched the envelope one last time to make sure it was real. And it was.

Over the moon with excitement, she hurried to the bathroom to shower — her feet barely touching the floor. Frothy with suds, she was determined to wash away her past, for so many reasons, but especially so her good news could soak in. Wanting to secure it deep inside her, she dried and slathered rich, creamy lotion all over her body. She needed her future sealed once and for all and buried so deep that nothing or no one could ever take it away from her again. Slipping into her PJ’s, she couldn’t stop smiling as she headed for the kitchen.

And that’s when she saw him.

• • •

Maxine Spencer stepped into Jack’s office before leaving for the day. “Don’t forget tonight. Seven o’clock at Giovanni’s.”

“You can’t even say her name, can you?” When Maxine didn’t reply, Jack looked up and shut his laptop. “Hell, I don’t blame you. Bridget can be a real bitch.”

Maxine almost smiled as she buttoned her raincoat.

“Didn’t think there was a need. I always assume you know who you are meeting.”

Jack shrugged “Sometimes it takes a while to really know who you’re meeting.” Lightening split the sky outside his window.

“Whatever you say.”

There was that “almost” smile again.

Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled, and Jack thought back to Maxine’s instant dislike of Bridget. He had to admit that when it came to business or people, Max had the instincts of a bloodhound. And she hadn’t been wrong yet. He stood and checked his watch. At this rate, he’d be lucky to beat the downpour. Where the hell had this weather come from anyway? And why was Maxine always so damned prepared? The forecast had been sunshine for Christ’s sake.

Jack slipped the necklace back into the box. “Reservations?”

“Made,” Maxine grunted.

He watched her check the Go Green canvas tote for her galoshes.

“Thanks.”

“That’s my job.” She turned on her heels and left.

Used to the prim huff Maxine called goodbye, Jack sat a moment after the door closed. He should probably hurry before the storm broke, but he wanted to take one last look at the amulet’s wooden container. Three hundred years old and not a single hint, he thought. Plain wood — probably pine. About six inches long and four inches wide. No markings. No date. No clues.

As Jack slipped the box into the lap drawer of his desk, thunder rumbled, closer now. Suddenly thoughts of dinner with Bridget just pissed him off. The bottom line — he was sick of her. The social climbing. The attitude. The disrespect. She may be beautiful, but in her case, it really was only skin deep. Screw her, Jack decided. When he was done with someone that was it. He was finished. And Bridget Bishop had shit her nest today. Let her eat alone, he thought without regret. Take out sounded just fine to him tonight.

Chapter Five

Salem, Massachusetts

14 September

Year of our Lord, 1690

The loud knock rattled the log cabin’s rough-hewn door.

Abigail’s broom stopped mid sweep. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Her mouth felt like cotton. Yet, she stood as though both feet had been nailed to the floor.

Sarah Corey didn’t miss Abigail’s motionless posture or the wide-eyed look as her daughter anxiously glanced up and chewed her bottom lip. Hoping the girl would at least take a breath, Sarah wiped both hands on her apron and hurried to see who was outside.

When the ax-wielding, dark-haired young man dipped his head respectfully, then just stood there grinning like the town fool, Sarah prompted, “And what can I do for you, Jackson Hathorne?”

“Nothing, Ma’am.” His grin widened. “I just wondered if Mr. Corey could use some help chopping wood?”

Sarah leaned against the doorway and noted the three neat stacks young Hathorne had split for her husband just five days ago. Not that Ethan had questioned the lad’s ambition, because he hadn’t. Nor had she. The Hathornes were a long line of respectable, hard-working people, most of whom were lawyers and judges.

No, it wasn’t Jackson Hathorne’s pedigree that had the two of them whispering in bed long after the candles had sputtered into darkness. They had, however, both seen right through Jackson’s motives. Twenty years old and head-over-heels smitten, that’s exactly what Hathorne was. Anyone would have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to see it, much less a lovely young girl’s mother and father. And their one and only Abigail was exactly that — beautiful and just about to turn sixteen.

Sarah sighed, knowing all-too-soon this young man would be asking for so much more than to help chop the firewood. But for now, there he stood in the crisp October afternoon, his grin fading as he waited on pins and needles for her answer. Unwilling to prolong his pathetic agony, she gave in. “Suit yourself.”

A smile nearly connected Jackson’s ears before he nodded politely and headed through the red and gold fallen leaves that covered the path to the woodpile.

Sarah turned to face her daughter, who still had yet to move. “Helpful lad that Hathorne boy,” was all she said.

Abigail shrugged, then began sweeping the already spotless planks, conveniently looking at the floor and not her mother. “He seems nice enough.”

Desperate to understand the sudden sense of dread she felt, Sarah stood perfectly still and focused her attention. Certain the bad feeling was coming from outside, she parted the muslin curtain and watched the Hathorne boy carefully.

Nothing.

Whatever Sarah was feeling, it wasn’t coming from him. But it was out there. Of that she was sure. Despite her uneasiness, Sarah turned away from the window and went back to her bread making. Kneading the flour. Feeling the dough, like her daughter’s life, changing form beneath her very fingertips.

• • •

Bridget Bishop hid behind a giant oak, peeking through its branches to watch the same man who had haunted her dreams. Last night her spell had been a success. Today, she had discretely followed Jackson Hathorne to the Corey’s cabin and was content, for the moment, to watch him chop wood from afar. His dark hair gleamed in the warm, autumn sunshine. His handsome brow furrowed as he concentrated on each deliberate cut. His strong, broad shoulders brought down the ax time and again with rhythm and precision.

When Bridget heard the log cabin door open and saw Abigail Corey hurry to the well, her stomach twitched. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Abigail give Jackson a long-handled ladle filled with water. With one boot resting on a nearby stump, he accepted the drink and grinned. Abigail, in turn, reached into the pocket of her skirt and offered him a hanky. Swiping his brow with the delicate square of white cotton, he nodded his thanks.

Bridget couldn’t hear what they were saying, but between that Corey girl’s bashful looks and Jackson’s polite smiles, Bridget’s stomach clenched. No one, especially not some mousy, red-haired fool like Abigail Corey, would stand in her way when it came to getting exactly what she wanted.

When she saw Jackson lower his mouth to Abigail’s, Bridget’s nails gouged the tree bark so hard they snapped. Oblivious to the pain, Bridget’s icy blue eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched.

“You’ve crossed the line, Abigail,” she swore through gritted teeth. “But you will not take what is mine. Not now. Not ever.”

Wasn’t it just last week that Goodwife Glover had been tried and hanged as a witch, Bridget mused? She glanced at Abigail and arched one brow. So, she would simply begin by planting the seed of doubt about Abigail with … a couple of high strung girls she knew in Salem … next she would mix the ergot in the rye dough … so the bread she baked would cause hallucinations … if she gave the loaves to Elizabeth and Rebecca … the rest, she decided with a sneer, would be history. Abigail Corey would be out of her life forever.

“Make no mistake,” she hissed, “Jackson Hathorne will notice me.” A smiled curved Bridget’s blood red lips as she pulled a snow-white ribbon from her pocket and twirled it around one splintered fingernail. “Because I know exactly how to make that happen.”

Chapter Six

10:38 P.M.

September 30, present day

Springfield, Illinois

Fire snapped and popped in the night wind like laundry on the Devil’s clothesline. Sirens wailed. Staccato blue and red lights on top of police cars blinked frantic Morris code. Black smoke hovered over the scene like a gigantic billboard from Hell.

Abby Corey dashed toward the blaze. Her heart hammered. Her three-inch heels pounded the sidewalk. Her lungs burned with each gulp of cold air.

She saw the officer’s arm dart out. His long reach stopped her just shy of the yellow perimeter tape. Unlike a runner at the end of the race, Abby would not break the ribbon and claim victory tonight. One glance and she knew there was nothing left to win.

“It’s my — ” Abby struggled to breath and talk, so she pointed toward the raging fire. “My shop.” Through a blur of tears she could still make out the elegant wrought iron sign — Aromatiques.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but you’ll have to stay back.” He hesitated then added, “There’s really no point.”

His words dwindled, but his message may as well have been delivered through a megaphone. “No point?” Stripped of hope, her voice was small, like a silent leak from a broken heart.

He offered a sympathetic shake of his head.

On her drive home, Abby had spotted the bottleneck of fire trucks and police cars. Since the chaos looked dangerously close to the location of her shop and traffic had come to a complete standstill, she parked in the first available spot. She left her coat and purse in the car and started out on foot. The closer she got the faster she walked, running the last two blocks and praying every step of the way.

Abby’s chest tightened. Dear God, anything but fire. Selling candles had even been hard for her, and now she watched her lifelong fear manifest before her eyes. She stood by helplessly at the scene as red-hot flames licked the walls and floor of her shop, devouring them like a starving dog. Despite the blast from each giant hose, the blaze raged.

“Abby.”

Swaying, coils of fire struck back at the spewing water like giant, crimson cobras. Cracking and popping, the inferno hissed its defiance. Mesmerized by the horror, she didn’t turn at the sound of his voice. She didn’t speak a word until strong hands took her by the shoulders.

“Abby.”

She blinked. “Jacques? What are you doing here?”

“I saw it on the news.”

Abby allowed him to wrap both arms around her, but it wasn’t any surprise Jacques had shown up tonight. After all, when a man’s true love is in danger …

“Abby?”

Abby lifted her head from Jacques’s chest and took a step back. “J.T.?”

“I came as soon as I heard.”

She watched the two men square off without a word and waited a beat. Satisfied there might not be a scene, she turned her attention back to the blaze. “How could this happen?” Her words were small. Unlike her heartbreak.

“My guess,” J.T. began, “a design problem.”

“If anything it was probably shoddy construction,” Jacques said.

“Like hell,” J.T. shot back. “Why are you even here, Asshole? You got what you wanted out of Abby ten years ago.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said.” J.T. jabbed his finger in Jacques’s direction. “You wanted to be featured in Architecture’s Digest and that’s why you designed Aromatiques. Not for Abby. She was just a means to an end for you. And don’t get your hopes up. I don’t suppose they’ll revisit the ashes in a follow up piece.”

“You ought to talk.” Jacque took one step in J.T.’s direction. “Do you think I was blind? I saw how you looked at her the entire time you were working on that building.”

J.T. matched Jacques’s step forward.

Abby moved between the two. “Stop it.”

J.T. shoved both hands in his jeans’ pockets. “Sorry, Babe.”

Abby glared at Jacques.

“My apologies to you, Abby.” Jacques cleared his throat.

J.T. took one step back. “It’s about time Jock apologized to you.”

“Jacques,” Abby corrected automatically. In the beginning she’d known Jacques was ambitious. In the end, she’d realized just how ambitious he truly was. Somewhere in the middle, however, she’d learned a helluva lot about herself. All her life, Abby had been searching for something. She’d been engaged to Jacques and J.T. hoping to find it. Jacques hadn’t had it, and J.T. hadn’t been it.

“We may be over, but you know I built that building just for you.” J.T. wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m so sorry about the fire.”

“As am I, Abby,” Jacques added. “Is there anything I can do?”

Shivering, she shook her head. For first time since leaving her car, Abby realized her little black dress was no competition for the crisp night air.

J.T. shrugged out of his black leather jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You can stay at my place.”

“Or mine,” Jacques offered.

Abby shook her head again.

“You always were as independent as a hog on ice,” J.T. said. “But you realize this won’t be a quick fix. Looks like the shop’s gone, but your apartment may just be smoke damage.”

“Right now, I don’t know what I want to do.” Abby prided herself on being self-sufficient, and she already knew dealing with this particular setback would be no different. She thought about the phone call she’d received from the lawyer’s office earlier today. Suddenly and without warning, she made her decision. “I’m planning a trip out east as soon as I can make arrangements. I’ll take some time to think about all this while I’m gone.”

“Miss?”

Abby turned to face a man with a badge in his hand. No uniform. Plain clothes. Solemn face. “Yes.”

“Detective Stevens.” He flipped the badge shut and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Abby nodded.

“A neighbor pointed you out. Said this was your shop.”

“Yes, it’s mine.” She fought back the tears. “Well, it was mine.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Abby said nothing as she watched him take out a small pad and pencil.

“Just routine,” he said.

“All right.”

“Your name?”

“Abby Corey.”

“Phone?”

The night wind gusted and Abby felt the heat from the fire on her face as she recited her cell number.

“Have you had problems with anyone lately?”

“No.” Abby considered his question as she fanned away the smoke. “Nothing comes to mind.”

“Upset customer? Competitor?”

“No one.” She watched him eye Jacques and J.T.

“Old boyfriend? New boyfriend?”

“No.” Feeling two pairs of eyes zero in on her, she clarified to Stevens, “They’re harmless. Just ex-fiancés.” He didn’t blink.

Stevens pointed first to Jacques and then to J.T. and logged their information.

Turning to Abby, he told her, “I’ll also need the name of your landlord.”

“I don’t rent, I own.”

“Just the store? Or the building?”

“The building.” As she answered, he jotted down her response.

“Where were you tonight?”

“Me?” Abby met his gaze. “I was … wait a minute. This was just an accident, right?”

He didn’t blink. “Just answer the question.”

“I attended a PETA fund raiser at the Hilton.”

“Can you give me a couple of names of people who were there? Just to verify.”

“I sat next to the mayor and his wife. Ask them.” Abby’s gaze narrowed. “Are you kidding me? You think I had something to do with this? Are you crazy? I worked day and night for eight long years to establish my shop.” She paused to take a breath.

“The firemen called me in because they suspect arson.”

There it was. The look. She saw it in his eyes. This man was the bearer of bad news. And not just bad news, but really bad news. Suddenly she didn’t want to hear more. Instead, she saw more. She watched a dark van pull up next to the ambulance.

Not just any van, the van. Black. White letters. Coroner.

Abby’s chest tightened. Slowly, she directed her eyes toward Stevens. Desperate to look away, to run away, she did neither. Instead, she focused on his mouth. Words were about to come out. Mean, horrible words. Words she did not want to hear. As his lips parted, she noticed how straight and white his teeth were. Too bad they couldn’t fence in what he was about to tell her.

Abby struggled to listen.

Something about an eyewitness seeing a bald man.

The front window shattering.

A dark sedan screeching away from the scene.

Abby’s attention strayed to the ambulance’s warning lights. As they continued flashing their S.O.S., one of the paramedics leaned against the side of the vehicle. Relaxed. Arms crossed over his burly chest. The other P-med smoked a cigarette. The fact that they had nothing to do must be a good sign, right? Besides, emergency vehicles always showed up at fires, didn’t they? Didn’t necessarily mean anyone had been hurt.

But what about the van?

Through the smoke and flames, Abby saw a third paramedic unload the gurney.

Okay. Minor injuries were not uncommon at a fire scene. Still not so bad — maybe.

But what about the van?

All three men entered the building. Two led the way, and the one pushing the gurney followed. But why? She hadn’t been home. But, the firemen … Time, like suspended smoke, hung in the air above the blackened hole that, just a few hours ago, had been the store’s entrance. Abby held her breath. Waited. Watched. Willed away the inevitable.

When the three emerged, Abby did not see an injured party. There was no poor fireman wearing an oxygen mask and suffering from smoke inhalation or minor burns. No stranger who lay neatly tucked in with a pristine sheet and a dangling IV. Instead, there was only a black body bag. Zipped up. All the way.

The now-hideous, spider-legged mattress for one wasn’t being loaded into the ambulance, no siree. It was being loaded into the wicked, wicked van.

And that was what the van was all about. Why it was here. Why it made her want to scream.

The fireman, the stranger, the fatality was being carted off to the morgue. No quick trip to the hospital for this guy. No taxi ride home after a visit to the ER. No tomorrow. Ever.

“Ms. Corey?”

Abby didn’t remember shutting her eyes, but she must have, because at the sound of Stevens’ voice they flew open. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Are you all right?”

“No, Detective, I’m not,” she shot back. “What else do you need to know?”

“The firemen said there was an apartment upstairs,” Stevens said. “Who lived there?”

Abby coughed and turned her back to so much more than just the smoke-filled breeze. “I do — did.”

“Anyone live with you?”

“No.” Abby pulled J.T.’s jacket tighter. “Dammit. That reminds me that I need to call Kat. Excuse me just a minute.” She turned to Jacques and J.T. “Can I use one of your cell phones?”

Both men nodded, but J.T. pointed, “Jacket pocket.”

“Who’s Kat?” Stevens asked.

“Kat Richards,” Abby continued, pulling out the phone and punching in the familiar number. She’s a friend of mine who has worked in the shop for — ” When a nearby phone echoed the ringing in her ear, Abby froze. Listening, she turned and followed the sound. Expecting to see Kat approach with her long auburn hair swinging in the cool night breeze, what Abby saw instead made her legs buckle.

She did not see Kat’s infectious smile and her enthusiastic phone-in-hand wave. She did not even see some stranger who, by some freakish coincidence, was simultaneously receiving a call. What Abby saw was Kat’s purse. The classic black Dooney and Burke bag her friend had lusted over for weeks. Knowing Kat would never break down and buy herself an expensive purse like that, Abby had purchased it for her last week.

But tonight Kat’s handbag was not draped over her slender shoulder or clutched in her hand. Instead, the purse hung from a metal hook at the foot of the gurney. As the paramedics loaded the body bag into the van, that eerie ghost of Christmas past dangled and jerked from the horrible, hateful hook as if suspended from a hangman’s noose.

If Jacques and J.T. hadn’t grabbed Abby under each arm, she would have puddled to the ground.

“Head between her knees,” Stevens ordered.

Jacques helped J.T. bend her over.

“Breathe, Babe.” J.T.’s voice was firm but calm. “Atta girl, take nice deep breaths.”

Abby instinctively followed the instructions. Unsteady at first, she regained her sea legs and stood up. With shaky fingers, she was finally able to slap shut J.T.’s cell phone and silence the unbearable ring of her best friend’s phone — forever.

“Kat.” The name escaped Abby’s lips like a prayer. “Her apartment was painted today. I had a voice message earlier.” Tears scalded both cheeks. She shook her head so hard J.T.’s leather jacket dropped to the ground. Trembling, she pointed to the Coroner’s van and sank to her knees on the wet concrete. “She was going to spend the night.”

• • •

Maxine peeked into Jack’s office and announced matter-of-factly, “Miss Corey has been located and notified.”

“Nice job.” Jack shelved his disbelief; certain only Max could zero in on someone three hundred years after the request was made. “Has the package been” the haunting laughter of the beautiful woman played in his head like an impossible memory, stopping him mid-sentence.

He tapped his pencil to refocus then asked, “Have you mailed the necklace yet?”

“I was on my way now.”

“Well don’t,” Jack heard himself say. “I’ve changed my mind. I would like her to pick this up in person.”

He saw Maxine’s eyebrows shoot up in perfect unison, but she said nothing. No interrogation? No argument? No Way. Maxine never accepted anything at face value. Not even from him. “Under the circumstances, I don’t feel comfortable mailing it,” he explained, certain she must have forgotten to ask.

“I’ll call her back.”

When she left to use the phone at her desk, Jack sat speechless — for so many reasons. Nothing about this inheritance added up. The time line was insane. Hell, the city was nonexistent at the time of the bequest. Not to mention that the benefactor named would not be born for more than three hundred years. And if that weren’t crazy enough, the damned amulet itself was like nothing he’d ever seen. It twirled counter clockwise. Changed temperature. Made him hallucinate? Made him hear voices? Made Maxine sooo not herself. Made Bridget sooo much herself.

All Jack could do was stare at the door and wait. Somehow he knew this Abigail Corey would come. The necklace was important. She might even be important. Why, he wasn’t sure. Not yet anyway. A knock interrupted his thoughts.

Maxine popped her head in. “Ms. Corey will be picking up the necklace in person.”

“That was fast.”

“Not my doing. She was the one who called. Said she was coming.”

“She called you first — just now?” Curious, he tapped his pencil. “And she suggested coming half way across the country?”

“It seems she needs some time away and asked to come pick it up.”

“I’ll be damned.” His pencil stopped mid-tap. “Okay then. Thanks.” Before Jack could ask Maxine about her, she ducked out. But then, with a prissy name like Miss Abigail Corey and given the facts in this case, the mystery woman would probably be a three hundred-year-old librarian. Unfortunately, for just one more unexplainable reason, Jack sure as hell knew better.

Chapter Seven

Salem, Massachusetts

31 October

In the year of our Lord, 1687

The blindfold forced her eyes shut, but Abigail Corey didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t breathe. Waiting, she planted both feet on the floor and held tight to the carved pine bedpost. She heard the night wind moan as it gusted, stirring dried, fallen leaves and slapping them against the windowpane. Nimbly knotting the clean handkerchief at the back of Abigail’s head, Sarah Corey was careful not to tangle her daughter’s waist-length, auburn curls. “We have been chosen,” her mother began.

“For what?” Abigail asked, unable to stand still a moment longer.

“Patience, Child,” Sarah coaxed. “That’s the first lesson you must learn. Be patient, and I will tell you.” Satisfied that Abigail could not see, Sarah straightened the square, white collar of her daughter’s dress, then turned her around. Flames from the fireplace cast ominous silhouettes on the log walls of their one room cabin. “Tonight is very special — ”

“Because it is my thirteenth birthday?” Abigail splayed her fingers as she inched her way across the room.

Sarah shook her head and smiled as she steered Abigail in the right direction. Her sweet daughter had much to learn indeed. “Well, yes, your birthday is very special, but there is something else I want to share with you. Something very important about today — ”

“What? What is so important?”

“You were born on the day we call Harvest Festival. It is an ancient sabbat called Mabon.”

“What’s a sabbat?”

“It’s like a holiday,” Sarah explained.

“What do we celebrate?”

“We give thanks for the harvest.”

Abigail thought a moment. “Is that why we made the cornucopia this morning?”

“Exactly. This day is also very special because it represents the date that night and day are of equal length. The earth is in perfect balance.” She guided Abigail to the table, seating her in front of the crackling hearth. Returning across the small room, she pulled a loaf-sized wooden chest from beneath the bed and placed it in front of her daughter.

The promise in her mother’s voice excited Abigail. “So do I get something special for this holiday?” she asked, unable to wait for a response. “A gift?”

“Of sorts,” her mother told her, lifting the lid.

“But you and father already gave me my birthday present this morning.” Abigail’s new kitten rubbed against her ankles, making her smile. All she really wanted to do right now was play with him. To hurry this game along — for it was surely nothing more than blind man’s bluff — she picked at the white cuffs of her sleeves and declared impatiently, “Nothing could be as precious to me as Shadow.”

“I would not be too sure.” Her mother could hear the black cat purr as he wove himself between the chair legs that were curtained by the hem of Abigail’s dress. “Besides, you’ll be happy to know that Shadow and your new gift go hand-in-hand,” she assured her.

“Really?” Maybe it would be worth playing silly games after all, Abigail thought.

“Yes, really,” her mother repeated, pulling a small candle from the pocket of her long, dark skirt. She plucked a piece from the broom that leaned against the hearth and ignited the willowy straw in the fireplace. Lighting the candle’s wick, she told her, “Listen now and don’t say a word.”

Abigail reluctantly obeyed her mother’s serious tone. Smelling the beeswax warm, she wanted desperately to ask … something, anything, everything. Why must I listen? Why can’t I see? What does my present have to do with Shadow? But the moment her mother began speaking softly, Abigail did listen — carefully — and without question.

“Eyes be blind. Touch be keen. Let Abigail choose this stone unseen. Hold its fate close to her heart. Let the two be one — never to part. So mote it be.”

She took Abigail’s hand and stirred the box of stones with her fingers. “You must use your soul to pick one — not your sight, so don’t peek,” she cautioned. “Be slow, girl. Take your time. Search for the one that truly feels right.”

“Right?” Abigail repeated, sensing but not understanding the importance of what she was about to do.

Sarah searched the pocket of her skirt, found her own stone and held it. Soothing and comforting, it warmed her fingers, the palm of her hand, and her heart. “You’ll know which one is yours when you find it, Child. Trust me.”

• • •

Abigail Corey eyed her exquisite amber stone in the light of the full moon. She felt silly standing atop Hangman’s Hill all alone on all Hallows’ Eve, but her mother had insisted that she go there by herself say and do exactly as they had practiced, then wait. For what, Abigail wasn’t entirely sure. Something wonderful, her mother had promised. Something special. And very, very secret.

So tonight, in honor of Samhain, the Witches’ New Year, Abigail placed her stone in cupped hands and extended both arms toward the midnight sky. Her mother had told her that this special night had been set aside to honor the dead. And so she would. It was believed that the veils between the world of the living and those who had passed were at their thinnest.

The cool October breeze nipped at the hem of her long, black cape, but she did not shiver. Dried leaves skittered across the ground, disappearing into the darkness without a trace. The circle of trees surrounding the clearing creaked and moaned like unsettled spirits of the dead. Yet Abigail could not be swayed from her purpose. She trusted her mother like no other. She believed in her. And she would do exactly as her mother had asked.

“This stone I offer with purpose clear, to encircle the magick within its sphere. Let it survive and bind it long. Release the magick — make it strong. As I have spoken, so mote it be.”

There. Her first spell was cast and carried by the crisp, autumn wind for the night to hear. Abigail struggled to harness the temperamental impatience that cursed all girls her age. She took a deep, slow breath, and consciously released it. Then and only then, the stone warmed slightly in the palms of her hands. As the sensations increased, she saw the cracks between her fingers glow as radiant as a sunset against the indigo sky.

How could that be? Dare she look? How could she not? In one swift movement, Abigail switched the stone to one hand and lowered both arms. Her breath caught. Her beautiful amber stone turned blood red. Hot — but it did not burn. Pulsing — but it did not crack. Breathing? Impossible — it was not alive. But something was.

Abigail blinked. Were her eyes playing tricks? Maybe it was the moonlight. She rubbed both lids with the heel of her free hand, looked back at the stone and blinked again. She was not imagining things. The warm gem looked like liquid fire. Suddenly, she wanted to drop it and run away. Then just as suddenly, her fear dissolved into something different — something much more powerful than anything she had ever felt before. There, just an arm’s length in front of her, she saw … what? Something? Someone?

The gossamer form materialized in front of her like smoke captured in a life-sized jar. The spirit was so impossibly familiar that without thinking, Abigail reached out, but her hand felt nothing. Her heart, however, felt everything.

“Grandma?” Abigail whispered, blinking again as the elusive image took form. Kind face. Loving eyes. Tender smile. Her favorite dark bonnet rested just above the graying bun she always secured at the nape of her neck. Her customary long black dress trimmed in white dissipated into the darkness as the gently spirit hovered in front of her.

“Yes, Child.”

Abigail’s breath caught. “It can’t be. You’re … ”

“Dead,” the spirit finished gently.

Unable to repeat the word, Abigail nodded.

“Yes, My Dear, it’s true. I have passed from this life to the next.”

Cradled by the soothing, familiar voice, Abigail felt no fear. She had adored her Grandmother and whatever veil was lifted tonight, it didn’t matter. Just one more chance to talk to her filled Abigail with such joy. “Oh, Grandma, I miss you so much.”

“Abigail, you must know that I am always with you.”

“But there are so many things I want to ask — ”

“Ask your Mother, Child. Mind what she tells you. I passed ‘the ways’ onto her just as she will pass them on to you.”

“But — ”

“Hush now and listen to me. I haven’t much time.”

Abigail pressed her lips together. Willing away the thought of losing her Grandmother again, she waited with baited breath, afraid to take her eyes off the beloved apparition for even a second.

“Ours is a very special gift, but with it comes a great responsibility.”

Abigail nodded.

“Pay careful attention to your mother’s instructions and, above all else, always use your power for good.”

“I will.”

“Only for good,” she repeated. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“No matter what happens, you must trust your instincts. Know that your gift will show you the way.”

“I will trust my instincts and my gift to show me the way,” she repeated carefully.

“Understand that the answers you seek may not always appear in this lifetime — ” At Abigail’s intake of breath, she added, “But don’t be afraid, Child.

Abigail swallowed hard. “I won’t be. I swear.”

“You must also know that others will use their power for evil. But you must believe what I am about to say. I have seen you in another time and place. I am telling you to remember three things. Remember to seek what is yours. Remember a place called Springfield, Illinois. Remember the year.

Confused, but trusting Abigail repeated, “Seek what is mine. Springfield, Illinois. Twenty-first century … I’ll remember.”

“I warn you, Child. Don’t forget.”

As the image began to fade, tears scalded Abigail’s cheeks. “Don’t go, Grandma. Please don’t leave me again.”

“Hold close your special stone, and I will always be with you.”

Curling her fingers around glowing amber gem, Abigail felt the cool night breeze dry her tears. Her grandmother was gone, but so were Abigail’s fears. Rather than feeling heartbroken and alone, joy filled her soul. She turned on both heels and raced as fast as her legs would carry her. Home. To tell her mother. And no one else. Not ever. Those were the rules.

Chapter Eight

Abby Corey checked her watch and tapped the toe of her sleek black pump. Arriving at Mr. Hawthorne’s office ten minutes early simply gave her more time to consider the bizarre circumstances. How often do you fly clear across the country to receive a three hundred-year-old inheritance from an anonymous benefactor? As anxious as she was to see the necklace and get this ordeal over with, keeping her skepticism at bay the past couple of days had been a far greater challenge. Still leery, she looked around the upscale law office.

On the surface, at least, this Hawthorne guy appeared to be successful. Soothing blue walls. Plush, navy carpet. Rich antique furnishings. Her racing pulse calmed a couple of beats. Besides, she had checked out the firm before agreeing to meet with him in person, and according to her lawyer, Hawthorne’s practice was well respected.

“Lovely office,” Abby commented.

Maxine nodded. “Mr. Hawthorne’s having it refurbished in a couple of days, but for the life of me I don’t know why,” she huffed. “I told him it was just a waste of good money — ”

When the intercom buzzed interrupting Maxine’s well-intentioned observations, Abby couldn’t help but think of Kat. She had been outspoken in that same way. And right now, Kat would be the first one to tell Abby to straighten up, ditch the survivor’s guilt, and get on with her life.

“Miss Corey?” Maxine smiled. “Mr. Hawthorne will see you now.”

According to the brass nameplate on the desk in the outer office, Abby was following Maxine Spencer, the secretary who had telephoned her. As prim and business-like as Ms. Spencer appeared to be, Abby had taken an instant liking to her, both over the phone and in person. With Kat gone, connecting with another female even on a superficial level offered an achingly familiar feeling that she missed. She waited while the older woman gave a courtesy knock before opening the door, then accompanied her into his office.

“Mr. Hawthorne, Miss Corey is here to see you,” Maxine announced before stepping back into the hall and closing the door behind her.

Jack looked up from a note he was writing. When dark eyes locked with green, his pencil point snapped like a dry twig. He tossed it down without a glance and gestured in the direction of the plush, leather chair opposite his desk.

“Please, sit down, Miss Corey.”

“Abby,” she corrected, unable to move or take her eyes off his face. That face.

That’s the face I saw the day I held the amulet. He smiled. “Call me Jack.”

Unsure if her legs would carry her, Abby nodded. Who wouldn’t be shaky after losing her friend, her home and her business just weeks ago? This may have been her first personal meeting since the fire, but she was determined to keep her poise. So Abby focused on the obvious and sized Hawthorne up as she crossed the large, spacious room. Probably six foot four in his bare feet. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Resurrecting her most business-like smile, she sat down.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“I’d love a cup.” She didn’t even drink coffee.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Black.” She loved cream and sugar in her tea.

Brimming cups in hand, Jack turned and passed one to Abby.

“Thanks.” The beautiful piece of antique furniture centered on the expansive wall behind his desk caught Abby’s attention. “I love your sideboard. Someone has an extremely discerning eye.”

“Family heirloom,” he clarified.

Abby liked the way he had put the handsome piece to good use. Coffee pot. Pewter weathervane. Exquisite bouquet of burgundy-colored mums. Her breath caught at the sight of them.

“It’s gorgeous.” She noted the heavily carved human figures, dragons and griffins.

Jack leaned back. “You like antiques.” It wasn’t a question.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” She studied the sideboard more carefully, then met his gaze. “Tell me that’s not an R.J. Horner.”

“You’re familiar with his work?”

“Absolutely. He was New York City’s premier furniture maker in the late nineteenth century.”

He steepled both hands. “One and the same.”

“My guess,” she took in every carved detail, just for the beauty of it, “circa 1890.”

“Right again.”

A price tag of over thirty thousand came to mind. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that piece was quite a find.”

“Just one more reason I’m glad I didn’t have to pay for it. That sideboard has been in the Hawthorne family for over one hundred years.”

“Lucky you.” Her attention switched to his massive bookcase and matching desk. She reached out and touched the leather top. “These, too?”

“No, I found this set at an estate sale in Boston.”

“About the same time period, though, late 1800’s.” She noted the beautifully inscribed legs as well as the intricate carvings that detailed the bookcase. “Walnut?” Without waiting for his response, she added, “I’d guess … French Henry II.”

“You’d be right.”

Abby’s mental cash register cha-chinged a ballpark twenty thousand for the pair.

Jack took a drink of coffee. “I’d say your interest in antiques goes a little beyond a hobby.”

“Not really.” She shook her head. “I just love history in any form.”

“Me, too.”

“Speaking of unusual finds, I guess that’s why the necklace I inherited intrigues me so.”

“It’s a strange one alright.” He took a drink of coffee. “Odds are this particular scenario will never happen again. But I am surprised you flew clear across the country just to pick it up.”

Abby studied his dark gaze and set her cup on the corner of the immaculately polished desk. She thought about the fire and decided not to discuss it. “I wasn’t comfortable trusting the mail or any other delivery service with an heirloom.”

“I see.”

Abby wondered why he was still staring at her. Not that other men hadn’t — didn’t — but this was different. Jack Hawthorne’s eyes didn’t just look, they searched. The scary thing was that something deep inside her responded — big time. And as unnerving as her intuitive reaction to him was, she didn’t falter.

“If you don’t mind, I’d love to see the necklace.”

He shoved the wooden box across the expanse of his desk, his eyes never leaving hers. “Of course.”

So, it had been there all the time. She removed the lid and carefully picked up the gold chain.

“Exquisite,” slipped from her lips as the large amber stone emerged. Dangling the gem, she glanced at Jack. “And there is no way to trace who gave this to me? Or why?”

Jack shrugged. “According to our records, the originating law firm received the necklace on October 31, 1692.”

“All Hallows Eve.” Her voice was almost a whisper as she dangled the necklace in the sunlight.

“Throughout the years, it was passed down from one law firm to the next. When I purchased the law practice of Parris, Goody and Lynch, I ended up with it,” he explained. “Obviously my firm was the last in line before the transaction deadline of October 31, this year.”

She momentarily turned her attention to Jack. “Do you know anything about gems?”

“I don’t know a diamond from an ice cube, but when I saw that stone, I have to admit that I was tempted to ask around.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Nope.” Jack tossed down his pencil. “But if it were mine, I would.”

“I’ll have a jeweler look at it, but only because I can’t place it,” she told him. “It’s just so … interesting, don’t you agree?” Abby smiled.

Jack returned her grin. “I’d say interesting is an understatement.”

“It’s not that it’s beautiful like a diamond or a sapphire. Not nearly as refined,” she noted, settling the gold chain back into the box. “It’s just unique.”

“I never thought to ask, but would you like help putting it on?”

“No thanks. I’d rather not.” Abby shifted in her seat. “I’ve just never liked necklaces — on me, that is,” she told him.

“Not jewelry in general,” he pointed out.

“Nope.” She fiddled with the large onyx ring she wore. “In fact, I don’t own a necklace.”

“Talk about Murphy’s Law.”

“Oh, it’s okay.” Thoughtful, Abby turned the stone in her fingers. “Don’t get me wrong. I like the look of necklaces, and this is by far the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen,” she qualified. “I think they look great on other woman.”

She couldn’t help but notice his amused expression. “Smirk, if you like, but I don’t even like turtlenecks. They just feel too tight, or something.”

“Neck phobic? Now that’s a new one.” Jack eased back in his chair and studied her face. The angle of her jaw. The tilt of her chin. The curve of her lips. “Or maybe you were attacked by a vampire in a past life.”

“I don’t think so.” For some reason, she found it easy to play along with him. “I believe if that were true, I’d have turned into a vampire myself.”

“Not necessarily,” he pointed out. “You wouldn’t change if you were only bitten once or twice. If you check your basic vampire lore, I’m pretty sure it takes three bites to transform the victim.”

“Third time’s the charm?”

Jack shrugged. “Only if you find that whole eternal life thing appealing.”

“And you don’t?” Abby slipped the lid onto the box.

Willing his gaze away from the box, Jack took a breath. “Not if I had to go through eternity alone.”

“Now that’s romantic.” She grinned.

“Ya think?”

“Um hmm. What good would flitting through the ages do without your true love? That would make living forever — ”

“One helluva long time.” Jack cleared his throat. “I realize it’s late, but if you haven’t eaten lunch, I know a great place nearby.”

“I’d like that. I came here straight from the airport.” When Abby’s mouth opened, the words had simply tumbled out. Had she based her decision on the haunting sense of familiarity that had settled around her since she met Jack Hawthorne? Or was it simply hunger? Regardless, how much harm could one meal do?

“Lunch it is.” As Jack stood, the phone rang. He checked his watch. “This might be the call I was expecting,” he explained. “Excuse me just a minute.”

“Hello.”

Hawthorne shook his head in Abby’s direction, confirming the change she’d heard in his voice. This phone call was personal, not business.

“I’m on my way out.” Jack snagged a piece of paper from his desk, crumpled it and tossed it in the waste can. “I’ll call you back.”

Abby rose, purse and pine box in hand.

“We can discuss that tonight.” He held up one finger. “I told them we’d be there at seven.”

The moment Jack put down the phone, Abby insisted, “I can see you’re busy, so, I think I’ll just pass on lunch. That obviously wasn’t the call you’ve been waiting for, and I really should be going anyway.”

Jack nodded an apology. “Thanks for coming. I’m sure Maxine already had you sign all the appropriate forms.”

“Yes, she’s really quite amazing,” Abby commented, moving toward the door.

“Maxine?”

“Efficient and friendly. In my experience that’s rare.” She faced him. “You look shocked.”

“Let’s just say, it normally takes people a while to warm up to Maxine.”

“That’s funny. We clicked right away.” Abby shrugged. “Thanks for everything, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“It’s been a pleasure.”

“Yes, it has.” Abby reached for the door.

“Do you want to get a hotel room?”

Her hand missed the knob. “Excuse me?” She held her breath.

“Reservations,” he clarified. “If you’re not leaving tonight, I just wondered if you made your reservations yet? If not, you can call from here.”

She exhaled. “Yes, I made those arrangements before I came.” This time her fingers found their mark. “I’m staying in Salem.”

“Ah, the witch city.”

His comment sent a shiver down Abby’s spine. “Uh huh.”

Jack rounded his desk as she opened the door. “Sounds like you’ll be doing some sightseeing.”

“Well, I did come a long way.” All she had to do was just thank the man and go. So, why didn’t she? Instead, she stood in the doorway, trying to spit out the simple word good-bye to a total stranger. “Things back home are kind of up in the air right now, so I’m staying a few days.”

Trying to keep his mind off the amulet, he closed the gap between them. “Then let me show you around while you’re here.”

Abby liked his relaxed grin. His easy way. And something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Thanks. I’d like that. I guess there’s no better guide than a local, right?”

“Absolutely. Let’s start with breakfast tomorrow morning,” he suggested. “What time?” He leaned against the doorframe.

Abby shrugged. “How about ten o’clock?”

“Ten it is.”

“I’m staying at Hannah’s Inn. I think it’s on … Esther … No, Lennox”

“Essex Street,” he corrected.

“That’s it.” Pine box in her grasp, Abby hiked up the shoulder strap of her purse and extended her free hand. “Thanks again for finding me.”

“You’re welcome.”

When the phone rang, Jack released his grip. “That might be your call.” She flexed her tingling fingers.

He rubbed his palm. “See you tomorrow.”

Chapter Nine

Exhausted and probably a little jet lagged, Abby propped up her pillows before settling into them. The devastating past few weeks had ripped Abby Corey’s heart to shreds and literally destroyed her world. Her business had been torched. Her home had been gutted. And her dear, sweet friend had perished in the fire.

Since that fateful night, Abby had battled the agonizing pain and put up a damned good fight. But as the hours had turned into days and the days turned into weeks. Abby realized she might have won the battle, but she was definitely losing the war. An ache had settled deep in her chest like a powerful magnet that was drawing every ounce of life from her blood. Regardless of how hard she had tried, Abby could not come to terms with all she had lost. Her memories had rolled and ebbed like the tide, until she suddenly felt them stagnate in the bottomless pool of dread that had replaced her soul. Should she die tomorrow, Abby wasn’t sure that would be the worst that could happen to her. She pulled the fluffy down comforter under her chin.

Despite all that, or maybe because if it, right now, more than anything, Abby needed to feel connected to something … someone. Although she shouldn’t have, for some reason Abby trusted the way the lawyer distracted her from the empty grave she recently called her life. Realistically, of course, she knew that she didn’t know Jack Hawthorn from Jack the Ripper. Besides, a five-year-old wouldn’t believe the story he’d told her about the necklace she inherited. Not to mention the fact that her judgment had been clouded by sorrow so deep it made her bones bleed. Now, she decided, was not the time to make decisions about distractions in general, men in particular and that elusive void she was beginning to call her existence.

And that’s when Abby smelled it. Impossible. She closed her eyes and inhaled. That was the fragrance Kat had created. No way. Abby shook her head and willed away the all-too-familiar scent. But the recognizable bouquet refused to budge. Instead, it lingered around her. Teasing. Taunting. Maybe it was something that just smelled like Kat’s cologne. Opening her eyes, she felt like a fool. After all, Boston had to be full of fresh, innovative scents. Surely there could be at least one that smelled similar. Besides, how could Abby even trust her own judgment right now? The stress she’d suffered since the fire had been unbearable. She’d lost her home and her business, but most of all she’d lost her best friend.

Abby inhaled again very slowly this time. No, dammit, that was Kat’s scent. Abby would know it anywhere. Who could forget the delicate blend of flower essences, exotic grasses, rare wine resins and essential oils from France, Italy, and Egypt?

Kat had had such a talent for combining fragrances. The scent her friend created had been in a league of its own, and that’s exactly why Abby had convinced her to name it Extraordinary. Because, just like Kat, nothing could compare.

Abby refused the tears welling up in her eyes as she willed away the past. For now, she had to exorcise the good memories along with the bad. Maybe someday it wouldn’t have to be that way, but for now they all had to go.

Abby smelled it again. This is simply not possible. You’re halfway across the country. She sniffed. It was not only possible, her mind conceded, it was, in fact, Extraordinary. Abby gasped, then held her breath. At least, if she didn’t breathe, she couldn’t be affected by it. Didn’t have to think or feel or hurt. Her lungs began to burn, but she refused to take a breath.

When she could stand it no longer, Abby let out a huge exhale. “Dammit, Kat, is that you?”

Abby felt foolish. Smelling Kat’s cologne was bad enough. But talking out loud to her dead friend — Jesus H. Christ, she had finally lost it — big time. And then the fragrance grew stronger. Abby’s gut twisted. “Okay. Let’s just say you’re here,” she said. A pressure built up in her chest, mimicking what it felt like when they piled stones on people to kill them. And that’s when the tears began to fall, scalding both her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Kat,” she whispered, tossing off the covers and coming to her knees in the middle of the bed. “I am so very sorry you were in my apartment. If I could have changed places with you that night I would have.” She clasped her hands together as if in prayer and closed her eyes. “If I could change places with you right now, I would. I swear I would. It should have been me who died, not you.”

As the fragrance faded, Abby gradually regained her composure and her eyes fluttered open. Flipping out, she reasoned, probably wasn’t that unreasonable. In fact, it was a freakin’ miracle she had held it together as long as she had. She took a calming breath and sat down, bracing herself with both arms. Regardless, falling apart wasn’t Abby’s style, and she knew it. She was a pulled-together woman, who could weather even the harshest tragedy, which obviously this had been, and she wasn’t about to lose it now. Besides, Kat would have kicked her butt fifty ways for Sunday for not bucking up. Abby swiped both cheeks and rolled her shoulders. Maybe a good night’s sleep was all she needed. Well, that and one helluva stiff drink. And, since there was no liquor in her hotel room, she’d have to settle for sleep … when all she wanted was answers.

What really happened that night? Why did some son-of-a-bitch break into her apartment and brutalize Kat? Why did the bastard torch her shop and her home afterwards? Too exhausted to bear the weight of these questions, much less their answers, she turned out the light. Pulling the soft comforter under her chin, Abby closed her eyes. She’d had enough unanswered questions for one night. Hell, she’d had more than enough for a lifetime.

Chapter Ten

“She’s the one!”

The dark-haired beauty pointed a finger at the woman seated across the room and remained quiet while chaos broke out around her.

“Are you absolutely certain?” The deep voice of the man behind the podium could barely be heard above the crowd, but his penetrating stare commanded the woman’s attention.

Her face flushed, matching the red bodice of her otherwise unadorned black dress. Long dark curls bobbed up and down, escaping the confines of her loosely-tied bonnet as she nodded. Slowly standing, her pale blue eyes pinned the accused and everyone in the room grew deathly still. Her cheeks hollowed as she hissed her accusation, “She’s a witch!”

The meeting room went wild. All eyes focused on the beautiful red-haired woman being held in her seat by a grim looking guard. Despite his efforts, the accused jumped to her feet in horror.

The candles reflected the panic in her emerald eyes and highlighted the deep copper colored hair cascading around her shoulders like a shawl.

“I’m not a witch,” Abby shouted, trying desperately to be heard above the din. “What are you saying? Are you crazy?”

The guard’s firm grip on her arm brought her soundly back into the chair.

Wooden floor planks vibrated beneath her feet as the mob stamped in unison. The people shouted, and the dank musty air hung heavy with intensity. Men cursed, raising balled fists in anger, while women fainted.

“Stop this,” Abby cried. “There’s been a mistake. I’ve never seen that woman before in my life … ”

She heard her words dwindle away in the madness. Licking her lips, she tried desperately to wash away the fear and keep her wits.

Huge wooden shutters blocked the windows, making the room so dark she could barely see. Where was the door? She couldn’t remember. There had to be a way out! Her eyes darted frantically. Tears scalded her cheeks, but she refused to lose control. She knew if she did, all was lost.

“Witch! Witch! Witch!” The chant surrounded her.

Abby heard what sounded like the pounding of a gavel trying to restore order. Or, was it the pounding of her heart?

“Hang her by the neck,” one man shouted. A cheer rose from the mob.

“Burn her at the stake,” her accuser screeched in a shrill voice filled with insanity. “The flames will match the fiery crown of hair Satan has already bestowed on her and prepare her for an eternity in hell!”

Reaching a fevered pitch, they cried, “Send Satan his queen!”

Shadowy figures cloaked in black moved closer. Their white collars floated around her like ghostly apparitions. Hands reached for her as the candlelight shimmered on their distorted faces. Fighting the terror rising within her, she wiped her clammy palms on her skirt. They were coming after her and Abby knew if she gave in to the urge to panic, it would be fatal.

Someone on the floor grabbed the hem of her skirt. “Get her!” the faceless woman shrieked.

They were too close. Abby’s mind reeled when she felt their hot breath. All she could do was back away.

“What do you want from me?” she pleaded.

Everything was happening so fast. “Don’t touch me!” she implored. Her only hope was escape.

From somewhere in the darkness, steel-like fingers wrapped around her wrist like a shackle. Her arm felt nearly broken by the iron grip claiming her like a possession.

She turned to face the tall man whose muscular body was clothed all in black. Leather boots encased his legs up to his thighs. His face was hidden in the shadows, but she could tell his hair was as dark as the cape hanging wildly about his broad shoulders.

Was it the devil himself? Before Abby knew what was happening, he snatched her from the greedy mob as if it were child’s play. Somehow he found the door.

Once they were safely outside, the moonlight at his back again made it impossible to see the face of this man who had just saved her life.

He reached out and gently lifted her hand to his lips. She had never experienced such a sensation of relief as his mouth reassuringly touched her palm. His lips were soft and moist against her skin. She wanted to stay forever within this haven of safety.

Then, like the crisp October breeze enveloping the shadows and chilling her to the bone, he was gone. She was alone.

Chapter Eleven

Abby sat straight up in bed, gulping back the scream that threatened in her throat. Frantic and disoriented, her eyes searched for a point of recognition. Something, anything familiar that would cast out her nightmare. And that’s when she saw it.

The soft glow from atop the chest of drawers grounded her back in the present. The soothing night-light reminded her she was at Hannah’s Inn in Salem. Its gentle radiance reminded that she’d just had a bad dream, nothing more. Her breathing slowed as she brushed the tears from her cheeks and snuggled back under the covers.

She’d had nightmares all her life, and some had been unsettling, almost precognitive, but they had never been this realistic. She stretched both arms overhead and yawned. Suddenly, very relaxed and very sleepy, she watched the comforting light and thought only of the tall, dark stranger in her dream.

• • •

Abby’s lashes fluttered as her eyes adjusted to the brilliant sunshine. Even though she remembered her dream and knew it had been vivid, to say the least, it seemed more like a vague memory this morning. Funny what a little sleep and broad daylight could do for the psyche. Besides, who wouldn’t fantasize about an angry mob? For crying out loud, she was in Salem, Massachusetts.

Anxious to see the New England countryside, she hopped out of bed and opened the window to invite in the crisp, fall breeze. The view was nothing short of magnificent. As far as she could see, the trees weren’t just red; they were crimson. Yellows were rich shades of gold and bursts of orange ranged from pumpkin to rust.

A frosty gust sent Abby diving back under the cozy, down comforter. Snuggling beneath the bedclothes, she surrendered to the inn’s nostalgic aura and the majesty of the huge brick fireplace opposite her canopy bed. Daylight enabled her to distinguish the intricate birds and hearts carved in low relief along the mantel. Taking it all in, Abby sighed in appreciation. If it hadn’t been for Jack’s promise of breakfast and his offer to show her around Salem, she would have spent a very uncharacteristic morning right where she was.

Instead, she shut the window, showered, then slipped into jeans and a comfy, cotton sweater the color of freshly ground cinnamon. As she rechecked her makeup and brushed her naturally curly, auburn hair, uninvited thoughts of Jack came to mind totally without Abby’s permission. Her hand stopped mid-stroke. Hawthorne was a stranger. Nothing more, nothing less. So, why on Earth did he feel so damned familiar?

Abby banished the tall, dark image of the man she had dreamt about, swearing he did not resemble Jack Hawthorne. Besides, the man’s name was Jack for God’s sake. Remembering J.T. and Jacques, Abby realized she had done Jack twice before in her life, and both relationships had ended with less than stellar results. And even if the dream guy did remind her of Hawthorne, common sense insisted he was the only man she had met since arriving in Salem. It wasn’t any wonder a man fitting his description appeared in her dream.

Refusing to fuss, Abby set down her brush and decided there was nothing to do but wait. Well there was that … and to listen to the clock tick. The steady beat challenged the silence and made it impossible for her to sit still. Recalling bits and pieces of Salem’s modern day folklore, she went to the window and looked out on the peaceful town below. Could what she’d heard be true? Did Salem really have a large group who still practiced witchcraft?

Drawn to the small pine box, Abby stood in front of the chest of drawers and realized she had left the necklace out last night. But had she? She could have sworn she put it back in the box before getting into bed. That’s when she remembered the soothing night light that had comforted her back to sleep after her dream. So, where the hell was it?

Except for her amulet and the box it came in, the dresser top was uncluttered. There was no light of any kind. No lamp. No bulb. No lantern. Not even an electrical outlet. Fortunately for Abby, broad daylight didn’t lie. That much she knew. However, nightmares, especially the vivid ones, could seem pretty darn real — even the next morning. That much she also understood. The only explanation was that the strange nightlight must have been part of her dream, too.

Abby lifted the chain as though it were made of spun glass and dangled the stone. She had the same thought every time she looked at it. Exquisite. Moving to the mirror above the dresser, Abby held the amulet above the V-neck of her sweater. Against her smooth, tanned skin, the amber stone seemed to warm. Fascinated she watched as it pulse in the sunshine. Slow and steady. Like a heartbeat.

Her brow wrinkled.

Impossible. The sun wasn’t shining directly on the necklace. So, how on earth could the pendant catch the light? Well, she reasoned, that was a no brainer — it couldn’t. The odd glow must have been glinting off something inside or maybe a shiny object outside. She looked around the room — nothing. The same when she went to the window. Not one reflection as far as the eye could see. Again the soothing, pulsating stone drew her gaze. Confused, but not quite frightened, Abby shook her head.

“Witches, nonexistent nightlights and phantom strangers be damned.” About mid-rant Abby’s stomach reminded her that she’d been jet lagged and exhausted last night and had forgotten to eat dinner. Suddenly famished, she checked the time again. Ten o’clock.

Tag-teamed by relentless intuition and a niggling, unexplainable disappointment, Abby placed the necklace back in the box and started to put it in her suitcase, but before she could a gust of cold air stopped her mid step. The curtains fluttered. She blinked.

“What the hell?”

She checked the window. It was still shut and locked. But the curtains had moved. She had seen them. Hadn’t she? Of course she had. There must be a draft coming in from somewhere — that was the only logical explanation. And at least for now, that was good enough for her.

Suddenly as anxious to get the hell out as she was unwilling to leave the necklace behind, Abby slipped the pine container into her purse. Shaking off the strange events of the morning, not to mention her dream, she shut the door behind her. Hawthorne or no Hawthorne, she was out of there.

“My breakfast. His loss,” she muttered.

A brisk walk to a quaint, sun porch cafe combined with coffee and a warm cinnamon roll did wonders for her disposition. No more unexplainable chills. No compulsions to pull out the amulet and look at it. No bizarre pulsing lights as far as the eye could see. Satisfied that she was surrounded by nature’s beauty — nothing more, nothing less — Abby relaxed.

Funny, she thought, how impossibly familiar the surroundings seemed. Gold and rust colored mums lined garden paths separating the tables, while the last roses of summer dignified an old, brick privacy wall nearby. Just like that wonderful autumn picnic on her sixteenth birthday.

The day had been beautiful, she recalled. So much like today. Turning leaves, an unseasonably warm breeze. Glorious sunshine. She would never forget receiving the riotous bouquet of burgundy mums — much like the ones in Hawthorne’s office.

Abby stopped. Wait a minute. That wasn’t right. She’d spent her sixteenth birthday in the hospital. Not only had it stormed like something out of a horror movie, but she’d had an appendectomy. The picnic memory, she decided, must have been some other birthday. Although, try as she might, she still couldn’t remember which one.

Turning her attention, Abby breathed in the sweet, soft scent of a nearby bed of petunias and understood why even the locals preferred to travel Salem on foot. Her eyelashes fluttered closed as she imagined the early Americans traipsing these same streets in their black and white pilgrimesque outfits.

Abby could almost see Benjamin Hooper building the Hathaway House in 1682. Hadn’t that structure housed the first public bakery? And there was the Witch House. Hadn’t the magistrates held preliminary examinations of witnesses in the 1692 witch trials there? Yes, she remembered, because Magistrate Jonathan Corwin had been one of them.

Her eyes widened, and she glanced around. What the hell? Why did she feel like she had just taken an unexplainable trip down memory lane?

Historic surroundings. That had to explain it. Well, that and one too many travel brochures. Refocusing on the scent of freshly baked bread wafting through the outdoor restaurant, Abby shook off her cryptic, not to mention ridiculous, thoughts and finished eating. After breakfast, she walked to the foot of Turner Street and entered Hawthorne’s House of the Seven Gables.

Chapter Twelve

Umbrellaed in shadow, Zeke leaned against the trunk of a giant oak tree and observed Abigail Corey through the veil of crimson leaves that weighed down its branches. As imposing as he was, he somehow managed to blend in — a talent his line of work had demanded. As he studied the Corey woman finishing her coffee on the sunny café patio, his thoughts returned to the night that he torched Aromatiques.

As feisty as her friend had been, and she had put up one amazing fight, in comparison, Zeke wished Abigail Corey had been the one he had found upstairs. Not just because that Bishop woman flipped when she found out it had been Abigail’s friend, Kat Richards, who had perished in the fire. But from the looks of the illustrious Miss Corey, he had missed out on one hell of an opportunity.

After seeing her this morning, he definitely planned to make up for losing out the first time around. From her shiny auburn hair to the curve of her ass in those jeans, the woman was hot. And even from his vantage point across the street, he sure as hell didn’t mind looking. Of course, touching would be better, much better, but he would save that for later. Zeke’s gaze narrowed as he interlaced his fingers and straightened both arms. As his knuckles cracked his resolve strengthened.

• • •

Abby started out with a gregarious group of tourists, but quickly struck out on her own. For some reason, the congenial group grated on her nerves. But, more than that, she was aggravated with herself for not having a better time. And why was that? She couldn’t put her finger on it, but the strange uneasiness she’d experienced earlier had returned. And not just come back, but it had grown into a foreboding restlessness, much more than anxiety, and she simply could not shake the feeling. Probably just the events of the past few weeks, she reasoned. The fire. Kat. Her heart sighed. She had to use this time to regroup and take hold of her life again.

If nothing else, Abby had needed distance. A true, physical separation. September thirtieth had changed her entire world. She would never, ever be the same again. Right now, however, what Abby needed most was time enough to contemplate her future. Or, at the very least, the uncertainty of her future and what that meant.

Lagging behind the others, Abby heard their irritating chatter fade as they moved on. Finally, peace and quiet. Able to browse at her own pace, she coaxed herself to relax and enjoy. After all, she had always wanted to visit Salem. Not only was the town steeped in legends, but its history had fascinated her for as long as she could remember. So why was she still so on edge?

A cloud veiled the sun, casting a disturbing gloominess over the room. She shivered. Anticipating, what? Abby noticed a tall man, probably a good six feet six step around the corner at the far end of the hall and face her. Muted by the shadows his bald head and pale skin accentuated dark, penetrating eyes. He stood momentarily and stared. The hair on the nape of Abby’s neck stood on end. Behind Abby a door slammed.

“Did you know the wood-closet next to the fireplace contains a secret passage?”

Abby gasped. It took a split second for the sound of Jack’s voice to register. She turned to face him. “No, Mr. Hawthorne, I can honestly say I did not know any such passage existed — secret or not.” When she turned back the tall, menacing man was gone.

“About this morning — ”

“Forget it.” She shrugged.

“I’m sorry about being late.”

The sincerity she sensed in his tone touched her. “Really, forget it.”

“Okay.” He looked around. “How’s the tour going?”

“It’s just getting started, but it’s great.” Who was she kidding? She was not enjoying the tour. And she hadn’t just taken this trip out east to pick up the amulet. She had come to Boston to make some major decisions about her life. As much as she would have given to change the events of the past few weeks, she couldn’t. No one could.

“So, why don’t I believe you?”

“Beats me. I guess lawyers are just the suspicious type.” As the sun came back out and chased the shadows away, Abby knew going forward, whatever path life presented, the one had always been her only option. Presently, however, she was not in any way prepared to face the devilishly handsome man asking the questions. If possible, she decided, Jack was even more attractive than she remembered. Dark, windblown hair. Sexy grin. Sunglasses.

Abby fought the obvious resemblance between Jack and the man in her dream, trying her best to ignore his black cotton sweater and well-worn black jeans — a modern day version of the phantom’s attire. She shook off the nightmare and folded her arms, not sure exactly what it was she wanted to hear. “Well, what happened?”

Jack pulled off his Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses and slid one bow down the front of his sweater. “Maxine called at the crack of dawn. Major computer problems among other things. I had to go to the office.” He moved in Abby’s direction.

She took a step back. “Ms. Spencer works on Saturday?”

“Maxine works whenever she damn well pleases. Always has,” he explained. “As it turned out, it’s a damn good thing she went in today.”

Abby couldn’t argue with his explanation. “So, everything’s fine now.”

“Yes.” Jack shoved both hands into his jeans’ pockets. “When I found out I wasn’t going to make it by ten o’clock, I tried to call, but you had already gone.”

She listened. Wishing he wasn’t so close. Wishing he was closer. Wishing she could figure out why this stranger simply did not feel strange to her.

“You know,” he added, “you could have cut me some slack and at least waited a few minutes.”

“When you didn’t show up, I decided your offer might have been tentative.” She arched one brow. “You know a proper offer to placate the client.”

Jack stepped directly in front of her. “Legal or otherwise, I don’t offer my services lightly.”

The sincerity in his eyes echoed the honesty in his voice. “That’s good to know,” she managed, considering how close he stood.

Jack glanced around. “Don’t look now, but I think you’ve lost your tour guide.”

Deliberately putting a little distance between them, she walked to the doorway and peaked around the corner. “I guess I did.”

“My offer still stands.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders but returned his smile. “Maybe I should find a real guide. You don’t even live in Salem, do you?”

He raised both palms. “No, but my ancestors did. Does that count?”

“Really?” She thought a moment, then snapped her fingers. “Did your Hawthornes used to be Hathornes — until they added the ‘w’?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“So, you’re related to John Hathorne, the magistrate that conducted the preliminary examinations prior to the witch trials of 1692.” It wasn’t a question.

“My great, great, great Grandfather, or however many greats it takes to go back over three hundred years.”

“And Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

“Culpable again.” Lowering his hands, Jack slipped one arm around Abby’s waist. “Since I’ve got the Hawthorne, or should I say the Hathorne clout, looks like you’re coming with me after all.” In the professional monotone of a guide, he continued, “Now, as I was saying, this wood-closet hides a secret stairway to the master bedroom. It was used as a means of escape from possible Indian attacks.”

Abby couldn’t help but relax. Neither could she ignore the warmth of Jack’s hand on the small of her back, nor the comfortable, ridiculously familiar feeling she got from the gentle pressure of his fingertips.

“Just Indian?” she asked. “Or any type of unwanted attack?”

Jack’s laugh was low and suggestive as his fingers tightened against her skin.

“You misunderstood.” He enunciated clearly, “I said the passage led to the master bedroom.”

“Oh, I understood all right,” Abby assured him. “Apparently you haven’t talked to some of the same women I have.”

“Touché. But that’s simple enough to explain,” he said.

“Really?”

“Those women just haven’t met the right man.”

“Talk about over simplification.” Her eyes narrowed. “And you believe that’s all there is to it? Finding your true love solves everything?”

“That’s it in a nutshell,” Jack concluded. “The operative word being right, of course. Well that, and the concept of one man and one woman who are meant to be together.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Surely not soul mates.” She turned away from the certainty in Jack’s stare.

Without answering, he led her through the doorway and continued through the rest of the house.

Abby bent down. “Look how low the doorknobs are.”

“That’s because in 1668 people weren’t as tall as we are now. See, even the furniture is smaller.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you don’t do this for a living?”

“Positive.”

“Maybe just on the weekends?” she prodded.

“Nope.”

“But, you’re so good at it.”

Jack looked her straight in the eye. “There are a lot of things I’m good at that have nothing to do with my job.”

“Then, what you’re saying,” Abby arched one brow, “is you’re just not good enough at these other things to earn a paycheck.”

Jack pressed both hands across his chest. “You’re killin’ me here.”

“And to think I never believed lawyers had a heart.” Abby didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, she opened the door and stepped outside into the bright, autumn sunlight. Back into the twenty-first century.

As she expected, Halloween week in Salem was notoriously popular. Camera toting tourists flocked to Massachusetts to experience All Hallows Eve in the Witch City. October thirty-first in Salem. The thought snaked through her mind, desperate to unearth something that felt as though it had been buried a long time ago. Something ominous. Maybe even dangerous. But just out of reach. Whatever it was, Abby felt confident her psyche would exhume it eventually. Until then, her unease would just have to rest in peace.

Working their way through the crowd, Abby noticed how Jack kept her close, taking her hand in his. His warm, strong fingers wrapped around hers like a glove. Funny how natural it felt.

Abby shelved the ridiculous familiarity right alongside the pulsing lights and frigid breeze she had experienced earlier in her room. Forcing herself to focus on the here and now, she shaded her eyes and scanned the busy street. “Where’s your car?”

“I thought it would slow me down, so I parked it and walked.”

Abby moved to put the sun at her back. She looked up, wanting to see Jack’s face, more exactly his expression, when he answered her next question. “You were in that much of a hurry to find me?”

“Damn right.”

Satisfied, she gave an inch. “That’s awfully nice of you.”

“Nice, hell.” Jack slipped on his sunglasses. “I was already late. I didn’t dare give that Irish temper of yours time to build a bigger case against me.”

“Irish? What makes you think I’m Irish?” Abby defied his slow head-to-toe appraisal.

Jack shrugged. “Must be the hair.”

She self-consciously touched a long auburn lock. “A lot of people who aren’t Irish have red hair.”

Jack started to walk through the maze of people. “Name one,” he challenged, working his way toward the sidewalk.

Falling easily into step, she shot back, “Howdy Doody.”

Jack shook his head. “Doesn’t count. He’s made of wood.”

As he maneuvered around two dangerously rambunctious preschoolers with noticeably melting, chocolate ice cream cones and a very pregnant mother, Abby smiled before deciding on her second choice. “Bozo the Clown.”

Jack shook his head. “No way.”

“Don’t be so picky,” she griped.

“Hey, his clown hair is literally attached to rubber scalp.”

Laughing at the visual, she gave in. “Okay, then how about everybody’s favorite redhead, Lucy?”

Before he could speak, she qualified, “You said name one. Technically, I named three. And there’s not an Irishman among them.”

Jack stopped and stepped closer. He took off his sunglasses, once again sliding one bow down the neck of his sweater. “Irish or not, your hair is beautiful.” He wound a long curl around his finger as he spoke.

Something about the soft expression in Jack’s eyes matched the gentleness of his touch. Abby suddenly felt delicate and cherished — two ungodly personal feelings, considering she’d known the man less than twenty-four hours.

“Where to now?” Abby asked, determined to get things back on track. One minute Jack was serious, and the next he was sexy. Not to mention this desire-thing that seemed to ebb and flow so easily between them. If nothing else, Abby knew she had to get a grip.

Jack checked his watch. “Unless you’re hungry, we’ve got some time before lunch.”

“Lunch? What happened to breakfast?” She poked him in the ribs with her elbow before she could catch herself.

He circled her. “I don’t know, at first I thought it was the hair that made you sassy, but maybe it’s heredity.”

“You don’t know a thing about my ancestry.”

“Maybe not, but I know where heredity comes from.” He gave her backside a quick look. “It’s in the genes.”

Abby groaned. “And this from a man with a law degree. That has to be illegal.”

“Call a cop.”

She shoved both hands in her pockets and increased the length of her strides. “You’re criminal.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

Abby couldn’t even spell g-r-i-p right now, let alone get one. What she could do was file away his compliment and ask the one question that had been on her mind since yesterday. “I was just wondering. Have we met before?”

“No. Why do you ask?” As they walked, Jack eased Abby’s hand out of her pocket.

“It’s just — ” she shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not sure.” Strangely comforted by the gentle swing of their interlaced fingers, Abby couldn’t help but notice the warm buzz she felt every time their skin touched. “Actually, I started to say that you look familiar, but it’s not even that.”

“What then?”

“I really don’t know.” Abby wished she had never brought up the subject. Right about now, she felt a little silly. Like earlier this morning in her room at the inn. Non-existent lights. Cold drafts from nowhere. Talk about stress induced anxiety.

“Well, do I remind you of someone you know?” he coaxed.

Matching his long strides, she looked up and studied his profile. Not remember a face like his? Fat chance. “Nope. I don’t think so.”

“How about someone you knew? Not recently, but in the past?”

“That’s probably it.” Apparently Jack wasn’t going to give up and for some reason Abby needed a plausible link to explain their undeniable connection. Besides, his theory worked well enough for now. She had met countless customers and dealt with too many businessmen and sales reps over the last few years to count. Jack probably just reminded her of a prior acquaintance. That had to be it. So, why was she hearing the word think repeated over and over again in her head?

Like a one-two punch, a dog barked, and a cat hissed from nearby doorstep. Startled, Abby blurted, “Don’t you feel it?”

“The familiarity?”

“Yes.” The word escaped faster than a convicted felon — until a tourist let out a blood-curdling whistle that split the air between them like an ax. From behind a man raced past, coattails flapping, until he finally hailed a cab about two blocks further down the street.

Totally embarrassed, and at the same time relieved by the interruption, Abby immediately dropped talk of their kindred spirits like false charges. Whatever the two of them were feeling had to be hormones, plain and simple. There just wasn’t any other explanation. She looked around. “Where are we headed now?”

“About what you said — ”

Her head snapped up when he insisted on reopening the topic.

“I think some people just hit it off, that’s all.”

“Right,” Abby agreed, a little too quickly. Her fingers slipped between his like the pieces of a puzzle.

“You never answered before. Are you hungry?”

She thought a moment. “I could eat.”

Jack ushered her through the afternoon traffic to the colorful vendor across the street. He ordered without asking her, but Abby let it slide. Noting how the sky had clouded up, she pointed out an empty table beneath a huge multi-colored umbrella. Nestled between two gorgeous crimson maples, the view was perfect. She held up her sandwich. “You’re lucky I like this.”

He rested both elbows on the brightly striped, plastic tablecloth. “I guess I never met anyone who didn’t like a chili dog.”

As the dark clouds grew darker, she sipped her drink, unwilling to say more about how familiar Jack seemed. “Ummm. This does taste like heaven. Do you know how long it’s been since I had a black cow?”

“I didn’t know anyone still called root beer floats that.” He removed his straw and drank without it.

“See. That’s how long it’s been.” Her laugh echoed the thunder that rumbled in the distance.

Jack polished off his first chili dog and without taking a breath reached for the second. “You know, I guess we never got around to it yesterday, but I don’t even know what you do for a living.”

Abby found it hard to believe, but thinking back she realized he was right. “Until a few weeks ago, I owned a shop called Aromatiques.”

He blotted his mouth before asking, “Don’t tell me you retired?”

“Not exactly. My building burned,” she explained.

“I’m sorry.” He grabbed her hand. “I hope no one was hurt.”

“One employee.” Abby inhaled deeply because that’s the only way the words would come out. “Kat, my friend, died in the fire.”

Jack placed his hand over hers. “Please accept my deepest sympathy, Abby.”

“Thanks.”

“I gather you two were close.”

“We were friends.” Abby struggled for control. “I always felt Kat was everything I wasn’t. Resilient. Easy going. So much fun to be with … ”

“She probably felt the same way about you.”

“I hope so.” With another big breath, she closed subject, because she had to — but she could never close the ache of her loss. That would be with her forever. “I lived above Aromatiques, so now I’m not only unemployed, but I’m homeless, too.”

“That’s terrible. What are your plans?”

Abby exhaled. “I haven’t decided exactly what I want to do about either one. I hoped maybe some time away would help clear my head.”

“Perspective is always good.”

She reached for a napkin. “God, I hope so.”

“So, Ms. Abby Corey is an entrepreneur.”

“Well, I was. Technically, I guess I still am.” She considered the concept, then added, “Mostly, I always wanted to be my own boss.”

“What kind of shop did you have?”

She glanced around. “My place was similar to some of the boutiques here in Salem. I specialized in aromatherapy, candles, flowers, colognes, potpourri. You know, girly potions and lotions.”

“Nothing for men?”

“In a manner of speaking we did sell something for that special man.” She paused for effect … “We had some amazing sensual massage oils … ” and saw his eyes narrow.

“I’ve been told they sell something like that around here.”

She sipped her drink. “Just told about them, huh?”

Jack held up his right hand. “I plead the fifth.”

“I’ll bet you do,” she agreed between bites. “They may have similar products here, but they’re certainly not like mine.”

“And what, may I ask, is so special about yours?”

“I make them myself.” As Abby started to explain, a strong gust of wind fluttered their tablecloth, and she barely snagged her napkin before it blew away.

“Where did you learn something like that?” Jack wadded up all the paper wrappers and tossed them into the waste can next to their table. “Potions 101?”

“Nope. Just an old family tradition, I guess.” As if from nowhere, dark clouds settled overhead. The wind kicked up and rustled through the maples, raining crimson leaves down around them. “The recipes I use have been passed down for generations.”

“So, your mom made them, too?”

“I don’t really know for sure.”

“I see.”

Certain the question was coming, Abby said nothing.

“Okay, I don’t see.”

And there it was. “I just hate discussing this aspect of my life, because it sounds like a soap opera.”

Jack swiped his napkin across his mouth. “Hey, you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“It’s just that I was left in a basket on the doorstep of an orphanage.” She held up one hand. “Swear to God that’s the truth.”

“Okay.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Considering the bizarre circumstances surrounding the amulet inheritance, I guess I should ask who named you.”

“A note with my name and birth date written on it was pinned to my blanket.”

“And you were how old?”

“Two days.”

“Then how did you find out about the recipes? You said they’d been handed down from your family.”

“There was a book in the basket with me that was filled with recipes and what I’ve always called words of wisdom.” She brushed a crumb from her lap. “Someone had written the word Aromatiques on the cover, but even then, the pages were fragile and had yellowed.”

Jack thought a moment before asking, “Did the book burn in the fire that destroyed your place?”

“No, thank God.” She tucked a windswept curl behind one ear. “Ironically enough I had it in my car that day.”

“Lucky, huh?”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” She saw the question in his eyes. The same one she had asked herself each and every day since. “Look, I have no idea what on earth possessed me to pick up the book that morning. I just don’t know.”

“If you had a reason, the trauma probably just blocked it.”

“Maybe.” That was as good as any explanation she’d come up with, and she had thought about it a lot.

He brushed an errant maple leaf from her shoulder and picked a smaller one from her hair. “So you really can’t trace your heritage, can you?”

“Nope. I have no clue.”

“Or, maybe you do. Considering your book of potions, maybe your ancestors were from Salem. Can’t you imagine them bent over a big black cauldron, stirring up an old family recipe?”

“Caldron, huh?” Intrigued by his question, she thought a minute. “Did you know that in witchcraft, a caldron is an all-embracing symbol of Nature, the Great Mother?”

Jack shook his head and grinned. “I can honestly say I did not know that.”

“As a vessel, it represents the feminine principle, and its three legs symbolize the triple moon goddess, Cerridwen.” As certain of the specifics as she was uncertain where the information had come from, she continued, “The four elements of Life enter into it.” Counting on her fingers, she listed, “Fire to boil, water to fill, green herbs to cook and fragrant steam that rises into the air.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “So, your ancestors are from around here.”

“It’s possible, I guess.” Wouldn’t it be something if her family originated from Salem? “At least would explain how and why I inherited the amulet.”

“True. But as caldrons go,” Jack pointed out, “you certainly seem to know your way around a seventeenth century stove.”

“Not really.” Abby shrugged, still surprised by what she’d told him. “I must have picked that up from some travel brochure or something.”

“Probably just as well if your family wasn’t from around here,” he said. “Conjuring up exotic brews back then could have gotten them into a whole lot of trouble in Salem.”

Dark eyes met green.

Thundered rolled in the distance.

And the rain began to pour.

Hand in hand, Jack and Abby raced down the street, rain soaking them to the skin.

“I know what we can do,” he yelled.

“What?” Hardly able to hear above the thunderous downpour, she scrambled to keep up with his long, athletic strides.

“Ever have your fortune told?”

Abby’s blood ran cold and not just from the storm. “No,” she shouted back, every bit as much in response to his suggestion as it was an answer to his question.

“Great. That’s what we’ll do.”

Thunder had clapped as he spoke. “What?” Abby asked, struggling to hang onto his water-slicked fingers.

“I said that’s what we’ll do.”

Breathless at matching his sprint, she dodged umbrella-wielding tourists as he zigzagged down the crowded sidewalk. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m serious,” he called over one shoulder.

Breathing heavily, Abby joined Jack as he turned a corner and ducked into the first available doorway. Her dark lashes blinked away unshed raindrops. Dripping, auburn hair deepened to match the cinnamon-colored sweater that had been plastered to her body.

The rain framed the two of them, splatting on the sidewalk at their feet. Its steady rhythm nudged her psyche, disturbing tucked away childhood memories. Not that Abby had forgotten. She’d never been that lucky.

Abby met his gaze and shook her head. “No fortune tellers.”

“Why not?”

“Ever since I can remember, I’ve had these dreams,” Abby confided.

“Well, that explains it.”

She ignored his playful sarcasm and took a deep breath. “Most of the images I’ve seen have been very disturbing.” Just like my nightmare last night, she added silently.

“That’s not uncommon,” he assured her. “Many people’s dreams are vivid, even explicit.”

She shook her head again. “When I have one of these, they’re different. Nearly everyone I have that depicts some event that eventually comes to pass.” She’d spent the better part of her life denying them, refusing them, chalking them up to coincidence brought about by an overactive imagination. Not telling anyone … until Jack. “So you can see why precognition, if that’s actually what I experience, is not only unwanted but a little too close to having my fortune told.”

“Are they bad things — the things you see in your dreams?”

“No.” She offered a weak smile. “Not always.”

“And you do realize these fortune tellers are not real, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Now she was feeling foolish. “Don’t tell me. I can just hear my destiny now.” Still holding Jack’s hand, Abby turned it over and pretended to study what she saw there. In reality all she saw was one large, manly hand complete with long, strong fingers. The unexplainable familiarity made her heart smile; however, she continued the charade with a straight face.

Impressed by the strength she felt and the gentleness she sensed, Abby traced the lines then angled her glance as she slipped into a thick Gypsy accent. “I vill meet a tall dark stranger!”

“Well, that cuts it. If you don’t know reading my palm won’t tell your future, then you’ve got to go ahead with this. Besides, I already made an appointment with Sasha.” Jack winked.

“You what?” Abby released his hand.

“Hey, I thought it would be fun. Besides, you don’t really believe all that mumbo-jumbo, do you?”

“Let’s just say, I believe in the theory of psychic phenomenon,” she told him honestly. “I won’t discount it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s pure hocus-pocus, nothing more,” Jack swore.

Somewhere close by a car horn blasted and Abby jumped.

Jack grinned. “Hocus pocus got you a little spooked?”

She ignored her pounding heart. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Look, if you’re really afraid, you don’t have to do this.”

Abby bristled at the implication. “Lead the way.”

“Lucky you. We don’t have far to walk.” With a wide sweep of his arm, Jack gestured across the rain-puddled street. “Salem’s premier fortune teller, Sasha, is set up right there in The Old Town Hall.”

“Oh.” She fought the urge to pull back. “Fine, let’s go.”

Chapter Thirteen

Abby found the building’s dimly lit, cool interior only added to her uneasiness. Quick to blame the chill on her damp clothes, she gave herself a mental shake and turned her attention to Jack.

“This building was built in the early eighteen hundreds.”

“The site of the Elias Hasket Derby mansion,” Abby finished automatically.

“Right,” Jack told her. “They did some renovation, and now the Salem Chamber of Commerce occupies part of the main floor.”

“Makes sense,” Abby admitted. “But what does that have to do with fortune telling?”

“During October this is where Salem conducts its famous Psychic Festival.” His voice resonated in the historic silence. “You name it, they do it. I thought you’d get a kick out of it, so I called this morning and made sure Sasha would be here.”

“Great,” Abby muttered. She read the signs over the various doors: Fortune Telling, Palmistry, Astrology, I Ching, Tarot Cards, and Psychic Readings.

“Loosen up. It’s just for fun.” He poked her in the ribs. “All the tourists do it.”

“Right.” When her voice echoed, it dawned on Abby what was bugging her. They were the only people there. No picture-taking tourists, no shrieking children, nobody else. “If this is such a barrel of laughs, where is everybody?”

“Beats me.” He leaned down and whispered, “It must be a trap.”

“Very funny.” She shoved him back. At that moment, the instant her hand pressed against his chest, something about Jack overwhelmingly reminded Abby of the tall, dark phantom from her dream. Not his face, because she hadn’t seen the apparition’s features. And not something bad. More Jack’s presence than anything else.

Obviously, Hawthorne was human — a lawyer, in fact. Oxymoron or not, he was certainly no ghost. He was just a man … who happened to be a virtual stranger … dressed in black … the morning after her nightmare. She shivered.

“If you think fortune telling is such a crackerjack idea, have yours done, too,” Abby challenged.

“I’ve already had mine done.”

Hitching up her purse, Abby folded both arms across her chest. Finding no comfort in the still-soggy wool blend plastered to both arms, she eyed him. “Oh, all right.”

After all, it couldn’t it be any weirder than a three hundred-year-old inheritance bequeathed to a nonexistent woman living in a yet-to-be-built city? Could it?

• • •

Bridget handed the squat, old woman a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “That’s for letting me know Mr. Hawthorne made an appointment. I just knew he’d show that bitch around.”

Sasha tucked the Ben Franklin down the front of her shirt, between her hefty bosoms. “I did my part. Got anything for me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I have a recently widowed woman who would like to communicate with her dead husband, the poor dear.”

“Has the poor dear got money?” Sasha mimicked.

Bridget’s blood red lips curved. “Filthy rich.”

The old woman’s eyes widened. “When?”

Bridget thought a moment. “I’ll send her by tomorrow night. Say eight o’clock?”

“Perfect.” Sasha smiled. “The usual deal?”

“Sixty/forty split,” Bridget told her. “And don’t forget mine is the sixty.”

The old woman cackled. “Works for me.”

Extending one well-manicured nail, Bridget pointed to the restroom. “Now wait in there and stay out of sight until I come for you.”

Taking Sasha’s place, Bridget positioned herself behind the table and caressed the crystal ball as if it were the upturned face of a smiling child. Tenderly. Lovingly. Joyfully. She pulled the black candle and a match from the pocket of her long, flowing skirt. Striking a flame with the flick of her thumbnail, she lit the wick, whispering, “As this candle burns, so shall you, Abigail Corey, be cursed.”

• • •

Abby assured herself that fortunetellers’ visions were nothing more than money-driven hoaxes. Like magicians and illusionists, they were commercial con artists who had branched out from carnivals to those toll-free phone numbers on television. For entertainment purposes only. Wasn’t that always the disclaimer at the bottom of the TV screen? So, why in the hell did the sound of the door opening make her heart clench?

After stepping into the dimly lit room, Abby took a seat in front of a striking woman with long, dark hair and pale, blue eyes. Dressed in black, except for a bright red bodice that matched her lips, and adorned with spangly gold jewelry, the seer’s appearance was effective, to say the least. The silence, however, was eerie.

“My name is Sasha.” Bridget spoke in a low, seductive voice as she walked around the chair and placed her palms on Abby’s shoulders.

Abby stiffened at the strength of her touch.

“Please, relax.”

Silently, she moved from behind Abby and sat down facing her. “Your aura is cool, a woman very smart in business.” She paused before flashing a smile that made Abby feel as though they shared some intimate secret.

“There is another side to you. One you refuse to acknowledge. It is very strong, and very dangerous. You must fight it at all costs. You are of the Earth, the season. You do not belong here. Stay and you will destroy your past, your present, and your future. You will seal your destiny.”

Placated by the generic hoodoo, Abby merely nodded.

“You had success, but it went up in flames,” Bridget began.

Abby gasped.

Blue eyes locked with green.

“Like the full moon, life is a circle, so take great care,” Bridget hissed.

When the expression on the seer’s face dramatically changed, a tomb-like silence engulfed the room. “You have spent your life looking for something — yes? Someone?”

Abby shuddered, knowing she had spent her entire life yearning for something she’d never been able to define. Until now, she’d convinced herself the emptiness she felt was because she’d been orphaned. “No,” she lied.

“Silence.” Bridget’s breath hitched. Her gaze widened. She leaned forward. “Believe me when I tell you someone has been waiting for you for a very, very long time. But beware. There will be grave danger if three paths cross.”

Her lashes fluttered closed. “I need something — a piece of jewelry,” she demanded.

“Alright.” Abby started to slip off her onyx ring, when the amulet came to mind.

Without opening her eyes, Sasha ordered, “Give it to me.”

Abby pulled the pine box from her purse and removed the lid. She noticed the red mark on the gypsy’s upturned palm, much like a burn or brand of some kind before placing the amulet there.

When Sasha hissed and both eyes flew open, Abby’s breath caught. Identical to her nightmare, she felt the sensation of being slammed back in time then immediately jerked forward into the present.

Sasha dropped the amber stone onto the table and fisted her hand.

“Dear God,” Abby whispered.

When the black candle between them went out, Sasha’s cold blue gaze turned to ice. The gypsy’s voice whooshed from her lungs. “Beware.”

Abby swore she saw a thin trail of smoke filter through the woman’s clenched fingers. She blinked. The fumes had to have come from the extinguished candle, didn’t they? Her mind screamed that this was not the first time she’d seen this. But that was ridiculous.

“I’m so sorry.” Still concerned, Abby reached out. “Are you all right?”

Sasha snatched her hand away then pointed one blood red fingernail. “Never, ever wear that amulet, or you will die.”

Chapter Fourteen

Abby seized the necklace, trying unsuccessfully to convince herself it did not feel hot to the touch. She’d simply been spooked by this overly theatrical performance. That was all. Barely convinced, she boxed the amulet and tossed it back into her purse, then stood. She heard her own breathless, “Thank you.” Shaky legs nearly failed her as she made her way into the hall. It’s only nonsense and gibberish, she repeated silently. Nothing more. The woman was just damned good, that’s all.

When the door opened, Jack looked up. “Well?”

“Vague comments about success and family,” she lied.

“See, that wasn’t scary, now was it?”

“I never said I was frightened,” she lied again. “I said I didn’t believe.”

Who was Abby kidding? The air around them seemed laden with foreboding. Danger? But what on Earth could be dangerous here? Duh. This was Salem, Massachusetts, a few days before Halloween. Some psycho passing herself off as a psychic had practically put a curse on her. Not to mention that ridiculous warning that she would die if she wore the amulet. What the hell was there to fear? Didn’t matter. She wasn’t sticking around to find out.

“Let’s get out of here.” Abby turned on her heels and headed for the door, and she did not wait for Jack to follow.

An invigorating walk to the car was exactly the diversion Abby needed to clear her head. As they made their way back, her long legs easily matched the rhythm of Jack’s step. A scattering of rain-dampened leaves crushed beneath their feet, releasing the earthy smell of autumn.

The day had been surprisingly enjoyable, despite the downpour and the unnerving fortuneteller, and suddenly Abby dreaded for it to end. Amidst the surrounding beauty of the countryside, she needed time to put Sasha’s strong reaction to the amulet and ridiculous warning, not to mention her own growing attraction to Jack Hawthorne, into perspective. As difficult as it was to believe, she was hard-pressed to say which bothered her more. But then her history of involvement with men named Jack or various forms of that name could probably defend her concern.

Jack pointed out a bright red cab. “Witch City Cab. Appropriate name, don’t you think?”

Abby shrugged. “I think it’s a clever advertising campaign, but it implies people still believe in witches.”

“Many of the locals do.” He checked the traffic and grabbed her hand, crossing the street before the light changed. “Haven’t you seen the emblems and signs plastered all over town?”

She shivered. “That’s what I mean.” Fingers still linked through his, she hiked up her purse strap with her free hand. “The whole strategy is so obviously commercial.”

“True.” He sidestepped a big, blue mailbox where the postman was making the last pick up of the day. “But don’t get the idea witches are a joke here.”

“Well, maybe they shouldn’t be,” she insisted, not at all sure where she was going with her comment. “From what I understand, witchcraft is more a worship of nature than anything else. You know, the seasons, the circle of life, stuff like that.” Like the full moon, life is a circle. The fact that her word choice mimicked Sasha’s comment niggled at the fringes of Abby’s mind.

“Oh, really.” Jack gave her a sideways glance.

“Besides, you’re just a little too well-versed on Salem,” she insisted, needing but, for whatever reason, not wanting to forget the seer’s words. “I still say you’re probably a tour guide who poses as a lawyer on the side. You know, court for kicks.”

“Like you, I’m just an avid history buff,” he corrected. “In fact, you’re looking at the newest board member of the Boston Historical Society.”

“My mistake,” Abby conceded, duly impressed. A gusty breeze ruffled the array of damp leaves covering the ground, and she brushed a wind-blown lock of hair from her cheek before looking up at Jack. Suddenly serious, she couldn’t help asking, “How many witches would you say live in Salem now?”

“Rumor has it, several thousand.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Even their police logo, The Witch City, pictures a hag on a broom.”

Abby shuddered, trying to stifle the vivid images of her nightmare, as well as the pointed warnings of the fortuneteller. “I find that a little perverse.”

Eager to change the subject, Abby glanced down the quaint street. There was something so welcoming and familiar about it. About the whole town, really. The streets in most cities could be interchangeable, but Salem didn’t feel that way to her. She took a deep breath and really could imagine walking through this village over three hundred years ago on a day just like today with the intoxicating scent of autumn in the air.

“Earth to Abby.” Jack snapped his fingers.

Shrugging off his smirk, she pointed to the nearby shops. “These boutiques look interesting. Want to — ”

“Forget it. I don’t shop.”

“Well, I do.” She headed straight for Wax ‘N Wane. “Guess I’ll just have to find another tour guide who does.” Ignoring his low, contagious laugh, she walked through the front door without looking back.

Inexplicably drawn, she perused the rainbow of scented candles and oils. Without a thought about her aversion to fire in general and the fire in particular, she chose quickly. Working her way back to the front of the store, Abby had already carefully selected blue, gold, purple, yellow, and lavender votives.

“When’s your birthday?” she asked, making her final choice — a pink one.

“June twenty-first.”

Abby frowned at the pink candle in her hand and added it to the small wire basket hanging from the crook in her arm. She did not believe in coincidences. “Pink is for your zodiac sign of Cancer,” Abby explained as she paid the clerk. “Your birthday falls on the summer equinox.”

Jack opened the door for her. “And summer equinox is significant because?” he asked, drawing the word out.

She shrugged as they fell in step. “No reason, I guess. My birthday is September twenty-first, the day before the autumn equinox that’s known as Mabon — the Harvest Festival.”

As they worked their way through the throng of tourists, it was Jack’s turn to shrug. “What the hell is a Candlemas?”

Abby blinked. “I’m not sure.” The information came to mind slow and deliberate like long awaited, late-blooming flowers. She cleared her throat. “Wait a minute, it seems to me it’s the four great feast-days of the Celtic year. I think there’s one during each season.”

Jack whistled. “Really?”

“Well, yeah. They were — ” she took a breath “great Sabbats of the witches where they celebrated around a bonfire.”

“Did your homework on Salem, huh?”

Abby offered a shaky smile. “Sure did,” she lied, certain she hadn’t, so she must have read about it. Just not recently. Of that she was also certain.

As they walked down the street Abby still couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà vu. Something about the idea of Salem and bonfires and these houses seemed overwhelmingly familiar. Working their way toward the next intersection, she couldn’t help but notice the residences off to the left. But one tall, cryptic house in particular stopped Abby in her tracks. Its peaks might have resembled steeples, but nothing else about the home felt church-like to her. Obviously several hundred years old, the charcoal color and thick iron fence added to its ominous presence.

Abby’s sack from Wax ’N Wane rattled as a shiver yanked her to attention.

“Now there’s a haunted house, if I ever saw one.” Definitely not kidding, she continued, “You’re the tour guide and I know this is Salem, but that place has to be inhabited by some infamous witch.”

Jack coughed.

As Abby waited for an explanation, she unclasped her hand from his to instinctively touch the pine box in her purse.

“A woman by the name of Bridget Bishop lives there.”

Abby’s heart pounded.

“The house has been in her family for generations.”

Abby’s free hand slipped the lid off the pine box in her purse and located the amulet.

“As a matter of fact, Bridget is a friend of mine.”

The stone heated in her grasp.

“So, in a word — no, it’s not haunted.”

When Abby’s mind screamed, that’s what you think, she filed it away with the fortuneteller’s warning. Believe me when I tell you someone has been waiting for you for a very, very long time. But beware. There will be grave danger if three paths cross.

She jerked her gaze away from the house. “Which way?”

“I’m parked over there.” He pointed to the silver B.M.W. convertible. As the light changed, they joined the rest of the tourists and crossed the water-puddled street. Jack held the door open and pointed toward the passenger seat.

“Next time. One rule,” he told her. “No shopping. Now get in.”

Abby slid onto the front seat. “Oh, you’ll shop, Hawthorne.”

She saw Jack laugh as he rounded the car. As he slipped behind the wheel, Abby laid her head back and stretched her legs the full length of the floorboard. In a day filled with unnerving familiarity, the engine hum released an unfamiliar feeling of contentment that could have lulled her to sleep had she not been so disturbingly aware of the man seated beside her.

She studied Jack’s profile against the still blustery, late afternoon sky. Windblown hair, black as midnight, curled across his forehead. The impact of his disturbingly distinct features stirred something deep inside her. And the more time she spent with him, the more deeply she felt it. Despite her confusion, Abby gave in to the smile tugging at her lips.

Jack glanced her way. “What’s so amusing?”

“Nothing.” Abby focused her eyes straight ahead, but even the picturesque streets of Salem proved little distraction.

“If you say so.”

Jack drove the last few blocks without saying another word, and as they pulled up in front of Hannah’s Inn, Abby suddenly dreaded the long night ahead.

“Thanks for a wonderful day.” Turning to face him, she deliberately reached over and laid her hand on his. The jolt was immediate, but she was careful to keep her palm in place. Studying his face, she was certain he felt the same sensation. “All kidding aside, you really are a terrific guide.”

“My pleasure. How about dinner tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

Abby broke their unspoken connection. She grabbed her bag from Wax ‘N Wane and slipped her purse over one shoulder before stepping out of the car. Facing Jack from the curb, she rubbed her tingling palm down one jean-clad thigh and saw the unmistakable recognition in his dark eyes.

Jack bussed down the passenger-side window.

“Sure, that’d be great.” As Abby closed the door and watched him drive away, a little black kitten brushed against her leg and gave her a forlorn meow.

“Hey there, fella.” She reached down and picked up the black ball of fluff. He was small enough to hold in one hand. Gently rubbing his head, Abby cooed, “You’re just a baby. And so skinny. You must be starving.” As she held him close and felt his little body purr softly against her neck, a verse popped into her head.

“Whenever the cat of the house is black, the lasses of lovers will have no lack,” she recited quietly. “What in God’s name?” Like too many other unexplainable insights today, Abby had no clue how she knew that phrase.

Overwhelmed by confusion and loneliness, she whispered, “Looks like it’s just you and me tonight. So, here’s the scoop. I’ll get you something to eat, and you keep me company.” She paused as if to listen. “You’ve got yourself a deal — ” the named just popped into her head “ — Shadow.” Abby cautiously looked around the inn and shoved the furry creature in her shopping bag before slipping inside.

Chapter Fifteen

Salem, Massachusetts

1 October

Year of Our Lord, 1690

Darkness swirled around Abby much the way a cauldron’s bubbling brew chases a wooden, shirring spoon. The gusty October breeze snatched at her bonnet and whipped the hem of her black cotton skirt. Her petticoats snapped around both ankles as she made her way down the narrow dirt path. Stumbling as she ran, Abby hurried home, glancing frantically behind her as though the devil himself was on her heels. Thunder rumbled in the distance, matching the pounding of her heart.

Relief, warm and welcome, washed over her as she finally spotted the small, log house. No candles in the window. No smoke curling from the chimney. No one there to greet her, but home nevertheless. Once inside, she fumbled with the door’s heavy wooden beam, wrestling the rough-hewn barrier into place. Not at all eased by the makeshift lock, her breath still heaved as she lit a brass lantern and nervously peered out the window into the night.

Tall evergreens moaned and swayed, dancing helplessly to the rhythm of the eminent storm. Someone was out there, she had felt the eerie presence all the way home. Still could. As lightning split the sky in the distance, Abby saw the woman. Cape flying. Skirt flapping. Standing atop a hill at the edge of the clearing, her pale face shimmered in the wake of the electrifying bolt. Arms raised, her dark hair billowed around her head like an unholy halo.

Eyes riveted on the surreal figure, Abby’s free hand instinctively sought the amulet that hung heavy around her neck. The smooth stone pulsed beneath her skin.

Thunder crashed, rattling the windows.

Lightning scorched the heavens.

Blinded by the glare, Abby blinked.

When she opened her eyes, the woman was gone.

Abby searched the blackness as the sky opened and rain unmercifully pelted the windowpanes. Heart pounding, she whimpered and backed away, planting her heels against the heavy wooden door. Like a bible to protect against evil, she clutched the necklace. Trembling fingers held fast the stone amidst the menacing gloom. One tiny beacon, shaking but steadfast in a terrifying sea of darkness.

• • •

For the second night in a row, Abby sat bolt upright in bed, an unspoken scream still lodged in her throat. Pulse pounding, desperate to get her bearings, her eyes darted wildly. No log cabin or driving storm. No spirits … past or present. No one outside her door.

As her breathing slowed, the serenity of Hannah’s Inn bathed in the early morning light further calmed her. The exquisitely lush quilt. The enormous, down-filled pillows. The tiny kitten nestled beside her. Relieved, but not at ease, she laid back down, the amulet still unexplainably cocooned in her grip.

Shadow stretched himself awake and sidled over to Abby, looking her square in the eye. She scratched behind his ears and heard him purr.

“Breakfast, you say,” she teased. “Why, yes, we have — ” glancing at the tiny cans lining the dresser, she continued “ — hearty chicken, tuna or salmon in rich gravy.” When his tiny, rough tongue swiped her cheek, she nodded. “Salmon it is.”

Abby scooped up Shadow and crossed the room. More than pleased by her makeshift litter/shoe box and gourmet cat food assortment, she opened the pop-top can and filled his bowl. A nearby shopkeeper had been more than helpful in supplying her new pal with all his personal kitty needs.

As the mantle clock struck seven-thirty, Abby nearly jumped out of her skin. Something about the chime struck an odd chord with her. Whether it was the plaintive sound or the essence of time itself, she realized there were twelve long hours to fill until she would see Jack again. What to do, she wondered, with half a day to kill?

The moment the question entered her mind, Abby felt ridiculous. After all, she was staying in one of the most historic, most sought after tourist sites in the country. This was autumn in New England, for God’s sake, not monsoon season at Swamp Lake. Looking outside, the sun shined brightly and the cloudless sky was late-October blue. A beautiful fall morning surrounded the extraordinary countryside. With literally dozens of places to go and sights to see, why did she feel so uneasy?

• • •

Abby had returned from an afternoon of sightseeing, showered and dressed for dinner. Admiring the gorgeous amber stone, Abby was reminded that she had not only flown to Boston to pick up her inheritance, but she had come to contemplate her life. What it had been. What it is now. And what she wanted it to be. Having given it considerable thought, she decided to push aside her aversion to necklaces and wear the amulet. To hell with the stupid fortuneteller and her ridiculous warning.

Abby checked her watch again and noted she had well over a half-hour before Jack would arrive. Waiting patiently may not be her strong suit, but what she couldn’t understand was why it felt like she’d been waiting for Jack Hawthorne for a very long time. That idea was not only impossible; it was downright crazy. Kind of like her inheritance. Regardless, unlike yesterday morning, she vowed to rein in her imagination and be calm. Besides, she wanted to make a quick trip to the drug store, and it was just around the corner. By the time she returned, it should be time to go.

• • •

In the lobby restroom, Bridget donned the maid’s outfit then secured a short, gray wig as well as a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses. The bellhop she’d paid to let her know when Abby left the hotel had called right before he went off duty. He said Miss Corey had been dressed quite nicely when she left, and she looked like she would probably be out at least for dinner. Bridget may not be able to actually touch the amulet, but she had to retrieve it. She would try and use a pair of pliers to pick up the necklace, then slip it into the bucket that was underneath her maid’s cart. Pleased at her plan, she used one long red fingernail to shove the fake front teeth into place, and the buck-toothed reflection that smiled back at her in the restroom mirror stood ready to secure her destiny.

• • •

As promised to Shadow, Abby returned within a few minutes. She had purchased the latest issue of “People Magazine,” two packs of wintergreen mints, a Snickers candy bar and one adorable fake mouse cat toy. She smiled when Shadow snagged the toy and tossed it all over the room. When the doorknob rattled and a woman walked in, Abby’s smile faded. Instead of Jack, she faced a tall, gray-haired maid.

“Can I help you?”

“Housekeeping,” the woman said hoarsely as she backed toward the door.

“Must be another room, because I didn’t call for anyone,” Abby assured her.

“Sorry.” The maid turned to leave.

“But, as long as you’re here, could you do me a favor?” Abby approached her. “Could you fasten my necklace?” She dangled the amulet in front of the woman like a hypnotist suspends a pocket watch.

The maid jumped back so fast she nearly upended her cleaning supplies.

“No,” the older woman croaked, holding up one hand in protest. “We’re not allowed.” She backed away, wagging one blood red fingernail at Abby. “Wrong room. Sorry.”

Before Abby could say another word, the maid turned on her heels and hurried down the hallway with mops waving and buckets rattling as she pushed the overflowing, metal cart toward the elevator.

“Whatever,” Abby muttered, confused that, once again, another perfect stranger reminded her of someone. A better question might be why so many people and places in this town struck her that way?

The old woman was a maid at the inn. Nothing more, nothing less. Abby had probably passed her in the hall. Or on the street. Or in a shop. And what difference did it make? She didn’t know a soul in Salem besides Jack.

Closing her door, she gave the amulet’s clasp one last try. It clicked shut without a problem just as someone knocked again. Abby grabbed her cape and hurried into the hallway as if the devil were on her heels. Instead, she found Jack. All six foot four of him. Black Armani suit. Crisp white shirt. And, for whatever inexplicable reason, sooo not a stranger.

Chapter Sixteen

In the restaurant parking lot, the cool night breeze whispered through the fallen leaves. As Abby stepped out of the car, her black cape fell open, and the pale moonlight shimmered the length of her chestnut-colored, beaded dress.

Once inside, she paused to stare at the unusual setting. “What on earth is this place; or, should I say what was it?”

“An old saw mill. After standing vacant for years, it was sold and converted into a restaurant by the new owners. The second floor is an inn.”

She turned her attention to the huge, wooden paddlewheel in the corner of the lobby. A gentle trickle of water lazily turned the wheel, creating a tranquil, serene atmosphere. “It’s lovely,” she whispered, trying hard not to notice how the breeze had tousled his thick, dark hair.

“Not as lovely as you.” He gestured around the room. “This is only scenery.”

“You’re too kind.” You’re too kind? Where the hell had that come from? Sounded like a line from a classic novel or a period movie. Or what? Her mind screamed the question. Why hadn’t she just winked and said get outa town or something as simple as thanks?

Jack extended his arm. “Shall we?”

The restaurant’s lights were dim. A blazing fire that roared in the stone fireplace on the far wall warmed the large dining room. Surrounded by the intimacy of the romantic New England Inn, Abby knew she dared not let down her guard, or Jack Hawthorne, like the phantom in her dream, would haunt her for eternity.

Jack ordered a Ben Nevis, neat, for himself and, again without asking, an Artesa Cabernet Sauvignon for her.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he asked.

Abby leaned back. Not even for your whole checkbook. “I’m glad we came here,” she hedged, her hand seeking the amulet.

“I thought you didn’t wear necklaces.”

“I don’t.” Abby touched it, enjoying the feel of it against her fingertips. She refused to believe the sensation had anything to do with the fortuneteller’s warning not to wear it. “For some reason this piece just feels different.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“You know, throughout history amulets were thought to act as an occult shield to repel,” she told him, realizing her explanation made the gypsy’s warning not to wear the necklace all the more suspect.

“Like a talisman?”

“No, not really.” Abby shook her head. “I know people think they’re the same, but they’re not.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A talisman is intended to attract some benefit to its possessor, not to protect.” She heard herself differentiate between the two terms.

Jack leaned back. “Really?”

“Uh huh,” she said, still holding the stone between her thumb and finger. “Amber — which is what this looks like to me — was called amuletum in ancient times, because it was believed to avert evil influence and infection. In fact, the word amulet is probably derived from the Latin amolior which means ‘I repel,’ or ‘drive away’.”

Abby’s own words silenced her. She had no idea how she had come to know any of this. Just this side of being frightened, she decided being an avid reader had apparently paid off big time. After all, there wasn’t any other explanation, was there?

Jack shrugged. “I take it you’ve done some research.”

“Yeah,” she lied, unable to explain what she’d told him.

“Sounds like you ought to be safe from the wicked folks of Salem,” he teased.

“You’d think.”

“What do you make of that mark in the middle?”

“I saw that.” She nodded. “It’s really interesting, isn’t it?” Without waiting for his response, she squinted at the stone in the candlelight. “At first, I thought it was some kind of bubble, but I really think it’s more tear-shaped than round, don’t you?”

He leaned forward to take a closer look. “Yeah. Something may have been trapped in there, you know, like insects.”

“Maybe.” Green eyes met brown. “Jurassic Park wild, huh?” Abby released the stone and dropped the subject as well. She broke their gaze and looked around the large room. “This restaurant certainly is unique.”

It wasn’t until after the cocktail napkins and drinks had been placed on the table that Abby noticed the dance floor. Her heart nearly stopped. “Is that a set up for a band?”

“Yeah.” Jack sampled his scotch. “Have you decided what else you would like to see while you’re in Boston?”

“You’re the guide. Just take me where the tourists go.”

“Some sight seers have been known to check in and go upstairs.”

There went her heart again. One slow motion somersault. Perfectly executed. For the first time in her life, she wanted to throw caution to the wind and live for the moment. The realization alone made her head spin. What she couldn’t figure out was — why this man? Why was she so certain? Why were her feelings so strong?

Calling on every ounce of poise she could muster, Abby sipped her wine, then forced a coolness into her voice. “I’m sure the rooms are lovely, but I had something a little more touristy in mind.”

“That should be an easy request to satisfy here in Salem.” He sipped his drink. “In keeping with the seventeenth century theme, the community has restored everything to the period of time right around the witch trials.”

Abby’s fingers found her throat, and she absently fondled the amulet. “Then I’m surprised they have dancing here.”

“Why?”

“Because dancing is an intricate part of witchcraft.” When he just looked at her, she continued. “You know, the round dance. Like around a tree, a sacred stone or a bonfire. To raise power.”

Still no response.

“Or, the witch’s dance on riding-poles, leaping to make crops grow tall.”

A blank look.

“Or the dance spiral where the witches dance into the center and out again to symbolize penetration into the mysteries of the Other World.”

He shook his head.

“It was sometimes called the Troy Town after the old maze pattern, which was supposed to resemble the walls of Troy.”

“Ya got me,” he admitted.

Unable to stop, she heard herself continue. “Surely you’ve heard that witches traditionally dance back to back in a strange, but wonderfully diabolical kind of frolic.”

“Never,” he said. “So, what about you? What kind of strange, diabolical frolics do you like?”

Abby was speechless for way too many reasons to count at the moment, and Jack’s expression was as dark as a cloudless sky at midnight and twice as mysterious. She didn’t want to rattle off any more frighteningly unexplainable facts about witchcraft, let alone have him look at her that way again. Did she? Before she could answer her own question, or, for that matter, question her own answer, their waitress once more effectively interrupted them.

“Chateaubriand and two glasses of Gino’s soft blush.”

Again, he had ordered without asking, but ironically it would have been her choice.

Dinner conversation centered on a few more of the more normal get-to-know-you topics they hadn’t taken the time to explore earlier. Reaching over to check his ring finger, Abby immediately pulled away from the warmth of his skin. Remembering yesterday and his side of the phone conversation with what sounded like a woman, Abby pointed out, “I should have asked before, but there’s no Mrs. Hawthorne, is there?”

“No wife, no fiancée, not even a female pet.” He tossed back the last of his Ben Nevis and set down the glass. “No strings.”

Abby fought the persistent tug at the corners of her mouth. Has fate really thrown us together?

Now she fought the persistent tug at the corners of her mind. Impossible. There’s no such thing as destiny.

Last, but oh-so-not least, she fought the persistent tug at the corners of her heart. Unless kindred spirits really do exist.

“How about you, Miss Corey?”

His obvious inflection didn’t go unnoticed by Abby. “Did I say Miss?”

“No. I guess you didn’t.”

Abby smiled and shook her head. “I’m not married.”

“I thought Maxine had mentioned that.” Jack leaned back in his chair and traced the smooth skin on her ring finger.

Her hand tingled. “Ms. Spencer would have told you. She is one thorough woman.”

“That she is.”

Abby sensed Jack’s move before he made it and began fiddling with her napkin to avoid it. Too close. Too personal. Too right? When the band began to play a soft, slow melody she added the beautiful surroundings to the soothing music and even without the handsome man seated across from her, they made a dangerous combination. Abby’s intuition prickled and warned her the evening was about to take a definite turn. The most difficult part of it all was keeping in mind this handsome man was still a stranger even though he didn’t feel like one.

“Dance?”

Dance with him? Was he kidding? Parts would touch. Like in her dream, the feeling of being backed in a corner washed over Abby. Silently she cursed the fact that every time he baited her she swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. With anyone else, tonight would have been nothing more than a harmless flirtation. But not with this man. Something about the look in Jack’s eyes made her mouth dry and her palms damp. For an instant, she thought of her dream, the need to escape, and wondered if there was a back door to the restaurant.

“How about it?” He called her bluff. “Dance with me.”

Abby slipped one foot out of her sleek brown pump and slid her toes along Jack’s ankle and just a bit up his pant leg. She noticed his jaw clench and enjoyed a quick rush of power. “I’d love to.”

“Let’s have a drink first.” He signaled the waitress, “Two Irish coffees.”

Mission accomplished. Abby slipped her shoe back on and sat back in her chair as the waitress cleared their table. She wondered why it had been so long since she had relaxed like this? God, it felt good.

The next tune was lusty and slow. Jack stood and extended his hand. “Okay Lady, let’s see your stuff.”

Abby took a deep breath. Unwilling to back down, she winked. “I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours.”

“Deal.”

Jack led her onto the dance floor. He had great rhythm and all the right parts fit. Being held by Jack felt like coming home. At this moment in time Abby didn’t care how or why. She rested her head against his chest and eagerly inhaled the spicy scent … that had always been him? The texture of his jacket beneath her hand failed to conceal the strength of his muscled shoulder. Sensing his pulse pound, feeling the warmth of his touch, made everything she had tried to deny unbearably real. The music stopped and so did her heart.

Back at the table, Abby sipped the remainder of her coffee. “I haven’t danced in so long I nearly forgot — ”

“How nice it can be,” Jack finished.

“Yes.” She smiled. “Very nice.”

“So, why haven’t you?”

She frowned. “What?”

“You know, danced around a bonfire naked, chanting at the moon.”

“How do you know I haven’t?” Before he could answer, she corrected, “F.Y.I. that’s skyclad, not naked.”

“What is?”

“Spell casting in the nude.” Abby had a quick flash — skyclad, casting a circle beneath the full moon — no doubt brought on by what he’d said.

“Now that’s my kind of ritual. Seriously, you’re such a natural. Why don’t you dance more often?”

She thought a moment but couldn’t come up with an answer. “I really don’t know.”

“Too busy?”

“Possibly,” she considered, remembering how hard she’d worked to get her business up and running and knowing all of that was gone now. “Aromatiques demanded a lot of my time.”

“Let me guess,” he began, “you worked about ten hours a day, six days a week, right?”

“I did.”

“And that worked for you?”

“Some days better than others,” she admitted, surprised the words had come out so easily.

Jack shrugged. “I’m a confessed workaholic myself.”

“Why?” she coaxed, watching the reflected firelight flicker in his penetrating eyes.

He shrugged. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“And your social life?” she asked, for some reason not the least bit concerned about prying.

“Not much time for one,” he confessed.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Thoughtful, she swirled her long-stemmed glass, then sipped the remainder of her wine. “You made plans yesterday.”

“So I did.” Jack leaned back in his chair. “That was just escorting an acquaintance.”

“Escorting?” she echoed, “Kind of like this evening.”

“No.” He steepled his hands. “Nothing at all like tonight. Yesterday was just Bridget Bishop — ”

Abby choked, quickly holding up a hand to show she was fine. “The woman who lives in that haunted house?” she asked, after catching her breath.

Jack nodded. “That’s the one.”

Torn, Abby couldn’t decide if she was more shaken by the Bishop woman or the sudden, possessive rush she just felt toward Jack. Either way, something was way out of whack here. She needed time to think, and she needed it now.

“If you don’t mind, I’m apparently still a little jet lagged.”

“No problem.” He paid the waiter and helped Abby with her cape. Then he took her hand and kissed it.

Exactly like the man in her dream.

She ignored the haunting similarity of his warm mouth against her skin.

“All set?” He gave her fingers a squeeze.

Abby nodded. She felt suddenly wary. As though she had been ready and waiting her entire life. For what, she wondered? For Jack? Impossible. Her free hand sought the warmth of the amulet as she followed him out into the cool, dark night.

The trip back to the Hannah’s Inn was about as quiet as their ride to The Hideaway had been, but for an entirely different reason. Earlier, she had been uncharacteristically nervous. Now, she had become characteristically aware of Jack. More to the point — the way he made her feel. The uneasy comfort she experienced that niggled at her mind, raising more questions than she had answers for yet. Abby studied the set of Jack’s jaw, his slightly narrowed eyes.

Thinking back, she had to admit the evening had been wonderful. Except for her unexplainable knowledge of witchcraft and her unreasonably strong response, again, to that Bishop woman. In fact, just the mention of her name made Abby’s skin crawl. The magnitude of her reaction bewildered Abby.

He pulled up in front of the inn and cut the engine.

“I had a nice time, Jack.” Brown eyes captured green.

“So did I.”

Abby immediately recognized what was going to happen. Bound to happen. Had to happen. It was exactly what she’d been anticipating. For so long? Time stood still as Jack lowered his head. His eyes closed. Hers did not. For some reason, her need to see was too great. It felt like she had been waiting her whole life for this moment, and she had to make certain this was real. Not a dream.

Abby’s heart fluttered expectantly against her ribs. As if she ended every evening like this, both arms circled Jack’s neck in a familiar, easy way. She sighed, leaning into his broad, muscular chest. Lips touched. Barely. Like some warm, soft secret shared between lovers.

“Good night,” Abby whispered, their lips little more than a breath apart. Whatever had just happened, she needed time to think about the kiss as well as her reaction to this Bishop woman. And she couldn’t seem to do either right now. Not around Jack. She got out of the car before he had a chance to say one word. “Thanks for dinner.”

“My pleasure.” He buzzed her window down, reached across the seat and yanked her door shut. Still leaning, he looked up at her and smiled. “I’ll be tied up first thing tomorrow — how about if I call you after lunch?”

“I had planned to rent a car in the morning and take a drive, so that works perfectly for me.” She prayed her cape concealed her knocking knees. “Why don’t you make it about two.”

“Okay, but don’t rent a car.” He angled his head. “I’ll drop off this one and leave the keys at the front desk.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t — ”

“I insist.” He winked. “And don’t rush back. If you’re not there when I call, I’ll just leave a message.”

“Thanks. That would be great.”

After he drove away, Abby’s shaky legs gave way, and she collapsed onto a wooden bench in front of the inn. The sky was as black as indigo velvet and sprinkled with thousands of sparkling diamonds. A refreshing breeze sneaked beneath her cape, forcing her to pull it closer. Several couples passed hand-in-hand. Their muffled words and quiet laughter echoed in darkness. Abby had never felt quite so alone.

Chapter Seventeen

Salem, Massachusetts

15 October

Year of Our Lord, 1692

The night sky is dark, except for a brilliant, moon. A cool, fresh breeze billows through the carriage, caressing Abigail’s skin, reminding her of the beautiful afternoon she spent with her beloved. They had met in the woods, surrounded by pine trees and the earthy fragrance of autumn.

Even now, thoughts of him warmed her cheeks. So tall. And handsome. So caring. She cradled the beautiful bouquet of burgundy mums in her arms like a babe.

Exhilaration coursed through her veins at the thought of becoming his wife. That’s what today had been about, although she had not known. He had arranged a lovely picnic, supposedly for her birthday. Fresh flowers and red wine. Seated beneath the most beautiful crimson maple she had ever seen, he had sketched her picture, then promised to paint her portrait as a wedding present. Before she could catch her breath, he had called her “love” and eloquently proposed on bended knee. He confided already having asked her father for her hand and having been given his blessing.

Suddenly, the coach lurched, and the horses take off at break neck speed. Abigail cries out for help, and when no one answers, she struggles to her feet. Anchoring her bonnet, she shoves her head out the window. The driver is gone, and the bluffs are straight ahead.

• • •

Unable to sleep, Abby awoke early, showered and dressed. She slid behind the wheel of Jack’s silver BMW convertible and slammed the door. After having another dream last night, she was still trying to come to grips with the eerie sensation tweaking her consciousness. The very thought challenged her psyche, not to mention literally threatening her peace of mind.

Thinking through the details now that it was daylight, she understood the reference to burgundy mums. After all, they were her favorite flowers. As for the beautiful autumn setting — well, it was October in Salem. Can’t get much better than that. And the handsome man? Well, there was a no-brainer.

“But the runaway coach,” she muttered. “Now that’s a real head-scratcher.”

And, if having nightmares every night wasn’t enough, there was this Hawthorne person. The dashing man in her dream? Why not? Why the bloody hell not! One minute he had her laughing; the next he made her pulse race. That said, neither of which were her major concern. What really bothered Abby was the unexplainable intensity of her feelings. So strong. So fast. So right? And so not like her. Trying to come to terms with such uncharacteristically strong emotions was the real crux of her problem.

Unlike yesterday morning, Abby tried to relax and simply focus on the scenery and the beautiful fall colors. The winding road cut through lovely neighborhoods that really got into the spirit when it came to decorating for autumn in general and Halloween in particular. On every street, there were pumpkin-lined porches. Doors dressed in crimson and orange wreaths. Yards costumed in bales of hay that hosted gourds, ghouls and ghosts in all shapes and sizes.

Unfortunately for Abby, all of the celebratory decorations Boston had to offer could not find a detour past the mental roadblock set up by her dreams. Scenes from the nightmare continued to flash through her mind. Relentless. Unsettling. Distracting.

It didn’t take Abby long to realize that no matter how hard she tried, her heart just wasn’t into sightseeing. Not today anyway. Or, maybe just not by herself. Or … well, she just didn’t know. Something was out of kilter, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. So rather than continue her drive, she decided to sort things out over a warm, cinnamon-spiced latte. She remembered seeing a quaint little café yesterday. If she could just find it again. Heading down a steep hill, she rounded a sharp curve a little too fast.

Abby eased her foot on the brake.

Nothing happened.

She tapped it again.

The car wasn’t slowing down.

This time she stomped the pedal.

Again nothing. But it was picking up momentum — and fast.

Abby pumped the pedal.

Still nothing. But gaining speed.

This time as she slammed her foot down hard, the brake went straight to the floorboard without resistance.

Nothing!

“Oh, God!” she heard herself say.

The car was still accelerating. Abby’s heart pounded against her ribs. Her breath came in short, hard gulps.

“Think, dammit!” she screamed.

Grabbing wildly for the emergency brake, her knuckles scraped relentlessly under the dash in a futile effort to stop. She fought to maintain control, swerving to avoid hitting an oncoming car. Somewhere nearby a horn blared and tires squalled.

Coming up fast on the rear end of a car, she jerked the wheel to pass but came face-to-face with a pickup truck. With nowhere to go she yanked the car back into her own lane and veered off to the right to keep from hitting the car in front of her.

A brick building loomed up before her eyes. She frantically laid on the horn, praying to God no one else would be hurt.

There was an explosive sound right before she heard a sickening thud. Then for a long moment everything was quiet. Why was her head pounding? Red-hot pain shot through her wrist. She struggled to get up, but the glass … there were jagged chards everywhere. There was something warm running down her arm. Blood! Lots of blood. What had happened? Had someone been hurt?

Faces loomed, seemingly from nowhere. Who were these people? Her eyes wouldn’t focus. If only she could think, but her head felt like it was splitting. Voices. What were they saying? Why couldn’t she make sense of this? Hands reached out. Panic set in.

“Don’t touch me,” Abby whimpered, fighting the sensation of overwhelming dizziness. Had her nightmare come true?

Like the cool October breeze innocently sweeping through the shattered windshield before moving on, she surrendered to the soothing, comforting darkness that beckoned.

• • •

Jack sat in his office, staring at his computer screen. He’d intended to take care of some work, but hadn’t really accomplished much all morning. The shrill ringing of the phone sliced through his thoughts. “Hello.”

He paused.

“Yes, this is Jack Hawthorne.”

He listened.

“She what?” he shouted, impatient for information. His hands clenched into tight fists as he tried to comprehend the methodical voice from the emergency room.

“I’ll be right there,” he growled, cutting the caller off in mid-sentence.

He slammed down the phone and raced past Maxine without explanation, nearly tearing the door off its hinges. Barely behind the wheel, the Jeep’s tires smoked as Jack screamed out of his parking space. The car lurched forward before he even yanked shut his gaping door. Jaw set. Eyes glued to the road. Accelerator to the floor. Jack rounded the first curve practically on two wheels. His thoughts ricocheted.

Darting in and out of lanes, horns blasted as Jack bullied his way through traffic. He recklessly took each corner at an increasing rate of speed, feeling the pull of the Jeep in direct proportion to the turn of the steering wheel. He jockeyed to maintain his position in the seat. Knowing he should slow down, but unable to push away his fears, Jack pressed his luck to the limit.

Abby had wrecked his BMW. Not just wrecked — totaled. Why the hell had he bought such a small car? No damn protection. His gut tied in a hard knot. He racked his brain to remember what the woman from the hospital had said. Abrasions? Head injuries? Dammit, he just wasn’t sure.

The fortuneteller had predicted danger, and Jack had laughed off her warning. His mouth went dry. Why Abby had become so important to him, Jack didn’t have a clue. Didn’t need one. She was, and that’s all that counted. From this moment on, he would make sure nothing bad happened to her. Absolutely nothing.

Chapter Eighteen

“I only gave you Mr. Hawthorne’s name because I thought you might need some sort of, I don’t know, credit reference or something. Not so you could call him.” Abby gingerly touched both temples with the pads of her fingers and braced herself before continuing. “I’m perfectly capable of leaving on my own,” she told the doctor, all the while trying to steady herself enough to sit up.

The tall, blond man waited patiently as she spoke. He laid a large hand on her shoulder and eased her back down on the examining table. “Are you finished?” he asked quietly.

Properly but nicely reprimanded, Abby nodded, then winced. Her head was pounding like a bass drum on Super Bowl Sunday.

“You sustained a scalp laceration that looked much worse than it was. That’s where all the blood came from. You also have a bump on your head that would make Mother Goose proud, not to mention a badly sprained wrist. You’re not going anywhere by yourself. Either Mr. Hawthorne keeps an eye on you, or I’m admitting you for observation,” the doctor told her firmly.

“But, I — ”

“No buts.” He draped the stethoscope around the back of his neck allowing both ends to dangle on his chest. “When Mr. Hawthorne gets here, you’re free to go,” he insisted, brushing Abby’s hair back off her forehead. “You’re lucky these stitches are right at your hairline. They’ll never show.” He smiled warmly. “Relax. You’re going to be just fine.”

At that moment, Abby along with half the hospital staff and most of the first floor heard Jack’s voice.

Storming through the doorway, he demanded, “What the hell happened?”

Jacket gaping, necktie over one shoulder, his presence filled the room. He wasn’t the type to lose his cool, so the angry look on his face confused Abby.

“Oh, I’m feeling fine, thanks,” she muttered. “If it’s the car you’re worried about, it looks worse than I do.” Feeling tears well up, she turned her head and faced the wall.

“It’s insured.” Jack turned to the doctor. “How is she?”

Extending his hand, the doctor explained, “Still pretty shaken up. She’s not quite herself. She’s not to sleep soundly for the next several hours, so keep an eye on her.”

“Okay, Doc.”

“The nurse will bring in her prescription.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room,” Abby snapped, despite the fact it made her head throb.

The M.D. lowered his voice considerably, “She’s still in shock, but she’ll be fine. Just stay with her throughout the evening. Any changes and I want to know immediately.”

“Thanks for calling me,” Jack said, shaking the other man’s hand.

The doctor inclined his head in Abby’s direction. “Believe me, it wasn’t easy.”

As the door closed, Jack took a deep breath. He lowered his head to her ear, urging in a low, quiet voice, “Abby. Try not to sleep.”

Her eyes fluttered open for a second, then slammed shut. “I’m not asleep,” she whispered. Squinting, she tried to look up. Placing her free hand against his smooth, warm cheek, she responded to his tenderness. “My head hurts so badly, and that bright light makes it worse.”

He flipped off the overhead fixture. “Better?” he asked quietly.

As her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, his concern moved her. Humorless, dark eyes dominated his features. Brows knitted together. The unusually hard line of his mouth. “Much better, thanks,” she told him softly.

Aside from the pain, something deep inside violently tugged her heart. The fortuneteller had warned her not to wear the necklace. She’d said Abby did not belong here. Right now, looking at Jack, Abby could feel the corners of her mouth curve slightly at the thought. I must be delirious, she decided. That’s what’s causing these ridiculous thoughts. Kind of like falling in love with your doctor. Maybe illusions. Or delusions? Conclusions?

Jack’s warm smile temporarily smoothed away the worry lines at the corners of his mouth, giving it that soft, kissable look. “You find something about this amusing?”

He laced his fingers through hers. “No.”

Abby squeezed his hand.

The door swung open and a perky, dark-haired nurse bustled in, then stopped dead in her tracks. She reached for the light switch.

“Leave it off.” Jack’s curt words halted her hand in midair. “It hurts her eyes.”

“Okay,” she agreed, slipping momentarily back into the hallway before returning with a wheelchair. She carefully helped Abby off the examining table.

“Where’s your coat?” she asked, easing Abby down.

Abby thought a moment. “I remember tossing it in the back seat of the car this morning. I guess it’s still there.” Jack immediately stripped off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was still warm. She absorbed his body heat and caught the familiar, clean smell of his soap. “Thanks.”

After a quick trip down the corridor and through the lobby the nurse handed Abby’s prescription to Jack.

“I’ll take it from here.”

He had parked right by the door, so he helped Abby out of the wheelchair and into his Jeep.

“Take it easy,” he crooned, slipping behind the wheel. “Everything’s going to be fine.” Buckling Abby’s seat belt for her, he asked in a low soothing voice, “Trust me?”

She felt her bottom lip tremble at the simple question. “Yes.” And she did.

Jack started the car. “Any dizziness?”

“No.”

“Sick at your stomach?”

Abby relaxed a bit and managed a shaky grin. “Don’t worry, Doc. Your seat covers are safe with me.”

Returning her smile, he pulled out.

She settled back. Thank God the painkillers had finally kicked in. She was beginning to feel almost human again.

As they drove, brightly illuminated billboards promoting the annual Halloween Ball loomed up ominously at every turn. A brilliant harvest moon. Torch carrying pilgrims. Witches on brooms. Heart pounding, Abby closed her eyes. Why were these images every bit as familiar as they were disturbing? Typical Halloween dogma? Fragments of a similar gala? Incarnations flashed through her mind. Her memory? Ghoulish bits and pieces. Frightening glimpses. She tried to think — remember — but couldn’t.

“Feeling any better?”

Abby started, her lashes flew open. “I’m okay,” she lied. What else was there to say? I’m just fine and dandy unless having flashbacks of witches and torches and angry mobs makes me crazy? Of course for some bizarre reason these actually feel like memories, not just Halloween hysteria. That’s right, Jack, I’m apparently certifiable. The accident pushed me right over the edge and caused me to lose my ever-loving mind.

“Are you sure?”

Abby laid her hand on his arm, more for her own reassurance than his. His well-muscled bicep felt warm and real beneath his crisp, white dress shirt. “Really, Jack, I’m fine.”

Jack made one stop at the pharmacy before driving across town. Pulling in next to a beautifully built brick home, Jack parked the car and turned to face her.

“I may have been conked on the head, but this definitely isn’t Hannah’s Inn,” Abby pointed out.

“The real question isn’t what you see, but how many?”

Far from amused, she countered, “I see one lawyer who’s definitely out of order — not to mention out of his mind. Now what’s your point?”

“Is that any way to talk to your host?”

He jumped out of the Jeep before she could speak. Confused, she waited for him to open her door, then continued, “My what?”

“Host.” He extended his hand to help her from the car. “You’re staying here with me.”

For support, Jack wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. Resting her cheek against Jack’s chest, Abby absorbed his warmth through the smooth material of his shirt. The regular beat of his heart echoed in her ear. All her life she had been waiting for someone. Holding her breath. Marking time. Getting involved with the wrong Jacks?

Jack stepped inside the house and flipped on the lights. “Are you all right?”

Abby nodded. She saw the deep concern reflected on his face. A fleeting glimpse of understanding that made her heart skip a beat. Did he sense her unexplainable fear? Had he experienced any of the same foreboding? Or was it just the accident?

“I can’t stay here.”

Jack checked his watch. “I wondered how long it would take.”

She cocked her head slightly, then groaned at the consequences of her actions. “For what?”

“For you to start giving me a hard time.”

She sighed. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but — ”

“But, what?”

“But, I don’t need a baby-sitter. I can take care of myself. I’ll be just fine at the inn.” She clipped her words short to minimize the discomfort caused by speaking. God, why can’t that sadistic little bastard operating the jackhammer in my head take a break?

“Maybe so. But, you’re staying here.”

She watched his playful look turn serious. He really meant to keep her here. Despite the underlying pain, she experienced a warm, pleasant sensation that made her feel safe and secure. “Just for tonight.”

“We’ll see.” He crossed the length of the living room and turned on the soothing voice of Diana Krall. “Is that too loud?”

Already relaxing on the couch, the sultry jazz sounded heavenly. “Not at all.”

Jack disappeared through a doorway and returned momentarily with a pillow and a blanket. He placed the pillow on the arm of the davenport and swiveled Abby’s feet from the floor.

She watched in amazement as he deftly removed her shoes and covered her, carefully tucking the soft material around her legs. His large hands were gentle and giving and the smile she offered him in return was unconditional.

“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not supposed to sleep just yet,” Jack reminded in a low voice.

“I won’t.”

“Stay put. I’ll be right back. Yell if you need me.”

“I’m not going anywhere fast, believe me.”

Abby leaned her head back on the soft pillow and listened to Diana’s seductive rendition of “Peel Me A Grape.”

Within minutes, Jack returned. He put his cup of coffee on the end table and handed Abby an earthenware mug of steaming soup. “Drink this.”

Abby flinched inwardly at his order, but drank all the same. The creamy broth was delicious, and it warmed her spirit almost as much as Jack warmed her heart. Must be the medication talking again. She sipped some more then handed back the half-full mug.

“Finish it.”

Abby didn’t say a word.

“Please.”

“Are you always so bossy?”

“Not always, no.”

Abby tilted the mug and finished the soup. “Done.”

Jack took her empty dish and handed her a glass of water and a small white pill. When she leaned forward to take her medication, he fluffed up her pillow.

“Rest, but don’t sleep,” he said quietly.

He smoothed an errant curl from her face before heading back to the kitchen. Calmed by his gentle touch, she willed herself to relax. She looked around the dimly lit room in an effort to take her mind off the accident, the pain and Jack. Not necessarily in that order. The entire ground floor of his home was one open space. Massive overstuffed furniture had been arranged around a rustic fireplace. Rough-hewn beams divided the cathedral ceiling, adding to the peacefulness and warmth Abby had sensed the minute she walked through the door.

Although it didn’t help her headache, she strained her neck just enough to look over the back of the davenport. The fabulous upstairs loft was probably Jack’s bedroom. For the first time since her arrival, Abby realized his stylish taste in homes had not surprised her in the least.

When Jack approached her makeshift bed, he was slipping into his jacket. “I’ll be right back,” he said quietly.

Abby struggled to sit up a little. “Where are you going?” Suddenly, the thought of being alone made her uncomfortable.

He held up a finger to silence her unspoken protest. “To pick up a few of your things.” He dangled her room key in his opposite hand and smiled.

“I see you rifled through my purse.” She arched one brow. “By all means, help yourself.”

He smiled.

“So, you’re telling me I don’t have much choice — ”

“No choice,” he corrected.

“Fine. No choice,” she conceded — well, not quite. With that in mind, she added, “As long as you’re going, I do have one special request.”

“Name it.”

She conjured up her most earnest look. “If I’m going to stay here, I want Tom here, too.” After all Shadow was a tomcat.

“And Tom would be?”

“Did I forget to mention he’s staying with me?” Abby was barely able to keep a straight face as she watched him cram both fists into his pockets.

“You forgot?”

Convinced Jack deserved what she was dishing out, Abby ignored the twinge of guilt over the word game she was playing. “I just didn’t want you to walk in and, you know, be surprised. That might be awkward.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder, “Forget it. Looks like Tom will have the inn all to himself for a couple of days.”

“I know he’ll be there,” she called to his back as he headed for the door. “Black hair, green eyes. You can’t miss him. Please bring him back with you.”

When the door slammed, she laid her head back down on the wonderfully soft pillow and laughed. The pain was worth it. Abby only wished she could be there when Jack met Tom for the first time.

Chapter Nineteen

Salem, Massachusetts

31 October

Year of Our Lord, 1692

“Protect my beloved ’til I return. Brand the hand of the one he spurned. Neither touch the stone nor cancel the spell, or the wicked one will burn in hell.” Abigail’s spell was quick. The merciless grip of the noose around her neck was not …

• • •

There had never been an October wind frigid enough to cool off Jack right now. This was ridiculous. Abby had come to Boston alone. Hadn’t she? So, who the hell was Tom? Not some guy she’d just met. Abby didn’t strike him as the type. Maybe this guy had flown in to meet her? Then why hadn’t she given the hospital his number? Itching to know, Jack headed straight for Hannah’s Inn.

Jack couldn’t find a place to park in front, so he drove around to the back. The parking lot was well lit, and he had just killed the engine when he saw Bridget and a burly, bald man exit the inn and get into her midnight black Porsche.

“I’ll be damned.” He leaned forward to be sure. “Gonna be in New York for a few days, huh? As they say — timing’s a bitch.”

Not at all surprised by how little he cared, Jack shook his head. Chalk up another one for Maxine, he decided. If the stock market was as easily predicted as the women he dated, Maxine could be his broker any day.

Filing away Bridget’s lie, Jack hurried inside the bed and breakfast and unlocked room 204. The moment he flipped on the light, he stopped in his tracks. He didn’t know much about Abby Corey, but he knew enough to realize she had not left her room like this.

Drawers half open with lingerie dangling over the sides.

Clothes on hangers tossed across the bed.

Suitcase linings slit.

He carefully backed out of the room into the hallway and shut the door. Pulling out his cell phone, Jack dialed the familiar number.

“Venucci.”

“Lucky, it’s Jack.”

“Long time, no speak, Hawthorne. Sold any snake oil lately?”

“Besides your development, have you arrested anything else, Detective?” Same old Venucci who had kicked his ass in the eighth grade over Sandy … whatever the hell her last name had been. Regardless, Sandy had ended up liking some punk from St. Pat’s and Lucky and Jack had remained friends ever since. “Kiss off, Venucci.”

“Play nice, Jackie. You didn’t call just to tick me off. What’s up?”

Jack explained what he had found, assuring his difficult-to-convince friend — twice — that he knew a ransacked room when he saw one.

“I’m tied up on another case, but I’ll send a squad to get the particulars. How’s that?”

“No way, man. I’m telling you this room has been searched,” Jack insisted. “Look, between her car wreck this afternoon and this mess, something stinks.”

“She wrecked her car?”

“No. She wrecked my car. Said the brakes failed.”

“And?”

“And I just had that car serviced last week. The brakes should have been fine.”

“Gotcha. I’ll be right there.”

“Thanks.”

Good to his word, Venucci arrived within minutes. His low whistle upon entering the room confirmed Jack’s suspicions. “I’ll say this joint was tossed.” He walked to the dresser where lingerie dangled like Victoria Secret’s Yuletide tinsel from five of the six half-opened drawers. Lucky extracted a black, lace teddy, then turned and grinned at Jack. “You said this Corey woman will be at your place, if I have any questions?”

“Get over yourself. She’s a client from Illinois, and she doesn’t know anyone else out here.” The uncharacteristic silence caused Jack to pause. “Look, just call me the minute you hear anything.”

“Will do.” Venucci keyed his radio. “Central Ida Four.”

“Ida Four, go ahead.”

“Please dispatch the Crime Scene Tech to my location.”

“Ten-four Ida One” the Telecommunicator responded adding, “Ida One requests a ten-twenty-five immediately at his ten-twenty.”

“Advise Ida One I’m on my way.”

“Ten-Four.”

Venucci turned to the uniformed officer who had arrived on the scene. “Stay here until Jamison arrives.” When the patrolman nodded, Lucky turned to Jack. “I’ve got another call, but the Crime Scene Tech is on his way. After he’s done with the room you can take what you need.”

Forty minutes later the technician had come and gone, and Jack began gathering the odds and ends Abby would need for the next few days. He couldn’t help but notice how damn soft all of her things were. He shook his head and shoved some of her belongings into the slashed suitcase.

When a noise brought Jack up short, he stopped. Where the hell had that come from?

A small ball of fluff raced wildly across the floor and jumped on the bed, seemingly on tiptoe — tail erect — hissing like a cornered snake.

Jack’s low laugh echoed through the otherwise empty room as he grabbed the cat and got a better look. Black hair? Green eyes? “I’ll be damned.”

Kitten in hand, he picked up the suitcase and headed home, muttering something about women in general, Abby in particular and the sweet revenge of paybacks.

Chapter Twenty

At the slam of the car door, Abby waited. She knew Hawthorne loved to dish it out, but couldn’t help but wonder whether or not he could take it. The look on his face as he came through the door told her he could.

He stopped in front of Abby. “Tom, I presume?”

“Actually his name is Shadow, but he is a tomcat,” she confessed. “No hard feelings?”

Jack set down her suitcase at the end of the Davenport and handed her the kitten. “Are you kidding?” He took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair. “You owe me, Corey. You owe me big.”

The twinkle Abby saw reflected in his dark eyes did more to ease the pain in her head than all the medication she’d taken. “You can’t collect from someone in my condition, and you know it. Besides, what took you so long?”

“Look, there’s something I have to tell you.”

At the tone of his voice, she instinctively sat up a little straighter, pulling Shadow close. “What?”

“The reason it took me so long to get back was that your room had been ransacked.”

“Ransacked?” she repeated, trying hard to wrap her mind around the concept. “Why on earth would anyone do that?”

“Good question.”

“I have no idea.” Abby thought a moment, then shook her head. Immediately regretting the gesture, she rubbed her throbbing temple. “First my home in Springfield and now my room here. What’s going on, Jack?”

“When I saw what had happened, that’s exactly what I thought. So, I called it in. Lucky Venucci is a friend of mine and he’s a detective on the police force.”

“He didn’t want to talk to me?”

“In light of all you’ve been through today, I asked him to let you rest tonight, and he agreed.” Jack shoved both hands in his pants pockets. “Unless you suspect someone in particular, he told me you could answer any questions tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Abby swallowed hard. “I don’t know anyone besides you in Boston, so what happened at the inn must have been a random act, don’t you think?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Can you think of any reason your belongings would have been tempting to the staff?”

“Not a thing.” She thought, then shrugged, meeting his dark gaze. “I’m certainly not rich. What little cash I brought for my vacation, I carry in my purse. I have one Visa card and one Master card, both in my billfold. Other than that — well, you saw my stuff. Nothing worth stealing.”

“Well, someone was definitely interested.”

Abby frowned, but said nothing.

“Or, like you said, your room might have been selected by chance.”

“Maybe.” Remembering her unrequested visit from housekeeping the night before, Abby told him, “A maid did come to my room last night, right before you got there. But, I hadn’t called housekeeping.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing much,” Abby admitted, trying to remember. “Just ‘wrong room,’ I think.”

“Your feeling?”

Abby considered the woman she’d seen. “Maybe a bit odd.”

“How so?”

“I was having trouble fastening my necklace, and I asked her to help, but she refused. Said it was not allowed, but now that I think about it that doesn’t sound right.”

“But she saw your necklace.”

“Yeah, but I certainly don’t think she was interested in it.” Abby sighed. “That was the weird part. You’d have thought I dangled a tarantula in front of her, not a pendant.”

“Really?”

Abby nodded, immediately regretting the move. “She jumped back like I’d set her on fire and nearly overturned her cleaning cart hurrying back down the hall.”

“That is strange. Be sure to tell the police when you talk to them, and they can at least check her out.”

“I will.” She offered a smile to counter the worried look in his eyes.

“Regardless, it’s over and you’re safe here.”

Abby shivered without comment.

“Are you chilly?”

“A little.”

“I know your shop burned, would a fire bother you?”

“I don’t think so.” Abby watched him cross the living room and kneel beside the huge stone hearth. She couldn’t help but notice his broad shoulders and well-muscled back as he adjusted the logs.

Turning, he glanced her way. “If it does, tell me and I’ll just kick up the thermostat instead.”

“Thanks, I will.” When he reached down and scratched behind Shadow’s ears, she smiled.

Straightening, he asked, “How about some hot chocolate?”

She closed her eyes, contemplating the yumminess of his offer. “With marshmallows?”

“Is there any other kind?”

Jack’s clattering in the kitchen gave her time to think. As comfortable as she felt in his house, Abby knew her stay in Salem would be over in a matter of days. Suddenly, the warm crackle of the fire chilled her to the bone. No Kat. No Aromatiques. No Home.

A bittersweet sensation of loneliness, the likes of which she had never felt before, swept through her. In her head, Abby knew, no matter how much she wanted to, she could not change what had happened. No amount of crying, praying or cursing could undo what had been done. Because she had tried them all. So at least for now, she forced herself to concentrate on the present.

As Jack reappeared, his tall, powerful form headed toward her, mugs in hand. Marshmallows bobbed in the steaming, rich brown drink as he eased his way back into the living room. She watched him with interest. Cocky attitude. Strong arms. Sexy mouth.

Accepting the cup, she was surprised when Jack sat beside her on the couch. “I feel awful about the car.”

“Forget it.”

When he pulled her feet into his lap and massaged them, ever … so … slowly, Abby’s body hummed under his touch. “That’s easy for you to say, you weren’t driving.”

“I can get another car, but you would’ve been a little tougher to replace — ”

The phone rang.

“Rest,” he said. “I’ll take it in the other room.”

When the ringing stopped, Abby couldn’t help but overhear.

“I really didn’t expect to hear from you tonight, Bridget.”

Even the mention of that woman’s name prickled the hair on the back of Abby’s neck.

“So, tell me, how is New York?”

“That cold, huh?”

“No, I didn’t get the message.”

And Abby thought she couldn’t feel worse. What was the old joke — did you get the name of that truck? Well, as far as she was concerned, that eighteen wheeler’s name was Bridget Bishop. From Jack’s side of the conversation, it sounded like her accident may have caused him to forget his date tonight. Even the thought made Abby shudder.

“ — because I was with a client,” he said. “How about you? What did you do this afternoon?”

What on earth had made Abby think Jack’s generosity could or should be anything more than just that? He’d been taking care of an out-of-town client who’d had an accident. Doing his job. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“I don’t know.”

Jack slammed down the receiver.

The moment Jack walked back into the living room, Abby saw it. The laughter was gone from his eyes. Frustration or anger, she couldn’t tell which, had taken its place. Stroking Shadow, she avoided his gaze.

“Why don’t you just take me back to the inn? I’ll be fine there.”

“What?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear. Apparently you had plans — ”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Well, I want to go,” Abby told him. “You’ve gone above and beyond your responsibility.”

“Forget it. You’re not going anywhere — especially there.” He held up a hand. “You’re staying here with me.”

“Noble to the death,” Abby muttered, suddenly too tired to argue. “Fine.”

“What’s wrong, Abby? Do you feel worse?”

“I’m tired,” she sighed. “When can I go to sleep?”

Jack checked his watch. “Any time now.”

Picking at the dried blood on her sweater sleeve, she asked, “Where can I wash up?”

“I’m sorry. I should have thought — ”

“That wasn’t your responsibility either.” Jumping up a little too quickly, Abby faltered, and he scooped her up as if she were no bigger than Shadow. God, she was miserable. Aching bones. Pounding head. Throbbing wrist. Abby didn’t want to wrap her arms around Jack’s neck, but she did. She clung to him as he carried her up the spiral staircase and put her down on the bed.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

Looking around, she noticed beautifully shuttered windows and a skylight directly overhead. Impressed by the bedroom, Abby wondered if that Bridget woman had decorated it. The pain in her head doubled.

“Here’s your suitcase.”

He looked like a fish out water. Poor thing acted like she was going to explode before his very eyes. “Thanks.” Taking pity, she let him off the hook. “You go on. I’ll be fine.”

Jack pointed. “The bathroom is through there.”

“Okay.”

“The clean towels are in the linen closet.” He gestured again.

She watched his hands slide into his pants’ pockets. “Where are the dirty ones?” she asked, trying to keep a straight face.

“Huh?”

“It was a joke.”

“Right,” he conceded. “I’ll be downstairs, if you need anything.”

“I’m sure I won’t.” Abby watched him descend the staircase — finally. She grabbed her suitcase and that’s when she noticed the slashed leather. Cringing, she found the bathroom, shut the door and waited until her heart stopped pounding. Someone had torn apart her room and sliced open her bag like a ripe watermelon. Looking for what? Unable to stand much longer, let alone think, she awkwardly stripped off her bloodstained sweater and jeans and opened the suitcase with her good hand.

“What in the world?” Abby muttered, digging to the bottom — her daintiest lingerie, skimpiest teddy and a sheer black nightgown. “I’ll bet Hawthorne had a heyday picking out this stuff.” He’d left her with some choice. It was either one of these or the street clothes he’d brought her.

After washing up, she slid into the nightgown and returned to find the room dark except for a tiffany lamp on a nearby pedestal table serving as a night-light. The bed had been neatly turned down, and Shadow already snoozed comfortably on one pillow. A wooden tray on the dresser held a pitcher of ice water, a glass, and one small, white pill. After taking the medication, she walked to the sleek wooden rail that surrounded the loft. The smooth rich wood felt solid beneath her hands.

The lights were out downstairs, and the dying firelight silhouetted Jack’s broad-shouldered form stretched the length of the couch. Backing away quietly, she self-consciously slid beneath the soft, cool sheets, Jack’s sheets, and snuggled under the covers. She gazed overhead at the skylight. The black velvet sky was sprinkled with a million stars. As her medication started to take effect, the shimmering night spiraled into images of Jack. Turning comfortably onto one side, she closed her eyes and smiled.

A little past twelve, Abby stirred only to find Jack standing motionless at the top of the stairs, checking on her. At two-thirty he stood beside the bed again. When she awoke briefly at five o’clock in the morning and found him sprawled in a chair next to the bed, she covered him with the plush, cotton throw that she hadn’t needed.

Warm sunshine caressed Abby’s face, slowly waking her. She opened her eyes and stretched, more than pleased to find the throbbing in her head had stopped. Shadow scampered across the bed, purring contentedly as he rubbed his furry face against her cheek.

“This is quite a bed, isn’t it?” Turning her head to meet the sound of someone coming up the steps, Abby was quick to pull the covers under her chin.

“Morning,” Jack said.

“Good morning.” She watched him set down a tray on the dresser and approach the bed. He grabbed the other pillow and propped it in back of her head, enabling her to sit up. The aroma of bacon and coffee made her mouth water. “You shouldn’t have,” she lied, not surprised by the dark circles under Jack’s eyes and the drawn lines around his mouth.

“I know, but I can’t have you dying in my bed, now can I?” He looked up and smiled. “At least not from starvation.”

“So this — ” she gestured toward the breakfast “ — more or less just protects your reputation?”

He balanced the tray on her lap. “Exactly.”

Despite being a bit ragged around the edges, Abby thought he looked wonderful — charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed halfway to his elbows, stone washed black jeans. And he smelled as good as he looked.

“Far be it from me to tarnish your impeccable character.” Adjusting her grip, a corner of the blanket slipped and exposed a portion of her nightgown.

“I think you already have.”

“You mean this old thing?” She winked. “If you think this little number is something, you ought to see the rest. But then I guess you already did.” She yanked the cover back up. “Like pilfering through ladies’ lingerie, Hawthorne?”

“I usually prefer the woman to be in them at the time.”

Abby ignored his comment and, instead, dug into the scrambled eggs, “Ummm. These are delicious. Thank the cook for me, will you?”

“Very funny.”

“What?” she asked innocently. Taking a sip of coffee, she immediately peeled her lips from the cup. “Geez, Hawthorne, are you trying to scald me?”

“That’s what you get for having such a smart mouth.”

“Your concern is touching.” Abby blew on the steaming liquid. Looking up, she found him staring. She enunciated as if explaining to a child, “This is what we do in Illinois when something is too hot.”

“Someday, when you’re feeling better, remind me to show you what we do in Massachusetts.”

Abby watched Jack’s lips curl into an insinuating grin before he turned and walked away. She muttered a string of oaths between bites as he descended the stairs. After finishing every bite, she struggled with her bandaged wrist to put the tray full of empty dishes on the floor. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, waited a moment to gain her equilibrium, then rested both feet on the soft, warm carpet. Standing tentatively, she balanced herself and checked for dizziness. Experiencing none, she headed for the bathroom.

Dressed in the jeans and sweatshirt he had packed, Abby applied a little makeup and brushed her hair before going downstairs. Much to Jack’s disapproving glare, she’d managed quite well alone.

“What, no tray?”

“I think I’m doing rather well, thank you.”

“So you are.”

Uncomfortable with his sincerity, Abby turned her attention to Shadow who was wolfing down his breakfast in the far corner of the kitchen. “Awww. You bought him cat food.”

Jack shrugged. “I fed you didn’t I?”

“And a real litter box — ”

“Which you can clean,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Fair enough,” she agreed. Stifling her pleasure, Abby reminded herself it was called keeping the client happy. She shifted her weight uneasily. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Oh, really?”

Jack gave Abby a smile so suggestive that her knees turned to jelly.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Just the sight of him leaning against the cabinet, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest caused her breath to quicken. His laugh was warm, catching. It erased the worry lines around his eyes and mouth, making him look years younger than he had earlier this morning. Just smiling at first, she couldn’t help but join in. “Do you have to make something out of a simple request to go back to the inn?”

“Oh, that’s what you were talking about.”

“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “Besides, I have to talk to the police this morning.”

He shook his head. “I already phoned Venucci and updated him. He knows where you are, if he needs anything.”

“Thank you.” Regardless of feeling a little steadier, Abby hadn’t relished an interview — not that she knew anything. Because she didn’t.

“You should stay here at least another day.”

“Thanks, but no. You’ve already gone above and beyond.”

“It wasn’t a question.” Jack shrugged. “You’re staying.”

“Says who?”

“The doctor. I promised him you’d stay forty-eight hours.”

“You did not.” Abby planted both hands on her hips, forgetting momentarily about her injured wrist. “Ouch!”

“See.”

“Don’t worry about me.” She narrowed her gaze. “Tell me the truth. You didn’t say that to the doctor, did you?”

“I meant to. Besides, I’m sure he’d insist.” Holding up his palm to counter her protest, Jack continued, “I’ll be at work all day. You’ll have the entire house to yourself, and you’ll be here in case Detective Venucci calls.”

Well, she had to stay somewhere. And the police might need to talk to her. What could it hurt? “All right. Thank you.”

Moving closer, Jack faced Abby. “Except for inheriting your necklace, you’ve had nothing but bad luck since you landed in Boston.”

“That’s an understatement.” She watched his expression soften.

“Let me make it up to you.”

The quiet emphasis of his words touched Abby. “How?”

“We’ll call a truce. You rest and recuperate.”

Hearing the challenge in his voice, she stepped back. “And?”

“And I’ll take you to the Halloween Ball,” he stated rather than asked. “It’s the highlight of the season in Boston.”

The sexy smile tugging at his lips may have been contagious, but in light of all that had happened to her in the past month, Abby wasn’t really in a costume party kind of mood. “We’ll see,” was all she could promise.

• • •

“I’m going to the office now.”

“Okay,” Abby answered absently. She thought the view from the window was breathtaking … until she turned to face him. The man gave new meaning to the phrase tall, dark and impeccably dressed. “See you later.”

“I’ll be home about six.”

“Don’t go all domestic on me, Hawthorne. You sound like Ozzie Nelson.” Truce or no truce, she couldn’t help but remember Bridget Bishop’s phone call last night. “I’m just a guest. Feel free to come and go as you please.”

“On second thought, I may be late.”

The front door slammed behind Jack loud enough for the neighbors to hear. It spooked Shadow so badly he hissed and raced upstairs, his hair standing out like a tiny black porcupine.

“Maybe he wanted to come home at six,” she began, talking to herself. “Great. Now I can look forward to a long afternoon and a long evening.” The cat peaked curiously around the corner to see if the coast was clear. “What am I saying, Shadow? We don’t need Jack Hawthorne to occupy our time, do we?”

Chapter Twenty-One

Salem, Massachusetts

31 October

Year of Our Lord, 1692

Jackson could see Abigail’s lips moving, surely saying what would be her last prayer. From where he stood, the torches blazed around her. Reflections of the flickering firelight cast a strange pulsing glow between her fingers.

Working quickly, a woman dressed in black except for a bright red bodice jerked Abigail by the arms and tied both wrists behind her back. The woman’s strong, well-practiced fingers ripped the amulet from Abigail’s grasp, then hissed as the smooth amber stone branded its shape in the palm of her hand. An oath escaped her scarlet lips as she threw the pendant hard and fast. Slipping the noose over Abigail’s head, the woman moved closer.

“See you in hell,” Bridget Bishop whispered as she yanked the cord tighter. “He’s mine now.”

“Never,” Abigail swore as rough hands shoved her onto a frightened horse. “My spell will protect him from you until I return.”

When ice blue eyes met green, thunder shook the earth and lightning slashed the heavens. The dark-haired beauty tossed her head back and laughed hysterically …

• • •

The house was dark when Abby woke up. Disoriented, the iridescent glow of the clock on the bedside table reflected seven-thirty. Flipping on a light, she made her way downstairs. Jack had cleaned the fireplace and set up new wood before he left, so all she had to do was strike one of the long matches and ignite the kindling.

Refreshed and hungry, she put together a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of milk and ate her meal by the softly crackling fire. Looking around, Abby had to admit she was fascinated by Jack’s home. Refined. Almost elegant. Yet comfortable. The man definitely had an eye for both shape and color. Paintings in muted earth tones hung haphazardly on opposite walls pulled the entire look together.

Suddenly aware of the silence, she flipped on the television. When was the last time she’d relaxed in front of the TV? Come to think of it, she didn’t even know what programs were on anymore. And since when did silence bother her?

Irritated by her insistent soul-searching, she opted for a mindless hour soaking in a hot bath instead. No psychoanalysis. No self-criticism. No mind games. Indulgence, pure and simple, was what she wanted. Afterward, unwilling to parade around in her scant, black nightgown, she gave herself permission to search Jack’s room for a robe. That seemed only fair since he was the one who brought her back as little as was humanly possible to wear.

She opened the closet door and found an array of neatly pressed suits, crisply laundered shirts and, voila, just as she’d suspected a wonderfully soft, kimono-style robe. Abby plunged her arms in and immediately recognized Jack’s sent clinging to the plush, white terrycloth. She closed her eyes, inhaled, and hugged herself tightly. Forced to cuff the incredibly long sleeves several times, she crisscrossed the front before cinching the belt around her waist.

Curious, she continued to snoop around the huge walk-in. The man was disgustingly neat. His beautiful designer ties were precisely arranged on orderly rows of hooks. Abby was impressed by his taste, but more than that, she couldn’t help but admire the fact that he didn’t work at it. Whatever class this man had, he came by it naturally. And that’s when she saw it … and smiled.

In the farthest corner of the closet she found a worn out, gray sweat suit, a pair of dirty Nikes and a badly scuffed basketball. So, Jack Hawthorne wasn’t perfect after all. Thank God. Satisfied, she was able to shut the door and go downstairs with her piece of mind intact.

Abby stretched out the length of the sofa and allowed herself to be swept away by Clark Gable. Every woman, she decided, should see “It Happened One Night” at least once.

• • •

“You know, Max, I’ve never known you to become involved with any client.” Without looking up from his computer screen, Jack continued typing as he spoke.

“Concerned. Not involved,” she corrected. “After all, Ms. Corey was injured in a car accident.”

Jack’s fingers stopped mid-sentence, and he swiveled his chair to face her. He’d seen that look hundreds of times over the years, but today something else was there. Something he could sense but couldn’t pinpoint. “Still, why so interested?”

“Your car was totaled.”

Jack shrugged. “I’ll buy another.”

“Ms. Corey was driving.”

“And we’ve come full circle.” He crossed both arms over his chest. “Why so interested,” he repeated.

“Pleasant woman.” Maxine met his gaze. “Unpleasant circumstances.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” She stopped at the door and placed one hand on the knob but didn’t open it.

“What is it, Max?” He used his understanding, soothing lawyer voice. The one that urged trust me, and I can help you. Difference was, this time he meant it as a friend, not a prosecutor.

She turned to face him. Paused as if to speak. Then shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “But we’ve been together a long time, and you can talk to me about anything.”

She pinned him with her gaze. “As can you.”

He thought a moment but could find no concrete, logical place to begin. “I know,” he said, wondering if that same feeling of uncertainty had anything thing to do with her decision not to speak.

Jack had learned a long time ago when Maxine was done discussing something, she switched gears without so much as a blink. And that was that. He might as well give up and go along with her. For the time being anyway.

Without a word, Maxine nodded, opened the door and left him feeling restless and frustrated. For a lawyer like Jack, unanswered questions gnawed a hole in his gut. What he had always trusted about himself, however, was his process. The way his brain worked. The way his mind sorted facts and connected the dots.

So, he made a conscious effort to spend the better part of his afternoon not thinking about Abby or Maxine or anything connected with either of them. Instead, he busied himself in the mundane, which unleashed his subconscious and allowed information to surface on its own.

During a trial, he would go for a long drive after work to clear his head. So, he decided today would be no different. Leaving the office, he settled behind the wheel of his Jeep. Content to head nowhere in particular, he laid the same mental groundwork that he would for any cross-examination.

Fact: Maxine does not pussyfoot.

Fact: Maxine deals solely in reality.

Fact: Maxine does not get involved in other people’s business — except his.

As he wound his way down the scenic, tree-lined streets, Jack admitted just how much he trusted Maxine and her instincts. Engrossed in determining how this translated to Abby Corey, he didn’t notice the rich autumn foliage illuminated by the setting October sun. Or the Halloween decorations. Or the jack-o-lantern studded porches. Instead, he concentrated on what he knew about Abby. The devastation she had experienced during the past month surfaced in his mind. The catastrophic fire. The death of her friend. The loss of her home as well as her business. And now all the misfortune that had happened to her since she arrived in Boston.

Jack would feel empathy for anyone under these circumstances. But his feelings went deeper than that. And what about Maxine? She was a rock. A no-nonsense woman who had never been at loss for words, much less an opinion, in her entire life. Yet neither he nor Maxine chose to verbalize why this virtual stranger had made such an impression on both of them.

Jack drove until his stomach insisted he stop to eat. He had never minded, and usually enjoyed, the solitude of a late night dinner. Until now. Tonight, visions of the red-haired beauty probably lying in his bed at this very moment teased and taunted him.

His smile faded when thoughts of Bridget intruded. He hadn’t been at the office when she called the last time, but Maxine had taken a message. Max may have added her personal spin as to the amount of hostility evident in Bridget’s tone, but he really didn’t care. Again, he trusted Maxine’s take on people.

Fact: Maxine does not like Bridget.

Fact: Maxine does not conceal the fact that she does not like Bridget.

Fact: Maxine’s dislike for Bridget appears to be in direct proportion to her uncharacteristic fondness for Abby.

As far as Bridget was concerned, Jack sided with Maxine. It was over. Not that it had ever really begun. Seeing her with the guy at the inn had pissed him off, but only because he detested a liar. Not due to any feelings he had for Bridget. They just weren’t there. Never had been. Maybe that was why her betrayal felt like more of a relief.

Pushing aside his barely eaten meal, Jack tossed down a twenty and left. Unfortunately, the drive home was every bit as frustrating as the trip there had been. Instead of finding definitive answers, he had succeeded in conjuring up more questions. Normally not a problem.

As a lawyer, there was nothing he liked more than the challenge of searching for the perfect angle or loophole. And he was damned good at both. However, that had not been his goal this evening. Tonight what Jack needed was rock-solid explanations. But as important as solutions were, and they seemed to be paramount, it was the sense of urgency brewing just below the surface that concerned him more. The truth will set you free.

Quietly entering the house, the sight of Abby sound asleep in the living room stopped him cold. The dying fire lent a soft glow to her face and heightened the purplish bruise on her cheek. His stomach tightened. The thunderous memory of her accident, not to mention her ransacked room, jabbed his conscience like a big thorny stick. He would check with Venucci first thing in the morning for an update on the investigation.

Mid-stride, Jack spotted his robe. He had to admit terry cloth had never looked that good before. Especially since it was tied loosely at Abby’s waist where it parted, revealing what little there was of her black nightgown. Her hair hung enticingly over the edge of the sofa almost to the floor. Long, smooth legs stretched to their oh-so-impressive length.

Shedding his coat and suit jacket, Jack knelt down and gathered up Abby. As he started upstairs, her arms automatically curled around his neck. She felt small and fragile as she nuzzled her face against his shoulder. Her hair carried the fresh scent of his shampoo.

She only stirred for a moment as he carefully eased her onto the bed. “Jack?”

“Shhh,” he spoke softly. “Go back to sleep.” He saw her smile reflected in the moonlight that spilled across the pillow. One last look and he headed downstairs.

Abby Corey. Why did the sight of her just now make him want to put his fist through the wall? Where was his frustration coming from? How could his feelings be this intense?

I must be nuts. So she put on my robe. Big deal. Since when was that so damn special?

He paced. “Ever since she stepped off that plane … ”

He yanked loose his tie and kicked off his shoes.

“ … She’s messed with my mind … ”

He peeled off his shirt and ripped out his belt like a bullwhip.

“ … She’s disrupted my life … ”

He dropped his pants, not to mention is guard.

“ … She’s … important to me.”

But why? Jack swallowed hard. He crossed the room and poured a whiskey neat, a double. He downed it in one gulp and relished the path it burned down his throat as he swallowed. He poured another …

Maybe I can drown whatever’s bugging me from the inside. Fat chance, pal. All you’re gonna get is one helluva hangover.

… And another.

Feeling no pain, but far from anesthetized, Jack dragged out the bedding and made up the couch. Realizing part of what had him crazy, he pounded the suddenly uncomfortable pillow with his fist. He did not believe in coincidences — like one person experiencing an unexplainable car wreck and her hotel room being ransacked in the same day.

Was Abby in danger? If so, what kind and how much? How far was this person prepared go? Two incidents in less than twenty-four hours. That was way too far. As for the rest of what was making him nuts, his only clues had been bits and pieces. Scraps of some elusive feeling that tried his patience at every turn.

He angled for a more comfortable position. The bottom line — he would protect her whether she liked it or not. As for the rest, all the other explanations he needed, he decided time would tell.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A note scrawled in large masculine handwriting had been left on the kitchen table propped against a box of donuts. Jack had gone to work early and made several lurid suggestions about her feeling free to pillage his closet until he could stop by and pick up some more of her clothes.

Abby grinned; glad she and Hawthorne were back on speaking terms again. Suddenly famished, she ate a decadent donut filled with Bavarian cream, then another and felt more like her old self than she had since the accident. Enjoying a certain sense of freedom, Abby hit Jack’s bedroom room like a Saturday morning garage sale. She grabbed a pair of black sweat shorts with a drawstring waist and a black and orange T-shirt with Salem’s witch logo across the front.

“Can you believe it, Shadow?” she told the small furry cat who watched her every move with the utmost interest. “Even his grubby clothes match.” The kitten fell headfirst into the dresser drawer she had opened. Hauling him out, she kissed his tiny head.

“Oh, no you don’t. We’re going exploring and see just how much we can find out about Jack Hawthorne. Come on. Wanna poke around a little?”

She began downstairs, assessing the kitchen as well stocked, but not fussy. Although a woman’s touch wouldn’t hurt, it was still very attractive. No plants. No cookbooks. No knickknacks. Plenty of beautiful granite counter space and every utensil in its place. The copper pots hanging over an island stove/sink combination were well used, not decorative. She marveled at the cleanliness and thanked God that Jack couldn’t check any of those mystery containers in her refrigerator. Not that she even had a ’frig anymore.

Now more than ever, her life felt out of sync. And not just because of the loss of her friend and her shop. Those tragedies stained her past. Not to mention breaking her heart.

No, this felt different. More of a haunting sense of something yet to come that had actually followed her from Springfield. So, why had she experienced such an unexplainable familiarity in Salem? A sense of peace that resembled Shadow curling up in a warm spot of sunshine. After a silent vow to shelve her paranoia and take one day at a time, she decided today would be dedicated to exploring the world of Jack Hawthorne. Room by room.

Abby noted a stylish bar separated the dining area from the kitchen, complete with a wooden-shuttered pass through that could close off either room. Jack had left the morning newspaper and a half-cup of coffee behind. She admired the single pedestal design of his dining table, especially its massive ball claws. Like the rest of Jack’s house his furniture was masculine, but beautiful.

As she wandered through the living room, the exquisite oil paintings caught her eye. Although each one was unique, the signature, if that was what you could call it, was the same. Every one of them had two solid black, inverted triangles side by side — points down and wide bases touching. Could that be an abstract W, she wondered? The seascapes were so alive you could almost smell the salt air and hear the unmistakable call of the gulls. The barns and landscapes were warm and earthy.

Behind the chair next to the television, she found something that revealed a side of Jack Hawthorne she would have never guessed in a million years. An Xbox. Her neighbor’s son had beaten her into the ground playing Max Payne — at first. What the little darling didn’t know was, after he had been sent to bed, Abby practiced that game until her thumbs were numb. Not that she was a sore loser or the least bit competitive.

Finding her way to the den, with Shadow in tow, the room smelled of leather, rustic wood paneling, and Jack. His desk was huge and damnably neat, and the extensive library awed her. Shelf after shelf of books lined the walls. Everything from Wuthering Heights to Stephen King and Lee Child. And, if his array of historical literature was any indication of his knowledge, it wasn’t any wonder he’d been snatched up by Boston’s historical society.

One entire corner of the room was an elaborate yet amazingly compact computer center. Just beyond the mini office complex, she found a niche that consisted of a telescope set up in front of a huge picture window and an easel situated off to one side. Careful not to disturb its alignment, Abby looked through the lens and found it focused on a lighthouse. The sketch on the canvas was an excellent likeness. So, that W had been Jack’s signature on the paintings in the living room. Why W, she wondered? Regardless, Abby was genuinely impressed. Careful not to disturb his set up, she backed out of the small room and continued looking around.

Sidestepping the cat, who was grossly interested in playing with the fax machine’s cord, Abby pushed aside a decorative louvered screen and burst into laughter.

“Looks like there’s hope for Jack yet.”

Neatly situated in the far corner of the room was a ginormous, glass and chrome jukebox complete with every rock n’ roll hit imaginable. Unable to resist, she plugged it in. Iridescent neon lights blinked in progression, making Shadow head for cover under Jack’s desk. Delighted, she punched a couple of buttons and smiled at the familiar voices of The Four Tops.

• • •

Nothing like an unmistakable Motown rhythm to rock Abby. Once she started to dance, Shadow raced out and jumped back and forth between her bare feet. She snapped the fingers on her good hand and in drunken Karaoke-style sang along, never missing a note. Whirling around, face flushed, arms spread wide and backfield definitely in motion, Abby froze, practically in midair, at the sight of Jack. She raced to unplug the jukebox.

“My God, don’t you know how to knock?” she asked.

“That’s funny, I thought I lived here.” He dropped his briefcase and walked directly toward her.

Abby knew. His compelling look told her exactly what he wanted. What she had wanted since the day they met. The touch of his hands was unbearably tender as he gathered her into his arms. She could smell the cold October wind still clinging to him and realized how right this felt. Sighing, she dropped her chin to his chest.

His large hand took her face and tilted it upward. Standing on tiptoe, she was shocked at her eager response. He was surprisingly gentle. His mouth touched hers like a whisper, and she felt her body shudder at its sweetness.

His breath was hot against her cheek when he whispered, “I’ll be home at six.” His mouth brushed against her earlobe. “Make that five-thirty.”

He was still way too close for her to think clearly. “I’ll make dinner,” she heard herself say.

Releasing Abby, he grabbed a file folder off his desk and snagged his briefcase. Before leaving, he gently lifted her hand to his lips.

She had never experienced such a sensation of relief as his mouth reassuringly touched her palm. His breath was warm, his lips soft and moist. She wanted to stay forever within this haven safety. Then he was gone. And just like in her dream, she was alone.

Blinking, she just stood there. “Shadow, did Hawthorne just rush in here, catch me making a total fool out of myself, then kiss me stupid and leave?”

The cat sat in the sun licking his paw and preening his face. He paused momentarily before continuing his ministrations.

“Did I just stand here and let him do that?” The sweet memory was enough of an answer for her. She plopped down cross-legged next to the kitten. “Did I actually say I’d cook dinner?” Shaking her head, she started to laugh. “Damn, Shadow, that man can kiss.” He always could?

Finding enough ingredients to whip up spaghetti and a tossed salad, Abby headed upstairs and changed into a pair of khaki-colored slacks and an olive green sweater. Shadow followed close behind. Zigging and zagging, the kitten played with absolutely nothing or no one until he somersaulted to a sudden halt. He hissed at his reflection in the large cheval mirror in the corner.

“That’s easy for you to say, but I’ve got a dinner to prepare.” She scooped up Shadow and headed downstairs. “One kiss and I offered to cook for the man,” she muttered. “Un-freaking-believable.”

At five-thirty on the dot, Abby heard the front door open. She stirred the bubbling sauce that simmered on the stove. An unmistakable essence of herbs and spices mingled with the rich fragrance of scented candles.

“Judging from the delicious aroma, it’s probably a good thing I picked up a little something for the cook.” Standing in the doorway, he offered Abby a huge spray of burgundy mums and baby’s breath.

Turning to face Jack, Abby realized tall, dark and handsome might have been a cliché, but in his case it was such an understatement. That prickly sensation nipped at her toes again when she saw the luscious bouquet of her favorites. “They’re beautiful, but maybe you should wait until you taste this before you pass out too many compliments.”

He inhaled deeply. “I don’t think so.”

She gestured around the kitchen. “Got something to put these in?”

Jack loosened his tie and gave his collar a yank before handing her a tall, cut glass vase from the cabinet over the sink. He lowered his face to her ear and inhaled deeply. “Anything that smells this good has to taste even better.”

Abby didn’t want to admit just how good Jack’s warm breath felt on her neck, so she sidestepped him and filled the cut-glass container with water. “You’ve got a few minutes before dinner.”

Jack peeled off his jacket and tossed it over a barstool before unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up both sleeves.

“Want some coffee?” she asked, pointing to the freshly brewed pot.

He washed his hands before grabbing two mugs and filling them. “Black, right?”

“Right.” She eased the flowers down into the water and found herself smiling at his easy charm. “These will look great in the dining room.”

After placing the bouquet in the middle of the candle lit table, Abby returned to the kitchen. There Jack stood, slicing the French bread. His tall form was bent painstakingly over a granite cutting board as he slathered each piece with butter and garlic powder. She watched him carefully re-form the loaf and wrap it in aluminum foil before popping it into the oven.

“My God, he cooks.”

He met her gaze. “I thought you figured that out this afternoon.”

“You’re not referring to that little,” she shrugged her shoulders, “peck on the mouth you gave me on your way out, are you?” she asked without as much as a glance in his direction.

“You’re absolutely right. That’s all it was.”

Looking up, his dark eyes searched too deeply. Said too much. Weighing the possibility of Jack’s statement, she swallowed hard and maneuvered around him to remove the salad from the refrigerator. “Ready for dinner?”

He brushed a stray lock of hair off her cheek. “I’m starving.”

When Abby slipped past him, his low whistle followed her out of the kitchen. As they ate, Abby wondered why looking at Jack through the warm glow of candlelight during dinner didn’t seem the least bit awkward or strange? After all, she didn’t even know him — not really. It made no sense that she felt so at home with him or in his house.

Jack pushed his empty plate aside. “I definitely owe you more flowers.”

“No, you don’t. It was my pleasure.” And that was the truth. “After all, you remembered burgundy mums are my favorite.”

“You really shouldn’t have gone out for the candles though,” he pointed out. “You’re probably still a little shaky.”

“I didn’t.” Was he kidding? After that so-called little peck on the mouth, she couldn’t have even dialed 911.

“Oh, that’s right. You bought some in Salem.”

“I did, but not these. They were in my suitcase.”

“You carry candles with you?”

“I — ”

“No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“You brought it up.”

“Got any stakes of holly, silver bullets — ”

“If you’ll knock off the sarcasm, it’s really quite simple.” But it wasn’t, not really. In fact it still confused her a little, too. “I love candles,” she lied, knowing she’d always had an aversion to fire.

“And after your shop burned, they don’t bother you?”

“Not these,” she told him, certain that was the truth but not certain why. “The gold ones symbolize protection.”

“From what?”

Abby hiked both shoulders. “Evil, I guess,” she told him, bracing for the smirk that never came. Instead, she watched him grab the bottle of wine and both of their glasses from the table.

“They’re nice. Let’s drink this in the living room,” he suggested.

“Okay. I’ll just clean up first.”

“Leave it.”

Jack moved Abby’s candles to the coffee table. “Mind if I make myself comfortable?”

“Su casa is, after all, su casa,” Abby reminded him.

“Right.”

When he eased off his shoes and stretched out both legs, Shadow jumped from beneath the sofa and attacked his feet. Scooping up the little furball, he stroked the kitten. Purring, the small creature ritualistically turned around three times before settling down on his lap and dozing comfortably.

“Speaking of your house,” she began, “I really do like it, but I’m kind of surprised that you bought a home.”

“Why?”

Abby swirled the wine in the delicately stemmed glass as she spoke. “It just seems like most men prefer to rent an apartment.”

He shrugged. “I wanted my own place. Something to focus on besides work.”

She sipped her drink and watched him absently pet Shadow. “Work and home sound pretty good to me right now.”

“I’m sure they do,” he said. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“Not yet.” She sighed. “It’s still so hard to believe. Kat. My apartment. My shop.”

“I can’t imagine — ”

“Hey, enough about me,” she insisted, cutting him off. She refused to let a pity party ruin such a nice evening. “Did you paint these?” she asked with a wide sweeping gesture toward the pictures on the walls.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Why the W signature?” Before he could answer, she realized, “It’s the W you added to the Hathorne name, isn’t it?”

“Well, not me personally, but yes.”

“They’re wonderful. You have a great eye. Well, actually two,” she observed, without cracking a smile.

“Thanks. On both counts.”

“No portraits?” she asked, remembering the man in her dream who promised her portrait as a wedding present.

“Never found a face interesting enough to paint — until now.”

She willed away the dream — her beloved’s promise of a portrait for a wedding present. Just as quickly, she ignored Jack’s compliment as well as the slow somersault her heart did. “Were you always interested in art?”

“Yes,” he said. “Tell me. What do you lose yourself in? Something that puts you in the zone.”

She took a frank, admiring look at Jack. Feather-like laugh lines crinkled around his eyes, softening his sometimes disturbingly intense appearance. “I walk.”

“Your dog?”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Cat?”

She shook her head.

“No pets?”

“Nope.”

“Let me get this straight,” he began. “You don’t have a pet back in Springfield, but you adopt one while you’re on vacation?”

Abby’s eyes widened as she pointed to Shadow. “You mean him? Oh, I’m not taking him home with me.”

“Then why am I feeding him?”

She scooted closer and whispered into his ear, “Because you’re such a nice guy?”

He turned his head quickly to prevent her from moving out of reach. His lips brushed hers as he murmured, “Damn right I am.”

Abby enjoyed the feel of his strong arms. Her body told her so. Timidly, she splayed her fingers across his broad back, savoring its warmth. The only aspect of Jack more powerful than the strength simmering just below the surface was the tenderness he tried so hard to hide.

Abby could feel Shadow at her back, slapping at her hair. Reaching around, she tried to shoo him away with one hand. The more she waved her fingers, the more he wanted to play.

Raising his head a whisper, Jack asked, “Are you always this flighty when you’re being kissed?”

Unable to suppress the laughter, Abby pulled Shadow from behind her. “Blame your cat.” She eased herself back against the davenport, just out of Jack’s reach and watched him refill their glasses before saying, “I can’t stay here indefinitely, you know.” She’d always prided herself on her strength, but living under the same roof with Jack was becoming too much of a challenge, even for her. The physical attraction between them was undeniable, and it was growing. Abby decided it best to leave while she still had the inclination.

“Sounds like you’ve already decided.”

Abby nodded, accepting the wine Jack offered. She focused on Shadow and ran a teasing finger along the couch to encourage his playfulness. Without looking up, she answered, “Yeah, I think it’s for the best.”

“Not Hannah’s Inn though.”

Even though Abby thought Jack would agree with her decision to go, she wasn’t prepared for the hurt that followed his easy acceptance. Abby uncurled her feet, planting them squarely on the floor. She set the wine aside. “No, I’ll find another bed and breakfast or a nice hotel.” Standing, she started toward the kitchen. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

“Whoa.” Jack caught her about halfway. “You sit. I’ll pour.”

“I’m not an invalid,” she insisted. “After all, I made it.”

“Exactly,” Jack grinned. “So, don’t overdo.” He gently shoved her in the direction of the couch. “Go.”

“To hell,” Abby muttered as she headed back into the living room.

In less than five minutes, Jack handed Abby a cup of coffee. “You realize that what happened today wasn’t some prank. Someone is after something, and whoever this is, they think one of us has it.”

“Maybe,” she agreed half-heartedly.

When the phone rang, Jack turned his back to Abby as he spoke. “What have you got?”

“What’s the bottom line?”

“Thanks. Keep me posted.”

He hung up the receiver and faced Abby.

“What?” she asked, bracing herself for the inevitable.

“Just let me handle this, will you?”

She bristled, then spoke with quiet firmness, “First of all, this is not some legal case. This is my life — and yours. Secondly, you are not my employer; therefore you cannot dismiss me like some kind of servant. In fact, now that I think about it, technically I’m your employer. You’re my lawyer.”

“Your room at Hannah’s Inn being ransacked may have been the result of a nosy maid who was baited by a beautiful necklace,” he began. “My car, on the other hand, may have been deliberately tampered with which makes this my problem and my decision.”

Abby struggled to maintain an even, conciliatory tone. “Not when it comes to me,” she insisted, observing his dark eyes flash a gentle but firm warning.

“Damn it, Abby, can’t you get it through your head whoever is behind this is playing for keeps.” He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his pants.

“Then we’ll just have to check into it.”

“What do you mean we?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You know very well what I mean. Someone has targeted one of us. My room. Your car. So like it or not, we’re in this together.”

Jack shook his head. “Not anymore.”

Determined to beat him at his own game, Abby lifted her chin, meeting his icy gaze straight on. “You’re right.”

“Forget it. You’re not playing Nancy Drew … I’m what?”

“I said you are right.” Abby enunciated as though she were speaking to a small child. She slipped past him muttering hostile, unintelligible expletives and nearly ripped the pages out of the phone book, searching for the number of a cab. “You believe you’re the target,” she hissed at Jack, pounding the touch-tone at the expense of her still sensitive wrist. “So, I’m sure you’ll want me as far away from you as possible.” She switched hands. “For my safety, of course.”

“You’re not going back to Hannah’s Inn,” Jack stated.

“I’ll go where I please,” Abby insisted, not that she would return there, it was just the principle.

“Not there you won’t. I checked you out.”

“You what?” She slammed her free hand on her hip, wincing at the pain in her wrist. “And just when were you planning to tell me?”

“When I didn’t take you back,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Of all the impertinent, presumptuous, egotistical — no, no not you,” she apologized into the receiver and glared at Jack. “I’m sorry. I’d like a cab.”

She shot him a look that would have dropped a bull elephant at a thousand yards. After the quick phone call, she tore the address of a motel from the phone book and spent the next few minutes stuffing her suitcase.

Jack never made a move to stop Abby. Instead, he stood motionless in his very empty, very quiet house as the cab’s fiery taillights disappeared into the darkness. She was gone and he was alone.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Salem, Massachusetts

31 October

Year of Our Lord, 1692

Lashed to a nearby tree, Jackson watched in amazement as a woman deftly intercepted Bridget’s throw and snagged Abigail’s amulet from midair. Careful to stay behind the crowd, the tall, thin woman wove her way through the shadows and dropped the amulet in the dry grass at his feet.

“Maxine? — ”

“Hush,” the woman ordered as she slipped behind the tree and shoved a folded sheet of paper into his hand.

“What’s this?” Sweat stung his eyes as he ground both arms against the tree’s rough bark to give Maxine as much slack as possible.

“Abigail had another dream last night. About a witch hunt. Fearing it would come to pass, she wrote out instructions for me to give you, so listen carefully. First, I’ve dropped her necklace at your feet. You must take it with you. Second, you must read what she’s written and do exactly as she asks.”

“Why?” Jackson felt her bony fingers nimbly working at the knot that bound his wrist.

“There’s no time to explain,” her thin lips warned. “Just do as I say … ”

• • •

Before daylight, Jack stood impatiently in the hallway outside the entrance to his office. Head pounding and sleep deprived, he had tossed and turned all night, tormented by the haunting Bill Withers’ song that had relentlessly played in his head. He shoved his key into the lock and, once inside, he slammed the door shut behind him. The deafening quiet screamed at him like a jealous lover and somehow managed to further tick him off, if that were even possible. Whatever the hell was going on, one of them was in danger. Him? Or her? That was the real question. The jump ball as it were.

The past few days had been a nightmare, and his gut reaction to each incident had erupted like a bleeding ulcer. Jack was used to taking control, being in charge. For him, the law had always been black and white, and that was the concept he liked most about it. Inside the courtroom he was damned good at calling the shots, but this was different. Suddenly, he was up to his eyeballs in gray areas. Jack hated gray areas.

He flipped on the lights, wishing his thoughts were as easy to illuminate. As he crossed the beautifully polished floor, his shoes echoed in the otherwise silent building. Wasn’t this the same maddening quiet that had driven him from his tomb-like house at the crack of dawn?

“Dammit.” Jack slammed his fist into the wall. How in the hell could he protect Abby … this time? Those two words didn’t even make sense to him. Jack’s heart beat hard against his ribs, like a mother shaking a child from a fitful dream. Only for Jack the implication merely teased at the edges of his mind like an unspoken threat. His consciousness refused the warning, but something deep inside sensed some kind of an awakening.

“Bring it on,” he whispered to no one.

• • •

“Hurry, Midnight, he’s right behind us.” Abigail held on for dear life and begged her horse to gallop faster. Whispering in his ear, cooing and pleading, she ducked the tree branches and woody vines that canopied the well-worn, dirt path. Abby dug her heels into his flanks and prayed her beloved animal could hold his pace. As she hunched over the pommel, his thick, dark mane whipped against her cheeks the same way her petticoats and her long, black skirt’s hem slapped his heaving sides.

Careful to keep her head down Abby stole a glance over one shoulder. The man in the red cape was gaining on them. His horse’s hooves pounded the barren trail, gouging chunks of earth and spitting them in his wake. Whip in hand, the rider lashed out, pushing the animal harder. As the stranger’s fearsome silhouette thundered through the sun-dappled forest’s path, light and shadow alternately flashed across his features, scrambling his identity in what could otherwise be considered broad daylight. The black, pilgrim-style hat he wore stayed put, unlike the scarlet material that billowed behind him like great devil’s wings …

• • •

Splashing water in her face, Abby regarded her reflection in the tiny hotel mirror. “Not too bad for only a couple of hours sleep and a nightmare that would have made Rosemary put her baby up for adoption.”

Dabbing extra concealer under both eyes and gingerly tapping some on her bruised cheek, she put the finishing touches to her makeup and decided it was good enough.

Despite another bad dream, a ransacked room, and checking into what might as well have been the Bates Motel, Abby had made it through the night on her own. However shaky, she had stood her ground and still had no intention of letting anyone dictate what she could or could not do.

As she stepped into the hotel parking lot, the brilliant October sun felt warm on her back but only for an instant. A black cloud appeared from nowhere, blocking out the daylight, shadowing her every move. And with it came a chilling breeze that swirled around her ankles, shackling them with chains of dried leaves. Her blood ran cold. She shook each foot as if to break some invisible restraint.

Fighting the uneasy sensation of being watched, Abby walked back to where she’d parked the black Ford Taurus she had rented on her way to the hotel last night. As she pulled away from the curb, that uneasy feeling she couldn’t shake shrouded her consciousness like a pall. Not just the creeps. This was different. Intense. Over and over, she sensed some kind of warning. But what?

Several blocks later, Abby checked the rear view mirror and her breath caught in her throat. Was that the same red car that had just been parked across the street from the hotel?

Talk about paranoid. Be realistic. How many red cars, she glanced again, are there in a city the size of Boston? Only one? Don’t be ridiculous.

Abby decided to double back to the hotel just to satisfy the knot in the pit of her stomach and to see if he was really following her. Several turns later, the red car was still a good block behind her. But he was there. She accelerated and veered into the hotel parking lot. Rushing inside and down the hall, she slammed the door behind her. It took two tries before her shaky fingers finally secured the chain lock. Aggravated at having knees that felt like Jell-O and hands that still trembled, she sat down at the small desk next to the bed to catch her breath. Unable to remain seated, she stood and began pacing.

This was not only absurd, but returning to the hotel hadn’t proven a thing. Ever since that stupid nightmare, these eerie feelings had plagued her. Irritatingly persistent and scary as hell. Red cape. Red car. Red flag? If that weren’t bad enough, the deadly silence of this damnable room was driving her over the edge, but — oh, that’s right — because of her hissy fit last night, she had no other place to go …

She glanced toward the window.

… Except back out there. She shivered. “No way,” she whispered.

That increasingly familiar niggling in the pit of her stomach started again. She took a deep breath and tried to will it away. As she sorted through the facts, she had to admit whatever was going on here didn’t look good. The wreck was bad enough. She had been driving, but it was Jack’s car. Someone pilfering her room at Hannah’s Inn pointed directly at her. And now the red car — her again. For the first time in her life, Abby was truly frightened.

• • •

Zeke pulled into the hotel lot and parked. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. What to do? Following the Corey woman had definitely spooked her. Hell, she couldn’t get back to the hotel fast enough. Panic. He liked that in a woman. He would definitely use that against her. He grinned. Maybe, if she left in enough of a hurry, she would leave the necklace behind. His grin widened. He got out of the car, careful to stay close to the building, and picked a spot behind some thick evergreens where he could remain hidden and still see her when she left. And she would leave; he would see to that. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed the hotel and asked for room 114.

She answered. He could hear the dread in her voice. He said nothing. Rewarded by another tremulous hello, he waited a beat then breathed into the receiver. Why that freaked out chicks he didn’t know. What he did know … it worked every time.

• • •

As tired as Abby was, she knew sleep was out of the question. Instead, she just lay down on the bed. Maybe she could rest and think. Possibly contemplate going home. Back to Springfield. Not that there was any home to go home to. The shrill ring of the phone nearly sent Abby into orbit. She fumbled for the receiver.

“Hello.”

Silence.

She waited a beat. “Hello.”

Nothing.

But someone was there. Abby heard breathing. She held her breath to make sure what she heard wasn’t coming from her. It was not. Her mind searched for logic. Jack was the only person she knew in Boston. She had ripped the page from his phone book, so he may have figured out where she was staying. But he didn’t play games. So, if it wasn’t Jack, who the hell was it? The desk clerk probably rang the wrong extension, that’s all. She exhaled.

Or, maybe it was the driver of the red car?

The hair prickled at the base of her neck. Abby eased the receiver back in its cradle and raced to the window. Was that the same red car on the far side of the parking lot? Thank God her car was right by the exit. She ran across the room as fast as her trembling legs would carry her. Fumbling, she finally tore free the locks and slammed the door behind her.

• • •

Unlike Hannah’s Inn, this time Zeke had been instructed not to toss the joint. Bridget had ranted and raved because he trashed the last hotel room. So, instead of ripping the place apart, which he had always loved doing, this time he would be careful. Not that he liked it, because he didn’t. Zeke took great pleasure in doing things his way. Always had. But, as Bridget had so often reminded him — the bitch was the boss. So, he would play along for now.

First, the closet. He searched each pocket thoroughly. Nothing. The dresser drawers. He painstakingly sifted through every one careful to replace each piece of neatly folded clothing. No necklace. And finally, her suitcase. The one he had nearly shredded the other night. He wondered what there was about gutting something — anything — with a knife that turned him on? Controlling the urge to tear out the zipper, sweat beaded on his forehead. Instead, he followed his instructions and unzipped the side pocket.

“Bingo.” He pulled out the wooden box and smirked. “Pay dirt.” He started to shove the case into his jacket pocket then hesitated. Instead, he opened it and removed the necklace. Slipping the amulet into his pocket, he shut the lid and replaced the wooden box exactly where he had found it. Walking to the door, he turned. Everything looked exactly as it had when he came in. Successful but sure as hell not satisfying to him. Not in the least. What to do? What to do? He thought a moment.

Question. Should he shut and lock the door behind him, like Bridget had insisted. Or, should he ignore Her Highness and do at least one thing as he damn well pleased? Why the hell not? After all, that Bishop chick was a psycho if he had ever met one. And he had met some real freaks in his time. Some of them good psychos, like Layla. Real good. His mouth watered at the thought. But some were bad. Really bad. Scary bad. Like Shanti. Now that was one twisted sister.

He was sick to death of Bridget’s bossy mouth and her flunky jobs. Once this was done and he was paid, he was through with her. But not with the redhead. Oh, no. He liked her looks way too much, and she was already set up for it. He had heard it in her voice. She was scared shitless. Just the way he liked his women.

Decision made. He could leave the door ajar to give the chick’s paranoia another nasty little poke. Besides, he loved the upper hand way too much not to. If he couldn’t trash the place to show her who was boss, why not at least leave a calling card to let her know he had been there before he paid her another visit. What the hell. On his way out, Zeke eased the door closed — almost.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Salem, Massachusetts

31 October

Year of our Lord, 1692

“Hawthorne,” a burly man heading Jackson’s way yelled.

“Luke?” Jackson felt Maxine’s frantic effort stop. Knowing she had slipped away, but failed to free him, Jackson raised his tear-stained face. “For God’s sake, Luke, untie me,” he pleaded.

“Watch,” Luke ordered, desperate to save his longtime friend. “Watch her hang, and it will break the witch’s spell.”

“I am not bewitched.” Jackson swore. As he writhed furiously to free himself, his captors’ ropes sawed through the tattered waistcoat and the torn sleeves of his loose, white shirt, biting into the exposed flesh of both arms. “I love her,” he bellowed.

Compelled to meet Abigail’s gaze, his head snapped up, and dark eyes met green for the last time. So powerful was her stare that he dared not breathe. Time stood still …

• • •

“Let me get this straight.” Jack tossed his pen aside and folded both arms over his black and gray herringbone jacket. “After storming out last night, you came here to offer your services?”

“Why not?” Abby skirted the obvious load of crap she was dishing out. “When I was here the other day, Maxine told me about your plan to redecorate.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “She did, did she?”

“Uh huh.” Abby nodded. “I thought you might need some help putting things back together.”

“I believe you made it crystal clear last night that I work for you. Not the other way around.”

Abby couldn’t argue that point, so she didn’t even try. “Just call this a little thank you for your generosity. After all, you did go above and beyond after my accident,” she insisted.

“And what about your adamant rejection of said hospitality last night?”

“My reaction had nothing to do with ‘said hospitality,’ and everything to do with personal boundaries. You know, the ones you completely disregarded.”

“Believe it or not, even I can understand gratitude.”

At the arch of Jack’s eyebrow, she amended, “Look, I don’t have any plans this afternoon — that’s all — and regardless of what you think, this car wreck ordeal may still be tied to me. I guess I just feel responsible for dragging you into it.” She met his blatant stare and saw the hint of a smile tip the corners of his mouth.

“You just don’t give up, do you?”

“I assume that’s a rhetorical question.” Sensing the change in Jack, Abby took the seat opposite his desk.

“I guess it was,” he admitted. “And you’re just here to help straighten up my office out of undying gratitude?”

“That’s right,” she lied. For whatever reason, Abby knew she needed to be close to Jack. “So, where do we go from here?”

“I, for one, have work to do,” he told her.

“Just tell me where to start.”

He leaned back and stared. “Like a Kelly girl?”

She sidestepped his question as well as the mess that covered the floor. “Looks like the painters had a fit in here.”

Jack eyed the index cards scattered on the floor beside his desk. “Derailed my Rolodex.”

“I can’t believe you still use one of those,” Abby muttered as she leaned down and scooped up the errant cards.

“Just a backup.”

She straightened the mishmash in her hand, then shot back, “I assume these were in some sort of order.”

“Not really.” He shrugged, handing her the small metal wastebasket at the side of his desk. “Normally, I just keep those in here.”

She ignored his sarcasm as well as the trashcan. “Alphabetical?”

“No, numerical.” He set the can back in its place without cracking a smile. “Of course alphabetical. Or, was that your version of a rhetorical question?”

For meanness, she shuffled the array of cards then offered, without as much as a blink, “Maybe you’d like a shot at these yourself.”

“Not me.” He stopped at the doorway and turned to face her. “I don’t suppose you make coffee, too?”

She placed the empty Rolodex in the middle of Jack’s desk and simply looked at him.

He shook his head. “Black, right?”

She nodded. “Coffee would be nice, thanks.”

After Abby made short work of the cleanup, she joined Jack and Maxine at her desk in the outer office.

“Can I get you anything else?” He reached for Maxine’s phone. “Chinese Food? Pizza?”

“Cut the bull, Hawthorne. Don’t you have something else constructive I can do?”

“Let’s see.” He refilled his mug. “Maxine has a ’68 Mustang out back that can use an oil change.”

“Cool car.” Abby didn’t even blink. “I’ll check it out before I leave.” She ignored the priceless look on his face and winked at Maxine.

“He knows good and well I change my own oil,” she told Abby. “Always have.”

“Me, too,” Abby lied then winked. “I have to say that you did a super job on the redecoration, Ms. Spencer. The place looks great.”

“Maxine,” the older woman corrected. “And thank you.”

“Maxine,” Abby repeated with a nod. “And you’re welcome.”

Jack glanced from one smiling female to the other, but decided he did not have time to psychoanalyze their strange but obvious bond right now. “They’ll be back this evening to paint the filing cabinets, and by tomorrow it should be business as usual.” He double-checked with Maxine. “That meeting still on with O’Malley tonight?”

“He just called. Seems he had to take a later flight, so he should arrive about eight o’clock tonight. I rescheduled him for nine o’clock, allowing eleven minutes for flight fluctuation, twenty-one minutes for luggage retrieval and a twenty-eight minute cab ride.”

Maxine looked from Jack to Abby and back again.

When neither spoke, she added, “I have an errand to run, but I’ll be back.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away.

“Amazing,” Jack muttered, turning his attention to Abby. “Care to squeeze in dinner about seven?” he offered. “It’s the least I can do to repay you.”

Abby checked her watch — almost four — and forced the panic from her voice. “Did you say seven?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach. Just the thought of that hotel room and the wrong number, or whatever it had been, made her skin crawl and the pulse pound in her ears. The last thing she wanted was to sit alone in that hotel room and watch the clock — not to mention the phone — or, the window.

“What am I supposed to do for three hours?” she blurted.

Jack searched her face, then offered, “I won’t be home, so if you’re looking for a way to kill time, you could stop by my place and feed your cat.”

At the mention of Shadow, Abby’s heartbeat steadied a bit. At least he would be company, albeit feline companionship, and that was a helluva lot better than being alone.

“Okay.” She felt better already. “But your favors are really piling up.”

“And I’ll bet you’re keeping score.” Digging into his pocket, Jack pulled out his keys and handed her the one to his front door.

Abby stared at the key. Just a chunk of metal. Nothing more. Right? Wrong. Dead wrong. It was a whole lot more than just a hunk of metal to her. When she walked through Jack’s front door, the furniture and pictures would be familiar. The house would remind her of coffee brewing and Jack’s after-shave. She knew what drawer his underwear was in. She knew exactly which cabinet held the chocolate fudge cookies. She knew the feeling, the smells, the sounds of home.

“Thanks.” She offered a shaky smile.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure,” she lied. “I’ll meet you back here.”

“No need. I’ll pick you up.”

“Thanks, Jack.” She gave him a long, hard look and stood very still.

Jack laced his hand through her thick hair. He cupped her chin and lowered his head. He kissed her sweetly.

Abby saw it coming. He was going to do it again and she was going to let him. His touch was almost unbearable in its tenderness. She parted her lips ever so slightly and raised herself just enough to meet him. His mouth touched hers like a whisper. The hint of some trusted secret. She sighed.

Deep inside a haunting restlessness stirred. Not passion. Not desire. More like a fierce protectiveness she couldn’t explain. Or could she? The all-too-vivid mental image of Gallows Hill clouded her thoughts. Like distant thunder rattling the windows of her mind, it warned that a storm was brewing. Shaken, she pulled away. Something was gathering force. And fast. She could feel it.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Abby spotted Maxine in the lobby, waiting by the door. Pristine navy blue suit. Her thin lips pursed. And something important on her mind.

“Thought I’d wait and walk out with you,” Maxine told her.

As little as she really knew about the older woman, Abby understood this was not social. And that fact did not offend her in any way. On the contrary, one detail she had picked up on about Maxine Spencer — when this woman talked, Jack listened. And that spoke volumes to Abby.

“Sure. I’d like that.” Abby followed her through the huge revolving door and out into the afternoon sunlight. She inhaled the sweet scent of autumn in the still-warm breeze and smiled. “Fresh air feels great.”

Maxine nodded.

“I’ve got a feeling there’s something you’d like to talk about,” Abby told her.

Maxine pulled herself up a little taller. “I’m a very private woman, Ms. Corey — ”

“Abby,” she said quietly.

Maxine nodded. “I have no family and no close friends. She cleared her throat unapologetically. “No one with whom to confide.”

“I see.” Abby could tell the woman would not be placated, so she simply waited for her to continue.

“If you have the time,” Maxine began, pointing to the Star Bucks across the street, “I would like to speak to you.”

• • •

Shortly before seven, Jack and Abby arrived at The Grotto, a quaint little neighborhood restaurant nestled between a bakery and a candy store, both of which smelled like heaven on earth. Hurrying inside, she shivered and pulled her coat tighter against the cold night air, or whatever had suddenly chilled her to the bone. Jack? Her conversation with Maxine? The almost full moon? Abby just wasn’t sure.

Seated in a booth, they were situated just far enough from the kitchen to avoid the ever-swinging door yet close enough to appreciate the mouth-watering aromas of sizzling steaks and simmering sauces. Candlelight flickered across the well-worn wooden tabletop as busy waiters and waitresses hurried past, taking and filling orders.

“Feeling better tonight?” Jack asked as he considered the menu.

Abby looked up in time to catch Jack watching her. Unceremoniously breaking the mood, her stomach growled, so she straightened her sweater, hoping he couldn’t see her unsteady hand in the candlelight. “I feel fine,” she lied.

He met the uncertainty in her gaze. “I meant better than this afternoon?”

“I felt fine then, too,” she lied again, certain he must have picked up on her … hysteria, or whatever the hell had come over her earlier in the day.

Interrupted by the waitress, Jack waited until they had ordered to continue. “Want to talk about it?”

“Look, I said I feel — ”

“Fine,” he interrupted. “Yeah, I got that. But I’m a lawyer, Abby, and I do have a certain ability to read people. What I saw this afternoon, was not a woman who felt fine.”

Something about his even gaze and steady tone relaxed Abby. “I don’t really know,” she began honestly.

“Well then, are you ready to tell me why you really came to my office this afternoon?”

Abby should have known better. After all, Hawthorne was a lawyer. He lived for details, facts and questions. But most of all for answers. Too bad she didn’t have any. So, as the food arrived, she decided to stick with her story. “Like I said, I really was grateful for all you’ve — ”

Before she could continue, Jack’s cell phone rang, nearly stopping her heart.

Jack ended his conversation quickly. “O’Malley’s flight was cancelled, so there’s no rush,” he told her. “Sorry, you were saying?”

Between bites and after careful consideration, Abby decided not to tell Jack about her conversation with Maxine, nor would she try and explain the man who may or may not have been following her. Much less the creepy phone call or the red car in the hotel parking lot. After all, she couldn’t be sure it was the same car, and wrong numbers happen all the time.

“Actually,” she qualified, “I was just repeating what I told you earlier. I just stopped by to say thanks.” She folded both arms across her chest, careful to protect her injured wrist and end the cross-examination.

Thirty minutes later, still unable to get the truth out of Abby, Jack shoved his empty plate aside and laid down a fifty before shrugging into his jacket. “Ready?”

Outside, they hurried back through the blustery shadows to the car. The moment Abby realized Jack’s next stop would be her hotel, she froze.

“What?” Jack asked.

She just stood there, a gust of wind whirling dry leaves around her feet. Like they had before. When had she become such a coward? This whole cloak-and-dagger routine was ridiculous, and she wasn’t about to let some bizarre, over-blown, non-incident spook her any longer.

But what about the red car that followed you?

Must have been my imagination.

You saw it.

Boston is full of them.

And the mysterious phone call. What about that?

A wrong number.

Someone was there.

A childish prank.

If you say so.

Abby willed her practical side to shut up and go away as she faced Jack. “What do you mean — what?”

“You stopped right in the middle of the parking lot.”

Abby just looked at him.

He held up both hands. “Forget it.” He headed for the car and opened the passenger’s door. “Get in.”

She slid onto the seat. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

Once inside, Jack fired up the ignition then faced Abby. “Look, I don’t know what the deal was this afternoon, and apparently you’re not going to tell me. But just for the record, I don’t think you should go back to that hotel.”

Relief battled pride. “If you won’t take me, I’ll just phone for a cab.” So how in the hell had stupidity won out over both of them?

Jack didn’t say a word.

“Your call.” She reached for the door handle.

“Sit still.” He accelerated just to make sure. “You’re not taking a damned taxi.”

“Adam’s Inn. It’s on — ”

“I know where it is,” Jack snapped.

When they pulled into the hotel parking lot, Abby swallowed hard. They had passed several billboards along the way advertising the Halloween Ball. Something about the vivid images tweaked her consciousness. It seemed to whisper, tag you’re it! Like coming to Boston, this elusive challenge simply refused to be ignored. For whatever reason, she felt an overwhelming, unexplainable need to attend the gala event.

Content, for now, to know at least that much, she took Jack’s hand and entered the hotel. As they walked down the dimly lit hallway, doubt smirked at her through long, sharp teeth from every dark corner. Why on earth had she ever insisted on coming back to this place?

That’s when she noticed it.

She grabbed Jack’s arm to stop him and whispered, “My door’s not shut.”

Jack pushed her behind him and slowly eased the door open. Little … by … little. Pitch dark.

He loosened the death grip she had on his bicep and mouthed, “Stay here.”

“No way,” she muttered, following right behind him.

Jack flipped on the nearest light and crept silently through the bedroom and bath. Satisfied no one was in her room, he turned on Abby. “Don’t you ever do what you’re told?”

“Not really.” She pretended not to understand his thunderous look.

He raked frustrated fingers through his hair. “Any idea who was in here?”

Abby’s chest constricted as she felt the demons of the afternoon rear their ugly heads. She forced herself to ignore them and, instead, to look around paying strict attention to detail.

Personal items — untouched.

Suitcase — zipped tight.

The amulet’s box — right where she left it.

Everything else seemed fine. Nothing out of place. Neat and clean. Convinced all was well, her fear dissipated. “It doesn’t look like anything’s missing, and I did leave in a hurry.” Boy, was that an understatement. She had raced out of there on a dead run. “Maybe I just didn’t pull the door shut.”

Jack eyed Abby. “Maybe’s not good enough. Either you closed it, or you didn’t,” he said. “And, don’t give me that look.”

“What look?”

“You know,” he said. “That don’t-you-dare-tell-me-what-to-do look.”

Abby turned toward the dresser and proceeded to re-straighten her already meticulously lined up cosmetics. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Abby, this isn’t a game. Don’t make it one.”

Abby hadn’t realized how serious Jack was until she faced him. His dark eyes mirrored every bit of the concern she had heard in his voice. “I’m not taking this lightly,” she insisted, desperate to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Good,” he said. “Then you’re coming home with me.”

Abby shook her head. “I said I wasn’t playing a game, and I’m not, but, I am staying here.”

“Suit yourself.” Jack stalked past her. Turning the knob slowly and deliberately, he added through clenched teeth, “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me. Wouldn’t want your room to be open all day and all night, too. Would you?”

Abby secured the lock behind him and leaned heavily against the door. She knew, without a doubt, her arrogance and foolishness had just crossed the boundary of common sense. Restless, she roamed the perimeter of the room. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that she had pulled the door closed on her way out. I did shut that door this afternoon. Hell, thinking back, she even remembered hearing it slam.

But, nothing in the room had been disturbed. If they weren’t looking for something, what were they looking for? Someone? Her? She spent the remainder of the night fully dressed and sitting in the chair. Eyes glued to the doorknob, she cursed Jack Hawthorne for all he was worth, but not half as much as she cursed herself.

Chapter Twenty-Six

In the hallway outside Abby’s room, Jack fumed. Not only was she keeping something from him, but she was too damned stubborn to admit or give into the fact that she may very well be in danger. He looked around the semi-darkness. Damned, skanky hotel. He should have just thrown Abby over his shoulder and taken her back to his house. Now there was a thought. His mouth curved in a grin.

One thing was certain. He sure as hell wouldn’t leave her here. Since she refused to come with him, he would just stay. He plopped down in front of her door and wadded up his jacket, tucking it behind his head.

An hour later, Jack stretched his cramped legs and cursed his numb butt. The floor was hard. The door was hard. And all the physical evidence pointed to the fact that his head must have gone soft. He punched up his jacket and gritted his teeth certain this was going to be one damn long night.

Suddenly, he heard the side door to the hotel slam shut. Its metal frame echoed in the confines of the entryway. In the dim light, he saw a man round the corner then stop short and stagger slightly, heading toward him. Jack pretended to sleep.

“Hey, boy,” the man drawled as he nudged Jack’s shoe with his foot. “You okay?”

Jack opened his eyes. A dusty pair of snakeskin boots stared back at him — extremely large boots. Standing over him, with a twelve-pack of long necks under one arm and a chip cocked forty-ways-for-Sunday on his broad shoulder, there stood one big, drunk biker.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just ticked off.” Jack jabbed his thumb toward Abby’s door. “My old lady threw me out, can you beat that?”

“Women.” The man shook his bald head and hefted the Coors. “Wanna beer?”

“No, thanks,” Jack said. “I can barely handle this one when I’m sober!”

“I hear ya,” the man slurred sympathetically. “But you ain’t plannin’ on sittin’ here all night, are ya?”

Jack’s internal radar went off like a lie detector. “She’ll cool off later.”

“Maybe.” The biker grinned and gave one side of his mustache a thoughtful twirl. “Then again, if she was to come out and find you gone, that’d really teach her a lesson.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Think I’ll just hang around — ”

“Hawthorne, is that you?” someone called from halfway down the hall.

As the man approached, Jack recognized the familiar face. “What the hell are you doing here, Venucci?”

Lucky openly eyed the biker. “I was on my way home and got a silent alarm call from here, but it turned out to be false. I was just coming in to get a cup of coffee.”

Without getting up, Jack shook the large hand the man extended.

“Enough about me.” Lucky poked his finger in Jack’s direction. “There must be quite a story behind this.”

“You could say that.” Jack shifted his weight, reluctant to continue in front of the stranger.

Lucky inclined his head, “A friend of yours?”

“I just met Mr. … ?” Jack waited.

“Smith,” the biker offered.

“Mr. Smith stopped to see if I was dead or alive.”

“Is that so?” Lucky turned to the big man, but neither one extended his hand. “Funny, at the first sign of trouble, most folks would’ve run the other way.”

“Oh, hell, no.” The biker shrugged. “Trouble’s my middle name.”

“I’ll bet,” Lucky said, a trace of an edge to his voice. Staring down the other man, he didn’t turn away to ask, “Mind if I join you, Hawthorne?” Without waiting for a reply, he slid his massive form down the wall. He elbowed Jack in the ribs. “How about it? Want a cup of coffee?”

Jack licked his dry lips. “Sounds great.”

“No problem.” Lucky flipped out his cell phone. “What do you think room service — or in your case hall service — is for?”

“How about you, Smith?” Jack leveled a steady gaze. “Coffee?”

“Too tame for me, Pal.” The biker shifted his twelve-pack. “Well, since you two are fixin’ to guard that door all night, I’ll just be on my way.” Halfway down the hall, Jack heard him cut loose a slightly off-key version of a classic country western song. “Somewhere on earth Garth Brooks has to be howling at the moon.” Lucky’s eyes narrowed. “Wonder what room that guy’s in?”

Jack shrugged. “Just check the register under Smith.”

“Yeah, right, like I’ve never heard that one before.” Lucky shook his head.

“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

“I sure as hell don’t.” Lucky shook his head again. “Must be the country way of saying none of your damned business.” He settled against the wall. “So, what gives with your little camp out?”

Jack laid his arm on the other man’s bulky shoulder. “It’s a long story.”

Lucky checked his watch. “What the hell. I’ve got all night.”

Shortly before dawn, Lucky headed back to the office. Within minutes, Jack dozed off, then jolted awake, disoriented and feeling downright nasty. It took a moment before he remembered why he was sitting in the hotel’s hallway, and he realized the night had passed without incident. He sat up and stretched then walked out a few of the kinks. Every bone in his body ached as he limped into his car.

Halfway home, he rubbed his stiff neck and swore that anyone who was stupid enough to want Abby Corey was welcome to her. Unfortunately, the shrill ring of his cell phone drowned out the only pleasant thought he’d had for the past three hours.

“Hawthorne.”

“Are you still at the hotel?” Lucky asked.

“Nope. I’m on my way home,” Jack told him. “Why?”

“When I came in this morning, I talked to the patrolman working your accident — ”

“And?”

“And the mechanic that checked out the car noticed the brake lines had been cut.”

“Sonofa — ”

“Somebody tampered with the brakes, so whoever was driving that car was one screwed pooch.”

“Abby.” Jack wheeled into a U-turn.”

“I need to talk to her.”

“I’m on my way back. I’ll let her know.”

“I want to talk to you, too. How about ten o’clock?”

“We’ll be there.”

• • •

A thunderous, nonstop pounding on her door shattered the otherwise quiet crack of dawn, not to mention Abby’s brittle nerves. For one timeless moment, she just sat there. This was the bitter end. Thoughts of her damnable dream or vision or whatever the hell she’d experienced last night hadn’t given her a minute’s rest. Abby couldn’t shake the image of seeing herself so clearly … it seemed like a memory.

The year had been 1692. She had been enjoying herself at Salem’s Harvest Festival. A full moon had hung in the dark autumn sky like a huge paper lantern. One minute she had been dancing and laughing with a man — the same handsome man who had proposed in her other dream.

The next instant their rollicking good time had turned into terror. The once friendly faces of the town’s people had become distorted, angry. Separated from her fiancé and frightened, she had fled. This time, when the evil man in the red cape had followed her, Abigail instinctively knew she must run for her life. The brut had easily overtaken her, but seemingly from nowhere her fiancé had reappeared. The two men had struggled violently — and then she had awakened or snapped out of it … or whatever.

“Abby, open up,” Jack shouted, stilling banging hard with one fist.

Checking the peephole, she opened the door. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I didn’t come here to exchange pleasantries.” He shoved his way into the room.

“Obviously.”

“I have something to tell you.”

Abby stared at his unshaven face, his crumpled clothes. The same clothes he’d had on yesterday? Where had he spent the night? She gave him a second look. Rumpled, dark hair. Five o’clock shadow turned to stubble. Red, irritated eyes. Not to mention his lousy disposition. “The only thing I want from you — ”

“You’re coming with me.” He stopped directly in front of her.

Abby hesitated, but like last night, she pushed her better judgment aside. “I’m not going anywhere — ”

“Just once, will you shut up and listen,” he shot back, barely able to resist the itch to clamp a hand over her mouth — hard.

She pursed her lips and swallowed the brash comment that teetered dangerously on the tip of her tongue. His eyes flashed an unmistakable warning that told her it was the smart thing to do. He really didn’t look like a man to be reckoned with.

Nevertheless, she struggled to temper her anger and settled, instead, for a hostile glare. The scary thing was, in her head, Abby knew Jack wasn’t the type to get this irate over nothing. So, what could possibly have him so agitated? God, she was tired, maybe she didn’t even want to know. Not true. Abby believed in facing everything head on, so she took a deep breath and braced herself. “I’m listening.”

Jack looked her square in the eye. “You’re going home with me.” He pointed toward the suitcase in the corner. “Now pack.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Salem Massachusetts

31 October

Year of Our Lord, 1692

The instant she looked away, the wind moaned and the frightened horse pranced. Amidst the brewing storm, Jackson hung his head. Unable to free himself, tears from his dark lashes splashed onto the amber stone at his feet. He watched in disbelief as the amulet hissed like a red-hot branding iron immersed into a trough of ice water.

Abigail’s screams ripped through his heart, each one draining more of his life’s blood than the last. As the remainder of the mob caught up, the crowd circled her like starving vultures. In the light from their torches, he saw their hideous, hate-filled faces as the rope was tossed over the dead oak’s barren branch.

“Bridget! Stop them!” When the raven-haired beauty only smiled, Jackson raised his dark head to the sky, howling his beloved’s name like a wounded animal. “Abigail … ”

• • •

Abby’s mouth fell open. Had Jack just ordered her to pack? She planted both hands on her hips. “Excuse me?”

“Get out of my way.”

Today, her eyes burned from a self-induced insomnia and her back ached from sitting ramrod straight in the plain, wooden desk chair all night. She was definitely not in the mood for this. And as if that wasn’t enough, she glared at Jack, it looked like the better part of her punishment, all six foot four of it, wasn’t over yet.

Jack pushed past her, grabbed her suitcase and tossed it wide open onto the bed. He yanked the drawers out of the dresser and dumped them into the gaping luggage.

“Stop that!” She snagged a lacy teddy in midair and stepped between Jack and the dresser.

“Well, I told you to do it.”

“Exactly.” She watched his eyes narrow.

Jack stood very still. “Look, Abby, I’m through arguing with you.”

She snatched up her leather bag from the corner and began packing her cosmetics. “I’d like to keep my breakables in one piece,” she arched one brow, “that is, if you don’t mind.”

Jack shrugged. “Be my guest. But get the lead out.”

“Just back off,” she warned over one shoulder, “I said I’m going with you. Don’t push it.”

He jammed both fists into his pants pockets. How on earth could getting one woman out of a hotel room be so difficult? He should have gone with his gut instinct and just yelled fire. A twisted smile quirked his lips.

As Jack stepped back and watched Abby gather the last of her belongings, he couldn’t help but notice how pale her cheeks had become. Unshed tears had welled up in her eyes. Her hands were shaking so badly she fumbled as she jammed the bag full of bottles and containers. His grin faded.

That was his undoing. He could handle her strength. He could go head-to-head with her stubbornness. But, what in God’s name was he supposed to do when she looked so defenseless?

Dammit, he had always tried to protect her, keep her safe.

Always?

Where the hell had that come from? His vision? Or mind flash? Or whatever the hell you called it? The hanging at Gallows Hill flashed through his mind and just as quickly he pushed aside the disturbing scene. He hadn’t known this woman more than a couple of days, so she couldn’t possibly have anything to do with that. Regardless, from the look on her face, whatever protection he had offered hadn’t been enough.

Then or now.

When, his mind ranted? When exactly was then? Never, he insisted. They were strangers — period. Regardless, she was in over her head, and he had to help her get to the bottom of whatever was going on. Had he tried, even once, to understand how scared she must be? Hell, no. He’d just bullied his way into her room and ordered her to pack.

“Abby, we need to talk,” he began, then stopped. There she stood, wide-eyed and innocent, expecting him to say something, anything … except that someone had tried to kill her. He cleared his throat and looked away. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to discuss this here.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go home.”

Abby took one deep breath and gave Jack’s hand a squeeze. “Let’s go.”

Jack didn’t say a word, and the quiet ride gave Abby a chance to think. What concerned her now was the reason for his visible edginess. Hard lines creased his forehead. The tenseness in his jaw betrayed deep frustration. Determination cast a harsh shadow across his features. Was it possible his expression mirrored the same turmoil that churned inside her? Not much consolation there.

As they pulled into the driveway, Jack parked and took her bags to the loft. He heard the soft music Abby had turned on before he saw her curled up in his favorite chair, eyes closed and feet propped up on the coffee table. He scraped a hand over his day-old beard and cleared his throat. “I’m going to jump in the shower, then we’ll talk.”

Abby looked up and offered a shaky grin. “Okay, want me to make some coffee?”

Jack returned her smile. Just having her here made him feel so much better. And from the look on her face, he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. “Sounds good.”

The early morning sun stenciled a warm pattern across the dining room table. Abby leaned back, drawing comfort from a strange sense of familiarity. Without a second thought, she’d gone straight to the coffee canister, knew right where the sugar was kept, and filled Shadow’s dish with dry cat food. He purred his utmost appreciation before cuddling up under the table next to her feet.

When Jack walked into the room, she merely stared. The shower had washed away his tension. The grim lines around his mouth had vanished and the creases across his forehead were gone. He eased into the chair beside her, smelling of spicy after-shave and shampoo.

“Feel better?” she asked, fascinated by the way his damp hair curled on the neck of his sweater.

“Much.”

“Me next,” she said, heading for the bathroom.

He drank the coffee and tried to organize his thoughts while she was in the shower. Unfortunately, a weird sense of urgency nagged at his consciousness, picked at his psyche and undercut his concentration.

Jack’s logical, legal mind wanted to dissect the irrational decision he had made on the way home. He had offered to take Abby to the Halloween Ball, but it made no sense. One of them was definitely in danger, so the last thing they needed to do was show up at such a high profile event. The thought was ludicrous, and the timing was ridiculous.

Besides that, Jack didn’t even like Halloween. In fact, he’d always had an intense, albeit unexplained, dislike for the legendary holiday. So why had an overwhelming need to accompany Abby to the ball hit him like a sucker punch? Never one to run from a fight, Jack decided round two would definitely be his.

Abby reappeared a few minutes later, refreshed and relaxed by the comforting warmth of the shower. She took the seat opposite his. “Now, what did you want to talk about?”

“It’s about your car wreck,” he began.

“Okay.” She sat up a little straighter. “What about it?”

“It was no accident.” He paused and let the meaning of his words soak in. “My friend, Detective Venucci, called first thing this morning and confirmed it.”

“So … ” Abby thought a moment. “That’s why there weren’t any brakes.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s why I hit the phone booth,” she said, reliving the blind terror.

Jack nodded.

“I thought it was just an accident,” she whispered. “But it wasn’t.” Unable to stay seated, she stood.

Jack’s gut tightened. Why would anybody do that to her? The hint of a bruise still remained on her cheek. He remembered bringing her home from the hospital that night. Even the thought of such a deliberate act could outrage him all over again, so he worked to keep his emotions in check. Anger would only slow him down. He knew that. With his control hanging by a thread, he had to dig deep to find enough discipline to ensure his advantage. He wanted a full head of steam, but he had to keep a lid on his temper to deal with this situation. And he would deal with it. “I don’t suppose you’d consider going back to Springfield and leaving this to me?”

She steadied herself before stepping out of his reach. “I can’t.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” he admitted, impressed by the proud, albeit forced, tilt of her chin. He moved to her side and warmed her icy-cold hands between his. “Okay, then. Here’s the deal. You stay with me for the remainder of your vacation, and we’ll try to get to the bottom of this.”

Considering the source, Abby knew she was being offered one hell of a compromise. She paused. There was something in Jack’s expression — a soft, understanding look in his eyes — that rushed in and filled the emptiness that had threatened to devour her. “I can live with that,” she answered quietly.

He pulled her into his arms. His lips brushed against hers as he spoke. “Can you really?”

Abby stared wordlessly at him. Filled with fear and doubt and need, her heart pounded. “Yes.”

Jack rested his forehead against hers and groaned. Abby wasn’t a woman who offered anything casually. And, she was giving him her trust. Jaw clenched, he closed his eyes and swallowed hard. As he rubbed his cheek against hers, he felt her body mold to his, yielding and pliant. He laced his fingers through her hair and tilted her head back.

Jack’s steady gaze bore into Abby with silent expectation. His invitation was a passionate challenge, impossible to resist. She could feel his uneven breathing, the beat of his heart. Her body felt heavy and warm against him. His lips met hers and melted her weary resolve. Time ceased to exist.

He pressed his mouth to hers again, this time teasing and enticing, coaxing her emotions to the surface, leaving her no choice. His teeth nipped and tormented. His tongue probed and plundered. Her unsteady hands found their way beneath his sweater to the warm skin of his well-muscled back. His body shuddered in response, filling her with exhilaration.

Abby’s delicate fingers against his bare flesh were Jack’s undoing. He swept her into his arms and his long strides consumed the distance between the dining room and the stairway.

Stunned by the magnitude of her own desire, Abby realized how desperately she needed more from Jack. She buried her face in his neck and breathed a kiss there. The sensation of his pulse beating hard and fast beneath her lips empowered her.

Jack took the steps two at a time.

The bed was warm and inviting. Sunshine streamed through the skylight. No darkness. No shadows. No secrets. But, just for a moment, he couldn’t help but wonder if she would have preferred moonbeams.

Jack lowered Abby onto the bed and felt her tremble beneath his touch as he traced her delicate features with his fingertips. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled the intoxicating scent of her. She sighed. He took her face in his hand and parted her lips … ever … so … slowly … with his tongue.

His mouth did not become softer with each kiss, but more demanding. He tempted and taunted until a need, so strong, so violent, ignited like a flame in her belly.

Jack pulled Abby to her knees in the middle of the bed. His erratic heartbeat matched her passion-darkened eyes. He eased her out of her clothing, leaving her fiery auburn mane to tumble around her bare shoulders and tease across each breast. Bathed in sunlight, her creamy skin took on a magnificent golden glow.

Abby ran her palm down his chest and, with shaky fingers, unsnapped his jeans.

Swearing an oath, he grabbed her wrists. His voice was hoarse. “Careful, love, or this will be over before it begins.” He peeled off his jeans and tossed them aside.

Abby felt Jack’s urgent fingers dig into her arms as he laid her down. She met his blazing stare, the cords in his neck standing taut against his skin. Perspiration beaded his forehead. So, this is the dark side of love — where the animal lives. Crouched and hungry, waiting for me. And I for him. She raised her arms, offering, inviting.

Raw, primitive desire thundered through Jack’s body like a stampede. He laced his fingers through hers and pressed them over her head, her arms beneath his, sinking into the lush covers. Lowering his lips to hers, his tongue plundered the soft fullness of her mouth. God, she was sweet. Teasing, but not satisfying, his teeth scraped a path down her neck. He nipped at the tender skin on her shoulder, leading her, showing her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. How could he possibly know every sensitive spot on her body? But he did. With each sigh that trembled past her lips, she craved more. His hands roamed freely, seeking, finding. She gasped for air, writhing beneath his touch. When the first shudder hit, she reached out, desperate to hold onto something. Her hands slipped off his sweat-slicked shoulders to grab wildly at the bed covers.

Jack moaned through gritted teeth. This is what he had wanted, what he had dreamed about, what he had waited for. The passionate, demanding side of Abby that could — that would — let go. His control exploded. In a tangle of arms and legs, they frantically rolled across the bed. Jack steadied himself over Abby and her shaky smile was all he needed. Heart to heart, they left the rest of the world behind. For now, everything else could wait.

Exhausted and clinging to one another, Jack shifted his weight. He lay down beside Abby and pulled her close. Her head rested on his shoulder, and she draped one arm across his chest.

Abby snuggled closer, trying hard not to think about the overwhelming familiarity of making love with Jack. “I suppose you’re pretty pleased with yourself?”

Fighting the gut feeling that he and Abby had danced this dance before, Jack’s grin widened. Hair tousled, he propped himself up on one elbow and faced her. “Only if you are.” He pressed a kiss to her hand.

Abby traced the hollow of his cheek with her fingertips. As chiseled and striking … as ever? She shoved the unsettling thought aside and stroked his jaw line. His skin was warm — but then, so was hers. Since the fortuneteller had been right about her wild, sensuous side, had she been right about belonging here, too? She looked at Jack, sunlight glinting off his damp body, and wondered.

Her soul-searching ended the moment she looked around and realized they were at the foot of the bed. She couldn’t help but laugh. “How’d we get down here?”

Eyes bright, face flushed, lips pouty, she ignited the fire in him that still smoldered just below the surface. “Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll show you,” he promised.

Abby leaned up and lazily kissed Jack. “I have to warn you,” she began, nibbling his lower lip, “sometimes,” she tickled his earlobe with the tip of her tongue, “I can be a … very … very … slow … learner.”

Jack struggled to listen to every delicious syllable, each wistful sigh.

Put your pants on so you can think straight, pal. Either you can play ‘circus act’ again from one end of this bed to the other, or you can keep your appointment at the police station. What’s it gonna be?

Jack sat up and checked his watch. “Damn.” At her confused expression, he continued. “I nearly forgot. We have to meet with Venucci.”

Abby’s heart sank. “About the accident?”

Jack nodded.

As casually as she could manage, Abby asked, “When?”

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her expression crumble. Once again, tense lines creased her forehead and bracketed her mouth. God, he’d wanted to spare her all this. “About an hour and a half.”

She gathered her scattered clothing like a tiny bundle of courage and shot him one brave smile before disappearing into the bathroom.

“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” she shouted through the closed door.

• • •

Waiting for Jack and the Corey woman to arrive, Lucky tapped his pencil. He had shut his office door to drown out the incessant squad room noise. Ringing phones. Clicking computer keyboards. Occasional outbursts. Sometimes good. Sometimes not good at all.

Following up on the break in at Hannah’s Inn, Lucky had put the word out on the street. He had a couple of reliable snitches that he could count on for leads. If there was any information to be had. And he still wasn’t convinced of that. After all, Jack had just met this woman. How could he be so sure she wasn’t playing him? The fact was — Jack couldn’t.

Regardless of how sure Jack was, Lucky was not. He respected Jack enough to take his opinion into account, but he would maintain his objectivity. Had to in order to get to the bottom of it. For Jack. He owed the guy. Big time. And he would damned well make sure this Corey woman wasn’t dragging Jack into some pile of shit. That sure as hell wasn’t going to happen on his watch.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Jack waited for her by the front door, but the look on his face did not reflect the passion they had just shared. His dark, somber expression spoke volumes, and none of it was good.

“What?” Adjusting the collar of her jacket, she took the envelope he handed her.

“Someone slipped this through the mail slot.”

Abby didn’t recognize the ornate handwriting, but her name had been scrawled across the front. She looked from the writing to Jack and saw every one of her concerns mirrored in his eyes. Someone not only knew she was staying here, but they were bold enough to come to the house in broad daylight to deliver a message.

With shaky fingers she pulled out the single sheet that had been tucked inside and read the message. “If you want your amulet, meet me at the Halloween Ball. Eight o’clock sharp. I’ll be the clown.”

Without a word, Abby raced upstairs and yanked open what remained of her shredded suitcase. Digging through her clothes, she grabbed the pine box and fumbled it open.

Hurrying back downstairs, she confirmed, “The amulet’s not there.”

“Sonofabitch.” Jack scrubbed his face with one hand.

“It must have been stolen from my room at Adam’s Inn. The box was right where I left it, so I just figured the necklace was inside. But I never looked.”

“Let’s go. At least the timing’s right. We can show this to Lucky.”

As they drove, Jack tried his best to relax Abby with easy conversation. And, despite her cool, calm demeanor he noticed how tightly her hands were clasped in her lap. Dammit, he didn’t want her to think about thievery or deceit much less murder. There would be time enough for all that. But right now, after making love with her, he wanted to take all of her burdens away. Not that he could, but he could try.

When the car veered into an unfamiliar parking lot, Abby asked, “Why are we stopping here?”

Jack pulled the key from the ignition and pointed toward a slatted wooden sign: Ye Ole Costume Shoppe.

“I know, because of that note, we have to go to the ball, but we can’t do this now. We’ll be late.”

“Relax.” He came around to the passenger’s side and took her by the hand. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Abby hesitated. “So you do think we should go to the ball.”

“What?” He looked around innocently. “Oh, you mean because we’re here?”

She said nothing.

“No way.” He winked, trying his best to make her smile. At least for a little while. “This is for later.”

“I don’t play dress-up, Hawthorne.”

“I don’t remember asking, love.” He reached across and opened her door. “Now let’s go.”

Love? Jack had used the same endearment the man in her dream had spoken. Abby shook her head. Such a common term simply meant coincidence, didn’t it?

When she didn’t budge, he added, “Look, we’re going to show the note to Lucky and fill him in on what little we know. We’ll see what he says.” He took her hand and helped her out of the Jeep. “I trust him.”

The shop’s plank floor shined like rich, umber satin and smelled of lemon-scented wax. Potpourri, soft and spicy, mingled with the cool afternoon breeze. An endless display of brightly colored costumes filled the store. Sequins and pearls. Feathers and beads. Tatting and lace. Some were exquisitely elegant, others tastefully authentic.

And the minute Jack walked through the door he knew he’d made a mistake. In the midst of all the charm and enchantment, he watched Abby’s smile fade the moment she saw the display suspended from the ceiling; the one that had been saved for the macabre.

Painted masks stared. False faces watched. Severed heads gaped. Grotesque facades with one sole purpose. They had been designed to horrify. Each one fascinatingly different. Every one mindlessly the same.

As quaint as the shop appeared at first glance, it gave Abby the creeps. Even the friendly white-haired owners reminded her of the vivid nightmare she’d had. Unlike the dream she’d had at Adam’s Inn, the striking array of costumes were nothing more than illusions. One may have been of the mind, but the other was definitely of the body. The fear coiling deep inside was of the real world, and no sleight of hand or vanishing act could make it disappear. For whatever reason, Abby’s dream been a warning. The autumn festival had to represent the Halloween Ball.

Despite that, something deep inside insisted she and Jack had to go to the ball, because she had to get the amulet back. She just didn’t know why it was so damned important. At least not yet. What she did know was that staying away was not an option. Of that she was certain. For now the explanation eluded her, but she knew in time all the pieces of the puzzle would fall into place. They had to. Until then, she had to pay special attention to her instincts, and right now they were centered on Jack.

Jack slipped up behind Abby and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Hey, pretty lady,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Abby sighed, relaxing against him and placing her hands over his. She rested her head against his chest, grateful for his strength. When she felt his warmth seep through her clothes, she smiled.

Everything between them had changed so quickly she hadn’t had time to sort through any of it. And she still didn’t. As much as she would like answers, right now, something told her personal relationships of any kind would have to wait. The sense of urgency hovering over her heart like a thundercloud insisted the storm would break and soon. What that would mean to her and Jack, she wasn’t sure.

Jack pulled her closer.

“Do you think Detective Venucci will agree that we should go to the ball?”

He gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Like I said before, I trust Lucky. Trust me, he won’t pull any punches.”

Abby tilted her head back and looked up at Jack. Had he been the nameless, faceless man in her dreams? Her lover? Her protector? Something deep inside her soul whispered, Yes.

“And I trust you.” Her smile matched his.

“You should.”

Abby held on just a little tighter.

“Don’t get me wrong. This situation is serious, and I would never play it down by taking you to the ball unless Lucky okays it,” he assured her.

“I know you wouldn’t put my life in danger,” Abby told him quietly. And she did. For now, that fact, in itself, was enough for her. “Looks like we’d better find costumes, just in case.” Unable to shake off a nagging sense of foreboding, Abby decided to do what she could to lighten the mood. She tugged him close enough to whisper in his ear. “Guess what, Hawthorne? You’re shopping.” His hearty laugh took the edge off her nerves. At least for the time being.

“Renting is not the same as buying,” he insisted as she dragged him arm-in-arm down the first aisle.

“Is, too.”

Jack refused to be baited. Instead, he pilfered carefully through the outfits. He slipped one off the rack and held it under Abby’s chin — by way of both breasts.

“Bo Peep?” she gasped. His choice in costumes hadn’t surprised her nearly as much as his intimate touch, however well-disguised it had been. She was lost in the sensation until the door to the shop banged shut. Untangling her arm from the curved wooden staff, she immediately batted away the layers of organdy ruffles, along with his hands. Finding her voice, she whispered, “You mean to tell me that after this morning … you see me as a little girl?”

“Only you, Corey.” Jack shook his head. “Only you.”

Abby heard him mumbling something about simply thinking she would look good in pink. Perusing the rack, she hauled out an Indian garb and inhaled the sweet smell of the leather. Her lips curved in response. “Now this is you.”

“A warrior, huh?” He smiled.

“Savage,” she clarified in a sultry voice.

“Yeah.” He leaned down and whispered. “I can do uncivilized.” His cheek rubbed hers as he spoke.

“Then you’ll take it?” She swallowed hard, wondering exactly what kind of bargain she’d just made.

“Can’t.” Jack shook his head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t do makeup.”

“War paint.” She tried to ignore the tip of his tongue teasing her earlobe.

“Close enough.”

“Actually, I was referring more to this.” Abby dangled a tiny loincloth from her finger. Her cheeks warmed at the thought of just how delicious he’d look with or without it.

“I’ll wear that if you’ll wear this.” He held up a mermaid costume.

Abby’s eyes widened. “That’s nothing but a fish tail!”

“I know.” He didn’t blink.

Abby recognized the passion in Jack’s eyes. Memories of lying naked in his bed. The warm tangle of arms and legs. Skin on skin. “You know, the faster we find our costumes, the faster we get our interviews over with and — ”

“The faster we get back home,” he finished.

She flashed him a provocative smile. “Exactly.”

“Five minutes,” he warned. “That’s all you’ve got.”

Abby grinned. “Let’s not show each other our costumes. We’ll either wear them to the ball if that’s what the detective suggests, or — ”

“Deal.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Or we’ll wear them at home,” he finished.

She turned to walk away, then paused and lowered her voice. “Make it three minutes.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Stale cigarette smoke followed Jack and Abby down the dingy corridor of the Twelfth Precinct like a specter. The sound of ringing phones seemed to come from every direction. Bits and pieces of a heated discussion escaped as a nearby door momentarily chinked open, then closed.

They stepped into the squad room just in time to witness two policemen drag out a burly biker in handcuffs. Amid the tap of computer keys and milling officers, a lonely-looking woman sat, cradling a Styrofoam cup of coffee between work-worn hands and weeping softly.

Abby’s nerves relaxed a fraction when a tall, striking man smiled and gestured to them from a nearby office doorway.

“Detective Venucci.” He shook the hand Abby offered. “Just call me Lucky.”

“Abby Corey.”

The police officer nodded. “Hey, Jack. Come in and sit down.”

Abby took the seat next to Jack and waited while Detective Venucci shut the door and sat down behind his desk. His office was modest. To his right, there was one metal, three-drawer filing cabinet. A gunmetal gray cabinet with two doors that opened from its center occupied the opposite wall. One window behind him provided the only natural light in the room, and the Venetian blinds covering it had been closed. Accordion folders were stacked haphazardly on the floor around his chair, and papers, faxes and files covered every inch of his desktop.

“Looks like I’m the new kid on the block,” he began, “so you’re going to have to fill me in. I don’t know anything about you, your background or your business, but what I do know is that there has been an attempt on someone’s life.” He paused and grabbed one of the legal pads and a pen before continuing. “It’s my job to determine if you’re the target, Ms. Corey, or if you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it’s Jack they’re after.”

Jack reached out and gave Abby’s hand a squeeze.

“I’m sure you’re a very busy man, Detective,” Abby pointed out. “Thank you for taking the time to see us on such short notice.”

“No problem. And call me Lucky.”

Abby nodded.

“I’m going to ask you a lot of questions and some of them may seem a bit personal,” Venucci continued. “I want you to know up front this is strictly standard procedure.”

“I understand.” Abby tried to clear her mind and focus on the individual circumstances that had brought them here today.

“Okay then. Let’s start at the beginning.”

Abby took a deep breath. “I received a call from Mr. Hawthorne’s office informing me of an inheritance. I’m here in Boston to pick it up.”

“How much and from whom?”

Abby turned toward Jack. “No money. Just a necklace and the benefactor is unknown.”

“This necklace has been passed down from law firm to law firm since the late 1600’s,” Jack added.

Lucky leaned back in his chair. “You’re kidding?”

“Nope. The note requested the pendant be given to Abigail Corey by October 31, of this year.”

Lucky frowned. “Come on, Jack. How’s that possible?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Jack told him honestly. “All I know is that I have the directive. It’s documented and authentic.”

“Right.” Lucky waited a beat. “Well then, how valuable is this necklace?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had it appraised,” Abby pointed out. “I’d say the stone is amber, but there’s a flaw or what looks like a teardrop-shaped mark in the middle, so whatever it is, it’s certainly not perfect.”

“Not valuable enough to kill for?” Venucci continued, taking notes as he spoke.

“I can’t say for sure,” Abby admitted. “But it doesn’t appear to be.”

“Okay. Then let’s take the necklace out of the equation.” He swiveled his chair slightly to face Abby. “If this was an attempt on your life, Ms. Corey, can you think of anyone who might want you dead?”

“No.” Abby answered without hesitation.

“So, exactly who knows you’re here?”

“No one, I guess.” Abby thought a moment. She had mentioned to Jacques and J.T. she’d be going out east, but she had never been specific. “I can’t think of a soul who knew I was coming to Boston.”

“No one? Not family or friends?” he probed.

Saddened by the realization, she merely shook her head.

“Have you made any enemies through your business? Maybe disgruntled employees?”

“No.” Abby began, picking absently at the gauze wrap on her injured wrist.

“Any problems with debt? Unpaid suppliers? Anything like that?”

“Not at all. My accounts are paid in full and always have been.” Meeting his gaze, she added, “I’ve actually thought about this a lot the past couple of days, and I really can’t remember having problems with anyone.”

“What about a boyfriend?”

“No.”

The detective scribbled as she continued. “Have you broken off any relationships recently?” the detective asked.

“No.”

“Do you know anyone here in Boston besides Mr. Hawthorne?”

Abby shook her head. “The only people I’ve even come into contact with are the employees at Hannah’s Inn and the hotel I stayed at last night.” She turned to Jack. “What’s the name of that place?”

“Adam’s Inn.

“Oh, yeah.” Venucci nodded then repeated with a smirk, “Adam’s Sin.”

Abby cringed. Remembering her hasty departure from Jack’s house, she clarified, “It was the first one listed in the phone book.”

“Okay.” The detective paused momentarily. “Who knew you would be driving Jack’s car?”

“No one.” Abby looked at Jack.

Venucci momentarily shifted his gaze. “Anyone?”

“I didn’t tell anyone.” Jack thought a moment. “Well, someone did stop by trying to catch me before I went to the office, so I bummed a ride to work.”

“Name?”

“Bridget Bishop. But she doesn’t even know Abby.” Jack ignored the instant knot in his gut.

Abby felt the cold rush of dread at the mention of the woman’s name and turned to Jack. “You mean the woman from the haunted house?” She remembered the creepy, unearthly home she had seen the day they spent in Salem. The same house that literally vibrated with palpable malevolence. Emanated with enough evil to stop her dead in her tracks. Bridget Bishop … Maxine’s conversation flashed through Abby’s mind.

“Yeah.” Jack would have laughed at Abby’s description if not for the sincere look in her eyes.

“Oh.” Abby heard the hollow ring to her response but could not conceal it. Her physical reaction insisted this woman was connected somehow.

Lucky redirected his attention to Abby. “Have you noticed anything suspicious that we haven’t discussed? Anything at all, no matter how insignificant it seemed at the time.”

Abby sighed. “That’s the really weird part,” she began, shifting uneasily in her chair. “There have been … I don’t know … little things. Just stuff that I can’t quite put my finger on.”

“Such as,” the detective coaxed.

Abby felt uncomfortable and shrugged. “It’s more of a feeling. I don’t know. Maybe like someone’s watching me.”

“Have you seen anyone strange hanging around?”

“Well,” Abby hesitated. “I could have sworn this car was following me yesterday, but I talked myself out of it.”

“Where did this occur?”

Jack butted in. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Abby ignored him and sat up a little straighter, directing her answer to Venucci. “When I left the hotel — Adam’s Inn,” she clarified. “Yesterday morning.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jack repeated.

This time it was Lucky’s turn to ignore Jack. “Approximately what time?”

“Early.” She thought a moment. “About eight-thirty.”

“How long did the car follow you?” Venucci asked, jotting down details without looking up.

Abby didn’t hesitate. “It stayed with me long enough for me to notice. Quite a while. So, I doubled back. As I turned into the hotel parking lot, it was still with me but kept on going. I’d say a good fifteen minutes.”

“Could you I.D. the make and model?”

“I’m sorry.” Abby sighed, fully aware that Jack was glaring holes in her but refusing to face him. “I don’t know much about cars, and I wasn’t close enough to read the plates. The only thing I remember is that it was red.”

“That’s a good start. The fact that you were aware of the car in the first place probably means you saw more than you realize.” Lucky held Abby’s gaze. “Can you tell me anything at all about the driver?”

“Well, it’s hard to say.” Abby tried desperately to remember. “He stayed far enough behind to keep me from getting a really good look.”

“He?” Detective Venucci repeated. “So, the driver was a man.”

“Some man was following you, and you just didn’t bother to tell me,” Jack said, flailing both hands in the air in disbelief.

Neither Lucky nor Abby looked at him.

Despite the interruption, Abby had gotten the gist of Venucci’s questioning. “Definitely a man.” She paused to conjure up a clearer image in her mind’s eye. “In fact he was a bald man,” she stated deliberately. “He had a — ”

“ — bushy, dark mustache?” Jack’s blood ran cold.

Dumbfounded, Abby merely nodded.

Jack jumped up. “That son-of-a — ”

“You know him?” she asked.

“Dammit, Abby, did you really think that I would leave you at that hotel alone after coming back and finding your door open?”

“What?” Flashes of sitting miserably in a chair until dawn, ramrod stiff, staring at the doorknob — scared to stay, but too scared to leave — leapt through Abby’s mind, immediately switching her confusion to anger. “Well, if you were there, where the hell were you?”

“Sitting on the floor outside your door.”

“What?” she repeated.

“Her door had been open?” Detective Venucci interrupted, this time looking directly at Jack. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“We went in and looked around, but she said nothing had been taken and insisted on staying.” Jack shrugged. “I figured the latch just didn’t catch when she left.”

“Where had you two been prior to this?” Lucky asked.

“We ate dinner at The Grotto,” Jack told him.

Abby added the scant details of the unsettling phone call she had received after being followed by the red car, if, in fact, she had really been tailed.

Jack jumped to his feet. “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me any of that?”

Unintimidated, Abby looked up and shook her head. “I figured it was a wrong number, and for crying out loud, Jack, how many red cars are there in Boston?” Without waiting for his answer, she added, “Besides, I felt embarrassed enough without pointing my finger at thin air.”

Jack paced then faced her. “I do not believe in coincidences. Someone has been close. Way too close. He not only phoned your hotel room to scare you off, but he stole your amulet.”

“So, he already had the amulet when he came back, and we saw him in the hall,” Lucky pointed out.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Abby countered. “If he already had the necklace, why — ”

“Why?” Jack’s voice bounced off the walls. “Don’t you get it Abby? He came back for you!”

Abby swallowed hard, but the words couldn’t pass the lump in her throat.

“That’s right,” Jack told her. “And it’s a damned good thing Lucky and I spent the night outside your door.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was small. Clearing her throat, she glanced at Lucky. “Thank you both.”

Lucky nodded. Jack did not.

Jack tore the envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Lucky. “This was slipped through the mail slot in my door. I found it right before we left the house to come here.”

As Lucky read the note, Jack asked, “How the hell has someone managed to stay one step ahead of us at every turn?”

Venucci leaned back in his chair. “That’s a damn good question.” The detective threw down his pen and flexed his fingers. “Looks like you two should have spoken up sooner. From the sound of things, I’d say you’ve been very fortunate.”

“Maybe so,” Jack said, placing his hands on Abby’s shoulders. “But luck has a way of running out, doesn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, Jack, it does just that.”

“Hell, it’s a wonder Abby hasn’t gotten herself killed, several times over, no thanks to me.” Jack stood behind her and gently massaged the tense muscles in her shoulders. “That’s exactly why I’d like some police protection for her.”

Tapping the notes he’d taken with the tip of his pen, Venucci shook his head. “Convincing or not, we don’t have that kind of manpower available.”

“Dammit,” Jack began but stopped himself. “I don’t agree, Venucci, but I understand.” Jack pulled Abby to her feet.

“Go home and let me think this over,” Venucci told them. “I want to check things out, put out some feelers, and I’ll get back to you.”

Jack shook his hand. “You’ve got my number.”

Lucky winked at Abby. “Hell, I’ve had Jackie’s number since junior high.” He rounded his desk. “If you think of anything else, Ms. Corey, call me.”

Leaving the police station, Abby had never felt such an overwhelming sense of urgency. Her mind raced a mile a minute. Who had stopped just short of murder? And why? To scare her off? Her brain short-circuited, and it felt like her heart was going to have to handle the overload.

She searched Jack’s face and examined the steadiness of his gaze, the determined set of his jaw as he drove. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel was the single clue that he had only harnessed his emotions.

Abby was still shaky from the statements she and Jack had given Detective Venucci. So much of what they’d experienced individually had seemed harmless until they had compared notes. Once the sequence of events had started falling into place, their stories had fit together, like a hand in a glove.

Curious as well as desperate for ordinary conversation, Abby asked, “Why is it that you trust Detective Venucci so much?”

“We go back a long way.” Eyes straight ahead he continued, “A few years ago Lucky was really jammed up on the job. Evidence had been planted, and he was framed. I represented him at trial, and we won.”

Sensing there was more, she asked, “And?”

“And I not only saved his reputation, but I saved his job.” Lucky glanced sideways at her, then back at the road. “Lucky’s connections in the case gave me one of the biggest mob busts in years. Let’s just say that big break didn’t hurt my career either.”

Abby shivered. “Sounds dangerous.”

“I knew he was innocent.” Lucky shrugged. “That was the hard part.”

“The hard part?” she repeated. “Wouldn’t that make it easier?”

“Hell, no. When it’s someone you know, a friend, there’s a whole different kind of pressure. Then add to that the fact that you know he’s innocent. It’s like that scene in The Godfather when you only see Michael Corleone’s feet, and they’re trudging along.”

“I remember that.”

“Well, that’s the way I felt. Like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders.”

“But you won.”

“Yes, we did.”

That was exactly the kind of story Abby wanted to hear right now. Knowing good could win over evil, she needed to replace her fears with faith in the system and force her thoughts elsewhere. This time when Abby glanced at Jack, all she saw was the magnificent man who had swept her off her feet. Had that only been hours ago?

She could almost feel the warmth and comfort of the pliable bed beneath her back as he had lain her down. Dark, penetrating eyes. His masterful hands had teased and tormented away all her inhibitions. Achingly tender kisses. Powerful legs and arms wrapped around her — controlling and demanding. For that moment in time she had belonged to him. Only him. And so it would be. Satisfied, she leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and sighed, content for the moment to enjoy and maybe for the first time not to question the haunting, uncanny feeling of familiarity.

When Jack and Abby returned to his house, they went their separate ways. Abby headed for the living room and sank decadently into the overstuffed sofa. God, she was so weary. The moment she surrendered to the lengthening afternoon shadows, the tension of the day began to melt away.

• • •

The sun has just set, and twilight is settling over the woods like a misty, silver blanket. Walking down the familiar path, Abigail realizes a man is following her. He stays just far enough behind that she can’t get a good look, but she can see he wears a red cape. She doesn’t fear for her life, because she knows he can overtake her, but for some reason, he chooses not to. Frightened, she wonders what he wants. To scare her? To watch her? To follow her? When her fear turns to panic, she lifts her long, dark skirt and runs. She doesn’t stop until she sees familiar windows filled with the soft light of candles. Once inside, she bolts the door and leans against it, breathing hard, wondering if she has been foolish coming home. After all, the man is still out there somewhere … waiting. And now he knows exactly where to find her.

Chapter Thirty

Jack found Abby dozing. Careful not to disturb her, he struck a match to the kindling and sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace. Content to lean against a chair and watch her sleep, he realized there was no point denying what an important part of his life she’d become. It didn’t matter that it had happened fast, like being struck by lightning, he was glad she had come along. He needed her every bit as much as he wanted her and judging from the way he felt now, that was one helluva lot.

• • •

Abby awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented by the darkness. When she recognized Jack’s silhouette in front of the blazing fire, she willed away the unsettling dream and offered a shaky smile.

“Are you awake?” she whispered.

“Yeah.” His tone was quiet and his mood, he realized, was peaceful. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed such a feeling.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep,” she yawned, praying the man in her dream had been just that, a subconscious fear, nothing more.

“You needed it.” He watched as she sat up and swung her long legs onto the floor. “Hungry?”

“Uh huh,” she nodded.

“What sounds good?”

Abby thought a moment. “How about pizza?”

“My kind of woman.” Jack grinned. “No muss. No fuss. No dishes.”

She flipped on the light, slid down the front of the davenport and landed derriere first on the floor right in front of him. “Just order.”

Dialing the number he had taped above the phone, Jack asked, “Preference?”

Abby shrugged. “I have never met a pizza I didn’t like.”

“The Works it is.”

Less than an hour later, they sat cross-legged before the fire, the flat, cardboard box between them with a silver ice bucket and long-stemmed glasses set off to one side. Jack smiled as he wrestled the cork free.

Champagne bubbled dangerously close to the lip of the glass as Abby accepted the frothy flute. “Trying to ply me with liquor?”

He sipped slowly and considered her question. “That depends.”

“On what?” she challenged with an uninhibited drink and a provocative smile.

“On whether or not alcohol would work.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He grinned.

The fire’s glow defined the angular planes and distinct lines of Jack’s handsome face. Abby wondered how many sides there were to this man? At the police station, she’d heard the fierce protectiveness in his voice when he’d blurted out that he’d spent the night in the hallway outside her hotel room door. She’d seen concern blacken his expression at the hospital after her accident. Through it all, he had undoubtedly saved her life by taking her in when her nightmare had somehow crossed over into reality. Right now, Jack Hawthorne was the one person in the world she could trust. Maybe the only one. “Your pizza’s getting cold.”

Abby watched Jack toss the half-eaten piece in the box and shove it clear across the floor. The look of surprise that flashed across his face when he saw her reach for the lamp had definitely been worth the price of a ticket.

This time when Abby went to him, she was as much the seducer as the seduced. When she touched his face, her cool hands against his warm skin, she watched his eyes close. As she planted kisses along his well-defined jaw, the tiny lines creasing his forehead and punctuating the corners of his mouth relaxed. He pulled her to her feet and wrapped his strong arms around her, and they stood together in front of the fireplace, casting a single shadow on the wall behind them. Abby reached out. She slid his sweater over his head and ran her curious palms along the solid planes of his chest.

Jack groaned.

His muscles twitched beneath her touch, but it was the passion darkening his expression that urged her on. She unzipped his jeans and slid them over his hips … and waited.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he whispered through clenched teeth. Without waiting for an answer, he slid the slender ebony straps from her shoulder. The silky material trembled past her breasts and puddled at her feet.

She offered him a wicked smile as she slipped her panties down around both ankles, and kicked both undergarments aside. He fisted his hand in her hair and pulled her head back. His mouth moved freely over her lips and down her neck. His hands kneaded and soothed until every muscle in her body relaxed. Abby’s knees began to buckle and she instinctively wrapped both arms around his neck. “I want you, Jack.”

He lowered her to the floor. His lips tasted of cold champagne. The incredible fire in his eyes defied the heat of his passion. She cried out each time he discovered some treasured, secret place. Demanding, she rolled over him to seek and taste and explore until she thought her lungs would burst and his body would fly into a million pieces. In one deliberate movement, Jack eased Abby onto her back.

Passion and madness had ignited between them this morning, but this was different. Lust had deepened to desire. Demands had shifted from physical to emotional. Yearning had replaced want. His needs were hers. Her desires were his. For this moment in time, they would be one.

So, was Jack Hawthorne the man Abby had been waiting for all her life? Was he the reason why her relationships had failed? Why she never really let herself become involved with a man? Jack, with his arrogant charm and brooding good looks, his laughing eyes and tender touch. With the scrape of his teeth. His teasing lips. The flick of his tongue. She reveled in a whirlwind of newfound emotions. He may have led her to freedom, but she would be bound to him forever.

Abby snuggled closer, her head resting against his shoulder, her hand splayed across his heart. A log hissed as it shifted in the fireplace, shooting sparks up the chimney and sending shadows dancing around the room. The turbulent October wind gusted and moaned and slapped a solitary branch against the window, a sound that might have ordinarily spooked her. But not tonight. She’d never felt as safe and secure as she did at this very moment.

Jack pressed one hand over Abby’s and brushed a stray tendril from her flushed cheek. He smiled. “And I thought being with you couldn’t get any better.” He trailed a lazy path down her arm with his fingertips. “Boy was I wrong.”

She pushed herself up on one elbow and brushed a hand through his hair. For once, she refused to weigh her words. This time, she had to say exactly what was in her heart. “Can I tell you how happy it makes me to agree with you?”

Jack smiled. “Does it?”

Abby pressed a kiss to his neck. “Yes.” One minute she was sharing pillow talk with Jack, then next an instant, overwhelming sensation rocked her so hard, she had to reach out and steady herself. Panic gripped her by the throat, cutting off her air as surely as a … hangman’s noose? Barely able to breathe, she fought the sickening flood of emotion, determined not to drown in her own fears. “Jack?” she finally managed.

“What the hell was that?” Jack had already sat up. His eyes darted around the room.

“You felt it, too?”

“Damn straight.”

“Maybe it was some kind of earthquake or tremor.” Abby scooted closer.

Jack slipped one arm around her. “Whatever it was, it’s over now.”

Abby looked up at him. “I thought for a minute it was inside my head. It felt like I was falling off the face of the earth.”

“So did I.” He pulled her closer and whispered, “Stay with me, Abby.”

She took a shaky breath. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.” He caught her chin and steadied it in his hand. “Stay here in Boston.”

Before Abby could open her mouth to speak, the buzz of the doorbell broke the tenuous silence.

“Who the hell — ” Jack swore, yanking on his jeans.

Abby jumped up and made a mad scramble, as much to gather her composure as her clothes.

Jack blocked her path. “Relax.” he assured her. “No one’s getting in here tonight.” He framed her face with unsteady hands. “Grab my robe and get back down here. We’re far from finished.”

Abby bit her lip, knowing this discussion had been inevitable since the day they met. Jack’s solemn expression told her he knew that, too. She nodded before hurrying past him.

The cold October wind that blew in when he opened the door couldn’t have chilled him any quicker than the sight of Bridget sashaying into his living room. With her flawless, mask-like skin, sleek designer clothes, frosty smile.

“Whoa!” He hooked his arm through hers and spun her around.

Tipping his chin with one blood-red fingernail, she flashed him a cover-girl smile and eased out of his grip. “You haven’t returned my calls since I got back from New York.” She slipped out of her cape and tossed it to him. “Shame on you.”

Teeth clenched, he instinctively snagged her wrap. “Look — ”

“Believe me, I am. But darling, you’ll catch your death running around half-naked this time of year.” She paused long enough to survey his muscular torso and smile approvingly. “Not that I mind, of course.”

“What are you doing here, Bridget?”

She dismissed him with the wave of one perfectly manicured hand. “Really,” she tapped the pizza box with the toe of her Manolo Blahnik, “you’d be better off eating out, don’t you think?”

Jack increased his stranglehold on her cape. “Dammit, Bridget — ”

“I was kidding, silly,” she interrupted.

“I’m not.”

“Oh, I know,” Bridget sighed, raking her nails down his chest.

• • •

Abby took the steps to the loft two at a time. Once she had slipped into Jack’s robe, she turned back toward the stairs, but her feet seemed rooted to the spot. Suddenly and without reason, she felt overwhelmingly compelled to light one of the candles she had purchased at the Wax N Wane.

She heard the doorbell ring again.

Unable to shake the fierce sense of need that bordered on panic, Abby remembered that historically the gold candles were used for protection. Unexplainably drawn, she pulled one golden candle from the shopping bag. Shaking, she steadied her hand and lit the complimentary matches the sales clerk had included.

When she heard the front door open, Abby said quickly and quietly, “As this candle melts today, make this stranger go away, protect the man, the house and me, this is my will, so mote it be.”

She stood there a moment — speechless. What had she just done? And why? Better yet, why didn’t the ritual seem the least bit strange? Unable to answer any of these questions, Abby realized she really didn’t care why she had done it. She might not understand her actions, but she felt certain what she had done had been right. Content, she descended the stairs and walked back into the living room. The sound of the other woman’s voice struck such an unrelenting chord; it took Abby’s breath away.

The moment green eyes met blue, she was overwhelmed with emotion. Red hot and intense. A gruesome combination of dread, sorrow and hate. Without being told, Abby knew the woman facing Jack was Bridget Bishop. Her very presence rocked Abby so hard she had to lay one hand on the back of the chair to steady herself.

“Excuse me, Jack,” Abby finally managed. “I didn’t know you had company.”

Jack’s head snapped around.

There stood Abby. The sleeves of his robe had been cuffed-up to accommodate her size. Belted at the waist, one leg showed provocatively through the front split. Cheeks flushed. Eyes bright. Shiny, auburn hair falling past her shoulders. She was magnificent.

He winked at Abby. “Bridget was just leaving.”

The distance between Abby and Bridget crackled with intensity.

“And believe me when I tell you, darling, so is she,” Bridget warned.

Maxine’s words echoed through Abby’s mind as she saw Bridget glance at the loft where she had lit the candle then narrow her striking blue eyes. In an instant, the air turned so thick you could slice it with an athame. She snatched up her cape, drilled Abby with another scathing glare, and raised one, disapproving eyebrow in Jack’s direction.

“Have fun with the help, Darling.” Switching her gaze to Abby, she added, “Enjoy him while you can.”

The door had barely slammed behind her when Abby found her sea legs. “So, that’s Bridget Bishop. The woman one who knew I’d be driving your car.”

Jack rubbed his jaw. “I see where you’re going with this, but she doesn’t even know you.”

“Of course not.” The question remained — why did Abby feel she knew Bridget, at least on some level, all too well.

Jack rested his forearms on Abby’s shoulders. “Forget it. She’s gone now.”

Surprisingly, Abby felt that, too. When Bridget left, the overwhelming feeling of dread simply vanished. Abby sighed against him. “I know.”

“Remember when you told me about your dreams,” he began, “and that some of them came true?”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you ever get flashes like that during the day?”

Abby thought of the oppressing sensation she’d experienced in Bridget’s presence. “Sometimes.”

“Do they mean anything?”

She angled her head to get a better look at his face. Serious. He was dead serious. “They’re usually significant, if that’s what you’re asking. Why? Do you get flashes, too?”

He broke their connection long enough to pace. “Just lately.”

“What kind of images?”

Jack cleared his throat then turned to face her. “I see a woman being hung on Gallows’ Hill.”

Abby’s knees buckled, but she locked them. Her hand instinctively went to her throat. “Who is she?”

“I can’t see her face, but it’s not like some reoccurring dream. The scene keeps progressing. Every time it returns there’s more to it.” He shrugged. “This last time there was a dark-haired woman waiting and watching. I still couldn’t see the face of the woman being hung, but there was such a sense of urgency. More powerful than anything I’ve ever experienced. Crazy, huh?”

“No, I don’t think it is.” Abby’s throat burned. “Anything else?”

“Well, there was one other thing. But it wasn’t a flash or anything like that.”

“What was it?”

“This sounds so ridiculous.” He paused a moment, and when she didn’t placate him, he continued, “I had a sense of writing.”

“A book?”

Jack shook his head and thought a moment. “More like a journal.”

“And?” She could tell there was more. Knew there was more.

“Through the Boston Historical Society I heard about a recent acquisition of some seventeenth century documents,” he explained. “They’re on temporary display at an antique book store owned by one of the society’s members. I think the shop is called Pages From The Past.”

“You think the journal you sensed, if there is such a journal, is there?”

Jack considered her question. “Don’t ask me why, but I feel sure of it.”

Without hesitation, she grabbed his hand. “Then let’s go.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Twenty minutes later, they parked on the quaint, tree-lined street and got out in front of the shop.

“Dammit.” Jack pointed to the Open by Appointment Only sign in the window.

“Now what?” Abby asked.

Jack pulled out his cell and punched in the phone number listed on the sign. He listened, then flipped shut his phone.

“What?” Abby asked.

“He’s out of town today. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” she repeated. “We can’t wait until — ”

“I know.”

Jack scanned the neighborhood. Late afternoon shadows shaded the leaf-dappled brick sidewalk. A dog barked in the distance. There was no one out and about. He went to the door and found the top half was a glass panel. The bottom was solid oak. He took off his jacket and wrapped one arm, and in one swift motion he broke the window with his elbow. Knocking away the jagged shards, he slipped his hand inside and unlocked the door.

“Jesus! What do you think you’re doing?” Abby asked, glancing up and down the street to make sure no one was around.

Without a word, he opened the door and motioned for her to follow.

Abby hurried across the glass-splintered threshold and, for what it was worth shut the door behind her.

The shop was much larger inside than it appeared from the street. A familiar old-book smell permeated the air, mingling with the scent of aged leather and furniture polish. Dust-free shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling and were flanked by tall, rolling ladders for easy access. In the fading daylight, faux candle night-lights enhanced the rustic look of the rough-hewn floor and paneled walls, creating a relaxing twilight atmosphere.

Abby caught up with Jack halfway through the shop. “What are we looking for?”

“I’m guessing a display case.” As they walked, Jack slipped on his jacket and continued to explain, “From what I understand, this guy wanted to premier the documents in his shop then donate them to the Historical Society next month.”

“Jack, look.” Abby pointed straight ahead.

At the back of the store, there was a huge display case filled with books, documents, papers, and journals. Even from this distance you could see everyone was yellowed with age. Fragile. Antique.

Abby’s breath quickened and her palms grew damp. Whatever Jack was looking for, it was in there. She could feel it.

Scanning the length of the case, Jack pointed to a leather-bound journal in the middle of the second shelf. Stepping behind the counter, he slid the glass sideways and reached in.

Abby held her breath as Jack eased the journal from the case. Opening the book, his fingers were cautious, turning the first few pages with care. He stepped to her side, so they could read together:

October 31, 1692

I must guard Abigail’s amulet with my life. I must ensure its safe delivery into the future for it is the tether to her soul. When the time comes, we will need this necklace. On that fateful date we must have the amulet to succeed or, God help us all, we will unleash an evil, the likes of which the humanity has never seen.

“Oh, Jack,” Abby whispered.

He met her gaze. “Oh, shit.”

Turning the page, they continued:

November 15, 1692

It has been 15 days since the death … no, the murder of my beloved. I rage. I cry. I curse. And still I find no relief. I went to her grave again today and sat on the stone bench by the big tree. If it were not for the promise of our next meeting, I would surely die.

Abby squeezed Jack’s arm as he flipped the next page …

December 1, 1692

I have discovered something very important, indeed. Maxine came today to make sure I still had the amulet, and that I fully understand its importance. She is not an easy woman to convince, but I assured her that I did. What she told me next is every bit as important as the amulet itself. By the time Abigail and I experience our “coming together,” Bridget’s powers will be waning. This, coupled with the amulet, may give us a fighting chance. And fight we shall.

Jack turned to Abby. “Maxine?”

“Bridget,” she hissed.

The steady ticking of the old school clock on the wall behind the counter punctuated the silence.

Jack Hawthorne — speechless. That not only was a first, but it said so much more than words could ever say.

“Maxine and Bridget?” Abby finally repeated.

He shook his head. “No way in hell.”

“But — ”

“But nothing. That has to be a — ”

“Coincidence?” she finished. “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”

“I don’t.” He maintained eye contact.

“Well,” Abby began, dragging the word out on purpose. “We’re here in the present, aren’t we?”

Jack raked his fingers through his hair. “So, what you’re saying is that there might be more of … us.”

“I don’t know.” Abby shivered. “What do you think?”

Jack took a moment to consider the thought. Meeting her gaze, he answered, “I honestly don’t know.”

She sighed. “This journal, if it was your journal, mentions women named Maxine and Bridget. Don’t you find that highly suspect?”

“I do,” he agreed without hesitation. “Logically, if we’re here, it would seem possible there could be others.”

“Others?” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “What are we doing? Playing out some modern-day, X-Files scenario from 1692?”

“Prior to today, I’d have said absolutely not.” He shook his head. “Right now, it beats the hell out of me.”

Abby pointed to the yellowed pages. “Maybe you should read on.”

December 15, 1692

I have spoken again with Maxine, and I now understand the possibility of Abigail and my “coming together” will not be in this lifetime. So, this day I will ensure the amulet’s passage through time by making Maxine its keeper, and I will write instructions for its safekeeping. As much as it saddens me, I will gladly wait as long as it takes for the heavens to align and give us the chance to make it so.

Having read the journal thoroughly three times and carefully replacing it, Jack left several hundred dollars in the display case. From a nearby payphone he anonymously called 911 and reported the shop had been vandalized. Breaking the law had gone against his grain, but in this case his hands had been tied. Hell, the situation itself had demanded immediate action. A question of life or death had given Jack no choice.

On the drive back to Jack’s house, talking was not an option, and the unnerving quiet that ensued was deafening. Silence screamed in Abby’s ears all the way home. As they walked through the front door, the shrill ring of the phone nearly sent Abby through the ceiling.

“Son-of-a — ” He stalked toward the telephone, snagged the receiver and barked, “Hello.”

When Jack’s voice abruptly changed from homicidal to serious, Abby held her breath until he hung up. “What is it?”

Jack rolled his shoulders restlessly as he crossed the floor to stand beside Abby.

Her stomach tightened. “Well?” His expression didn’t give her a clue, so she waited for him to answer.

“Nothing to worry about.” He enfolded her in his arms. “The police have just rounded up some men, and they want you and I to have a look at them.”

Abby tensed. “A line-up?” The knot in her stomach hitched.

Jack’s silence answered her.

She instinctively moved closer to him. “When do they want us?”

“Now.”

Abby stood beside him in the dying firelight. Again the two cast one single shadow. Something once-in-this-lifetime had happened between them tonight, and she refused to let anything take that away from her. “Let’s get this over with,” she whispered.

“Yeah.” He pulled her closer. “Then, we need to talk.”

• • •

“That Corey bitch and Jack better play house while they can,” Bridget spat. “As if I care. I’ve had over three hundred years to get over Jackson Hathorne. The fool, however, is necessary for my plan.” She paced the confines of her parlor, her scarlet robe flowing about her feet.

“Let me see,” she mocked, her low, menacing laugh resembled a growl. “In order to banish the lovely Abigail Corey back in time and inherit her powers, I need three things.” She ticked each item off with her blood-red fingernails.

“A loyal man who is pure of heart — check.”

“That miserable amulet — check.”

“And Abigail Corey on All Hallows Eve, present day — check.”

She parted the curtain and smiled at the almost full moon. “This time tomorrow, Abigail Corey will be no more. I will have her man — if I want him. But most important, I will have all her power. Her pale blue eyes narrowed in anticipation. “Then nothing can stop me.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Salem Massachusetts

31 October

Year of Our Lord, 1692

The slap on the horse’s rump echoed through the suddenly quiet night. As Abigail’s lifeless body dangled from the tree, a cheer rose from the mob. Jackson closed his eyes. Sealed his heart. Released his soul.

“I will find you, Abigail. I swear. I will search eternity until I do!”

• • •

Neither Abby nor Jack had been able to identify the biker from the line-up at the police station, and he watched her edgy frustration settle into silence once again on the ride home. Jack respected her need for space and didn’t push, but didn’t like what he saw when the click of the deadbolt behind them didn’t ease her concern. Seeing the undisguised fear still present in her eyes, Jack would be damned if he slept on the couch tonight. He took her hand in his, and, side-by-side, they walked to the loft.

Within minutes, Jack was settled beneath the soft, feather comforter with Abby nestled in the crook of his arm. He lifted her delicate fingers and kissed their tips before releasing her hand to rest comfortably on his chest. Unlike the law, he couldn’t offer her justice tonight. He couldn’t cite concrete facts as to what was going on. He couldn’t even assure her the bald man would be arrested and everything would be all right. But he could hold her. Protect her. Defend her with his life.

Jack’s heart thudded beneath the palm of Abby’s hand. Lulled by its slow, steady rhythm, he sensed her relax. His blood began to pulse in sync with hers. Two hearts beat as one. She snuggled closer to him, and he felt her surrender to sleep.

“Per chance to dream,” a voice whispered crisply and clearly, waking Abby with a start.

She raised herself on one elbow and checked Jack’s face in the moonlight. Not that she believed for a moment he had spoken, because she didn’t. It simply hadn’t sounded like Jack. Making sure he was all right, she also realized he apparently hadn’t heard it either, because he was still sleeping soundly. When Abby replayed it in her mind, she realized it hadn’t been the words that had scared her as much as the voice. The voice had been edged with enough hatred to turn Shakespeare’s promise into a deadly threat. Abby knew sleep would not come easy tonight just as surely as she knew the telltale nightmare was on its way …

Jack tossed and turned as the reoccurring dream reared its ugly head, scratching and clawing at his subconscious like a starving animal waiting to be fed …

Despite being fast asleep, Jack and Abby’s hands reached out. Their fingers entwined. Their past unfolded …

• • •

Jackson Hathorne raced through the darkness like a thief in the night, dragging Abigail Corey behind him like a rag doll … the hounds of hell hot on their heels … frantic barking … tracking beasts … horses’ thundering hooves. coming closer.

Abigail’s lungs burned … she struggled to keep up … she scrambled on shaky legs … she held fast to the amulet. “I’ll … die … if … if we don’t stop.”

“You’ll die if we do.” Jackson fought his way through the overgrown path. The mob is catching up … so close … pouncing like lions, the frenzied riders ripped Abigail from Jackson’s arms.

“Satan’s whore,” one man shouted.

Closing her eyes, she murmured frantically, as there was not much time.

Bridget tied Abigail’s wrists behind her back … ripped the amulet from her neck … hissed as the stone branded her palm … she threw the pendant hard and fast … slipped the noose over Abigail’s head. “He’s mine now.”

“My spell will protect him ’til I return … Jackson, wait for me — ”

“I’ll find you, Abigail. I will search eternity until I do. I swear.”

• • •

Jack bolted upright in bed. Abby sat straight up beside him.

“Abigail?” he asked, desperate to clear his head.

Abby could hardly breathe. “Jackson?” she whispered.

Unbelieving, Jack turned to face her. Bathed in moonlight Abby sat wide-eyed and pale beside him. “I had this dream.”

“Me, too.” Her hands were trembling. “You were in it.” She thought a moment. “At least he looked like you would have in the seventeenth century.”

“The hanging dream on Gallows Hill — ”

“It was me, wasn’t it?” she asked.

“Or a likeness of you back in the burning times.” Jack tried to whitewash his use of the phrase, and when he couldn’t, he turned on the bedside lamp. “The woman’s name was Abigail Corey.”

“And his was Jackson Hathorne — without the W.” Grateful for the light, Abby still shivered. “Bridget Bishop was there, Jack, in my dream. And the amulet. And even Maxine.”

Now it was his turn to say, “In mine, too.”

They compared identical details, then sat in silence for a long time.

“Weird, huh?” Abby asked lamely, simply not knowing what else to say.

“Having the same dream?” Jack pointed out. “Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty damn weird. I can see how all this could fit into one of our dreams.”

“But not both,” she finished. “Unless … ”

“What?” Jack demanded.

“Unless … ” Abby hesitated, knowing how crazy what she was about to say would sound.

“Go on.”

Regardless of the absurdity, she just looked him in the eye and said it. “Unless they truly are memories and not dreams.”

“Like the journal,” he agreed.

“Yes, exactly like that. Only not in writing.”

He said nothing.

“Look,” she began, running a frustrated hand through her hair, “all my life I have felt like there was a piece of the puzzle missing. For whatever reason, coming to Salem for the amulet fit. You fit. Hell, Maxine even fits.”

“And Bridget?”

The air between them took on a frosty haze. “After tonight, I think she fits most of all.” Once the words were spoken, the pall dissipated into thin air.

Jack pulled Abby close. “You realize that we have to go to that Halloween Ball and get the amulet.” He leaned back and looked into her eyes. “We don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, I know.” And somehow she did. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she said as much to herself as to Jack, “God help us.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Abby had agreed with Jack’s decision that they must attend the Halloween Ball … this morning … in the sunlight.

But, tonight? Hours after sunset on All Hallows Eve? Dreams or no dreams, she wanted desperately to skip the ball and hole up in Jack’s house. Unfortunately she knew they had no choice in the matter. Both she and Jack were remembering, for lack of a better word, bit and pieces of a grotesque puzzle. Tonight was the one and only window of opportunity they would have to stop Bridget. And not just for their sake. For the sake of all who would ever know her wrath.

They must retrieve the amulet. That much they knew. She prayed to God whatever else they needed to defeat her would be revealed.

When the antique clock on Jack’s dresser chimed seven-thirty, Abby’s jumped. Her nerves stretched even thinner, if that were possible. So much had happened in such a short time. The parts she seemed to understand made no sense, and the pieces she couldn’t figure out defied logic.

Reality insisted the bald man was still out there. Somewhere. Waiting? Watching? Biding his time? And tonight she and Jack were deliberately planning to leave the house and meet the person who stole her amulet. She glanced anxiously toward the bedroom window. Something powerful and commanding told her to cast a circle. She did so, lighting two gold candles. One for her and one for Jack.

“Protect us tonight at the Halloween Ball. Free us from danger and lift the pall. Neither Bridget Bishop nor the bald man let in. Ostracize them and their ways of sin. This is my will, so mote it be.”

Satisfied, she buried her fears and started for the living room. When she reached the rail at the top of the stairs, Abby froze.

As if sensing her presence, Jack looked up.

He took her breath away. His tall muscular body was clothed all in black. Leather boots encased his legs up to his knees. His face was hidden by a phantom’s mask, and his aura was as dark as the cape hanging wildly about his broad shoulders. Jack Hawthorne was the man from her nightmare.

He watched Abby slowly descend the staircase. His gaze wandered from the tip of her pointed hat to the fascinating green eyes that sparkled behind her sultry satin mask. The neckline of her sleek, raven-colored dress was cut to the waist and barely laced up the front. But it was the delicate silver, satin ribbons that crisscrossed the creamy vee of skin exposed from the middle of her breasts to her belt that seduced a devilish smile from his lips. Her tattered hem dipped gracefully with each step and waves of auburn hair swayed halfway down her back as she approached him.

In an attempt to postpone the inevitable task at hand, Jack tried to lighten the mood for Abby. With one elaborate gesture, he bowed ceremoniously. “Madame, you are truly bewitching.”

“Thank you,” Abby said quietly, still in awe. “And you, Sir, are most definitely the man of my dreams.” Whatever else happened tonight, she wanted this moment.

Jack pushed his mask on top of his head. He picked up the ends of the shimmery ribbons and rubbed the satiny strings between his fingers. “How long do you suppose it would take to undo that tiny silver bow and unlace this?”

“Remind me to time you later.” Her teasing turned serious.

“Oh, there will be a later.” Praying he could keep that promise, he draped Abby’s cape around her shoulders, and they headed for the car.

The evening was cool and crisp with just a hint of chimney smoke in the air. “It’s a wonderful night for Halloween,” Abby said.

He pulled her closer as they walked. “Absolutely perfect.”

The drive to the ball brought back familiar childhood memories for Abby. To distract herself, she concentrated on the scenery. Jack-O-Lanterns glowed in the dark and guarded nearly every porch against the ghosts and goblins that slipped in and out of the shadows. Screams and giggles echoed throughout the neighborhoods.

“I’d almost forgotten how much fun trick-or-treating was,” she sighed.

“Not to worry,” Jack assured her. “I have the adult version of the game at home.”

Under the circumstances, his attempt at humor helped. “I’ll just bet you do.” Abby shook her head, content to ride the rest of the way in silence.

Jack parked the car and Abby’s eyes followed the long, winding driveway to the front door of a huge mansion perched at the top of a steep knoll.

“Gallows Hill?” Abby repeated, as they reached a slatted wooden sign that creaked from a nearby gate. Her fingers absently traced the smooth skin of her neck, just above the collarbone.

“Yeah,” Jack nodded, sliding his mask into place. “It was named after — ”

An owl hooted somewhere overhead. A loud, haunting screech. Abby jumped and yanked her cape tighter against the crisp October breeze. “Let’s go.”

Surrounded by an ancient iron fence, the stone structure looked as though it had forced its way out of the earth. The last desolate vines of summer clung hopelessly to its face and jagged towers and peaked turrets appeared to pierce the full moon at its back. Dead trees dotted the mansion’s grounds, leaving only barren limbs to hold the outside world at arm’s length … until tonight.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Skyclad beneath the full moon, Bridget anointed each chakra point — the crown of her head, her third eye, her throat, over her heart, her solar plexus, just above her navel, and the base of her spine — with frankincense oil. Athame in her right hand, she began casting the circle. Walking the candlelit circumference, she sprinkled salt around the edge until she had come full circle.

“I cast you as my sacred boundary. You will keep me safe as you divide the Earthly world from the realm of never-ending planes. Blessed and bound so mote this circle be.

Athame held high, she called forth the Guardians of the four quarters. As each was addressed, she traced the invoking pentagram.

She turned to face south.

“Enter this circle, Guardians of the South, home of Fire and Salamander. Guard my circle and assist my rite.”

Turning west, she commanded, “Home of water and Undine, Guardian of the West appear. Guard my circle and assist my rite.”

Facing north, she called, “Enter my circle North Guardians of Earth and Gnome. “Guard my circle and assist my rite.”

She faced east. “Home of air and sylph enter my circle,” she decreed. “Guard my circle and assist my rite.”

She inscribed a black candle and dabbed a spot of patchouli oil on the first finger of her right hand and anointed the wax with it. Her enemy’s name was written on parchment and placed under the candle.

“By the power of fire, by the power of earth, by the power of air, by the power of water, by the life in the blood. Abigail Corey take they leave. On this blessed All Hallows’ Eve, send her back lest she deceive. As I speak, so mote it be.”

• • •

Hairs prickled at the nape of Abby’s neck, stopping her dead in her tracks. She yanked Jack’s arm, pulling him down to whisper, “What was that?”

Respecting, if nothing else, the degree to which her nails were digging into his bicep, he stopped, then shrugged. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Shhh,” she insisted.

Trusting Abby’s instincts, he listened … their eyes met.

“You sense it, don’t you?”

Jack scanned the perimeter but found no one in sight. He cocked his head to listen. “What the hell is that?”

Abby turned to face the darkness. Was someone out there? A shiver skittered through her soul. She had heard someone. Abby concentrated on the vague voice playing in her head. What were they saying? Sent back? Must return? Phrases she couldn’t quite make out, but knew to be haunting, if not dangerous. Something besides Halloween was in the air tonight. There was no mistake about that.

“I don’t know.” She held his dark gaze. “We’d better get inside.” Her hand automatically searched her neck for the amulet that wasn’t there. That and that alone, gave her the courage to take the last few steps. But as the huge door creaked open, Abby stood, unable to cross the threshold.

When Abby hesitated, Jack entered the mansion first.

She took the hand he offered and reluctantly followed him inside. In the moment it took for her eyes to adjust to the dim gaslights mounted on the foyer walls, Abby heard the soft sound of tinkling bells that echoed through the air. The eerie melody prickled the hair at the base of her neck.

“Shall we?” Jack linked his fingers through hers.

Somewhat comforted by his familiar touch, Abby took a deep breath and nodded.

Jack yanked the heavy ballroom door until it scraped open and the spirit of Halloween materialized before their eyes. Creatures of the night milled around the dark, cavernous room. The mystic sound of exotic chimes haunted the air. Candlelight flickered from mindless skulls. Cobwebs cocooned every corner and doorway. Dust authenticated each tabletop and sheets covered all the furniture. Slashed and carved into horror-frozen faces, dozens of pumpkins illuminated the darkness at every turn.

When a huge man rushed forward, Abby instinctively stepped behind Jack. Bare chested, the stranger was covered with green body paint and clothed only in tattered cutoffs. It wasn’t until he flashed a sexy smile and enthusiastically pumped Jack’s hand that Abby relaxed.

Jack pried Abby’s fingers from the back of his arm and clapped his hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Venucci.” Flipping up his mask, Jack turned to his friend. “You remember Abby.”

Abby felt her hand sandwiched between the detective’s large palms.

“Great costume,” Lucky said.

“Yours, too.” Abby cut to the chase. “So what’s our plan?”

“My strategy is,” Lucky leaned closer, “to party ’til we drop,” he joked with a straight face. Lucky glanced at Jack then cleared his throat. “All kidding aside, I’m here as your personal bodyguard, Miss Corey.”

“Abby,” she corrected.

“All right, Abby. Just know that I’ll monitor your every move and, trust me, you’ll be safe.”

Abby studied his face and realized she’d only seen that granite-hard look in the eyes of one other man — Jack Hawthorne. Seeing them side-by-side, Jack a bit taller, Lucky a tad bulkier, she breathed a little easier. “Thanks, Lucky. Sorry if I seemed a bit abrupt, but I’ve never had anyone try to kill me before.”

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “Just pretend I’m not here and keep your eyes peeled for the clown with the necklace — no pun intended.”

“Let’s do it.” Jack grabbed her by the hand and headed through the crowd to the buffet.

He ducked the white sheets that had been suspended and shaped as though they were in full flight and ignored the gleaming crimson eyes of the gargoyles that perched around the ceiling and guarded the table. Looking over the assorted delicacies, he asked, “Care for some grape eyeballs?”

Abby’s already jittery stomach rolled. “No thanks.”

“A rat burger? Spider pretzels? Entrails on a stick?”

Abby shook her head as he rattled off the disgusting menu. “Clever, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Well, if you’re not hungry, how about a drink?”

“That,” she sighed, “sounds great.”

He pointed to the punch bowls filled to the brim with tomato juice. Jack read the sign, “Type A or O Positive?”

Once again he’d managed to ease her nervousness and in return Abby gave him a grateful smile. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what’s the difference?”

“O Positive is for the designated drivers and Type A is for the party animals. Under the circumstances, I’m sticking with O tonight, but what’s your pleasure?”

“I’ll have the big ‘O’,” she teased out of nervous frustration.

“Later,” Jack promised and kissed her cheek.

Virgin Mary’s in hand, they made their way through the crowd once more and sat down at a table for two. Even with Jack at her side and Lucky nearby, Abby remained tense. When would all this madness end? About mid-thought, someone banged into her from behind so hard it knocked her witch’s hat sideways.

Abby saw Jack’s eyes blaze as his long arm snaked toward her, then past the side of her head. When he jumped to his feet, their table tipped and his drink overturned. A blood-red stain seeped across the crisp white cloth toward her. She watched as Jack shoved a clown up against the wall, the man’s feet dangled in the air.

“Ease up, Jack,” Lucky yelled, grabbing his friend by the shoulder. “He tripped.”

Breathing hard, Jack looked around. “Tripped?”

“I saw the whole thing,” Lucky assured him.

Jack suddenly recognized Leon Wazinski, a timid, little man from the law firm Platt, Sellars, and Wazinski, and he released his grip. “Sorry, Leon,” Jack assured the stunned man. “I thought you were someone else,” he explained while smoothing the man’s ridiculously ruffled clown collar.

“Glad I wasn’t,” Leon wheezed.

“The show’s over,” Lucky assured the small gathering of onlookers. “Party on.”

Abby took off her witch’s hat and placed it deliberately on the table. “Now I know why you hired Lucky,” she explained dryly. At his blank look, she continued, “To protect the innocent bystanders.”

Jack shrugged and sat down. “Hey, the guy was a clown for Christ’s sake,” he snorted. “How was I supposed to know he tripped?”

“He caught his over-sized clown shoe on the leg of my chair,” she explained.

Jack planted both elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. “Don’t you get it? This is your life we’re talking about.” He steadied his whisper. “I won’t take even one chance.”

Abby swallowed hard.

When Jack’s cell phone rang, he headed for the door. “Can’t hear. I’ll be right back.”

Lucky sat down and gave Abby’s hand a sympathetic pat. “Don’t worry, he’ll settle down.”

Abby watched Jack disappear into the crowd. “He’s really keyed up.”

“Love will do that to a guy.”

“Really?” She arched one brow.

He leaned back in his chair. “So I’ve heard.”

“You know Jack pretty well.” It wasn’t a question.

Lucky perused the room, never meeting Abby’s gaze. “He saved my career — big time.”

Abby took a deep breath. “Hawthorne’s quite a guy.”

“I can tell you one thing.” He shifted in his chair and leaned toward her. “I’ve never loved any woman enough to camp out all night in a hotel hallway because she might be in trouble.”

There was that ‘L’ word again. Abby smiled. “Thanks.”

Jack burst through the tangle of people on the dance floor, pulled a stray chair up and straddled it. “Wrong number.”

Remembering her prank call at the hotel, she opened her mouth to speak then shut it. “Maybe we should mingle.”

“Go ahead,” Lucky instructed. “I’ll stay close.

Leaving their table, Jack and Abby wound their way through the partying throng. Amidst the Draculas and Frankensteins, they ran into Bozos and Emmett Kellys at every turn. “There can’t be a clown costume left in Boston,” Abby pointed out in frustration. “But not one has approached us.”

An hour later, Jack squeezed Abby’s hand and inclined his head Lucky’s way. They wound their way into a far corner of the room. “What do you think, Venucci. The note said eight.”

Lucky checked his watch and shrugged. “It’s your call. I know you want your necklace back, but there should have been contact by now. It’s after nine.”

Abby and Jack exchanged glances. Lucky certainly didn’t know the real reason they were desperate to get back the amulet. Hell, even they were hard pressed to believe it much less expect someone else to.

“Let’s call it,” Jack decided.

Abby nodded. They must have missed something. This place was too noisy to think, so they needed to find somewhere quiet and talk things out.

“Looks like you won’t need me anymore.” Lucky clapped his large palm on Jack’s back and started to stand.

“Not so fast.” Jack grabbed Lucky by the arm. “Since it’s now officially party time, you might be interested to know a certain lady cornered me on my way back from trying to answer my phone. She asked to meet you.”

“I don’t think so,” Lucky hedged.

“Who knows, maybe this is the one you could sit in a hallway for,” Abby coaxed.

Lucky sat back down. “Ya think?”

Jack looked at Lucky.

Abby smiled. “There’s one way to find out.”

Jack looked at Abby.

Lucky grinned. “That would be nice.”

“It would,” she told him.

Jack scratched his head and cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

Before Abby could comment, a sexy blonde in a harem girl costume, jeweled naval and all, strutted past the table and smiled at Lucky.

Lucky inclined his head in her direction. “Who was that?”

“You don’t want to know,” Jack stated matter-of-factly.

“Oh, yes I do,” Lucky insisted, craning his neck.

Jack shrugged. “You aren’t interested, remember?”

Lucky grinned. “That was the woman?”

Jack nodded. “Her name is Connie.”

Lucky grabbed the front of Jack’s shirt with both hands. “Get her back here.”

Now he’s interested.” Jack winked at Abby. “We’ll be right back.” He grabbed Lucky by the shoulders and squared him toward Abby. “Say good night.”

Lucky grinned and repeated, “Good night, Abby. It’s been my pleasure.”

Abby glanced toward the blonde then winked at Lucky. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

She stood back and watched as her handsome phantom performed some much needed Halloween magic. Judging from the look on Lucky and Connie’s faces, Abby thought those two might just weave a spell all their own tonight.

As tired as she was tense from milling around, Abby arched her back and studied Jack’s face when he returned. Much to her approval, his frown lines had momentarily been replaced by a relaxed smile.

“And they lived happily ever after,” she assured him.

“I hope so.” Jack took her hand. “Let’s go somewhere quiet and talk this through.”

As they stepped back out into the night and started toward the parking area, the sense of urgency hit Abby like a ton of bricks. “Did you feel that?”

“Yes.”

“We have to go faster, Jack.”

Without question he followed her lead.

She stepped up her pace, desperately trying to see in the dark. Not enough, something told her. Not nearly enough.

“Hurry.” Letting go of Jack’s hand, she jogged. Still not fast enough.

Frustrated, she tossed her hat and mask and hiked her skirt up around her knees. “Run!”

Mirroring Abby, Jack tore off his cape and rushed toward the Jeep.

Sprinting as hard as she could down the winding path, she heard Jack’s long strides closing the distance between them.

Somewhere mid stride a feeling struck Abby like a bolt of lightning. Before she could process it, she heard a loud sickening thud from behind that stopped her cold.

Spinning around, it took her a second to figure out what had happened. The passenger door of the parked van she’d just passed had opened. Jack had apparently run, full speed, right into it. Now he lay sprawled on the ground.

As Abby hurried back to Jack, someone jumped out of the van. She sensed, more than heard, the driver’s approach. At a glance, still cloaked in darkness, the advancing figure appeared burly, standing well over six feet. She knelt over Jack. Felt the pulse in his neck. A strong, steady beat told her he was alive but unconscious. Relieved, but worried, she said, without looking up, “Please help him.”

When there was no reply, it was her blood’s turn to run cold. Time seemed to stand still. Her breath ceased. She prayed this was all a bad dream. The kind that left you screaming soundlessly. Running for your life in slow motion. Falling off a cliff.

As desperate to know as she was not to know, when Abby felt Jack’s fingers twitch, she forced herself to look up and face the man dressed in the clown suit.

“You,” she hissed.

Zeke jerked Abby to her feet and handcuffed both wrists behind her back before she could blink. Rounding the van, he slammed her into the front seat so hard it jarred her teeth. He slipped a noose over her head and shoved it down around her throat, pinning her neck to the headrest. Her nightmare reared its ugly head once more and she could hear the angry voices crying, “Hang her by the neck!”

The moment he slammed the door shut, Abby fought and strained against the rope until it dug into her skin and she choked. When that didn’t work, she tried frantically to release the door handle with her feet.

“Damn!” Abby realized she’d never be able to work her way free in time, so she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Help! Somebody help me!”

Zeke slid behind the wheel and clamped a large hand over her mouth. “Shut up, Bitch,” he ordered, “or I’ll splatter your boyfriend all over the street.”

Abby ached to sink her teeth into the fleshy palm he had slapped hard across her face, but when she looked into his cold, emotionless eyes, she knew this man would carry out his threat.

Jack was groggy, but when Abby’s cry sliced through his consciousness he struggled to his feet. The van made a U-turn in the driveway, and he saw her pale face through the passenger window. Jack bolted. He had to catch up while the driver was still maneuvering through parked cars. Had to get to Abby before the van could reach the street.

On a dead run, Jack grabbed the ladder leading to luggage carrier and hopped on the back with a thud loud enough to alert the driver. He grabbed the metal rack on the roof and struggled to maintain his balance as the van accelerated. Hanging on with his right hand, he yanked the back door handle with his left. He shoved and pulled frantically, but it would not open. The driver swerved right and hit a curb — hard. Jack’s feet slipped off the ladder and left him hanging by one arm.

The driver zigzagged recklessly into traffic, still trying to shake him off. Jack swiped at the luggage carrier with his free hand and missed. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried again. The van veered. Jack missed. His right arm strained to hold on as his feet flailed. Where the hell was that step?

Unable to regain his footing, his fingers burned like fire. Both shoulders cramped. The added momentum of his moving body made maintaining his one-handed grip almost impossible. The cords in his neck and back stretched to the max. He fought to keep his legs out of the opposite lane. Headlights blinded Jack as oncoming drivers turned sharply to keep from hitting him. Still dangling like a human pendulum, he yanked furiously and finally felt the handle click and the door flew open.

Abby’s heart nearly stopped when she heard someone land hard in the back of the van. She strained to turn her head, but couldn’t. Even without looking, she knew it had to be Jack. When she saw the driver start to reach beneath the seat, she struggled violently to shift her weight and kick one leg sideways. She ground her high heel down hard and pinned his hand to the floor.

“Dammit!” Zeke howled as the vehicle swerved out of control. Horns blared. Jack grabbed the back of Abby’s seat and braced himself just before the van jumped a curb and slammed full speed into a tree.

Upon impact, Abby was thrown forward and the rope around her neck nearly strangled her. Gasping for air, she fought to remain conscious. Stunned but unhurt, Jack dove into the front seat as Zeke forced open the door and fell out. Quick to follow, Jack landed squarely on him. In one huge shove, Zeke heaved Jack aside and both men scrambled to their feet.

Squared off beneath the streetlight, they faced one another for the first time. Jack took a split second to size up the guy. He was big. Looked strong. And his Neanderthal reach had to be ridiculous.

Jack was used to fighting in a courtroom battle but never literally for his life. And Abby’s. When the man held up his hand in a traditional boxer’s stance, Jack knew he’d never been this far out of his element. Like the hypnotic motion of a Cobra ready to strike, the man rocked slightly from foot to foot. Jack raised his fists, mimicking his opponent.

The first blow was lightning fast and hard as hell. Jack felt the big man’s right fist connect with his chin, snapping his teeth together. He bit his tongue and tasted blood. A split second later Jack caught a left hook that flipped his head to the right. Jack countered with a punch that glanced off the guy’s cheek. Jack spit blood on the sidewalk and, without thinking, took a step forward. The circle that separated them grew smaller.

“Come on, Asshole,” Zeke taunted, dropping his arms, showing no fear. “The sooner I finish you off; the sooner I get back to your girlfriend.” The streetlight illuminated the man’s sadistic grin.

Before Jack could blink the man closed the gap between them, leaping forward, left foot first, and throwing a straight left jab. The punch landed squarely on Jack’s chin, snapping his head like whiplash. He staggered backwards several steps, fighting to regain his footing and comeback with something … anything. He swung hard, but his assailant had already retreated out of Jack’s reach. Out-matched in skill, speed and brute strength, Jack knew he was in deep trouble.

Still grinning, the man lunged forward again. Going into pure survival mode, Jack aimed a kick at the one spot guaranteed to drop any man. To Jack’s surprise, the man actually stepped into the kick and caught his ankle. Holding Jack’s foot the man yanked him forward. He struggled to hop on one foot rather than go down, but the man, held his ankle and kicked Jack’s other leg out from under him. Jack’s ass hit the sidewalk hard. His head bounced on the concrete as he landed hard on his back. The air whooshed out of his lungs.

The man slammed Jack’s free leg down and rushed on top of him. Straddling him just above the waist, the man anchored Jack to the ground. In one swift movement he had taken away Jack’s ability to scramble to his feet. In this position his legs were useless. Panic ripped through him.

The man’s weight bore down on Jack’s diaphragm, causing him to pant to breathe. Flailing, but unable to land a punch, he could see his frosty, staccato breaths in the cold night air. Jack arched his back to try to shake off the bastard, but this obviously wasn’t his first rodeo. The man rode out Jack’s attempts then threw down an elbow landing solidly on Jacks forehead, grinding the back of Jack’s head into the pavement.

Pain ricocheted through Jack’s head. His vision blurred. Keeping his left hand on the cement for balance, the man threw another elbow. Caught hard above his left eyebrow, Jack felt the skin split. A hot stream of blood ran down his cheek and trickled into his ear. Unable to push him off, Jack grappled for the man’s face and tried to claw his eyes. Pulling up with all his strength, he grabbed the back of the man’s neck and tried to swing him to one side — even a fraction.

The assailant batted away his attempts and threw down another elbow to the same spot, opening the cut deeper and banging Jack’s head on the pavement again. Pain exploded in his skull. His lungs burned. The blood that had run in Jack’s left eye now blinded the man’s assault from that side. With every ounce of strength he could muster, Jack bucked his hips again and again. Desperate, he struggled to turn beneath the man’s dead weight to roll him over and off of him, but with both the assailant’s knees grounded firmly on either side of him, it didn’t work.

Groping for any kind of leverage, Jack’s discovered what felt like might be the only chance to save his life and Abby’s. Discarded next to the curb lay a beer bottle. As he flailed for it, the man threw down another elbow, completely closing Jack’s left eye. Excruciating pain stopped his attempt short. Just … out … of … reach. Clawing he stretched his fingers, the nails raking the concrete. The tips touched the lip of the glass neck. Slipped off. He strained with everything in him until one finger found the opening.

In one last attempt Jack forced his hips up momentarily upsetting the man’s balance just a fraction. Using the tiniest bit of leverage he had, Jack threw every ounce of strength left in his body in the direction of the bottle. Infuriated by the momentary shift, the man pummeled Jack with punches. Right, left, right, left. With one eye swollen shut and blood in the other, Jack couldn’t see. Both ears rang like a church bell on a cold winter’s night. Somehow through the pain and the exhaustion of his struggle, Jack flicked his finger just enough to flick it closer to his thumb, enabling him to grab the bottle’s neck. Another shot to his head landed so hard it caused a reflex that sent his hand, bottle and all, slamming into the temple of the man so fast Jack didn’t even realize he had done it. He did, however, feel the man’s weight shift off him.

Reacting with primal instincts, Jack sat up and rolled over before he could be pinned down again. When he realized his Hail Mary punch hadn’t even broken the bottle, Jack’s rage exploded. He picked it up and busted it on the man’s head then grabbed the front of the unconscious man’s shirt. He slammed his fist into the man’s face, then hauled him up and did it again. And again. Jack never even heard the sirens when the police cars pull up beside them, never saw the red and blue flashing lights.

“It’s over,” Lucky yelled as he pulled Jack off the other man.

Panting, Jack jerked his arm away from Lucky and bent over, bracing both hands on his knees. He’d never wanted to hurt anyone before. But he had wanted to hurt this man. Apparently it’s not easy to turn off the survival switch once it has been flipped. He staggered to his feet and decisively rolled his shoulders. He could live with that.

Abby watched Jack turn his back on Lucky and make his way toward the van on unsteady feet. No one should ever be pushed that far beyond his limits. She knew he had crossed the line for her and only hoped the price hadn’t been too high.

Jack opened the door. He uncurled his fists and gently untied the noose. Lucky was right behind him with a key for the handcuffs. Once she was free, Jack took hold of her trembling hands and helped her from the van. He started to touch the ugly rope burn around her neck, but his hands hesitated. “Your throat,” he whispered.

Abby shook her head. “Your eye,” she whispered, pressing his badly scraped knuckles to her lips. She had cast the circle and asked for protection, so what had gone wrong? And that’s when it dawned on her. When asking for protection, she had specified at the Halloween Ball. Had not paying close attention to her words nearly cost both their lives? God, there was so much she didn’t know.

Abby’s warm tears stung as they splashed onto the tender flesh of Jack’s hand, but he did move.

“You’re still bleeding,” Abby murmured, gently lifting her shirtsleeve to dab some of the blood.

“Jack,” Lucky called from the van. “Looks like you still have a horseshoe up your ass.” He pulled a gun from beneath the front seat and brought it over for them to see.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Jack said. “Abby just told me when he reached for it she nailed his hand to the floor with her high heel.”

Lucky raised one eyebrow and looked at Abby.

Concern filling her eyes, she managed a wink.

“By the way, Venucci,” Jack said, “thanks for the back up.”

“Forget it. One of the party goers saw the whole thing go down and called it in on his cell phone,” Lucky shrugged. “Besides, that’s just what I do.”

“Kinda like the cavalry?” Abby offered a shaky smile.

“Yeah,” Lucky nodded. He put one arm around Abby’s shoulder and the other over Jack’s. “Come on. I’ll drive you to E.R.”

Jack shook his head, immediately paying the price. “We don’t have time.”

“Like hell you don’t.”

Abby put her hand on Lucky’s sleeve.

“I’m not going.” Jack clenched his jaw to manage the pain. “Later, not now.”

Feeling Lucky’s forearm tense, she caught his gaze and asked quietly, “Is there any other way — for now?”

“This is nuts.” Lucky shook his head, then scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “Okay, okay. I know a guy.”

“A guy,” she repeated. The question in Abby’s voice was obvious.

“For Christ’s sake, he’s an E.R. doc not a veterinarian. Although taking this dumb ass to a vet would serve him right.”

“Please,” she said.

“For you,” Lucky told her, checking his watch. “Let’s go. Maybe we can catch him at home.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

After the ordeal they’d just been through and their quick stop at Lucky’s racquetball buddy’s for stitches and pain killer, nothing had ever looked quite as good to Abby as Jack’s house. Grateful to be safe, she headed straight for the kitchen.

“How about some coffee?” she offered.

“Sounds great.”

“You sit. I’ll make,” she ordered. And for once Jack didn’t argue. A few minutes later with steaming mugs in hand, Abby stopped and leaned against the doorjamb. She smiled. It looked like Jack had not only started a fire, but he had also helped himself to the remainder of her candles. Shadows danced on every wall. Music, soft and mystical, filled the air. The spicy scent of warm wax smelled of autumn. Her heart broke just a little at the sight of his swollen black eye, stitched forehead, bruised jaw and bloodstained shirt. Tonight, he had risked his life for her. Right now, they had to talk.

Abby sat down beside Jack and placed the coffee in front of them. She handed him a mug and watched closely as he took a drink. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I should ask you the same question.” He ran a finger down her cheek. When her eyes closed at his touch, he swallowed hard. My God, he’d come so close to losing her again.

“I’m okay,” she assured him. You, not so much.” Abby looked away from his battered face. “I guess we’ll just have to wait to find out how that man figures into all this.” She shuddered and Jack pulled her closer.

Before asking, Abby searched Jack’s expression. As desperate as she was to hear him say the bald man was the end of the line, she needed an honest answer. “Do you think he’s the only one we have to worry about?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Lucky is working hard to get to the bottom of this.”

“I’m sure he is.” Abby debated its relevance, but decided to tell Jack about the conversation she and Maxine had at Starbucks. “Did you know Maxine asked me out for coffee?”

“Maxine doesn’t do coffee. And what’s that got to do with any of this?”

“Maybe something. Maybe nothing,” Abby told him. “And by the way, she does do coffee. She wanted to talk to me. To tell me to watch out for Bridget.”

“She what?”

“Maxine warned me about Bridget.”

Jack thought a moment. “Well, she’s never made her dislike of Bridget any secret. But why would she involve a total stranger? No offense.”

“None taken,” Abby assured him. “She apparently did feel a need to discuss her concerns with me. But as far as the rest goes, she didn’t admit to anything else like the dreams we’ve been experiencing. Or past lives.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted.

“Okay, Jack,” she said matter-of-factly. “Whether or not Maxine is in or out, I really need to know what the hell’s going on here. Is this some kind of reincarnation-thing we’re experiencing? Do you even believe in that?”

“Last week, I would have said ‘unequivocally no’.” Thoughtful, he bent both elbows and steepled his badly scraped fingers. “Today, I guess I would have to say … ‘yes’.”

She watched the admission settle across his face but said nothing.

“As a lawyer I deal in logic and facts. Yet, somehow the illogical and fictional have morphed into something that appears to be, at least on some level, believable.”

“Believable and a whole lot creepy,” she added.

“You’ve got that right.” He took a breath and his ribs reminded him of the fight all over again. He exhaled slowly. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t know where this is headed, but I think we need to stay the course.”

“I agree.” Abby nodded. “For whatever reason we’re in this together, and we have to see it through — whatever that means.”

He held her gaze. “So we’re good to go?”

“Yes, I guess we are.” Abby sipped her coffee. “What about Maxine and Bridget? Do you think they’re involved — ” she fumbled for the right words “ — you know, like we are?”

“Well, if we believe the journal, they are definitely in this with us.”

“And do you believe the journal?” she asked.

“What I can’t believe is that I’m saying this. But, I swear I remember writing in one.” He began ticking off points on his fingers. “One: we actually found it. Two: it referenced a chain of events we’ve both been dreaming about. And three: it named me, you, Maxine, and Bridget.” He shrugged. “What’s your take?”

Trying not to focus on his raw knuckles, Abby chewed the inside of her cheek. “Okay. Let’s say you’re right. So, do you think Maxine and Bridget remember? Or even know about it?”

Jack shook his head and again paid the price for the quick movement. “Beats the hell out of me.”

“Too many coincidences.” Abby sighed.

“I don’t — ”

“I know. You don’t believe in coincidences.”

“No, I don’t.” He finished his coffee and leaned back in the chair.

“Well then, what about the amulet?” she asked. “We have to get it back, right?”

“That goes without saying,” Jack insisted. “Until then, I can tell you one thing for sure.”

Abby waited.

“You’re safe here with me.”

After tonight, she knew exactly how far he would go to protect her. “I know,” she whispered, touching his jaw. She turned her head and quickly wiped away the tears that spilled down her cheeks.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Bridget purred, materializing from the shadows. Clucking her tongue, she observed, “My, my, Jack. I see you met Zeke.”

“What the hell?” Jack started to stand, but felt Abby lay a hand on his shoulder. “How did you get in here?”

Bridget smiled. “Oh, I have my ways, don’t I, Abigail?”

Images of Abby’s seventeenth century life flashed through her mind like a biographical montage. Growing up in Salem. Falling in love with Jackson Hathorne. Secretly learning her craft. And her existence, with one common denominator, Bridget Bishop. “You’re the one behind all this, aren’t you?” Abby accused.

“The bulb might be dim, but the light finally came on, didn’t it, Darling?” Bridget mocked.

This time Jack stood.

Abby grabbed his arm. “I can take care of Bridget,” she insisted. Blue eyes clashed with green in the firelight as the two women inched closer and faced off. Both wore long black dresses with flowing sleeves. One of Abby’s, however, was splotched with Jack’s blood. Their eerie shadows loomed on the walls behind them, dancing grotesquely in the candlelight as they confronted one another.

“So, the mousy, Midwestern shopkeeper finally got a clue,” Bridget hissed. “A little slow these days, aren’t you, Abigail?”

Abby gritted her teeth at Bridget’s insistent use of her given name. “What’s that old saying about revenge? It may have taken over three hundred years, but it tastes pretty sweet to me.”

Jack felt like a damn burst as memories flooded his mind. However inconceivable, they had been memories just like Abby had suggested. He turned toward Bridget. “I remember you now. You were the one on Gallows Hill who pointed a finger at Abby. You caused her death.”

“Save your closing arguments, Counselor,” Bridget ordered. “By the time I’m done with the two of you, she’ll be back where she belongs and you — well, I haven’t really decided about you yet. If you’re anything like that idiot I hired that botched things up tonight, well, My Dear, your chances don’t look too good either. I should have known not to send a man to do a woman’s job.”

“Like hell,” he spat.

While Bridget was momentarily preoccupied with Jack, Abby studied her eyes. Abby’s throat went dry as the pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. “Sasha.” It wasn’t a question.

Abby and Jack exchanged looks.

“And the maid?” he asked.

Abby nodded. Two strangers with one thing in common. A violent reaction to her amulet. Not to mention the fact that they were both Bridget Bishop. Abby’s hand went to her throat.

“What’s the matter, Abigail, did you lose your precious amulet?” Bridget laughed. “My, my. What will you do for protection?”

Abby didn’t flinch. She racked her brain and scoured the recesses of her mind, searching for memories of The Craft. Concentrating, she stilled her senses and called on every ounce of strength to focus all her energy. The air around her stirred. Even though there were no windows open in the house, an unseen breeze billowed the curtains and teased the hem of her long, dark skirt.

Jack’s gut knotted. Prodded by the need to do something — anything — he took a step forward and grabbed Bridget by the arm. “Get the hell out of here.”

Bridget raised her hand and literally stopped him cold. “Poor Jackson,” she cooed, to his deathly still form. “You never did understand The Power, did you?”

Jack’s feet were rooted to the floor. He couldn’t move a muscle. Arms helpless at his side, he struggled and strained but couldn’t as much as twitch.

“Jack!” Abby ran to him but knew she was too late. She touched his arm — grateful, at least, to feel the warmth. “Leave him out of this,” she demanded, unwilling to filter the hatred from her voice. “This is between you and me.”

“I don’t think so,” Bridget said matter-of-factly. “You see, Jackson, is most definitely part of the equation. He started out as our bone of contention, or have you forgotten?”

Abby’s eyes darted from Bridget’s evil gaze to Jack’s frozen figure. Memories of his proposal flashed through her mind like a pre-wedding album filled with color and joy. “We were to be married.” The words slipped from her lips like a prayer.

“Kind of hard to do with a corpse for a bride though, wasn’t it?” Bridget’s laugh was shrill.

“That’s why you accused me of witchcraft?” Abby charged. “To have Jackson?” Her voice sharpened with every detail that surfaced. She remembered Bridget’s obvious jealousy, but never suspected its depth.

Recalling that glorious night on Gallows Hill, the crowd’s frenzy, Abigail’s lifeless body, Bridget’s mouth curled into a satisfying smile.

“You set me up, but the one thing you didn’t count on was my last words,” Abby pointed out. When Bridget’s grin turned to a hate-filled hiss, Abby knew she’d hit her mark. “You didn’t, did you?” Remembering the words, she recited, “Protect my beloved ’til I return. Brand the hand of the one he spurned. Neither touch the stone nor cancel the spell, or the wicked one will burn in hell.”

Bridget glanced down at her scorched palm.

“I was not praying for my sacred soul like some frightened school girl,” Abby spat, pointing a finger in Bridget’s direction. The distance between them crackled as lightening split the sky. “I can’t believe with all your unholy powers that you didn’t know that I truly was a witch. So, before that noose took my life, I not only saved Jackson from you, I saved him for myself.”

The air around them undulated like an unsettled graveyard mist. The candlelight swayed gently to some mystical, rhythmic beat. The night wind howled, scratching and clawing at the windows like something evil that is desperate to get in.

“You’ll not save him tonight,” Bridget warned. She raised both arms and thunder rolled, rattling the windows. “You’ll never put the bits and pieces together in time to save yourself again. More importantly, this time all your power will be mine — ”

“This will stop your negative behavior; replace the wicked with a positive favor. Let my magic open this gate, and release him now. This be his fate. As I will so mote it be.”

Jack blinked. He bent both knees and rolled his shoulders. “What the hell happened?”

Bridget was only slightly amused. “Looks like your little princess is turning back into a real witch after all.” With a flick of her hand, fire flew across the room and exploded into the hearth. “Don’t get caught in this crossfire, Jackson. I am warning you.”

Abby planted both feet. “Don’t you threaten him.”

At the tone of Abby’s voice, Shadow jumped from an end table onto Bridget’s back — exactly the distraction Abby needed. “Bridget Bishop, as the moon’s light fades to black, from my spell you cannot turn back, feel your life force drain and leave, to this man no more you’ll cleave. As I will so mote it be.”

Bridget let out an eerie scream that dwindled into mad laughter. Fading from the room, she warned, “You underestimate me, Fool. Little do you know how I’ve turned the tables on you again.” Her ghostly apparition warned, “I’ll return before the morrow. Your life, your fate is one of sorrow. Sent back in time you will depart. And I will have your soul, your heart.”

“Never!” Abby raised her arms and every candle around the room flared like a torch. The fire in the hearth flashed, rocketing sparks up the chimney. Outside, thunder rolled and lightening lit the sky.

“Beware the witching hour,” Bridget hissed as she disappeared completely.

All faded back to normal. The fire crackled warmly. The candles cast a romantic glow around the room. And Abby sat right where she had stood — in the middle of the floor.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Jack helped Abby to her feet and for a long while they just looked at one another.

“First of all, I don’t even know what to say,” he admitted. “And secondly, trust me when I say I’m not in any way, shape or form trying to be funny. But I would guess that little production answers more than a few of our questions.”

It was all Abby could do to nod her agreement.

“Where in the hell did all that come from?” he asked.

She gestured in frustration — elbows bent and palms up. “I honestly don’t know, and it’s really freaking me out. It’s like the words were coming out of my mouth, in my voice, but I have no idea why I said them. How would I know about spells? Where on earth did those fireworks come from?”

“Well, don’t look at me,” Jack said. “Apparently Bridget was playing freeze tag, and I was it!”

“This can’t be happening,” Abby insisted.

“Well, it is.”

She thought a moment. “Okay, then. Enough of Bridget. If it’s a yes for Bridget, I’m guessing it’s also a yes for Maxine, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “Apparently Max helped me before. At least that’s what the journal indicated.”

“My God, Jack, whatever’s going on, I’ve got to remember — ”

“You will.” He pulled her close. “We both will.” Holding her for a moment, he checked the mantel clock — ten-oh-five. “The witching hour is midnight, right?” He felt her nod.

Abby tilted her head back and looked at his handsome face in the firelight. “We were really … do you recall — ”

“That other lifetime?” Jack met her gaze. “I do.”

Understanding their unspoken vow, Abby replied, “I do, too.”

“Everything happens for a reason.” Jack took her hand. “I became a lawyer in this lifetime to retrieve the amulet. To meet you again.”

Abby nodded.

“Do you believe the necklace means more? More than just our link?”

“Yes,” Abby answered quickly. “I feel very strongly that I need it tonight, Jack. What are we going to do? We have to get it back.”

He grabbed the phone, pounded out the familiar number and asked for Detective Venucci. “We need Abby’s necklace. Now.”

“I’d love to help, but — ”

“No buts,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “Listen carefully. I can’t explain, but trust me. This is a matter of life and death.”

“Sounds like something the police should — ”

“Dammit, Lucky, don’t play cop with me. I know the damned law.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious,” Jack barked. “Pull strings or call in a favor. Hell, break the law if you have to, but get the damned necklace from that bastard.”

“Pick it up in twenty minutes.”

Jack glanced at the clock — ten-fifteen.

“Make it fifteen.” Jack knew he and Abby still needed to sort this through. “Can you bring it to us?”

“Look, I’ll get this guy to hand it over. One way or another. But I’m tied up on a homicide.”

“Never mind,” Jack insisted. A flash of Max snagging the necklace on Gallows’ Hill was instantaneous. “Just have it there, and I’ll send Maxine Spencer to pick it up. She’s my secretary.”

Abby met his gaze and nodded. She felt certain Maxine would help him again.

Without waiting for a response from Lucky, he cut the connection and hit speed dial. “Max, I need a favor.”

Without hesitation she asked, “What?”

“Go to the police station and pick up Abby’s amulet. We need it as soon as possible,” he instructed.

“I’m on my way.”

As his awareness grew, Jack added, “I’m not sure where we’ll be, so make sure you have your cell phone. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Will do.”

Jack hung up and faced Abby.

“She’s in,” Abby said. It wasn’t question. “Do you think Maxine understands she was and is a part of this?”

“Maybe. I don’t know, but what I told her was right, wasn’t it? About the location. We may not be here.”

She thought a moment then nodded. “I think we need to go to the cemetery. To Abigail’s grave.”

He took her hand. “I think you’re right.”

As they parked at the cemetery entrance, Jack checked the Jeep’s clock — 11:15. Flashlights in hand, they entered the graveyard, then stopped. The night was deadly still except for an occasional breeze that rustled through dried leaves. The sky was pitch black except for sprinkling of stars and the full moon.

“Which way?” she asked. “Do you have any idea where she — I — was buried? Oh, God, Jack, this sounds ridiculous.”

“I know.” He squeezed her hand. “But it’s either that, or we’re all suffering some kind of mass hysteria, which we’re not,” he added quickly as they walked. “Look, I have a logical mind that borders on anally retentive. I have been stringently trained in coherent, rational analysis. I deal in facts and concrete evidence. No one should be more skeptical than I.”

“But you’re not,” she concluded.

His tone softened. “No, I’m not.”

Reassured, she asked, “Do you remember where Abigail Corey’s grave is?” However certain Jack seemed, she still refused to say my grave.

Jack fanned his flashlight across the road and back again as they continued. “I’m not sure,” he began. “I do know this section of the cemetery is the oldest, so it stands to reason, you — she — is here.”

Abby used her light to illuminate the row after row of ancient tombstones. “Oh,” escaped her lips.

The mental flash Jack saw was fast. Kind of like a View-Master slide. “There was a tree close by,” he told her.

“Would it still be there? Do trees even live that long?”

Another snapshot developed in Jack’s mind. “Maybe not, but there was a huge rock. Big enough to resemble a stone bench.”

“Like in the journal.” Her pulse quickened. Something about what Jack said felt right. She searched the nearby markers with her flashlight. No tree. No bench. Surely she, too, would feel some sense of location once they got close.

“Yes.”

Frustrated, she asked, “What time is it?”

He glanced at the luminescent dial of his watch. “Eleven twenty-five.”

“Thirty-five minutes.” The beam of light she held trembled.

“We can do this,” he insisted. “That’s plenty of — ” The shrill ring of his cell phone echoed in the lonely graveyard. “Maxine?” he answered.

Abby took hold of his sleeve.

“Meet me at the north entrance to the cemetery.” He flipped the phone shut. “She’s got it,” he told her.

Within ten minutes, Maxine arrived and folded the necklace into Abby’s hand. “Hurry,” she urged. Turning to Jack she added, “Save her this time.” Without another word, she got back in her car.

Not knowing what to say, Jack once again took Abby by the hand and looked around. “Let’s go.” Instinct again told him to veer left. He guided her quickly, but carefully through the rows of head stones.

“These are all around the right time period,” she noted, verifying the dates and using them as reference points. Abby hurried alongside him as best she could. As the minutes ticked by, her panic grew and frustration only clouded her senses.

Jack clenched his jaw, not daring to check his watch again. They were running out of time. He knew it. Abby knew it. And he believed somewhere close by Bridget knew it. Her words burned in his mind, warning that even if they remembered, she had somehow turned the tables on them.

That’s when he saw it. The silhouette of a gnarly, petrified tree loomed in the distance. He picked up his pace, practically dragging Abby behind him. “Hurry,” he urged.

Adrenaline pumping, Abby stumbled yet kept her footing. Barely matching his long strides in the dark, her breathing changed to gulps as she struggled to keep up. Once there, she saw the boulder Jack had described. Its flat top could have resembled a stone bench.

“That’s it,” he huffed. “We’ve found it.”

Abby felt the amulet warm in her hand. She opened her palm and turned her flashlight away, leaving the necklace in the dark. “Jack,” she whispered.

He didn’t need to look to see the pulsing glow, but he did. Mesmerized, it resembled liquid gold. “Now what?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered. Dreading, but knowing she had to see the name, her name, Abby shined her flashlight on the small, plain headstone. “Nooo,” she wailed.

Understanding, Jack comforted her. “I know it must be a shock, to see your name, but — ”

“No,” she cried. “It’s not my stone.”

“Look, this is a lot to — ”

“It’s not mine, Jack.”

Jack instinctively brought up his light. “What the hell?” He read the tombstone, “Sarah Spencer, Cherished Daughter, 1686–1692.

Abby’s flashlight dropped from her hand. “Oh, my God.”

Jack redirected his beam to the tree, then the huge boulder and back to the marker. “I don’t care what this says — ”

Another flash. He saw Jackson seated on the bench-like boulder, a spray of burgundy mums in hand. The stone he looked at read: Abigail Corey, My One and Only True Love, 1674–1692.

“This is the right grave, Abby.”

She snatched up her flashlight. “No, it isn’t,” she cried. Turning her beam on the surrounding markers. “It’s nearly midnight, and this is not Abigail’s grave.”

“Forget the damn marker. It is,” he swore, more certain than ever.

“It’s not!” Abby started to run, zigzagging through the cemetery. “How will we find it now?” Her flashlight darted and beamed like a laser, spotlighting every marker within its reach. “Please, God, life can’t be this cruel again.”

By the time Jack caught up with Abby, she was sobbing. Frantic, she clung to him. “Help me find it, Jack.”

Maxine’s words echoed in his head — Save her this time.

Jack eased her away. “You have to trust me, Abby.”

She felt the amulet warm noticeably as he spoke.

“Do you?” he asked quietly. “Do you trust me?

Again the stone warmed. “Yes.”

He walked her back to the boulder beneath the tree. “I don’t care what the marker says. This is Abigail Corey’s grave. I ought to know. I buried her there.”

Abby’s sobs hitched, and she let him continue.

He checked the illuminated dial on his watch — eleven forty-five. “Do you trust that what I’m telling you is the truth?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath and cleared her mind. “Maybe switching headstones is how Bridget tried to turn the tables on us.”

“I think you’re right.” He took the necklace from Abby’s hand and slipped it over her head. “We’re running out of time, so try to channel what you remember from that All Hallows Eve in 1692.”

Abby stood deathly still. She took another deep breath, turned her face skyward and focused on the full moon.

“I think,” she began, exhaling slowly, “I think Abigail and I need to come together as one.” Her words were soft, spoken more to herself than to Jack.

Jack snuck another look at his watch — eleven fifty. His mouth went dry. Feeling nearly as powerless as he had over three hundred years ago, all he could do was pray Abby could save herself. That’s all he really wanted.

As she cast a circle around the grave, she said quietly, “Beloved by the Universe, I, Abigail Corey, both past and present, am loved and protected by all that is divine and pure.” She lay down on the earth and closed both eyes, with her head touching the inscribed front of the marker.

Jack watched in fascination as the amulet at Abby’s throat pulsed with her every heartbeat … and his? Stunned, but not frightened, he felt the power surge through his body and warm his blood. The age-old rhythm kicked up a warm breeze that, within seconds, surrounded the two of them. As Jack stood cocooned by the darkness, and mesmerized by the comforting, steady throb coursing through his veins, the world around them, above them, and below them absorbed the synchronicity like a parched desert floor soaks up rainwater.

Suddenly, electricity exploded all around them. Instead of the soothing drone, it sounded like hundreds of light bulbs simultaneously dropped onto concrete. Light fragments sparked and splintered. Fireworks erupted within the circle. The pitch intensified. The louder the whine, the faster the wind. The stronger the wind, the colder the air. Jack’s ears itched from the reverberation. Like a carnival ride, centrifugal force plastered his clothing against him. Frosty puffs of breath slipped through his chattering teeth.

Unable to move a muscle, Jack strained to keep his eyes open and locate Abby. He blinked in disbelief and blinked again. He was nailed to the spot surrounded by some kind of conjured up, supernatural whirlwind. How could she lay unaffected in its midst? Her dress remained unruffled. Her auburn hair fanned over the grass, every strand in place. Her breath did not form a frigid cloud above her lips. Instead, she remained untouched as if in the eye of a storm.

As suddenly as the wind had gusted, the temperature had dropped and the buzz had intensified to the point of head-splitting, everything returned to normal. The air around them grew deathly still. Warm. Silent. To Jack, it felt like being dropped down a well. One moment he’d been soaring, the next he hit rock bottom like a bag of wet cement. Jack staggered but somehow managed to keep his footing as he looked for Abby.

She stood up, eyes still closed, but Jack saw it. A smoky tendril, barely discernible at first, was inching its way out of the earth behind her. Hesitating as if to decide, do I stay or do I go, it undulated and strained like a baby wriggling from a mother’s womb. With each twist and stretch the filmy wisp elongated and broadened. Jack held his breath and watched the misty form writhe and strain. One at a time, legs protruded. Dark shoes with brass buckles dangled. Arms extended and fingers wiggled. White petticoats appeared beneath a long, black dress. And then he saw the face start to emerge. At first the features looked like they were pressing against Saran Wrap. Then, like focusing a camera lens, the image materialized. Green eyes. Auburn hair. Full lips. When the mist around her cleared, Abigail Corey hovered just above the ground.

When Abby’s lashes fluttered open, she saw Jack, but he wasn’t looking at her. Hairs prickling at the nape of her neck, as she pivoted to follow his gaze. It was like looking into a fogged up mirror in the dark with only moonlight to illuminate your image. Transparent features. Blurred boundaries. Eerie familiarity.

Abby blinked. Looked again. Blinked. She lowered her head, then forced a calming breath. As she raised her gaze, one final glance at the now-clear image of herself was all she needed. Abby closed her eyes again to focus all her energy. “Join our lives, Abigail and me. Make us whole for all to see. Fuse two lost souls and make them one. Nevermore to be undone. As I will so mote it be.”

Unafraid, she relaxed and allowed the unification to begin. As she and Abigail united, Abby felt the whoosh sensation. Tingly. Breathtaking. Like the scene from a movie when the ghost walks right through someone, and the person feels it but doesn’t know what it is. Kinda like that. Only better. So much better. Because Abby knew exactly what it was. This melding had purpose. This joining of spirits was her destiny. This incarnation was exactly what she has been missing all her life. Finally, Abigail Corey would make Abby whole, and, in turn, she would do the same for Abigail.

Abby’s eyes fluttered open. “It’s done,” she said softly.

Jack marked the time — eleven fifty-five. They had made it in time.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Not quite in time, Jack!” Bridget swore, appearing from behind the tree.

The flash Abby got was every bit as defining as it was fast. She saw Bridget as a young girl of about twelve with long dark curls playing by the pond with a much younger girl. Her laughter had turned to cruel teasing, and then she pushed the small, blonde girl into the water.

“Sarah.” The name escaped Abby’s lips like a prayer. “Sarah was your stepsister.” She met Bridget’s icy stare. “Oh … my … God. The name on the headstone — Sarah Spencer was Maxine’s daughter, and she was only six years old when you let her drown.”

Bong! Peeling through the cold October night like a funeral dirge, the first chime marked the countdown to the witching hour.

“Not my fault that brat couldn’t swim.” Bridget saw Jack check his watch. “That’s right, Jack — or should I say Jackson? The witching hour is nearly upon us. So, say goodbye to your beloved Abigail again.”

Bong!

When Jack lunged at Bridget, she thrust one arm straight out in front of her, its flat palm facing him. The staccato gesture stopped him cold, and the air around him stood still. Bridget exhaled a ragged breath.

Bong!

Abby recognized the same force Bridget had used on Jack earlier. When she rushed to his defense, Bridget turned on her. Abby splayed her fingers, casting sparks.

Bong!

Abby and Bridget squared off. The hum of electricity crackled between them, rekindling an age-old power. Face to face, only twenty feet separated them. Linked by time through space, for the second time in history on All Hallows Eve blue eyes challenged green as the standoff began. With arms raised in confrontation, a palpable, albeit invisible, force connected the two.

Painfully aware of his surroundings, Jack struggled to be free of his invisible shackles. Like over three hundred years earlier when he had been tied to the tree, tonight he fought with every ounce of his being to break Bridget’s spell. Like before, he watched the battle for power begin, praying Abby could somehow remember all she needed to hold her own. Sweat dampened his forehead … and he could feel it. This spell was not as strong as the last one Bridget had cast on him. So, he labored harder to free himself. He strained every muscle. Pulled like a sled dog. And that’s when he felt it. Something gave — just a little.

With everything at stake, how in God’s name could Abby be forced to fly by the seat of her pants? Witchcraft was new to her, at least in this lifetime. Tonight, she had to try and draw on knowledge from her past life. As she and Bridget stood, locked in a macabre checkmate, they stared each other down. Abby knew just checking Bridget’s power was not an option; she had to defeat her.

Like two men arm wrestling, the hold was locked. No one moved. No one gave an inch. Electricity splintered the air between them. Sparks flew. The surrounding atmosphere quivered with visible but silent sound waves. No one took a breath.

Bong!

The silence was deafening. The sky grew blacker. The moon beamed brighter. A golden glow bridged the gap separating the two women. With it a discernible hum broke the night’s silence. Not a comforting, soothing sound. This was a disconcerting buzz. Like angry bees. Bees with an agenda. Bees that were so pissed off they would be happy to sting you over and over again until you died.

Bridget gritted her teeth. Abby locked her jaw. Energy warmed the distance between them. A force, strong enough to hold them fast, raged between the two, holding them together, keeping them apart.

Bong!

As the pressure around Bridget and Abby escalated, the animals residing in the cemetery scattered. Paying little or no attention to one another, squirrels and rabbits skittered away. Deer and raccoons zigzagged behind them. Birds and bats took flight, nearly blocking out the moon. Owls screeched as even the trees pulled back.

Against the laws of nature, the evergreens, maples and oaks leaned away from the energy field. Creaking, their giant limbs bent and strained almost to the breaking point, as the pure voltage that had been created in that small circle released skyward, searing their branches and scorching their leaves. The smell of smoldering pine and charred bark tainted the breeze. The night sky exploded into a million sparks, breaking the standoff.

Abby watched Bridget’s smugness melt — ever so slightly — like warm candle wax. Abby blinked. That wasn’t just Bridget’s expression that had changed. It was her skin. Literally. A chink in her armor?

Bridget jabbed her front finger in Abby’s direction.

Abby hit the ground hard.

Bong!

Rattled, she jumped to her feet and mirrored Bridget’s motion. Sparks flew as the force that swooshed between them knocked Bridget backwards ten feet and slammed her into a tree. Her slow recovery gave Abby time to glance at Jack. In the moonlight Abby could make out his breathing and saw his fingers twitch.

Bong!

Singed by the smoldering bark, Bridget pushed away from the blackened trunk — but slowly. She raised both arms above her head in a dramatic, wing-like motion. With the full moon at her back and her long, black sleeves billowing in the cold night breeze, she resembled a giant bat.

Bong!

Able to writhe in slow motion now, Jack watched Bridget bring down both arms in unison. Unable to believe his eyes, he would swear she had aged. Her back was bent. Her face was chalk-white. Her hair was gray.

The force propelled Abby over twenty feet, sending her backwards over a tombstone and knocking the wind out of her. Gasping, she struggled to her feet.

Abby prayed Bridget’s powers were weakening at the same rate her body appeared to be, but after witnessing her strength, she knew time was running out. Still trying to catch her breath, Abby yanked off one of the silver laces from her dress as the clock chimed. How many times did this make? Eight? More than that? She wasn’t sure.

Bong!

“I was only twelve back then.” Abby spoke fast as her shaky fingers tied a knot in both ends. “Too scared of you to tell anyone what I had seen you do.” She saw Jack’s arm and one leg break free. “But I’m not afraid anymore.”

Bong!

As Bridget charged forward, Abby dangled the silver cord in midair. She pulled the amulet from the pocket of her dress and tossed it. The instant Bridget instinctively caught it, Abby spoke, “A weight, a ban, a stop I place, never again to see your face. As I will so mote it be.”

Bong!

Even in her weakened state, Bridget writhed and fought like a wild animal. Agonizing, she struggled to escape but stood rooted to the spot. Arms raised to the night sky, she let out a blood-curdling scream. Her neck snapped back and she howled at the moon. Cursing and swearing, she twisted and thrashed. Clawing the air with her crone-like hands, she snapped and snarled like a rabid dog and rushed toward Abby.

Jack broke free and fell to his knees. Shoving off the damp earth with both hands, he heard Bridget begin the spell. Jack raced between them and threw himself in front of Abby.

“Go back in time. Your fate I take. This wish, this vow is mine to make!” When Bridget’s arms came down together, it was Jack who was caught the crossfire, not Abby.

Abby saw Jack coming and heard Bridget’s words, but everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Jack ran. Bridget began her spell. Jack dove. Bridget extended her arms. Sparks flew. Fog billowed and swirled. Surrounded Jack. Pulled him away.

Horrified, Abby reached out. “Take my hand, Jack!” she screamed. For an instant their eyes locked and his fingertips brushed hers … and then all she saw was smoke.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Jack! No, Jack! Nooo!” Fire flew from Abby’s fingers. In a white-hot rage, she turned on Bridget and, without thinking, snapped the cord in two. She never saw Maxine running toward her. Never heard her screams. Never processed her warning.

The full moon turned blood red. Lightening split the sky. Abby’s eyes glowed like fiery embers as she roared, “For this horrific crime you’ll pay. You killed my love. It ends today. You will go back in time tonight. Right now. Be off and take your flight. As I will so mote it be.”

Thunder rolled. Lightning flashed. A mist slithered up slowly from the bowls of the earth, circling Bridget and shackling her feet. The silver fog undulated, coiling and wrapping around her body like a snake. Inch by agonizing inch it swallowed her like a python downs its prey. Her screams for mercy fell on deaf ears.

As the sparks settled and the smoke dissipated into the cold night breeze, the amulet fell from its core and landed on the ground. Abby frantically searched for Jack.

“Not possible,” she whispered, turning completely around, first one way and then the other. And that’s when Abby realized what Bridget had done. She had not killed Jack. Bridget had sent him back. Back to the past? Back to the same place Abby had just sent her?

She fell to her knees. “No, no, no,” she sobbed.

Maxine knelt beside Abby and put both arms around her.

“My, God, I didn’t think … it’s just that one minute Jack was here and the next he was gone. He dove between Bridget and me. To save me.”

Patting Abby on the back and holding her close, Maxine listened without speaking.

“I’ve never felt fury like that before. It just took over. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t see. I don’t even know what spell I used. It all happened so fast. All I knew was that I thought Bridget had killed him right before my eyes.” Weeping, she rocked back and forth in Maxine’s arms.

“Hush now,” the older woman soothed.

“What have I done, Maxine? What in God’s name have I done?”

“You protected innocent people from Bridget Bishop’s wrath. The Lord only knows what she would have done if you hadn’t stopped her.” Maxine leaned back and held Abby at arms’ length. In a staccato tone laced with sorrow and venom, she spoke each emphatic word with clarity and distinction. “And you banished the monster who drowned my daughter. That’s what you did.”

Even in the moonlight, Abby saw the anguish and loss in Maxine’s eyes as the normally staid and staunch woman let go for just an instant, and the tears began to flow. “I’m so sorry about Sarah, Maxine.” And she was.

“You will never know how much what you did tonight means to me, and I thank you for that.”

They sat that way for a moment. Both reflecting. Both grieving. Finally, it was Maxine who loosened her grip and cleared her throat. “That was such a long time ago. And life goes on.” She swiped both cheeks with her palms and sat up a little straighter. “I loved Jack like a son, but do not blame yourself for tonight.”

“But — ”

“No buts,” Maxine ordered. “I had such a bad feeling when I came here that I couldn’t force myself to leave.” Shaking her head, she reached over and picked up the amulet. “If you want to cast blame, what about me? Why didn’t I speak up about everything? Why didn’t I try to find you sooner?” Her voice, like her questions, was deliberate as she placed the necklace over Abby’s head and helped her to her feet.

“It’s not your fault,” Abby insisted.

Maxine looked her squarely in the eye. “And it is not yours.”

“So, no one’s to blame, but Jack’s just gone forever?” Abby asked. “Is that the way it is?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Unaware of the skitter of animals making their way back into the cemetery, Maxine linked arms with Abby as they made their way back toward the iron gated entrance.

“What about the amulet?” Abby stopped and faced her in the moonlight. She grabbed the necklace at her throat and held it tight. She waited a beat … but it only felt like a cool, smooth stone. No pulse. No heat. “Is the power gone?”

Maxine shook her head in sorrow. “I’m sorry, Abby, I don’t know that either.”

A single tear trickled down Abby’s cheek and pooled on the amulet as the two women walked away arm-in-arm. The full moon illuminated their grief stricken faces. The breeze stopped. Not a leaf rustled nor a night creature stirred. Eerie quiet screamed all around them.

And that’s when Abby felt it. The hint of warmth on her chest. The slight electrical pulse in her veins. The undeniable echo of a distant heartbeat against her skin.

“Stop.” She jerked Maxine’s arm. Eyes wide Abby faced her. Afraid to speak another word, breathe another breath.

Eyes fixed on Abby’s necklace, Maxine stood speechless as well. Enveloped in the blackness of the night and what felt like some ethereal void, she pointed to the amulet that had begun to shimmer in the darkness. That solitary gesture answered Abby’s unspoken question.

“Oh, my God,” Abby whispered. “It’s Jack.”

Maxine’s eyes widened. “What?”

“He’s not gone yet.” Hoarse with hope, she gave Maxine’s hand a squeeze. She felt the older woman return the gesture and saw her tears reflected in the moonlight.

“Try, Child,” was all Maxine said. “It’s all you can do.”

• • •

Pulled and twirled, spun and twisted, Jack’s eyes opened as he was ripped from the cemetery grounds and yanked through a gaping, black hole. Sulfur assaulted his nostrils, blurring his vision. Not recognizable time. Nor identifiable space. But some obscure netherworld. The past? No matter. His only thought was to thank God that Abby was safe. This time he had saved Abby.

Lost in a swirling, ebony void, Jack’s instinct to fight or die trying kicked in. He fought against the downward pull with all his strength, punching the air, kicking and cursing. After finding Abby again. After saving her this time. He would be damned if they would end like this. He had to find his way back to the woman he loved more than life itself.

• • •

With a quick nod to Maxine, Abby planted her feet shoulder’s width apart. Was she responding to ancient memories or acting on instinct? It didn’t matter. She held the amulet in one hand and raised her other palm to the sky. The breeze began to stir again, and her skirt billowed around both ankles--softly at first. As the stone warmed in her grasp, the wind ebbed and flowed with each rhythmic pulse. Nearby pine trees began to sway ever-so-slightly. Giant oaks groaned and creaked, their branches reaching skyward like searching, wooden fingers.

Abby stretched and extended and opened herself to absorb every ounce of energy the night had to offer. Beseeching the full moon, she breathed in the crisp, cold wind. As lightening flashed across the cloudless sky, thunder rumbled from nowhere, mimicking the pulse of the stone in her hand.

She took one deep breath, then closed her eyes. October 31 was Samhain — the night when the veils separating the worlds were at their thinnest. On this date the souls of those departed could peer through and permeate the screen to commune with those still on this earth. So, why couldn’t someone caught in between--like Jack--be reached as well?

Calling on the very essence of her existence, Abby turned inward to the core of her being. She had to find the thread that connected her to Jack. The undeniable tie that bound them in the past. The connectivity that had survived for over three hundred years only to join them again in the present.

“I dedicate this night to Hecate, Goddess of the Underworld. Witch Queen of the Night, bless the soul of my beloved departed one as well as my own.” Her voice intoned with an ancient melodic rhythm.

“Keeper of the secrets of life and death, open the gate to this shadowy realm. Turn my failure and my fear into knowledge and inspiration in the Caldron of your Eternal Fire.”

Once again, Abby centered herself.

“To cast away evil was my intent, yet my beloved paid the price. To keep away evil I repent, my blood has turned to ice. Bring back Jackson, let him pass. Do not make him pay. A working lasso is all I ask. I demand to have my way. As I speak, so mote it be.”

The words were barely spoken when Abby’s arms extended overhead and circled above her in the darkness. She realized her fingers now gripped a rope — of sorts. The line that had materialized seemingly out of thin air, felt like heavy, prickly twine or cable. Prayers answered, she called on every ounce of strength in her body, mind and spirit. Arms outspread, she twirled it once then heaved the mysterious cable with all her mite toward the still smoldering circle where moments ago Jack had stood. As the lariat crossed the misty threshold and disappeared into the abyss, the weight shifted so hard in her hands that she fell to her knees. Holding tight, she prayed her strength would last.

• • •

In a feral fight for his life, Jack brawled like a mad man. Lashing. Thrashing. Cursing. As he plunged through time, punching and wrestling, something that felt like a stiff, rope snapped past him and smashed into one wrist. Flesh stung as the skin on the back of his hand split. Warm blood trickled into the cuff of his shirt.

“What the hell?”

Through gritted teeth he writhed and flailed until he caught hold of --whatever it was--the only tactile surface he had been able to find. Not giving a damn what it was, he snagged the would-be lifeline. And, thank God, the contact felt solid. The moment his grip took hold his downward spiral screeched to a halt with a jolt so hard it jarred his teeth and snapped his head backwards.

Sweat stinging both eyes, Jack didn’t miss a beat but swung his other arm around hard to grab the tether with his free hand. He hung there, but only for a second, to catch his breath. Biceps burning, he focused all his attention on climbing, hand over fist, to pull himself up as far as the line would take him. If he had to, he would battle the demons of Hell to reach Abby again.

• • •

The instant Abby felt the rope snap taut, she struggled to her feet. She would tether the rope to the trunk of a nearby tree in case she did not have enough strength to hold Jack, much less pull him to safety.

Maxine joined her and side-by-side they heaved backward with all their might. Together they edged away from the abyss and toward the tree.

• • •

Inch by inch Jack worked his way up the rope. Never stopping. Never questioning. Never doubting. And that’s when he saw … something … overhead. Was it the night sky? A sprinkle of stars? The full moon?

Panting now, Jack used his last ounce of strength to claw his way out of the bottomless pit. His hand felt a gust of fresh air … Abby … above ground air that meant he had almost made it back to the surface. Abby. Relief coupled with exhaustion washed over him.

Hand over hand.

Up. Up.

Until something shackled his leg.

“Son of a bitch!”

Desperate hands snagged his left ankle nearly causing him to lose his grip. Sharp fingernails clawed through his sock and dug into his flesh. Blood red nails … he was certain of it.

“Jack!!!”

He heard Bridget’s shrill cry echo through the darkness.

“Help me!”

Jack kicked and flailed, but her fingers only held on tighter.

“Jack, don’t leave me!”

Jack’s grip slipped a notch as the rope started to swing. His palms flamed. He was losing his hold. Along with life as he knew it. And most of all — Abby. Without hesitation he took one last ragged breath and stomped the iron clad grasp with his right foot.

• • •

Bridget’s voice sliced through Abby’s head like a knife. This could not be happening. Not again. Maintaining her hold on the lasso, Abby spoke quickly, the incantation rising from the deepest well of her heart.

“Rescue Jack. May Bridget be spurned. My love comes back. Let Bridget burn. As I speak, so mote it be.”

The rope went slack. She and Maxine tumbled backward onto the ground, the flaccid cord still in their hands. Dear God, she’d failed. She’d failed Jack. Her heart screamed as her voice could not.

Mechanically, Abby sat up then pulled Maxine to a sitting position. The cool breeze settled around them as the witching hour drew to an end. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. And darkness regained control of the night.

She felt Maxine’s arms embrace her.

“So close,” Abby murmured against Maxine’s shoulder. “How could I get that close and fail again?”

“You did not fail.” Maxine extended her arms, leaning Abby back to face her. “If you couldn’t save Jack, no one else could have.” She pulled the younger woman close again.

“Bridget won.” Abby’s voice was little more than a whisper. “My God, have I lost him forever this time?”

Abby felt Maxine stiffen. And why wouldn’t she? Bridget had drowned Maxine’s only daughter and after more than three hundred years, she was still taking Maxine’s loved ones from her.

“Abby.” Maxine’s voice quivered.

“I’m so sorry--”

“No.”

“Yes. I let you down--”

Maxine cut Abby off by shaking her hard.

Confused and hurt, Abby blinked. “I said I’m sorry … ” Then she followed Maxine’s zombie-like gaze to the misty abyss through which Jack had disappeared.

“Oh, my God,” Abby stammered.

There, only a few yards away, a hand groped the grass. Followed by another.

Scrambling first to her knees and then to her feet, Abby yelled, “Jack!”

Both women rushed to pull Jack free. Straining and tugging they inched him out of the abyss and onto the ground. Piled in a heap, barely able to breathe, the three clung to one another.

“Bridget?” Abby’s voice trembled.

“No worries.” Still panting, Jack managed a weak grin. “She’s gone.”

Taking a second for his meaning to soak in, Abby still had to echo, “She’s finally gone?”

“Yes,” he managed. “And this time I saved you.”

“And I saved you.” Abby kissed his forehead. Pulling Maxine close, she added, “And we could never have done it without you.”

Staggering to their feet, they watched as the gaping hole swirled and churned into nothingness until only earth remained. Solid and grass covered. An ordinary cemetery plot shadowed by moonlight.

“Ashes to ashes.” Maxine’s tone was as dry as the leaves under foot … until she spit on the ground where the abyss had occurred. “And let the Devil have her.”

• • •

Later, entwined in Jack’s arms, Abby listened to the gentle waves of his breathing as he slept, letting the rhythm wash over her joy-filled heart. With wonder, she cradled the amulet in her hands. She gasped. There, in the center of the stone, two tears had joined together to form one perfect heart. Tears bound together forever. In the morning she would tell Jack. Together, forever, she whispered to the fading night.

About the Author

Chardy Walker Lieb has worked as a nonfiction writer for a Midwest publications firm. Some of her most memorable assignments include an interview with a Russian trade delegation that toured the United States on a technological exchange mission; a “contract killer” feature story; and a commemorative writing project, distributed worldwide, which recognized Garth Brooks as the fastest-selling recording artist in history.

Despite working in the nonfiction field, she has always been an avid reader and was never able to shake her true love of fiction. Yearning to challenge her creativity and unleash her imagination, she switched to writing what she’s always loved to read and published Yesterday’s Bride for Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Chardy lives in Illinois with her husband, a fourteen-year veteran detective, who serves as her “personal expert” on police-related research. Her son also serves as a “daily reminder” of the ever-changing, constantly developing human psyche.

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Savannah Sacrifice by Danica Winters

Love of Her Lives

Sharon Clare

Avon, Massachusetts

This edition published by

Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com

Copyright © 2012 by Sharon Bernas

ISBN 10: 1-4405-5424-2

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5424-7
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5425-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5425-4

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art 123rf.com

For my daughter Megan who has loved magic in stories since she was a little girl.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Acknowledgments

Also Available

Prologue

Scotland, 1907

Colm knocked the front door shut with his foot. “You could have been killed, woman! What the devil were you thinking?” He slipped Bethany off his shoulder to the polished pine floor and steadied her with a grip to her forearm.

Bethany’s cheeks burned with fury as she shook him off and yanked back her rain–soaked hood. “What was I thinking? Did you not read Mr. Winterbottom’s letter to the Dundee Advertiser?” Her legs clenched so tight, she was in danger of rupturing a good pair of stockings. “Winterbottom wrote: ‘These women who fight for the vote are a blight on this great country of ours!’ Those are fighting words, Colm. Make no mistake.”

“So Winterbottom accuses you gentle women of violence and destruction, and you prove him right? Where’s the logic in that, Bethany? Will you next be setting fire to our own church?”

“So you did read it.” She lifted her chin and stiffened her back. “I did not support those women who set fire to Whitekirk, and you know it.”

“Aye, but how can you abide such desecration? You know the government will not give in to violence. You are women. Fight your battle with words.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. Her own husband implying that being a woman was some sort of handicap. “How dare you accuse me of violence? We were provoked!” She quickly eyed the hallway for something to throw. Damn him. That would only prove his point. Jerking up the hood of her cloak, she headed for the door.

Colm left his overcoat swinging on the coat rack, crossed the floor, and gripped her elbow. His sky blue eyes were about as soothing as a bellyache. “You’re not going back out in that weather. We both could use a hot bath.”

She tugged her arm free. “Find yourself a placid wife to warm your bath, Colm.” Snapping the latch back, she ran out into the gloaming, knowing full well he’d follow her.

“I’ll not have you keeping company with Moira any longer,” he called from the doorway. “That lass is nothing but trouble.”

“Oh!” She was too mad for words. Colm had carried her over his shoulder all the way through town. Arrogant, barbaric throwback of a man! The wind slapped her face with a gust of rain as she hurried out the gate and across the cow trail. “And pissy weather too.” Embedded in the earth ahead of her was the sickle–shaped stone, slick and glistening, that marked the bottom of the footpath up the Argyll Mountain. She skirted it and hit the trail. If she hurried, she might lose him. If not, she’d say things she might regret later.

Colm should know better than to blame Moira as if Bethany didn’t have the mind to fight the cause on her own. The toe of her shoe caught in her gown. She stumbled, but caught her balance in time. One of the border collies, Dickens, beat the ground past her and kept on up the trail. Oh, to run like Dickens.

It hadn’t been Moira’s idea to throw stones at the Dundee building. It had been Bethany’s. And a few broken windows were hardly violent. They had to do something after that newspaper printed Winterbottom’s letter.

“When women demand equality with men let us laugh at their madness! Let us inform them that equality is impossible — men are emotionally stronger and intellectually more capable.”

Oh, how her blood boiled at the arrogance. Bethany had recruited Moira, and together they’d climbed onto the roof of an adjacent factory to launch their assault. She’d never intended to hurt anyone and had been truly horrified when her pebble pinged off the head of a policeman. When the constable turned the fire hose on them, she and Moira hid behind a chimney refusing to come down.

As she climbed the mountain trail, the crack of their front door slamming shut cut through the howling wind. She jumped just a little then carried on. Colm must have gotten his boots back on.

“Bethany, stop your running!” Her husband’s voice boomed like thunder over the mountain.

So he thinks to chase me down again. The police had not been able to dislodge the two women from the rooftop, but Colm had. He’d climbed the fire escape and taken his wife down over his shoulder. Oh, the humiliation. She hoped she’d bruised him well.

He was afraid she’d get hurt. Bethany glanced over her shoulder to see him gaining on her. By the look of violence on his face right now, he was the only threat she need fear. Not that she’d give him the satisfaction of fearing him.

The rain had made the trail slick, and she knew she should move slowly, but she wanted to reach level ground before their next shouting match. The sounds of 300 bleating ewes just ahead meant she was close.

“I told the chief constable I’d keep you out of it, and I meant it.” He pressed on at alarming speed. She picked up her gown and ran up the steepening trail.

“Damn it, Bethany, have a care. I’d no time to feed the sheep. For the love of God, lass, stop your running now!”

If he ceased his chasing, she’d have no need to run now, would she? Reaching the plateau, she skidded to a stop and stood panting while her heart galloped in her chest. She was vaguely aware of the sheep turning their collective heads. Colm had stopped twenty feet down on the trail, his face burning with anger not exertion.

She faced him with hands planted on her hips. “I am not afraid of prison,” she yelled through the wind.

“You damn well should be,” he yelled back.

“I will gladly go to prison before I abandon the fight for women’s enfranchisement.” She took a second to gulp a deep breath. “If you think to force me to cease this cause,” one more deep breath, “then you are no husband of mine.”

“No husband? What sort of husband doesn’t protect his wife? Do you wish to cut my balls off too, so you can be married to a eunuch?”

It was just like him to overlook her point. “This isn’t about your balls, you bloody man!” The sound of bleating sheep grew closer. Glancing over her shoulder, she flinched to see them moving toward her at a quick advance. Dear God, they looked agitated. She took a step toward her insufferable husband.

“Bloody hell, woman, get down here now!” Colm roared.

And succumb to his command? Why couldn’t she have married a more agreeable man like Moira had? She dug in her heels and spoke through gritted teeth. “Stop using that tone with me. I am not your chattel to command as you wish.”

A sheep’s nose butted the back of her knee. Her leg gave way as a famished ewe knocked her in the hip. Dickens barked incessantly at her heels. Her arm reached, sought, grasped — nothing.

Colm sprinted up the incline like a blur.

All the anger of her day fused with terror as she plunged over the cliff. Oddly, as she tumbled, she hoped to land on her padded behind. Foolish thought.

She hit the ground with a sickening crack and ferocious pain.

Colm’s cold cry cut across the mountains.

Her protector. Her sweet Colm.

He needn’t bother sounding so distressed. She wasn’t hurt. She thought about that a moment. Why was she no longer in pain?

Oh! She didn’t look good, not good at all. So much blood. From her head? Why could she see herself so clearly?

“Bethany, my heart, my love. Can you hear me? Can you speak?” Colm was by her side, his shirt ripped from his body, pressed against her head, and quickly becoming saturated in her blood. Rain pelted down around them gathering into red rivulets that bled out from under her body.

No pain. No cold. No wet. The gruesome scene unfolded below her.

Below her? She watched it all from the treetops which made no sense at all. Unless …

Dear God. This was death.

Chapter 1

Life-Between-Lives

100 years later

In Seraphina, the high city of the Upper World where souls dwelt in tranquility and the Old Ones ruled with wisdom, Calum was seriously pissed off.

“Bloody woman.” Could Bethia not live one life on her own without trouble snapping at her like a flesh-hungry piranha? His words echoed in the vast room as he rushed through the Akashic Library where the records of every soul were stored.

He’d just left the Old Ones in the great hall where they’d questioned the certainty of his vision into Bethia’s future and proclaimed, with indifference, she was the scriptwriter of her life on Earth, not him. As if he didn’t know that. But how could he call himself her spirit guide if he allowed her to suffer a lifetime of misery when a mere nudge in the right direction would save her?

Calum charged down the long side hallway to the east wing where a modest room housed a collection of books on immortal worlds. As usual, this section of the library was unoccupied. Shutting the door behind him, he headed directly to the ancient stone book cases against the far wall.

To stop Bethia from making a reckless error was no longer a matter that required the permission of the Old Ones. No one understood her as he did. He couldn’t bear to watch her suffer, wouldn’t bear it.

Calum unclenched his teeth and pulled the seventh volume of Studies of Supernatural Worlds off the shelf. He might lack the power necessary to bring about a change from spirit to human, but that fact was nothing more than a speed bump. He knew where to get it.

He thumbed the pages to the section on the Alfar. Although these Alfarian elves shared the Upper World, they lived in Alfheim, an immortal realm, and were not considered divine. His interest was in a particular Alfarian named Finn, a potent immortal who’d suffered a fall from grace for his propensity to indulge humans. Finn possessed the alfatofrar powers Calum needed to shift into the human dimension on Earth.

One hour later, he had memorized the information he required. A strongly worded notice warned against summoning Finn, but Calum had no time to seek an alternative. His intervention was without doubt. His motivation selfless. After their last life together, he’d not fail her again, even if success meant his own fall from grace. A chill of foreboding snaked up his spine. He’d best not fail.

It was twilight when Calum reached the meadowlands at the base of Mount Michaelmas far outside the city of Seraphina. Timing was key since the veil between worlds grew thinnest at dawn and dusk.

He found the blackthorn tree standing like a steadfast sentry to the Alfarian’s world. Following the prescribed ritual, he picked a clump of ever–blooming magenta berries. With their bitter taste on his tongue, he sang the required song to open the doorway between worlds and draw the Alfar’s magic to him. He sat still and fine–tuned his thoughts to concentrate on one being. Calling out with his mind, he felt the energy of his request grow more powerful as each second passed.

A quiet wind blew down from the mountain, split a path through the wavering meadow, and rustled the leaves of the blackthorn tree. The breeze blew lightly across Calum’s shoulders and skimmed his neck like tiny fish fins rousing him instantly to his feet. When a footfall sounded behind him, he spun around to find an Alfarian Elf ducking under a blackthorn branch. He rose to his full height eye–to–eye with Calum. A mane of white hair fell in waves over the shoulders of his black waistcoat down to his golden belt. Finn of the Alfar lifted his chin regally and pressed his lips together under iridescent, upswept eyes that scanned Calum from head to toe.

The corners of Finn’s mouth lifted slightly with acknowledgement of the mortal who had summoned him. “So the Old Ones have driven another soul to seek my expedient assistance. Will they ever learn, Calum?”

He calls me by name. Calum said nothing. He didn’t agree with the excruciatingly slow process with which the Old Ones trained novices, but he refused to criticize them behind their backs.

Finn’s gaze fell on the crimson–streaked sky. “I heard you’ve been dabbling in the supernatural, practicing geomancy to catch a glimpse of your true love’s future. I doubt the Old Ones praised you for that.”

Most definitely not, but his love for one woman was all that mattered. “I do admire your expedience, Finn, and more so your benevolence.” Calum glanced guardedly around the meadow. “I’ve a request to make of you.”

Finn reached over and caressed a clump of luscious blackthorn berries with his long, elegant fingers. “I’m well aware of what you seek, mortal, and of the woman you wish to save from her miserable life.”

Ah, perhaps Finn knew more than Calum did. “I only managed to scry a wee portion of Bethia’s future.” Her heartbreaking despair and regret had sliced through him worse than any broadsword. “She will suffer an unprecedented punishment for a crime she didn’t commit. Her regret was in her handling of a black satchel, but I’ve no knowledge of the villains who are set against her. No matter the distance between us, my job had always been to protect my mate, as her spirit guide, as her soul mate, as a mere man. Since you are abreast of Bethia’s plight, I would be eternally appreciative of any insight you could provide.”

Finn regarded him for a long, silent moment. “I do love eternal appreciation, but any further assistance would spoil the opportunity for a satisfying diversion. I’d rather see how resourceful you are, Calum. If I grant your request, I expect you to win your woman’s devotion and arouse her passion before you return to Seraphina.”

Fine with him. Safeguarding Bethia’s future would be his priority, but not his sole pleasure. “I must determine who plots against her. Send me to her, Finn, to her home where I will find a way to befriend her. Passion will come between us, I guarantee it.”

“Be warned, mortal, as a spirit your guidance in Bethia’s mind was a mere whisper she could easily ignore — no more than the Old Ones allow. In human form, your whisper in her mind will be stronger, enough to bend her will. Not to be used to your advantage. You will keep your thoughts to yourself and stay out of her mind.” Finn’s high cheekbones rose in a chill warning that was no smile. “Do not think to disappoint me.”

And it was done. Not that Calum was transformed painlessly in the blink of an eye. No, if pain was evidence of life, Calum’s transformation from spirit to human was a complete success. With his feet firm on God’s green earth, Calum suspected he’d not seen the last of the passion–obsessed Alfar, but he put the uneasy thought from his mind. All that mattered was reaching Bethia.

Chapter 2

Break-Up á La Carte

If the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, then tiramisu may just be the best way out of a man’s heart, or so Beth Stewart hoped. She needed all the help she could get. Breaking up with Matthew required tact and diplomacy. Her financial security depended on them remaining friends.

She stood at her kitchen counter, bent over a shopping list, considering the perfect break–up meal. He loved her sweet potato coconut soup, one of the few things about her he’d not tried to improve. Since it was vital they continued to work together amiably until their investment house in Belize sold, she would butter up his palate to ease the breakup.

Matthew, you deserve a woman who is crazy over you … Or one who didn’t see his endless suggestions as a need to control. Was that a good way to start the break–up conversation? Should she wait till dessert?

And what else to serve? Nothing that sparked romance, no chocolate–dipped strawberries tonight. Perhaps tiramisu was too decadent. Perhaps an old–fashioned apple pie to bring thoughts of support, community, the golden rule? Or was she reaching with that?

The sun shone brilliantly through her French doors in a sudden burst. Those doors, the promise of a walk–out deck, and the open concept, had been the selling features of an Oakhaven Home. As she scanned her backyard, she had a great idea — fiddleheads, sautéed in butter and garlic.

The Ashbury Conservation Area bordered her backyard to the south. Canadian maple and birch trees were just coming into leaf. A foot trail ran alongside a river where crisp, green fiddleheads would soon feather into sumptuous ferns to cover the rich soil like giant hands. She could easily pick enough for their dinner.

The May morning was typical for Ontario, cool with the sun drying the morning dew and the promise of cherry blossoms perfuming the air. Just the sort of day for new beginnings. She should serve something to ensure Matthew left the house after dinner. Baked beans?

She chuckled as she approached her garden shed. A heaping plate of Rocky Mountain oysters would have him running for the curb before dinner. How do you prefer your bull’s testicles, Matthew? Rare? Well done? Roasted in their sac?

As she approached the shed, she noticed the door was unlatched and slightly ajar. Odd. She pulled it open to let the sun cast light inside. Her meager possessions included gardening gloves, trowel, a couple of plastic pots, and a bag of fertiliser. The row of hooks on the side wall sat empty except for her new spade.

She took a closer look. The spade no longer looked unused but had dirt clinging to its tip. Had one of her neighbours borrowed it when she wasn’t home?

She walked down the yard to her property line roughly butted by the edge of an old pine forest. Since her gaze was glued to the ground, she noticed the beautiful, pink–streaked granite rock at the corner of her property. It looked odd, not embedded in the soil like others in the woods, but sitting up on top.

As she bent over to examine the rock, she noticed a footprint quite a bit larger than her size eight shoe. Dirt around the stone looked as though it had been stamped down. Footprints? Smoothed over earth? Had the stone been put there as a marker? With both hands, she shoved the rock aside.

It only took a moment to retrieve her spade. She drove it into the soil with her foot. Sure enough, the spade slid easily into the ground, too easily for untilled soil.

Putting her back into it, she shoveled out earth. On her tenth scoop, Beth snagged a canvas strap.

After a quick scan of the woods, she dropped to her haunches and tugged the strap free. It belonged to a black Roots backpack. She brushed away the dirt and gave the bag a shake. Not as heavy as a backpack full of school books, but it was full of something. Leaning in, she gave it a cautious sniff — earth and something herbal? Nothing putrid though. The remains of a dead animal were a find she could do without.

Nerves jittered to life in her hand as she tugged the zipper open. With the tips of her fingers, she peeled back the canvas flap and peered inside. Her jaw dropped. Buried treasure defined it perfectly. Inside the backpack was a stack of bills neatly wrapped and sealed in a Ziploc bag. With a quick glance around, she lifted it up and found another plastic bag underneath. The source of the herbal smell, she determined as she pulled it out. No need to open the bag to know it wasn’t oregano she held in her hands. She snapped her mouth closed as her eyes darted left and right.

A recollection surfaced of a television episode where a hiker found a gym bag of drug money from greasy addicts who pilfered kids’ innocence through a schoolyard fence. She almost dropped the backpack. Not in her backyard — no way. Ashbury had a negligible crime rate, and she’d send a strong message to the bad ass who thought to corrupt her community. The loot was going directly to the police.

Beth set the bag aside, filled the hole and repositioned the stone. Brushing her hands off on her jeans, she reached for the bag and stopped. Her heart rapped against her ribcage like a warning bell.

Footsteps!

Chapter 3

Ambiguous Passage

Calum did not land in the woods near Bethia’s home, as he had requested of Finn, where songbirds might have squawked at his arrival. Instead, he was greeted by a foul whoosh followed by an obnoxious sucking sound that he would have sprinted from had he room to sprint. Locked inside a cabinet with an oddly shaped, white cistern and no elbowroom, he felt every muscle tense in his twelfth–century warrior’s body. Where the hell was he?

The cabinet wall did not reach the ceiling, so he stepped up onto the cistern’s wide black rim and peered over the top of the wall to find another cabinet of the same ilk where a lad sat with his breeches pooled about his ankles. As the lad’s head tilted back, Calum jumped to the floor.

He hadn’t walked the earth in over a hundred years, but there was no misunderstanding the odour wafting from the neighbouring stall. No sweet smell of the woodlands here, he was in a public toilet. Finn must think himself amusing.

At least he wasn’t dressed like a Highland warrior. Skin–tight black breeches clung to his muscular legs. Too tight for a man his size. What if he should see Bethia and grow hard? The breeches could very well do damage, and there’d be little left to her imagination. That thought brought a smile to his lips and an awareness of a bulge in his pants. He plunged his hand into his right pocket and withdrew a rolled wad of paper. Ah, currency, he realized after examination. Finn might have a sick sense of humour, but he was accommodating.

He stuffed the money back into his pants and rolled onto the balls of his feet. The black boots seemed serviceable enough, and his shirt was made of surprisingly fine wool dyed a rich brown.

Another whoosh sounded from the cabinet beside him, but he only flinched. He may find the sounds of the twenty-first century obnoxious, but it wouldn’t serve him to show it. His gaze landed on the silver latch just as he heard a click next door followed by shuffling feet.

He couldn’t get out fast enough and hardly glanced at his reflection in the looking glass before following the lad out the door. His reflection had been a familiar one.

Finn had granted him an exceptional body from long ago when he’d lived with Bethia in the Scottish Highlands as a fervent warrior with passion pumping through his bloodstream. The significance wasn’t lost on him. That life had been their most poignant; the one where they’d vowed eternal love. Additional traits of the warrior flickered through his consciousness. He remembered celebrating a lustful disposition and a fiery temperament he now felt strongly. He’d have to keep a watch on that.

Calum inhaled deeply to the count of four, and then exhaled to the same count. Emotions would not govern him, but lust? Not a concern, lust could have free rein. He hungered after one woman only and, forby, he was human.

He stopped to peer down a long hall where a steady flow of young people streamed in both directions. When he peeked in a room numbered 1077, he realized where he was. Classrooms hadn’t changed much in a century’s time. With luck, Finn had deposited him at Bethia’s university.

His first grounded thought was a salacious one. Two women walked toward him wearing a style of breeches that held tight to their curves. The bare belly of the redhead, not to mention the sparkle of a gem in her navel, was enough to drive a hot–blooded man to distraction. While he understood fashions had changed in one hundred Earth years, he’d not anticipated the effect of such women fashioned in quantity.

He felt a mere hint of arousal as the redhead’s eyelids dipped in a sultry glance over glistening lips that parted indecently. His smile was friendly, but he craved no others than Bethia’s lips. Would she paint sheen on her lips to entice him or show him the tip of her pink tongue like the redheaded lass was doing? In this lifetime, Bethia’s hair was fair, as he preferred, the colour of summer wheat. He longed to feel the silky texture tangle about his fingers. Longed to know the taste of her on his tongue. The blood rushed to his groin when he envisioned his lips exploring the curve of her neck, the slope of her breast, the hollow of her hip.

Where was his woman?

The sultry redhead brushed her arm against his as she glided by; close enough for him to smell the heavy musk of her perfume. What fragrance did Bethia wear? Or did she wear nothing that masked her natural scent? Soon, he would lay his cheek against her skin and breathe her in deeply.

First, he had to find her.

Reaching out with his senses, he searched for the feel of her, knowing how to connect with her this way as her spirit guide. He was dismayed to feel nothing at first. Why would Finn deliver him to the university if she was not present? He’d impressed upon the elf the seriousness of arriving early enough to stop her from touching the black satchel, since it seemed to lie at the root of her trouble.

The feel of her was distant and disturbingly faint. All he knew of her studies was that they encompassed a branch of philosophy that examined the mind. Now he knew two things: she was not attending class that day, and he’d been a fool to trust Finn.

Two men stopped near him in front of room 1077. A middle–aged man, dressed in a crisp black jacket, spoke to a lad with short, clipped hair wearing an oversized shirt and breeches that hung dangerously low on his hips. Teacher and student, he gleaned from overhearing.

“ … a fungal species that is pathogenic to plants,” said the professor. “We’ll begin the lab work on Monday, Derek, 8 A.M.; I’d like to have you on board.”

“Cool. I’m interested in how temperature affects fungi, so this will work out. Thanks, Professor Smythe. I gotta get to class, so I’ll meet you in your lab on Monday morning.”

As the professor entered room 1077, Calum watched him drape his jacket over a chair, take papers from what looked to be a modern carpet bag to arrange on a dais, and then exit the room. An idea formulated in his mind. While students appeared to dress with no care at all, he imagined professors would respect their profession by dressing conventionally. The jacket would give him the scholarly touch he needed, and that bag would add credibility. While he typically didn’t condone theft, his woman’s life was at stake, so he would borrow the jacket and see it returned to the university later.

With a glance up and down the hallway, he slipped into the room and snatched both the jacket and the bag. To be as accommodating as possible to Professor Smythe, he emptied the bag of its contents except for a sheath of paper and writing tools. Those he would use when he approached Bethia. He hoped she would not tap into subconscious memories of their last life together and the horrific fight that led to her sudden death, but that she would remember the love bond between them and welcome him into her life.

He remembered Finn’s warning. Calum must not use his will to influence Bethia. Free will was a sticky thing — no bending, no loop holes, no interference in any way. He intended to heed the warning.

Outside the university, he stood on the smooth stone path and took a moment to acclimatize. Odours assailed him. Not familiar city smells. Despite the stream of humanity overflowing the walkways, the air held no natural scents. Where was the earth, the grasses, the creatures? He’d followed the progress of the automobile, so he wasn’t surprised to see them on the streets, but the speed at which they travelled astonished him, and their stench had him longing for a civilisation setback.

However, this was no time to pine for a mountain beneath his feet. Who knew what trouble Bethia might get into while he was diverted?

His attention was drawn by a woman waving her arm. “Taxi, here please.” She hollered at a passing automobile that pulled to a stop against the curb. Calum watched as the woman climbed in behind the driver and issued an address. It didn’t take him long to catch the gist of this service.

A roil of dread curdled his belly as if Bethia was in danger. What if he was already too late?

An auto with a taxi sign approached. He stepped off the curb to halt the vehicle. It screeched to a stop with the driver waving his fist.

“Good day, sir.” He opened the door and slipped in beside the driver.

“What crazy thing you do. Are you an insane man? I almost run you down.” The taxi man’s brown eyes blinked repeatedly in a chestnut face that showed little composure.

“Calm yourself. My reflexes are sharp. Carry on, now. We must make way to Ashbury immediately.”

Chapter 4

Risk Not, Live Not

The woods darkened as the sun vanished behind a cloud. Beth’s mouth went dry. She looked over her shoulder to see a quarterback–like guy walking on the trail that ran along the river. The criminal that banked in the woods?

Truly it would be a wild coincidence for the guy who’d buried the backpack to come along just as she dug it up.

With the backpack slung over her shoulder, she hurried toward her house with her ears tuned to his footsteps. Halfway up the yard, she spared a glance over her shoulder.

What a ridiculous imagination she had. The guy didn’t stray from the trail or seem to notice her.

Safe inside, she tipped the pack to empty the contents onto her kitchen table. Out slipped one large cash–filled Ziploc followed by one sandwich–sized, marijuana–filled Ziploc. Nothing in the pockets, except … oh, this was interesting. One business card — Chantal Desjardins, RE/MAX Alliance, Quebec City. A real estate agent. Odd.

Beth put the business card aside, glanced out her kitchen window, and removed a pack of bills from the baggie. A fan through the stack revealed twenty dollar bills. She counted out two hundred bills and did the math — $4,000. Ten similar stacks were nestled together. A quick calculation meant she had $40,000 on her kitchen table.

Lucky thing her father had planted the fear of God in her when she was young. She pictured His divine pen poised to besmirch her good record if she dared take one crisp bill. Way to go, Dad. Besides, she had her own money, lottery girl — $1,472,000, a life–changing win.

Shocking how fast money goes.

The police station sat out on the highway at the other side of town. She read the clock on the microwave. Ten thirty. Given that she needed to leave the house soon to pick up lunches for her Meals on the Move clients, she’d have to drop the backpack off afterward. Volunteers were hard to come by, and the elderly shut–ins depended on her for their meals.

As Beth stuffed the money and drugs back in place, the doorbell rang. She scooted down the centre hall, opened the door, and nearly gasped.

A man stood on her porch, not just an everyday man, but an incredibly stunning one who oozed vitality at first glance. Why she would gasp at the sight of him, she didn’t know. Their eyes met. His lips parted into a slow smile under eyes of boundless blue, a rich summer-sky blue, the kind that drew your eyes up to take notice.

He pulled in a long breath. “Bethia.” The name slid off his tongue like a sensual whisper that floated into her ear. The stunning smile he shot her was laced with such confidence; she paused for a second before answering. No one had ever called her Bethia. “Not exactly, no.”

“You are Beth Stewart.” His voice was deep, husky, and rich in substance drawn from a far–off place. Celtic origins, for sure. Strands of his shoulder–length, crème–caramel hair, brushed his cheekbones. A quick flick of his head removed the length of hair from his face. The gesture looked oddly familiar, but she supposed the motion was common enough for a man with long hair.

“I am Calum Cunningham, a professor from the university.” He offered his hand which she shook, keenly aware when his thumb brushed against the sensitive centre of her palm. With a gentle twist of his wrist, he pulled her hand to his lips and laid a kiss on her skin that dispersed like a soothing caress through her mind. Giving her head a little shake helped to dispel his charm.

“Ah, well the name Bethia means life. As life goes, there are many paths to choose, Beth, and if you’ve a care to stay out of harm’s way, you must be sure to choose well.”

Okay, that was a strange thing to say. “Actually, Beth comes from Elizabeth. I was named for my great–grandmother, but thanks for the sage advice. What can I do for you, professor?”

He leaned back on one heel, unruffled by her sarcasm or the look of irritation she’d sent him. Instead, his beautiful lips formed another rousing smile that reached clear to those eyes of blue. “‘Tis a fine name for a lovely lass. I’m visiting summer students to conduct a study on risk–taking behaviour.”

He still held her hand. In his right hand a clipboard rested against his thigh. “May I come inside and ask you a few questions?” He gazed at her mouth, at her hair, and then scrutinized her from top to bottom. Geez, this man had a way about him — a way of bewitching a woman, fully confident of her surrender — no mistaking the sensual heat of an attempted conquest there.

He had to be kidding.

She pulled her hand free and probably should have shut the door in his inappropriate face, but she couldn’t help giving him a taste of his own ogling.

She ogled him right back. The man was built like a warrior, tall, wide in the shoulders with a chest broad enough for a woman to spend the afternoon exploring. Warrior? That was an odd association to pop into her mind, as if you couldn’t go anywhere these days without bumping into a warrior. Whether he was a university professor or not remained to be seen, but he definitely looked good in those jeans and mocha turtleneck.

His fingers drummed the curve of an impressive biceps as he regarded her, regarding him. She took her time scanning the square jaw and feline angles of his face, but this guy was no tabby cat. Tabbies weren’t warriors. He was cut from the mountains — solid muscle, graceful lines, and eyes smooth as still water.

“No, Professor Cunningham, you may not come inside.”

He shot her a satisfied smile and leaned down to pull a pen from the pocket of the briefcase at his feet. “Very good. I’m glad to know you’re a sensible lass.” He lowered his head toward hers. “Never let strangers into your home.”

“So I’ve been told.”

His smile enchanted, like he kept a secret just behind it she might like to know. He was enchanting all right, subtle enough not to be overdone, but she saw through that tactic. This guy was one of those raw, masculine, Tarzan types who could throw a girl over his shoulder like she was lunch.

After a quick notation, he let the clipboard rest against his thigh again. “This study examines two opposing schools of thought. I would appreciate your honest opinion. Some people believe those who take risks are motivated by nothing other than a death wish, while others believe partaking in perilous undertakings make a person feel more alive. Consider both theories for a moment please and then tell me what you think?”

Perilous undertakings? As in the retrieval of the Roots backpack on her kitchen table? Well, sometimes people had to take risks for the good of others, although her father didn’t seem to think she need be one of those people. “I think, Professor Cunningham, if you risk nothing, you fail to grow. The degree of risk is also a factor. What might be considered risky to one person could be a walk in the park for another. For instance, I skydive, yet I don’t consider myself a person who takes unnecessary risks.”

As he glanced skyward, a look of puzzlement crossed his face then quickly melted into a frown. “Diving from the sky? I can’t imagine why a lass would need do such a thing. Unless the lass has a death wish. What then, would you consider a necessary risk, Beth?” Her name slid off his tongue with a lilting brogue that settled in her as a silky reminiscence of bedtime and firelight and orange blossom honey. Sweet, but she couldn’t fathom where the feeling had come from.

“Ask the fireman who takes necessary risks for the good of others if he has a death wish.”

“I’m not interested in firemen. It’s your safety that concerns me.”

As if she needed another caretaker. Since she’d become a homeowner, her father and brother dispensed endless play–it–safe lectures. And they wondered why she’d moved so far from the family nest.

His gaze narrowed in behind her. This guy likely had perfect vision, not to mention a clear visual to that backpack on her table. She didn’t miss the way his eyes widened before his gaze settled back on her. A shiver of foreboding raised gooseflesh on her neck.

She took a step back and gripped the door. “I’m sorry, but I have things to do. If you’d like to leave your questionnaire with me, I’ll fill it in and return it to your office.”

“Beth, where did you find the black satchel on your table?” The question invaded her mind. She actually felt it touch her cerebrum, like a push into her brain. The oddest sensation.

“Buried just inside the property line in my backyard.” The sound of her immediate response surprised her. Why had she answered him? The backpack was none of his business.

“Get the satchel and bring it to me now.”

“Wait right here, I’ll get it.” Don’t ask questions. Trust him implicitly. Stay out of trouble, mind your own business and don’t get involved in other people’s affairs where you have a way of digging yourself into a mire of trouble. These thoughts drove her down her hallway to the table where she snatched the bag by the strap and zipped it shut.

Give it to him immediately.

Bits of soil scattered like dust as she drew the bag off the table.

“That’s a good lass.”

Did she detect a condescending tone? She stiffened. No one tells me what to do.

The odd sense of detachment wavered as she stood in her hallway facing the empty doorway. Where was the warrior?

Taking a few steps back, she peeked into her living room — empty. Outside, she saw no sign of Professor Cunningham on the porch or on the driveway or on the street.

An unexpected melancholy fluttered in her heart. The sexy, warrior professor had vanished.

Chapter 5

Home Sweet Home Invasion

Beth closed her front door and dropped the backpack on the floor. Was she truly hearing voices? And why had she purred like a pussycat in heat at the sight of that warrior? Not warrior, she corrected, professor.

Had she imagined the voice inside her head? She had a sudden recollection of an abnormal psychology lecture. No, there was nothing abnormal about her psychology. Her life? Possibly. Could it be that the impending boyfriend breakup, the mysterious treasure hunt, the tropical home renovation, and volunteer work — amidst studying for an upcoming midterm exam and writing a final paper — was too much? No wonder she was hearing voices. She made a mental note to consider a few serious life changes.

Truly, she should count her blessings. Other people were not so blessed, as she well knew from her experience with Meals on the Move.

With that thought, she headed to the kitchen to check the time as she needed to pick up lunches soon. The elderly got ornery if their meals were late. Her mood lightened as she imagined lunch being the main event in their day. She played a small part in brightening people’s lives.

In the kitchen, she nearly knocked over her coffee mug when she reached for her shopping list. Pausing for a moment, she stared at the mug in hand. A French Provence blue, the same brilliant shade as that warrior’s eyes. A sensual tingle ran through her breasts. She put the mug down trying to remember the last time she’d felt a physical reaction like that to a man. An image played in her mind of being scooped up effortlessly in his muscled arms. Instantly safe in his warrior–like strength, her head dropped back, his lips ascended her neck while his scent infused her and his touch aroused her ancient passion.

Wait. What was she thinking? Warrior in her far–off fantasies, maybe. The last thing she needed was to fixate on a school professor. No, she wouldn’t indulge in a scenario with a man who defined sensuality. The cadence of his brogue, the intensity in those eyes, the luring energy that swirled about him had been palpable. She recognized the type. If you fell for a man like that, chased passion like it was your lifelong purpose, then the ordinary people in your life became mundane and forgotten. Unchecked passion was a monster she’d been groomed to avoid.

The inexplicable sexual urge was cause for concern. Could sexual addiction be passed from mother to daughter like alcoholism? No. Not if Beth didn’t lose control. No man would ever make her a slave to desire.

Focus on the task at hand. Her first stop that day would be Mrs. Miller’s home. A cold fist closed over her heart. Mrs. Miller’s granddaughter had been on Beth’s mind for a week.

Beth had been shocked to learn that both she and Janine Miller were twenty–five years old. Janine had the demeanour of a doe catching a wildcat’s scent, much too young to be afraid of her husband and hiding at grandma’s house. Now there was a girl who deserved to find $40,000 buried in her backyard. Money like that could save lives.

Beth dropped the shopping list in the sink. Money could indeed save that girl’s life.

A drop of water shimmered at the tip of the faucet and fell with a ping.

She had an opportunity to change a life.

Her pulse quickened.

Legally speaking, she should turn the backpack over to the police. Morally speaking, sometimes a girl had to take matters into her own hands. She’d always known she had the courage to take a stand even if it meant opposing unjust laws or unprincipled action. In this case, incidences where the police failed to protect a woman from an abusive husband came to mind.

All she needed was one thing — a backpack that didn’t smell like compost. She climbed her stairs feeling like Robin Hood. Diverting this money from drug dealers to a woman in need was the right thing to do. She felt it in the sunshine that spread through her.

Upstairs in her walk–in closet, she was deciding which of her tote bags to part with when “Let’s Dance” rang from her cell phone downstairs — Matthew — the ring tone was a tune of trepidation. But stalling would not eliminate the inevitable. She ran downstairs, rifled through her purse, and snatched up her phone.

“Hey, Matthew, how’s it going?” Gone was the lovesick urge she’d felt six months ago. Now she realized how close she’d come to losing herself. How she’d been caught in the wave of everyone else’s enthusiasm that Matthew was the catch of the decade.

“I’ve had a hectic day, love, and haven’t had a chance to call. I’m grabbing a flight to Belize as we speak.”

She’d cringed when he’d called her love. Belize? What about their break–up dinner?

Matthew continued. “I’ve been on the phone with the contractor all afternoon. They’ve installed the wrong flooring on the main level — it’s nowhere near the quality we paid for. Maria’s not getting anywhere with the manufacturer, and the kitchen cabinets have gone missing. Her mother is ill, so I offered to straighten this out.”

She rolled her eyes at “offered.” Her stomach muscles tightened. What did this delay mean to the ultimate sale of the beach house?

Beth’s mind raced to catch up. Breakup or no, she couldn’t jeopardize this investment. “We hired Maria to oversee the renovation because she’s bright and conscientious. We can trust her to send someone qualified to manage the floor people and track down the cabinets. You do remember I need to discuss something with you, something important, Matthew.”

She heard him direct the cab to terminal three, and then his voice sounded again in her ear. “Yes, but dinner will have to wait till I return. I’m at the airport now.”

The sound of a jetliner screamed in the background in case she had any doubt. She raised her voice. “I don’t have much time to talk right now either. You wouldn’t believe what I found buried in my yard today. I’ve got to deal with it and deliver lunches.”

“Buried in your yard? Not an old pioneer grave I hope.”

“No, nothing like that. More like buried treasure. You can’t postpone your flight until tomorrow?”

“I cannot, no. I’ve also arranged a meeting first thing in the morning to look at that island.”

“The island? I’m not able to invest any more money, Matthew, I told you that. We need to get the beach house finished and put it on the market. You said this would be a quick renovation.” If she didn’t sell the beach house in the next four months, how would she fund the master’s program she’d been accepted into?

“It’s all under control. I’ll be back on Thursday and will arrive at your place at six.”

Distracted by the horrors of substandard flooring, Matthew would focus on nothing else until he returned from Belize. She slumped onto the kitchen chair and dispatched a groan in the mouthpiece that challenged the roar of any 747. “Fine. I’m going to deal with my buried treasure by doing a good deed, then go to my class this afternoon.” And shop for our break–up dinner Thursday night. “Phone me for an update when you get a chance.”

“That’s my good–deed girl. Listen, I’ve been shopping, sweetheart, in a jewelry store. I have something important to ask you on Thursday, so don’t you worry, I’ll be there.”

What? A jewelry store? Something important? She nearly dropped the phone, but managed to snatch it up before it careened off her thigh.

“I’m at the terminal. I’ll call you tonight at nine. Gotta go now. I’ve got another call coming in.”

She pulled away from the phone feeling like a dog fighting against a leash. Did he even ask if she’d be available at nine? Funny how the qualities that drew her to Matthew in the beginning had morphed into intolerable traits. She cleared her throat. “Tell Maria I hope her mom recovers quickly.” At least he was efficient. She said goodbye and hung up the phone.

Thirty minutes later, Beth had picked up her lunches from Meals on the Move and driven to Mrs. Miller’s house. She shifted the cash–filled tote bag onto her shoulder as she stood on the front porch feeling the warmth of the boxed lunch in her hand. Mrs. Miller usually left the door unlocked at lunch time.

The door didn’t give way when Beth turned the knob. Worry for the family tightened her chest, then eased off when she heard a familiar voice from inside the house.

“I’m not fast, but I’m a–coming. The legs aren’t so good today.” Mrs. Miller’s head popped out behind the curtain at the window. A smile of recognition bunched like pleats around her eyes before the door opened. “Oh my, Beth, you do make me laugh — you and your hats. What do you have on your head today?”

Beth smiled and patted her fedora. “It’s a giraffe print. Don’t you love it? I’d be happy to pick one up for you.”

Mrs. Miller shifted her walker back with a thunk. “Ha! That’s not a bad idea. For Janine, though, not for me. She needs something to smile about.”

A glance through the house revealed no sign of Janine. “Is your granddaughter home?”

“Not at the moment, no. She’s gone to see about a college course, so she can survive on her own. She doesn’t want to stay here and be a bother to me, at least that’s what she says, but I think she’s worried for my safety. I don’t know how she’ll afford to go to school and not live here.”

The thought of harm coming to Mrs. Miller gave Beth a shudder. “Sometimes things have a way of working out. I hate to see you upset, Mrs. Miller. Why don’t you sit down in the living room? I’ll get a tray from the kitchen for your lunch and make you a pot of Earl Grey.” The fraction of doubt in Beth’s mind that she was doing the right thing vanished completely. Forty thousand dollars wasn’t enough money for a drug dealer to invest much effort to recover. No one would ever connect that money to Janine Miller. Poor girl. Twenty-five was definitely too young to be hiding from a dangerous husband. It was, however, a fine age to go back to school.

Mrs. Miller’s bedrooms were down the hall from the kitchen. In less than thirty seconds, Beth had placed the tote bag with a note to Janine in the guest room closet where her clothes hung. The note was not signed, but made it clear the money was to better Janine’s life. She wouldn’t be able to pack her luggage without seeing it.

Mrs. Miller lifted her arms up like a child when Beth put the tray on her lap. “Oh, this pasta looks lovely, Beth.” The fork remained on the tray. “This worry over Janine has frazzled me. A few days ago, I found my passport lying on the floor beside my desk instead of in the drawer where I always keep it. I don’t even remember touching it.”

“You’ve got a lot on your mind, and you’re not the only one who forgets things, Mrs. Miller.”

“That’s what I told myself. But I’ve misplaced an emerald necklace and bracelet that belonged to my grandmother. Just shoot me if it’s Alzheimer’s, Beth, promise me that.”

“Okay, no problem. I’ll take care of it. Until then, eat!” Mrs. Miller smiled at that, and Beth suggested a doctor’s appointment wouldn’t hurt. With tea served and the money safely tucked away, Beth said goodbye and finished up the rest of her deliveries feeling like the world was a happier place.

Her cognitive psychology class began in ninety minutes. Beth went to class like everyone else did that day, except for the professor who was noticeably absent. Her thoughts drifted to one blue–eyed professor she’d love to see in the halls, if she was looking for that kind of diversion, which she wasn’t she reminded herself.

“Where’s Sutton?” she asked a guy she recognized from her class.

“Sutton is sick,” he replied. “Didn’t you see the sign on the door? The class is cancelled.” He looked at her and grinned. A pillow mark creased his cheek. She took a step back and barely resisted pinching her nose. The guy hadn’t showered.

“Nice,” he said, cheerfully. “I’m going back to bed.”

Beth frowned as she watched him retreat. He probably had a ten–minute walk to his bed. She read the large notice on the door. How had she missed it?

All that way to school for naught. At least she was in the right neighbourhood to pick up the lime leaves and shrimp paste for the coconut curry she’d decided to serve on Thursday.

The drive home was traffic–free. With a grocery bag in each hand, Beth jostled her way into the kitchen. She stopped short halfway through the door. The muscles in her fingers turned to soup.

“Oh, cripes.” The grocery bags slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor. She cringed at the sound of glass breaking, but a broken bottle of sesame oil was a mere drop in the typhoon that had whirled through her kitchen.

The contents of every cupboard lay garbled on the floor — a broken mayonnaise jar, cereal flakes, rye bread, saucepans, dishes, even a frozen fish. Oh, no, Granny’s hand painted bowl. A cry of disbelief squeezed her throat when she caught sight of the family room.

Knocked from the cabinet, the television laid screen–side down on the floor. Crystal wine glasses from Prague smashed. The antique hand painted fireplace screen from Paris thrown against the wall. One Rothenburg feather floated through a beam of sunlight. Where was the pillow? Only her birthday present from Matthew, a treasured model of a paddle steamer, had escaped destruction.

Behind her, the sound of something ceramic–like crushed under a foot!

Whoever had done this was still in the house. Beth’s heart lurched against her ribcage and pounded in her ears. She turned for the door. Which one was closest! The front? No, the back. A cracker crunched under her heel as she sprinted to the exit.

She didn’t make it to the door.

Chapter 6

Atrocious Adjustments

A shudder shook Calum as he sucked a blast of hot air into his lungs. His eyes squinted against the sun; he planted his feet to the ground and scanned his surroundings. Heat blazed the crater–pitted terrain that stretched in every direction. Not a shred of colour broke the barren landscape. Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead, and his back began to itch under his woolen shirt. He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows.

Where the hell was he?

Not the Upper World. Not the Middle World. Every muscle tightened as he contemplated his surroundings.

Had the trickster yanked him from Ashbury? Or had the Old Ones done it?

Legions of guilt invaded his gut. He hung his head. His place in this world didn’t matter. He’d failed Bethia.

A mounting inferno burned in his boots. A rising anxiety burned in his blood. A picture of the black satchel burned in his brain. His woman needed him.

Yes, he’d interfered a wee bit with her will. Yes, Finn had warned against it. Yet when he’d spied the satchel on her table, the instrument of her destruction, he’d acted on the immediate urge to snatch it from her and be away with it.

Little good he’d be to her now.

By all that was holy, the sight of her in the flesh had aroused him fervently. He had wanted to lay her in the grass and have her there blanketed by nothing more than clear blue sky. He still retained the ache of wanting her, the images of her soft curves, her fresh, familiar, feminine scent. Instantly, he’d felt overwhelmed by a need to remind Bethia how splendorous it was to make love with a thousand–year bond between them that was pure rapture.

The heat from his own breath felt cool passing over his lips. Before nightfall, he’d be roasted. If there was a nightfall. Bloody hell. Better use his mind while he still had one.

Focusing his thoughts on Finn, he visualized the trickster and sang the calling chant.

The air around him remained dead. No buzz of an insect, no twill of a bird, no rustle of a breeze. And no whoosh of the Alfar.

Nothing moved. From this devastating dimension, could his plea even reach Finn?

“You have the lasting power of a flea.”

Calum started at the voice that sounded behind him. The tone cut like barbed wire. Every nerve tightened under his skin as he turned.

Finn’s gaze swept the bleak landscape then landed on Calum. “Not so pretty, is it? Imagine an eternity here. At this moment, the Old Ones are considering exiling you from Seraphina.”

Permanent exile? The sun’s oppressiveness increased tenfold. Heat drew the energy from his bones. He resisted the urge to yank his shirt off over his head and expose his skin to the blistering sun.

“You broke their precious covenant by forcing your will upon Bethia. I did warn against it.”

Force was too strong a word. For Bethia’s greater good, he’d asserted his will, but the Old Ones would be too stubborn to see it. Using his shirt sleeve, he sopped up sweat from his face. Finn appeared unaffected by the heat. Calum had yet to attain such detached composure. He’d yet to achieve a number of attributes, of aspirations, of ambitions. But Bethia had the potential of a life ahead of her. An unjust prison term would torture her spirit and take lifetimes to heal.

“I beg one favour of you, Finn, if the Old Ones find me unworthy to protect Bethia, then watch over her in my stead. You must understand that she’s not like other women. That lass is a magnet for disaster like you’ve not seen.”

Finn scoffed. “You’re not hopeless, I’ll give you that. Look around you, warrior, and be concerned for your soul. Formidable as you are, you will not suffer this world well. Most lose their mind in a place as this. Perhaps if you saved Bethia from a life in prison, the Old Ones might reconsider your exile. Perhaps you wish to return to Earth to await their decision.”

Relief washed over Calum like a cool spray.

“You will stay out of her mind — no prompts, no ideas, no thoughts, no suggestions. If you deviate, I will return you here immediately, no exceptions.” Finn’s eyes narrowed to drive his point home. “Do you understand?”

Calum understood. He would remove Beth from any threat, and then safe in his fold they would have a reunion grander than in all their lifetimes. Being human, with centuries of lovemaking memories, had roused him in a carnal way.

“One more thing.” Finn smiled faintly. “There is a consequence for visiting this dimension in human form.”

Consequence? Calum stiffened.

“Your human body is now impotent,” Finn explained.

“Bloody hell! What kind of insane, spiteful punishment is this? How can half a man be of service to Bethia? Send a eunuch, you may as well.”

Finn had the nerve to look amused. “You are still a master of fortitude. Your strength of body and mind will serve you while you protect Bethia from human threat. You can use this as an opportunity to improve your temperance.”

Calum scowled. “I’ll do that as a monk. Bethia would never wish me to come to her impotent.”

“Bethia has changed. She no longer seeks passion as she once did.”

Obviously Finn was misinformed. “The bond between us has been driven by passion for over a thousand years.”

“How soon you’ve forgotten. Your lives together were often tumultuous and your last union with Bethia did not end on solid ground. Now, I do love how you lust after each other, love each other and die for each other, warrior, but the Old Ones believe it’s past time to overcome deprecatory habits and achieve a more substantial compatibility. One that gives you both the peaceful union they believe you should seek.”

Calum felt his belly curdle. Finn knew too much.

“Bethia wants to break the love bond between you.”

Calum’s hearing had become muffled. He took a step closer and shook the thunder from his ears. “What did you say?”

“Bethia believes you’ve become overprotective, and she feels stifled.”

Calum’s voice dropped dangerously low. “The Old Ones coerced her into believing such things. Do they question her growing tendency to risk her neck? The lass needs an army surrounding her on all sides when she walks the Earth.”

Finn shook his head. “Believe what you will. Unless you change Bethia’s course, these will be your last days with her.”

It wasn’t true, but before Calum could utter a rebuke, Finn spoke. “I’ve dallied long enough with you, Warrior. Decide now. Will you stay or will you go?”

Chapter 7

Intervention Masquerade

Calum was back in the town of Ashbury, human once again, and he should have been celebrating. Bethia wanted to sever their eternal bond? An icy fist clenched his heart.

Finn’s foul words were like poison ebbing at life itself. Your human body will now be impotent.

This time with her must surpass each passionate pledge Bethia had ever made to him and vanquish any suggestion their bond should be severed. He’d no wish to find himself back on that desolate plain, no more than he’d wish to be in the Upper World watching her bond with another man. He must leave her with the unquestionable belief that no man was his equal.

Bloody hell. How much time did he have with Bethia? One meager month? Two trifling weeks? Three diminutive days? As if the fates meant to curse him, he’d never come into a life more aware or more aroused by her.

Impotent. An incomprehensible decree! Unless — Calum felt a glimmer of hope — the impotence was a jest. It would be just like the trickster to place a suggestive prompt in his head making him believe in his incapacity, especially after Calum had done that very thing to Bethia. Finn was known to have a twisted sense of humour.

Calum pictured Bethia in this life, the stunning woman she’d become. Seeing her face veiled in golden hair had stopped the breath in his throat. As she’d walked down the hall away from him, the breeches she wore left little to the imagination. What form did her breasts take? How deep was the valley in between? What sounds would she make when he touched her with his hands, with his lips? Every inch of velvety skin laid out for him, only him.

Yes. He felt a twitch. It never took much. His arousal came on strong. But …

He looked down. Not a rise. He rubbed himself. Nothing. One hell of an unjustifiable, prosecuting nothing!

Calum cursed the air above him. This punishment masquerading as holy intervention was beyond cruel. The Old Ones thought his temperament needed improvement? No question there. He was in a foul temper indeed.

A squirrel skittered down a nearby tree and ranted over his head. He shot the rodent a snarl before turning his attention to the sign posted ahead of him. It read Ashbury Conservation Grounds. The taxi had driven past these grounds, so Bethia must live in one of the houses he spied on the north side. He began to walk without delay.

How would he retrieve the black satchel without bending Bethia’s will?

Outwit her, he supposed, until she trusted him enough that he might tell her the truth. He wouldn’t dare risk this gift of humanness. And his was a rare gift. His memories of Bethia were intact, memories from over a thousand years. That didn’t happen in the earth realm.

The warmth of the sun was perfection. With little time to plot a strategy, he set the row of houses in his sight and his mind on his woman.

• • •

Duct-taped to her kitchen chair, Beth Stewart spewed every curse word she could think of, which wasn’t nearly enough.

A man stood in front of her dangling the empty backpack she had recently dug from the woods. He dropped it on the morning coffee grounds littering her floor. The intruder was no stranger, but Bruce Hopkins, a friend of Matthew. Finding Bruce inside her home had confused her more than startled her, enough that he’d overpowered her before she’d reasoned he was the ransacker and not there as a friend.

“I wasn’t expecting you to come home.” With the back of his hand, Bruce swiped drops of blood from the three gashes she’d scratched into his cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I gotta have that money.”

It was the strangest feeling to be threatened by Matthew’s friend. She didn’t feel fear. She was pissed off. Not only had Bruce wrecked her house and taped her to a chair, her hands were beginning to go numb, and she hated that prickly feeling!

She wiggled her fingers. “It’s a little late for that, jackass.”

“Where is it, Beth?”

“I told you. I don’t have it. I delivered it to the police.”

Bruce eyed her savagely. “Without the knapsack? Only an idiot would believe that.”

“You would know.”

He paced in front of her kitchen window. “You must have spent all that money you won. European vacations, homes, university — you haven’t worked since I’ve known you. Nice lifestyle, huh, Beth?” He kicked the groceries she’d brought in. “Caviar, champagne, I suppose?”

“Bugger off, Hopkins. Why would anyone bury money in the woods? Aren’t you criminals supposed to have an offshore bank account, or at least a locker at the train station? Why are you dealing drugs? And why are you making such a big deal over forty–thousand dollars?”

He looked offended. “Good point. Why risk your life for forty–thousand dollars? I’m not leaving without it. You took it out of the backpack and hid it where?”

“I told you what I did with it.” No chance in eternity she would tell him and endanger Mrs. Miller.

He leaned in. His nose bumped hers. Fingers dug into her shoulders. “Look into these eyes, Beth. What d’ya see? I’m over the edge here. Matt’s not coming home till tomorrow. We’ve got all night if you want. Just so you understand, I’m not leaving till I’ve got what I want.”

Something wasn’t right here, or had she just become so spoiled by her lottery win that she’d underestimated the appeal of forty–thousand dollars? No, that couldn’t be it. As a lawyer, Bruce wasn’t hurting for money and shouldn’t threaten her over that sum. “Get off me.” She forced the words through her clenched teeth. “I don’t have your money.”

“I don’t believe that.” Bruce pushed off her shoulders with a violent shove that spun the chair so it slammed into the counter.

Okay, now a little bit of fear crept in. This was surreal. Good deeds were supposed to spark some kind of charitable chain reaction along the fuse of humanity. Was there a blip in the cosmos? How did good citizen Beth end up skidding across her kitchen floor tied to a chair, threatened by a man who’d eaten hamburgers off her own grill for God’s sake?

She flicked her head to get the hair out of her eyes. Perhaps a different approach would work. “Bruce, we are friends — ”

“Don’t go there.” His muscles flexed as she imagined him planning his next assault. If he thought he could intimidate her with all that male brawn … he was right.

She looked away. For two seconds. Then anger welled up in her again. “Hey, dick–head — ”

The sentence vanished in an explosion into the kitchen through the laundry room door. A hurling massive bulk crossed the floor in a blur and slammed a fist into Bruce’s face. Beth cringed at the crunch of bone on bone as Bruce hit the floor.

Cripes! The professor? What kind of thriller movie had she tumbled into?

“Did he hurt you, lass?” he asked, with a little too much testosterone still flowing through those veins. His sharp gaze fixed on her like a mother bear.

Beth had lost her voice. She looked at Bruce slumped against the fallen garbage pail, his ear soaking in pickle juice, a red line drawing from his mouth in a bloody frown. Behind her, the warrior — what was his name? — sliced through the tape releasing her arms.

Her wrists hurt. She rubbed the blood back into them, keeping an eye on the warrior as he examined the duct tape he’d cut from her arms. He looked impressed (by duct tape?), and then he snatched the roll off the counter and trussed Bruce like Christmas turkey.

A new wave of dread hit her. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

He looked up and grinned. “No. Broke his nose, though. He’ll be out for a while.”

“With one punch?”

“Aye, well, I was angry.” He didn’t look angry anymore, thank God. Muscleman Bruce looked puny next to this heavyweight. It would be best to keep the warrior professor on her side until she determined why he was there.

She got up off the chair and stepped gingerly over the debris to rescue her giraffe–print fedora before it was crushed. Most of this broken stuff was just that, stuff, except her grandmother’s bowl. Those shattered pieces had her forcing back tears, but this wasn’t the time to cry. She took the broom and dustpan from the closet and began sweeping.

“What are you doing here?” she asked without looking at him. Her hand trembled on the broomstick.

“I was called away before you answered my questions, so I returned to finish the study. On the laneway outside your home, I heard you scream.” His hand touched her shoulder. “Beth, put the broom down. Let me see your face, see how you fare.”

How she fared? Not well. It was a ridiculous time to sweep the floor, but her mind was a jumble. Instinctively she turned, and his arms opened for her. She moved into them.

He was a powerful man, she could feel that, but there was something greater than physical strength there. An expansive wave of protection engulfed her. She looked into his eyes and found the kind of dependable blue she longed for after stormy skies. The fine tremors that had built beneath her skin eased. The effect of being held by him was remarkably comforting.

“Better?” he asked.

Definitely, but she didn’t want him to know how he’d moved her.

She mumbled an affirmation. She was pressed tight to his body. Way too close. She took a step back remembering this guy was more a stranger than the one on the floor, and the truth of that was nowhere near reassuring.

“I have to call the police,” she said. Finally a sensible thought.

“Could you wait on that just a moment?”

She stiffened.

“I want to talk to you about a few things.” He raked his hand through his long bangs. His glance upward was nearly imperceptible, then he said, “I just want it to be noted that my intent is not to bend your will in anyway.”

Okay, that was weird.

“First, do you know this ass?” He nudged Bruce with the toe of his boot.

“He’s an acquaintance, a friend of Matthew’s — my boyfriend who should be here any minute.” Best to let this testosterone–filled warrior think she was happily attached and not alone.

A look of distaste crossed his face. “Beth, I saw the black satchel on your table.”

“Cripes! I knew it. You buried the backpack in my yard?” She picked up the broom stick and wielded it tight.

One sand–coloured eyebrow rose as did his mouth, in amusement — what nerve! “Come a little closer,” she said, “so I can smack that condescending smile off your face.”

The warrior laughed and raised his hands in surrender. “I know you would, as I know the sun will rise tomorrow. No, the satchel doesn’t belong to me. I’m not wanting the goods from it, nor to harm you, nor to get hit with that broom.”

Beth kept it raised. “Well, what do you want?”

“I only saw it, Beth, I have nothing to do with it, but to know it will be the root of trouble for you. Allow me to have a look at the contents, and then we’ll determine if it’s best to trust the constable. Don’t think you’re out of harm’s way. Others may know about the satchel. I don’t believe you are safe here.”

“Not safe from you,” she pointed out. If she phoned the police how would she explain where the money had gone? Could she deny its existence? “Listen, you stand still. I need a moment to think about this.”

“What was in the satchel, lass?”

“I don’t see how that’s your business. Listen, Calum.” Finally, she remembered his name. “If you heard Popeye here mention money, I have none. The money has been delivered to the police.”

A look of alarm crossed his features. “Was there anything else in it? How is Popeye connected to that paltry boyfriend of yours, and how could you be connected to that satchel?”

Paltry boyfriend? “I’m not connected to it other than finding it in the woods. Why all the questions?” The professor felt familiar to her, but oddly enough not as a professor. The bizarre feeling he’d just returned from an ancient battlefield was difficult to shake, but shake it she would. More likely she’d seen him around the university. “Listen up, I don’t have the money anymore, so if that’s what you’re after, you are shit out o’ luck, Bucko.”

“I don’t care about that money any more than you did. Look into my eyes, Beth, and see for yourself.”

“What?”

She did. He’d taken her by surprise, and she couldn’t seem to help herself. The guy had remarkable eyes. They reflected controlled strength he seemed to wield like second skin, strength that could be trusted to keep her safe. And one thing worth noting — he was not hard to look at. In a pinch, she could do it all day. Okay, that addendum wasn’t necessary. Get a grip, Beth. Did he really think he could bring her down with nice eyes? She looked away.

“I want you to listen to me,” He glanced at Bruce. “Just allow for a moment the possibility that this ass means to avert the law by implicating you in a crime. I have reasons to believe it’s not only possible, but likely. You need to leave Ashbury straight away. Go as far from here as you can. Visit a friend. Stay at an inn. Don’t involve the constable yet as it could mean trouble for you. Just give me a couple of days to sort this out.”

“Calum, you listen to me. I want you to leave right now and visit a friend or find an inn. I don’t care. There’s a nice little bed and breakfast on Highway 24. I hear the orange juice is freshly squeezed.”

The man in her kitchen looked down on her with eyes that marched her off to ancient Scotland where men were masters and women did not refuse them. “There’ll be no chance of that. Free will be damned. You’re coming with me.”

Chapter 8

King of the Jungle

There were advantages in wearing the body of a Highland warrior. Knowing he would carry no weapons in the twenty–first century, Calum was glad to have this hardened body in peak physical form, especially after Beth cracked his forearm with that broomstick. He outweighed her by at least seven stone and easily carried her out of the house over his shoulder. She fought him with true spirit.

He loved every minute. And, most important, he didn’t lose corporealness and get hauled back a dimension. Good. Technically, he had followed the rules and not put the thought in Beth’s head that she should accept his word as gospel like he’d wanted. He’d only tried to rekindle some of the trust she must surely carry in her memory for him. She’d obviously not looked deep enough into his eyes.

Calum had a problem. He didn’t know the crime for which Beth would be accused. He knew she would be arrested, so his immediate intent was to keep her from the police. ‘Twas a two–fold plan that would also keep them together.

It wasn’t difficult to pick up on her emotions now. He sensed fear, mixed with excitement though, not terror, and the fear wasn’t entirely directed at him. Their struggle in the kitchen had only served to arouse him — that he felt sharply with no hope of a satisfying release — but he had not been the only one. The tousle had aroused her as well, so like the Bethia he knew.

“So, Tarzan.” Her chest rose and fell in quick successions. “Are you going to pound your chest now, affirm your dominance?”

He had her pinned against the wee car in the garage, her back against the front door, his hands pressed to the window on either side of her.

He left the humour out of his smile. She knew him better than she thought. “I’m giving you a choice now. You can either drive the car to a nice inn, when I say it’s far enough away, or you can ride in the trunk.”

The storm clouds in her eyes darkened. She attempted to back away from him, but there was nowhere to go. Leaning in closer, he drew a breath of her, fully intending to intimidate her with his size. She needed to relinquish her irrational need to resist him.

“I am definitely enrolling in karate classes.” His Bethia craned her neck as far from him as she could manage. “Stop breathing on me. Why do you think I’ll be in trouble if I go to the police?”

“It’s complicated. You’ll have to trust me.” He drew back slightly and felt her sigh.

“I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”

“You’ll have to use your intuition then, lass. I’ll tell you how I know you’re in danger when the time is right. This isn’t the time.”

She exhaled a perturbed breath that breezed over his neck. “I choose which hotel.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t think it’s going to be isolated … or cheap.”

“Nothing but the best, lass.” Calum felt for the pocket full of paper money. Still there. He scanned the car under his hands in a quick glance. “Whatever possessed you to purchase such a wee car?”

“Hey, I’m going along with you, okay? Not because you threw your weight around, Mister–I’m–So–Much–Bigger–Than–You–I–Can–Have–My–Own–Way because I truly hate that. So don’t think yourself superior. I’ll go to a hotel because I want to go.”

“Good enough. My concern is only for your safety.”

He’d grabbed the black satchel off the floor and her purse from the counter. When Beth slipped in behind the wheel, he ran around to the passenger side then tossed her the little bag. Inside were the keys like she’d promised. She didn’t resist, but drove the car out of the garage. Good sign.

She hadn’t called his bluff. Restraining her would have been a problem because driving a car wasn’t one of his strengths. Calum’s knowledge of the last century or so on Earth was adequate — he’d kept up with progress for the most part — but he couldn’t possibly catch every detail. Besides, watching and doing were not quite the same. No doubt he would master the car eventually.

“There wasn’t enough money in that backpack to warrant Bruce’s crazed behaviour.” She turned on to the main road. “Either he’s psycho, or there was something else in the backpack that I missed. Is this somehow connected to the university?”

He pulled on the zipper tab, amazed by the way the wee metal latches came apart. While keeping his wonder to himself, he couldn’t resist pulling the tab closed and open another time. Brilliant invention. “Are you certain the satchel contained not a thing but the money?”

“A small bag of marijuana too.”

Drugs. He pressed his fingers along the seams inside the bag and examined each pocket. “Nothing else?”

“No, nothing else.”

He turned to face her and knocked his head against the door frame. “Damn, we might as well be riding in a soapbox.”

She glanced at him, but he enjoyed no more than a hint of sensuality in her gaze before she focused back on the road. She masked her attraction to him by looking pleased at his discomfort.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she reminded.

“I don’t know if the satchel is connected to anyone at the university, but it’s a thought.”

“It strikes me odd that you don’t want to involve the police? Why do you think that could lead to trouble?”

“I am a soothsayer.” It was the best explanation he could give at the moment.

“You’re psychic? Yeah, right.” A little puff blew from her lips of pink, lips that glistened like the inside of a seashell.

He began to count the moments until he’d have the taste of her on his own lips. “I am right. You’ll realize it soon enough. I’ve told you the truth whether you believe it or not. I’m not your enemy, lass. You’re mixed up in something malicious and I’m here to help.”

A baffled glance came his way. “Okay, let’s assume for one minute you do have insight into all this. Why do you care? You don’t know me.”

“Why did you not keep the money?”

“Ill–gotten gains? No thanks. I’m not afraid to get involved and do the right thing. If you think about yourself all the time, then people get neglected or hurt.”

“People like you? Who hurt you, Beth?” He knew exactly who — her mother. The woman had the maternal instincts of a fish.

She pulled the car to a stop at a red light and flashed him the kind of look a wolf gives a rabbit. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you changed the subject again. So, you’re delivering me from a future crisis you’ve psychically foreseen because you’re one of those good guys who believes in doing the right thing, just like me.” Each word was carefully coated in sarcasm.

“Ah, well said. You’re a fine judge of character, Bethia.”

“Stop saying my name like that.”

He laced his smile with the promise of bedtime. “Like what?”

“My name’s not Bethia, and you sound like your mind is on pure sin when you draw my name out like that. It’s no way to gain my trust.”

He laughed a deep rolling sound gilded in jasmine and starry nights. “A fine judge of character, indeed,” he said under his breath.

“I heard that.”

Good. He turned and looked out the window. She’d caught his intent. He had no desire to mask it, but planned a slow seduction culminating in Beth begging for pure sin. They were man and woman — bonded souls. Their love already existed.

When he thought back to their past lives together, he saw how passion held them together even through tumultuous times. Passion he must rekindle, so she would open up to him and he could determine if there was truth in what Finn proclaimed.

Would he be waylaid by a mere performance problem? Her pleasure would be his. And not to be underestimated, his spirit was strong. Surely, when the time came, mind and spirit would fortify body and so tightly queued, woven in love and passion, there would be no stopping his rise to the occasion. No breaking of eternal bonds.

Somewhere deep in her subconsciousness, the love of his lives knew what was at stake. She’d best prepare herself. Her safety was but one of his priorities. Bethia had merely glimpsed the obsession prowling his mind for her.

Chapter 9

Tricksters Don’t Knock

Beth glanced at the warrior crumpled on her passenger seat. A message had been drilled into her head and became so firmly rooted she couldn’t remember not knowing it: never get into a car with a stranger — never mind that — never talk to strangers, never take candy from them, and certainly never entertain fantasies about them in your bed. It was unheard of.

Yet, here she was. And though she hadn’t taken his candy, something told her it would be the richest, smoothest chocolate, a sumptuous indulgence to be licked from his finely sculpted … Stop that! What was wrong with her? This guy had abducted her from her kitchen, fully acknowledged a sinful disposition, and she had him covered in chocolate? It was time to get real — the controlling brute.

So what was it about him? He’d had her fully piqued back in the kitchen. Attacking him with the broom stick had felt like a game she wanted to play. He’d deflected her blows without hurting her, using force only to carry her to the car. She’d even heard him chuckle when he’d picked her up like he was having a grand time.

Why instead of fearing Calum did she feel safe with him? Way down in her bones, the warrior evoked security. And why did her stomach clench at the thought of walking into a police station? Beth trusted those gut feelings — her dad’s influence — if it doesn’t feel right, don’t do it. In her upside down world, it felt right to stick to Calum.

When they reached the bottom of Main Street, he peered out the window with dismay. “Are there no hills or mountains in this land?”

She shot him a bemused look. “In this land? No, Calum. The closest mountains are the Laurentians in the east. We do have the Niagara Escarpment though — a good view to keep a watch out for bad guys.”

“I prefer the mountains. Head east then, somewhere safe. Far from Ashbury is all the better.”

She scoffed and continued south. Did he really believe she’d drive to Quebec at his command?

Quebec.

A gasp rose in her throat. The business card from the backpack had been from a real estate office in Quebec City. The name came clear in her memory — Chantal Desjardins, RE/MAX Alliance. Could Chantal Desjardins shed light on the backpack mystery?

She turned east. Not because it was his idea. She would not be controlled by any man. Her gut feeling was one that impelled her to escape Ashbury. The driving force behind the feeling was undetermined and could just as easily be excitement as much as it could be fear for her safety. Adventure slipped in the window like a long–lost friend and curled down her leg to the gas pedal.

He had taken her by surprise back there in the kitchen. She thought he was flirting with her when he raked her body with a sensual look–over. He’d probably been calculating the ease with which he’d throw her over his shoulder. She’d be ready for him if he tried that again. An ember of excitement glowed at the thought. Okay, so she was slightly attracted to the guy — less than slightly, just a mere sliver of attraction — but that had no bearing on her urge to drive clear into another province with him.

Right.

Better watch that. She would not be ruled by physical attractions. Remember how Matthew had looked like the whole package? With a vital break–up dinner pending, she would not be fixating on another man — ever. She would be a career girl, a psychologist specializing in addictions. Sex was the addiction that had ruined her family. She would save others from the same fate.

The sun had set when Beth slowed the car and pulled into the Hilton parking lot. “Where are we then, lass?” he asked.

“Montreal.” She stretched out her legs with a satisfied smile and waited for his exclamation. He had abducted her with a pretext of protection from a threat he wouldn’t explain, so he shouldn’t be surprised to learn she would seek her own answers. Too bad for him those answers were a province away. Perhaps he’d learn a lesson in minding his own business.

“Very good.”

She felt her brow rise. “Very good? You’re not bothered that I’ve taken you so far from Ashbury?”

He shot her a dry look she couldn’t fathom interpreting. “No,” he answered simply. “You choose to stay here?”

She nodded her head. “Don’t you have to answer to anybody? No girlfriend at home who might be surprised to hear you’re in Quebec?”

“No.”

“Fine then, if you don’t want to share details of your personal life, so be it. I’m tired. Make sure my suite has a Jacuzzi, please and thank you.”

“I’ll see what I can do about a Whatoozi, but I’ll not have you staying alone, not yet.” His fair eyebrows drew together. “You can wipe that look off your face. I’ll not sleep in your bed.”

• • •

Calum made up an address and checked them in, ignoring Beth’s gape when he admitted to not having a credit card. And no, he didn’t need help with their luggage. Did he look like a man who needed a lad no bigger than a toothpick to carry a few bags? Not that they had any luggage. Beth made him stop at the gift shop for all sorts of toiletries.

It was a good thing she’d not seen his face when that little room she’d boxed them into had risen up in the air and taken them to the eighth floor. An elevator, he realized afterwards. He’d not liked it one bit. For a man used to living in the Highlands and given the choice, he preferred solid ground.

Calum locked the door to the hotel room after they entered. No suites were available, only a room with a king–sized bed. If it was suitable for a king, it should be adequate for Beth, but bloody hell — the room was tiny with only one bed.

Two upholstered chairs sat in front of a window flanking a round table. He looked from the enormous bed to the puny chair. Damn. It would be an uncomfortable night.

He dropped the shopping bag on the floor and flexed his fingers. “I need to clear my head. Where will I find the whiskey?” Inside the closet, he found hangers and a long board, ah, pressing clothes.

“Over here,” Beth said with a lopsided look as though he’d been in a Hilton before. It wouldn’t serve him to admit it, not yet. She left a small door open for him under a contraption named Braun.

Snatching a tiny bottle of Crown Royal from the shelf, he tried to imagine a purpose for such an apparition. “What kind of men are these Quebecers? Are they wee people then or can they not hold their liquor?”

Beth’s mouth almost quivered to a smile as she took a step back. “Just so you know, I don’t find you funny at all. Humour often doesn’t translate well across cultures. And speaking of that, where did you say you were from?”

He swallowed the contents in one not nearly satisfying swig. “From a place where you’d as soon die as serve a customer a piddle as that.”

Beth sighed. “Can’t you just phone room service for more instead of complaining? I feel clammy from the drive and need to scrub the scent of Bruce Hopkins from my skin, so I’m going to take a shower.” She pulled a white robe from the closet.

“All alone?” Calum raised a brow suggestively.

“Not funny.” With the robe tucked under an arm, she crossed the room and snatched a desk chair that she pulled behind her towards the bathroom.

Too damn cute for her own good. “Must you sit down?”

She stopped to glare at him. “No, Calum, I’m wedging this chair under the doorknob — the locked doorknob — as extra insurance against you. If you dare come near that door — ”

He flinched. “‘Twas a jest, Beth. I’ll not intrude on your bathing.” Noting a lack of humour let alone arousal in her expression, he decided she was in no mood for him to clarify when she may deem his intrusion appropriate.

The door closed abruptly. The sounds of a scuff and rattle followed. Calum snorted disapproval and then looked over the room. She said to phone for service. A fine idea. A telephone sat on the desk against the wall. Surely he could manage room service; it was self–explanatory. He picked up the phone and frowned — not one offer to serve — but there was a bell tone.

“Ah,” he said smugly, putting the phone down. A servant would answer his page. He crossed his arms over his chest and peered out the window.

Ten minutes later, he still had no whiskey.

Though he hated to leave the room to seek help, he was resigned to do just that when a soft wind gusted behind him lifting the hair off his neck. No windows were open to let in such a breeze. His leg muscles tensed. Windless breezes preceded only one occurrence.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbled.

“You were supposed to speak into the mouthpiece,” said a voice behind him. “Humans are pitiable mind readers.”

Calum steeled himself and turned.

Leaning against the wardrobe was the trickster, dressed in a pale green waistcoat over close–fitting breeches belted in black leather with a gleaming, square buckle set in his middle. One knee–high, black, cuffed boot was propped casually on the seat of the chair.

“Finn, I didn’t expect to be seeing you again so soon,” he whispered and glanced toward the thin door with Beth on the other side.

“You’re so newly human,” Finn said. “You’ll be seeing me fine enough.”

That wasn’t what Calum had meant. He knew humans weren’t able to see Finn unless he allowed it. He’d meant — what the hell was Finn doing there?

“How is it, being human once again?” Finn pushed off the chair to give Calum a look–over. “I expected to see you in a tangle of bed sheets regardless of your,” his gaze dropped to Calum’s groin, “‘incapacity.’ Is your true love not happy to see you?”

Vowing to control his temper before his head burst, Calum counted to five and took a deep breath. A soft grunt escaped him as he unclenched his teeth. He and Finn were eye–to–eye. Calum took a step back. He would not be examined like a prime specimen.

“Perhaps I can help,” said Finn.

Ah now, there’s a suggestion. He gave the immortal his full attention.

Beth’s voice sounded from the bathroom. “I could have sworn I brought that robe in here.”

Finn’s lips curled in a thin smile. He held the white terry robe up between two fingers.

Calum rolled his eyes. That wasn’t the help he’d had in mind.

“You don’t want Bethia out here in a wee towel?” Finn asked.

“Well …”

“Calum,” Beth called. “I’ve washed some things in the sink, so I need a robe. Bring me one, but turn your back first. Just hold the robe out, and I’ll grab it.”

The trickster put a finger to his lips.

Calum shook his head and advanced on Finn. “That kind of help I don’t need.” He jerked the robe from Finn’s grasp that was so loose the robe snapped into the desk light sending it clattering to the floor.

Finn looked pleased despite his robe game gone to ruins.

“Calum! What are you doing out there?”

He rapped on the bathroom door with his knuckles.

It opened a crack. She hooked her body behind the door. Humid air misted around her carrying a soft scent of vanilla. He inhaled deeply.

“I asked you to turn your back.”

His smile was full of innocence. “Oh, did you now? I couldn’t hear you so well. Thought you asked me to wash your back, and I was about to explain how that translates in my culture.”

“You are so very not funny. Just give me the robe.”

He held the robe a tad beyond her reach until she opened the door further. The tease couldn’t be helped. She was beautiful, damp hair brushed off her faultless heart–shaped face, skin flushed and glistening, a hand fisted in the towel clenched under her neck.

“Get a good eyeful, warrior?” She snatched the robe from his hand.

“Not nearly full enough,” he grumbled to the door shutting in his face. “But I’ll do for now.”

Finn laughed. “Ah, warrior, it pains me to see you persist in what can only be a futile end.”

“You don’t look the least bit pained,” Calum pointed out. The last thing he wanted to accept was his propensity for a futile ending among the bed sheets. Barring Calum’s expectation that sheer will would overcome his physical handicap, there was no prospect greater than Finn’s power. Bloody hell. He needed the trickster.

“Sorry,” said Finn, looking anything but. “I find you most entertaining, warrior.”

Another last thing Calum wanted. “Finn, perhaps I could appeal to your sympathetic side. If you could just fix this wee — ”

Finn vanished in a soft gust that blew through Calum’s hair. Faint silver laughter trickled out of the hotel room.

“Of all the self–serving, egocentric … to suggest I be his damn entertainment — ”

“Who in the world are you talking to?” Beth exited the bathroom clad in robe and turbaned in white terry.

“No one!” Calum roared, then immediately stifled his outburst and smiled sheepishly. “I was talking on that phone trying to rouse some servants.”

“You were doing what?”

“I’m in need of a bottle of whiskey, woman — a big one.”

Her brow furrowed. She glanced in the mirror and rummaged through the bag of goods they’d purchased downstairs. “Since you didn’t give me time to pack my hair straightener, I’ll have to pull it straight with a brush and blow dry. And just so you know, I have clothes on under this robe, so — ”

A bottle dropped from midair at ceiling height. Calum caught it inches from the ground. “For the love of God!”

In the mirror’s reflection, Beth’s gaze fell from his face to the bottle in his hands.

“Imagine that.” Focusing on the bottle, he read the label. “A 1973 Edradour single cask. There was whiskey tucked away here all along.”

Her gaze narrowed to such a degree, he worried she might strain a muscle. Calum was happy to turn his back to slide forward the two glasses on the desk. He dumped a good measure in both and handed one to Beth.

“Slàinte.” He raised his glass to hers before draining it. “Now that’s a damn fine whiskey.”

“I don’t drink Scotch … normally. Couldn’t be much farther from normal, could I?” She took a healthy gulp, squeezed her eyes shut, and shivered. “Ugh, that’s awful. Fill me up again … just half.”

Chapter 10

Desire Him, Desire Him Not

Beth felt a little more relaxed after the burn of whiskey dulled to warmth she felt mostly in her head — all buzzy and unperturbed up there. The slight haze felt welcome.

Calum’s eyes trained on her like a hungry wolf, but he stayed put in the Bergère chair. Not that she wanted him to get closer, she affirmed. Then affirmed again.

The more she looked at him, the more appealing he became. The polar opposite of Matthew, Calum looked like he’d be one with the mountains, not a city boy. The rugged look was accentuated by stubble that shadowed his square jaw. His hair was chin length, usually off his face, but caramel strands swung forward as he reached for his glass, muscles moving smoothly under his mocha sweater. She imagined him wielding one of those heavy claymore swords with elegant grace. Now that was a dangerous direction for her thoughts to go. Why was there nothing about this man that said professor?

“What course do you teach, Professor Cunningham?”

“I don’t teach. Just collecting research, lass, for the University of Edinburgh. How do you know for sure that this Matthew is the one for you?”

“Matthew is a man driven to set goals and attain them — not my strong suit. I tend to live in the moment. He’s breaking me of my disorganized habits and has detailed a three–year plan for me. It’s tacked up on my bulletin board, and believe me, I am on track.”

Calum leaned back in the chair with cougar–like eyes on her. “Does your soul burn for him? Do you feel him now deep in your bones? Does he know you so well that his mere touch brings you to your knees, Bethia?”

If bullshit was music, this guy would be a brass band. And he’d done it again, drawing out her name with that sensual inflection, and speaking of burning, that smoldering look could melt the robe right off a woman. Beth slid back until her head bumped the wall and her jean–clad knees were pulled up tight against her.

“You are so inappropriate,” she said. Soul–burning love? Right up until the one you love walks out the door for good. She’d always known she wouldn’t waste her life chasing it.

“And you wish Matthew was more so?”

Infuriating! “I live in the real world, Calum, not a fantasy. Is that what the women in your life tell you — that you make them weak in the knees?”

His smile was back to seduction. “Just one woman.”

“Really? Good for her.” He has a woman? Oh. Well, the man did have some appeal after all, if you liked the primitive, animalistic sort.

It was getting late. She put her glass on the bedside table. “I’m going to sleep now. You look quite comfortable over there in that chair, and I’ll thank you to stay in it.”

“You need not worry about me molesting you in the night.” His smile was as slick as a devil’s. Did he practice in front of a mirror? Oh geez. She couldn’t quite look away as he wet his lips and continued. “Not unless you want me to.”

She felt a faint tremble then silently cursed herself and steeled her eyes. “Give it up, Calum.”

“What does your father think of Matthew?”

Her father liked Matthew just fine. Two peas in a pod united in their quest to improve Beth’s financial sense. “You are beginning to irritate me. I’ve been more than accommodating, driving all day because heaven knows, you didn’t offer to. You had to watch your victim. Let’s remember what this is. You kidnapped me from my kitchen — ”

“No. I saved you from an assault. You were stuck to your chair, but no matter, I would risk my life for you again.”

She scoffed. “Risk your life? You’re built like a warrior. You dropped Bruce with one punch.”

His expression was full of self–approval.

“You threatened to put me in the trunk.”

“I was only wanting to impress upon you the seriousness of the situation. I’d not have followed through. I don’t think you would have fit.”

He was so not charming. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.” But she did know. It was just like the old Beth, the bane of her father’s life, the Beth she’d promised to leave behind. Impulsive, live in the moment, never look ahead for consequences.

“I’m trying to help you, but I can’t explain the way of it as yet. Can you not feel what is right inside you and trust me?”

Yes, she felt safe for some reason, but that reason remained too much a mystery to be comfortable. “Trust you? Do you have any idea how intimidating you are? It’s not just that you’re built out of stone and outweigh me by eighty pounds, it’s that look you get — you have a way of staring me down with pure sin.”

That exact sinful look washed smoothly over his face.

Beth glared — not charming at all.

“I’ll not apologise for it,” he said. “But I give you my word, I’ll not kiss you until you ask me. I know you will, Beth, and in case you suffer doubt, I will bring you to your knees. I’m a man of my word, but you’d best not forget, I am a man.”

She groaned, flicked the light off, and pulled the blanket up to her neck. Tell me something I don’t know. She’d never met a man who was more man than this man.

Ten minutes later, Beth lay awake in contemplation — her dad’s idea. I can’t impress upon you enough, Beth, when you’re unsure, spend time in contemplation before you act. Better late than never, she supposed.

Calum might be intent on saving her from some evil, but she’d not forgotten where he put his hand when he carried her out of the house. A carnal jolt of heat had penetrated her so exquisitely. Her body had never reacted that way to a man.

She gasped. I will bring you to your knees. Oh no! She’d followed him like a puppy dog because he’d felt good. The physical thrill had superseded her reason. Just like her mother who’d hardly come up for air between men. What did that say about her ability to steer clear of men–hopping behaviour?

Good thing her rational brain had finally kicked in despite her exhaustion. Come morning, she would be out of there — without Calum. He wasn’t a threat, no way. She would lose him easily. Beth peered over the blankets at the dark form softly breathing in the chair across the room. Sorry, warrior, some other life perhaps.

Chapter 11

It Takes a Tropical Thief

Calum woke at first light with the room still black as night. He pulled back the curtain to see trees tinged faintly in dawn’s grey then he let the drape fall back in place. As his vision adjusted to the dark, he moved silently to the shower. Standing under the hot spray, he heard a soft sound from the bedroom. Disappointment washed over him, even though he had expected it. Beth was going to run.

He left the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stepped into the vestibule. Her hand was wrapped around the doorknob to the room.

“Don’t you need these?” He held her bra and panties washed clean the night before.

She jumped. “Geez, you scared me half to death. Oh …” She stopped in mid–sentence, mouth open showing him the pale rose of her tongue.

Good. She was still his Bethia. He remembered the effect her near naked, glistening skin had on him. With the woman rendered speechless, eyes fixated on his torso, he stood and silently offered — protection, promise, pleasure — and not in that particular order.

“I-I” She lowered her head. When she spoke, her gaze hit the floor and missed the glint of self–satisfaction in his eye.

“I was going to get some coffee,” she said finally.

“Wait, I’ll go with you.”

She sighed. “I may as well use the bathroom first.”

Standing in her way, he moved only the slightest, so she would have to brush against his skin if she wanted to pass, or ask him to move. She didn’t ask. He felt his blood grow warmer — progress. As she squeezed sideways, strands of her hair, the softest corn–silk, caressed his chest. He halted her by slipping his arm across the doorway. Shifting slightly, he leaned in close, a mere hair’s width between their bodies.

She looked up, rose pink lips parted slightly. He lowered his mouth toward hers, so close to taking her, his mind on a slow, passion–infused kiss. Come to me, he urged silently, careful to keep his thoughts to himself. She moved a fraction then hesitated. Come, Bethia.

She wasn’t ready. He gently brushed her mouth with his then tugged her upper lip into his mouth to taste her with a flick of his tongue before releasing her. By God, it took self–restraint. He ran the backs of his fingers along her cheekbone.

“Good morning to you, lass,” he purred. Then he left her pressed against the door frame. A few moments passed before she moved.

• • •

The Hilton offered a substantial breakfast buffet. Calum piled four pancakes against a healthy serving of sausage and scrambled eggs. His mood had deteriorated as he’d gotten dressed. That encounter with Beth had stimulated him down to his very warm blood. He’d felt every muscle go taut with expectation — except one. Damn. Normally he would have been hard as oak. She’d have felt him rising between them. What if she’d noticed and thought he wasn’t much of a man? What if he was never like oak again? What if no matter how strong his will, he was unable to make love to Beth? A low growl formed in his throat, and he sneered at a man who reached for the same biscuit he’d gone for. The man quickly retreated, sending Calum an equally loathsome look.

Bloody hell. This wouldn’t do. He breathed in to the count of five then slowly exhaled. A calm, even–minded outlook couldn’t be so difficult to maintain.

He walked over to the man and tossed the biscuit on his plate. “My pardon.”

The man’s face wrinkled in distaste as he glared at the biscuit.

No thank you? Be damned then, he thought. Some people were hell to please.

Calum spotted Beth, crossed the small dining room, pulled out a chair, and sat down. She quietly worked her way through a bowl of fruit, reading the paper, while Calum devoured breakfast.

“Oh!” Her fork dropped to the table with a clatter.

He swallowed his eggs. “What’s is it?”

“Meals on the Move is in the paper.” The article trembled in her hands.

“You have meals that move?” He gave the buffet a quick glance. Still there.

While the colour drained from her face, she explained that she delivered lunches to elderly shut–ins twice a week and then related the details of a three–paragraph account. The police were investigating complaints of missing jewelry from homes in the Ashbury area. The commonality among the seniors was that they received daily meals from a community food service that was now under investigation.

“Mrs. Miller mentioned that she’d misplaced jewelry when I delivered her lunch yesterday. How selfish and uncaring can a person be to have robbed Mrs. Miller? The poor lady thinks she has Alzheimer’s. How could one of the volunteers stoop so low?”

“That’s the extent of the article?” he asked. “It doesn’t mention your name?”

“Why would it?” Her gaze dropped back to the paper as she read it once more. “It says the police aren’t releasing any further information at this time while considering a family’s request. What could that mean?”

She gave him no time to respond. “Do you think I’ll be questioned by the police? I will, won’t I? Of course I will; my client has jewelry missing.”

He grimaced as he pictured Beth secured to that chair in her kitchen. “You find the black satchel in your yard, and then jewelry disappears from your customers and the police have a reason to question you. I do not like it.” His stomach clenched like a fist around his breakfast. Beth was not only linked to a crime by the satchel, but also by the food service.

“In your favour you did deliver the money from the satchel to the police and your honesty will be noted. You were surely thought of as a Good Samaritan and thanks be to the powers above for that.”

He didn’t think it possible for Beth to grow paler. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Even her knuckles grew white as she clutched the paper. “I have to phone Matthew.”

He pushed his plate to the side. That irritation of a boyfriend was suspect in his eyes. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Listen, Bucko, don’t tell me what I should do. Matthew’s a lawyer. I need to talk to him.”

“You said he was a real estate lawyer.”

“That doesn’t matter — he’s efficient!” She pushed her chair back and headed across the dining room. Her silver handbag swung on the back of her chair. Snatching her purse and a biscuit off his plate, he caught up to her at the elevator.

“Thanks,” she snapped and tucked the bag under her arm.

Back at the room, he held his tongue as she left Matthew a message explaining what had happened and where she was, omitting mention of Calum. He felt intolerably uncomfortable about the whole thing. He’d rather be slashed with a broadsword than think about Beth with another man. Her voice dripped honey when she begged the irritant to return her call. Her senses should be filled to the brim with him, and he should be the one getting honey dipped.

“He didn’t answer,” she said, as if he’d not been eavesdropping. She plopped down on the bed and laid back, her face hidden under her hands. When he sat down beside her, the bed depressed, but she didn’t move.

“Are you all right, lass?”

“Peachy. Do you know anything about the missing jewelry?”

“I do not.”

“So let me get this straight. You knew I might be accused of a crime because … oh yeah, you’re psychic.”

“Well, not — ”

“And this is a much better situation. Hiding in a Hilton.”

“No, I think we should leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Calum. You need to start talking. You got a psychic message when you surveyed me at the door yesterday?”

Would she believe that? “Yes,” he answered cautiously.

“Yeah, right.”

Ah, he didn’t think she’d believe that, but he had no idea how to tell her the truth. He had a story to tell, to be sure, there was no way around it. Perhaps he should start at the beginning.

“Beth, do you believe in past lives? That people have lived in other places, other times.”

She took her hands off her face and gave him an exasperated look. Clearly she’d not been expecting that. “I’ve never thought about it. Could we just focus on this issue please?”

Damn, there was no easy way to say this. “I’m trying. It wasn’t the questions I asked at your door that gave me insight into your future.”

She had her arms crossed under her breasts now. “No kidding.”

“But I did see you in a vision from another place. I saw you in anguish. In prison, for a crime you didn’t commit. It’s related to that satchel of money you found, but I don’t know how it comes about. The reason I saw it is because we are connected, bonded by love, for as long as a millennium, over many lives. It’s difficult to explain how I know it to be true — ”

He watched the whites of her eyes grow, and then she burst out a spray of laughter that had him fairly annoyed by the time she stopped.

She finally composed herself enough to ask, “That is the best line I’ve heard in ages. A thousand–year love?”

He had stuffed their toiletries into a plastic bag while she finished her hysterics.

“We need to go now,” he snapped. “I didn’t come all this way to be laughed at. You’re worse than a child, and if you accuse me of deceit again, I’ll have you over my knee and teaching you a lesson.”

She rose off the bed to give him a full view of the opposition. “Just you try.”

His mouth twitched. By all that was holy, forgive him his carnal lust; he wanted her sweet bum at his mercy. Bloody hell, it wasn’t easy being human.

“Sorry, lass, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Softening his tone took no little effort. “It’s not so bad, is it? Being here with me, that is?”

A faint smile crept back on to her face. “No, a little weird, but not bad. Listen, I don’t believe you’re a threat, or I wouldn’t be here with you. I’m going to tell you a gut truth, Calum. The thought of handling this on my own worries me. You have sincere eyes, and I trust what I see. Don’t take that for anything more than it is. I will stay with you until I talk to Matthew and get some legal advice. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t feel threatened by you, or if it’s the exact opposite — I’m not going back over your shoulder.”

She wasn’t wrong. He would not allow her to walk away.

“Even though you’ve not been straightforward with me, I will share that I found a business card in the backpack from a real estate office in Quebec City. I think we should check that out.”

“Why did you not mention this before? Give it to me, lass.”

Her fists dug into her luscious hips. “Do not order me around, Calum. If what you meant to say was: ‘May I please have a look at the card to be of some assistance?’ then sorry, you’re out of luck. I remember the name, but I don’t have the card.”

The farther they travelled from Ashbury the better, as far as he was concerned. “We will go to Quebec City.” He opened the door and let her pass in front of him. She might feel the beginnings of some trust, but it wasn’t enough, and until she truly understood the gravity of her situation he would not leave her side. Before that could happen, his Bethia needed to remember the bond between them — the wanting that never ceased. Then she would trust him enough to accept the truth of why and how he had come to her.

The twelfth–century body he inhabited seemed to enhance his sense of possession, but he didn’t deny the inclination. She belonged to him, not the lawyer. His to protect. He would break through whatever iron shielded those memories. Earlier on, she had come close to responding. Next time, he would push her further. And Finn? That immortal was moved by passionate humans. Make me potent, Finn, and I’ll give you passion to keep you for another thousand years.

• • •

Once again, Beth drove east, and once again the tingling awareness of excitement and danger compelled her. She wasn’t frightened of the commanding warrior. Annoyed by his controlling tendencies? Yes, but not frightened.

Why? He rendered her will to putty with one smoldering glance, and that should alarm a woman who felt empowered by self–restraint, but contrarily, it enticed her. Was it just her or were all females susceptible to the man?

Other women drawn to Calum? That thought plunged through her stomach like a sick roller coaster ride.

She slipped her eyes from the road and glanced at him. “Where is this woman you were referring to earlier? Is she waiting for you?”

“Waiting? No, she’s not waiting. I lost her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s no mind. I’ll find her again in the next life.”

“That’s very romantic, Calum.”

He turned to face her and spoke softly. She would not look in those eyes. “I’ve been told I have a romantic spirit.”

“Really, so what did you like about this woman?”

“I’m glad you asked, lass. I’m sorry to say she was not a very organized sort, like you are striving to be. I remember her most affectionately with bits of grass in her hair or dirt smudged on her forehead. She had laughing eyes and a raw need to come to the aid of others, but she didn’t live a disciplined life. She’d often get so absorbed in her meanderings, I’d have to head to the hills to fetch her home so she’d not be lost in the dark.”

“That would drive Matthew crazy. We’re dinner–at–six kind of people.”

“Are you then?”

She’d tried to be. Wasn’t a structured lifestyle a sensible way to live? “Didn’t it worry you, not knowing where she was?”

“Ah, no. She was never so far. I wished to keep her safe, yes, but I’d no wish to stifle her spirit — it kept me wanting her.”

“Oh.” A beautiful sentiment. Perhaps Calum wasn’t the control freak she thought. Beth made the mistake of looking at him then and nearly drove them off the road. Maybe they should stop for awhile and she could just gaze into those eyes.

Oh, stop. So he likes spontaneous women with no direction. Not unlike the person she used to be with undesirable characteristics she’d wisely left behind.

In a few hours, she would talk to Matthew and explain where the money from the backpack had gone. Janine Miller could not be put at risk. Matthew could advise how best to approach the police. Then she’d be safe to turn around and head home, back to reality; goodbye, fantasy warrior.

She kept her eyes on the road, trying not to be distracted by the man beside her. Whatever their relationship had been, it was apparent he had loved his woman.

“You’re a rare man, Calum. I hope you do find her again.”

A strand of her hair slipped forward into her vision. Before she could move, he leaned over and brushed it back off her face. The gentleness of the gesture was such a surprise she fought back the urge to sigh.

“Ah, to be sure I will,” he said.

• • •

Matthew McGill listened to his phone message and cursed into a flowering hibiscus. “I’ll meet you back at the car. I have to make a call.” He walked away from the man who had just shown him the island — no official realtor — but the island was paradise and private beachfront property was hard to come by. Matthew had given him cash to hold it and bypass the alien license he would need to purchase land.

He dialed Bruce in Canada and walked down an open stretch of pitted road in the opposite direction from the small harbour. Matthew had received two urgent messages: one from Bruce and one from Beth. Between them he’d caught the grisly details of the last day.

“Bruce, what the hell is going on?”

“Beth found the backpack and now she’s disappeared.”

“Explain to me again why you buried the bag in Beth’s yard?”

“I told you in my message. My dad had a stroke and I had to leave town. Beth lives close to me. You didn’t answer your phone. You needed the money, so I hid it at Beth’s for you to retrieve.”

“Then you tore up her house and tied her to a chair? Are you crazy?”

“I had no choice. She came home unexpectedly and turned hysterical. You said she wouldn’t be home until dinner. I found the backpack, but it was empty. What was I supposed to do?”

“You should have waited for me. I would have handled Beth.” Just like he handled everything. When Beth told him she’d found something buried in her backyard, he’d not given it any thought until he got the message from Bruce. Brilliant idea to bury the backpack, just fucking brilliant.

“Don’t kid yourself,” Bruce said. “Beth isn’t the loyal girlfriend you think.”

“What do you mean by that?” Beth worshipped him. Matthew rubbed his temple as pain began to throb behind one eye.

“Do you know where she is?” Bruce asked.

“Yes I do. You scared her, so she left town. We didn’t talk. I just picked up her message a few minutes ago.”

“She found the flash drive, but she won’t admit it. Instead she told me she gave the money to the police, but that makes no sense. She had the backpack.”

With the sun compounding his headache, Matthew slipped under a palm tree. What was virtuous Beth thinking?

Bruce’s voice sounded over the squawk of a sea bird. “She’s lying to you and not just about the money. A guy was here with her and just before the asshole broke my nose, he said I shouldn’t threaten his woman. They’ve got the flash drive and plan to blackmail us.”

Betrayed by Beth? He’d promised himself never again. Matthew’s headache began to jackhammer.

“You better do something and fast,” Bruce demanded.

He’d underestimated Beth. She’d played him for a fool. How dare she feign loyalty, honesty, chastity for God’s sake? She’d forced him to use other women, while all along she had a boyfriend?

“I don’t know how she saw me bury that bag in the woods,” Bruce said.

“Yeah,” Matthew forced the word up over the anger in his throat. She’d loved living the life of the wanderer. He’d pressed her to invest the last of that lottery money into the house in Belize. Guess stability and security weren’t good enough for her. How could she be so similar to his brother and he’d not seen it?

“She’s in Quebec,” Matthew said, mastering the tone of his voice. “She wants me to arrange legal counsel for her since the police are questioning the Meals on the Move staff. You followed through with the jewelry?”

“Yes, it’s done. Hold on a sec. She’s in Quebec?”

“So she said.”

“Fuck. She’s there because of Chantal Desjardins. Her business card was in the backpack.”

Matthew rubbed his temple and shoved his hand through his hair. “Beth won’t get anything from Chantal; she’s on holiday.”

“We gotta get the flash drive back. Every file is on it.”

During the last couple days Matthew had reconsidered using Beth and making his feigned proposal genuine. For the ultimate good of the people he planned to help — no, to rescue — he had to use Meals on the Move. Did Beth have to be a casualty?

Apparently she did. Conflict erased. Beth would be destroyed.

“We’re getting the flash drive back.” Matthew rubbed his jaw to ease the tension. “I’m going to fly into Montreal. Meet me, and we’ll check out the hotel where they stayed.”

“I’ll be there. I’m going to take off now.”

Matthew shut his phone. Some kid had designed a seashell dinosaur in front of a house by the road. He booted the tyrannosaurus head into a stone wall and crushed the body under his heel. Un–fucking–believable.

He’d put everything on the line to bring the hospice from a vision to fruition. Beth had never been sincere in her support, but had been screwing some guy behind his back. Then, she had the audacity to expect him to cover her ass legally? What did she take him for?

He’d give her legal assistance. He’d deliver her to the jail cell himself, and then he would recover from his girlfriend’s shocking criminal activities in a tropical paradise, while being revered for his philanthropic activities and gaining the respect he damn well deserved.

Chapter 12

Games People Play

Beth and Calum stopped around noon at a gas station/food place. As she ran off to use the phone and restroom, she told Calum to buy her a Big Mac. A big son of whom, he’d nearly asked.

Drawn by the aroma of cooked meat, Calum watched as people queued up behind the counter and requested food named after pictures overhead. Clear enough.

When it was his turn, he slipped a few bills from his pocket and spoke to a pimply faced lad. “I’ll have three of the Big Macs, if you please.”

“Do you want the meal?”

What did Pimple Face think he planned to do with a Big Mac other than eat it? “Don’t think to give me something other than a meal.”

Pimple Face’s tongue popped his cheek out as he seemed to contemplate the simple request. “Yeah, so you want fries with that?”

His stomach growled. What kind of unclear question was that? The lad was a half–wit. “Fry them if you will, just do it before sunset.”

“You wanna drink? McFlurry? Milkshake?”

“No.” He scanned the eatery for Beth as his impatience began to simmer.

“Apple pie? Parfait? Sundae?”

With the counter clenched in his fists, so he wouldn’t poke the lad on the forehead to remind him where brains should reside, he spoke in a soft but dangerous tone. “Lad, you’ll be stopping your questions now and getting me food.”

The lad swallowed. “Yes I will, sir. Three Big Macs coming up.”

Ah, better.

With the food finally in hand and Beth now using the phone, he went outside to a wooden table in the back. Swinging a leg over the seat, he froze in mid–swing when he felt that unusual wind unfurl its way under his skin. Finn.

“Ah, perfect timing.” Calum backed off the bench. “Just the immortal I wished to see.”

Finn’s iridescent eyes sparkled with mischief. “Is that so? And what is it you might be wishing from me?” Finn was the picture of innocence.

“I think you know well enough. Are you going to have me begging, Finn? ‘Cause I’m about desperate enough for it.”

Finn’s smile became a grimace. “No. I hate pleading. It ends up in a whiny tone that offends my ears.”

“Good.” It wouldn’t hurt to butter up the elfish creature a bit. “Finn, your compassionate reputation for granting human desires far surpasses any other immortal I’ve heard tell of. Did you know you’re aptly renowned across space and time for your grand benevolence?”

The eyes were sparkling again.

“I am humbled by the great gift you graciously bestowed upon me,” Calum continued, “and do foremost endeavour to keep Bethia safe from harm, with my life if necessary. That said, if you would find it in your unrivalled heart to restore my potency I’d be forever grateful and would certainly find a way to repay the deed.”

Finn’s flowing white hair swayed against his green coat despite the breezeless day. “I don’t want for much. Except — ”

“Yes?”

“Doldrums — they tire me. I need a diversion. This is what I will do, warrior. I propose a challenge — a game, so to speak.”

Here we go.

“I will grant your desire when you have performed three tasks.” He flashed three fingers in emphasis as if Calum couldn’t count.

He groaned, not trusting that a verbal expression of his true feelings on Finn’s game would prove useful.

“Are you with me, warrior?”

His response was a seasick–like grimace. Finn took the gesture as affirmation and swept up onto the table to sit with his boots on the bench. “The first task must be completed by the end of this day. Your true love has allowed her passion to lie comatose. She hides behind a belief that unleashed passion will be her ruin and thinks it stems from this motherless life. But we know better, don’t we? Deep down, Bethia knows that without you, she’ll never quench her soul’s desire in this life, so she doesn’t try. Yours is the one soul that will rouse Bethia. You must procure a kiss from your mate. Use your charm, but she must be the instigator, and it must be a substantial, fully infused, fevered kind of kiss, or it doesn’t count.”

Calum couldn’t help but feel pleased by this sensible observation — no mention of eternal bonds on the verge of destruction. He scanned the buildings for Beth and then waited for a woman to pass by. “Why does this have to be a game?”

Finn’s smile was no joke. “Because I am all powerful, and I like games.”

“All powerful,” Calum grumbled. “It’s too soon. We’ve only been together a day, and despite your observation, she’s become attached to another man. Perhaps you could jog her memory a bit in my direction.”

“Perhaps … but no.”

“Damn it, Finn, you taunt me with a game like I’m a lad of six.”

“You blame me?” Gold fire sparked in his eyes. He disappeared then suddenly reappeared on the other side of Calum. “You’re the one that called me forth, you beg favour after favour and still you ask that another be granted.”

The last thing Calum needed was to raise Finn’s hackles. He wasn’t so dimwitted as to provoke this being’s anger — he’d heard stories. “I apologize. You’ve been very generous.”

The gold fire dispelled. “Yes, I have.” Finn’s face lit suddenly. “I will give you one advantage.”

Calum’s shirt disappeared in a puff. “What the bloody … Give me my shirt back!” His fists clenched at his sides.

“Aren’t you supposed be quelling your temper? Don’t forget, I’ll be keeping a watch on you, warrior. Do you not think your true love will be hard pressed to resist you now?” And with that said Finn disappeared in that blasted wind and silver laughter.

That manipulative fiend! Calum had to get a new shirt fast before Beth saw him. He headed toward the shops. Gas, hamburgers, coffee — no shirt shop. This was no way to win Beth’s attention. She would think him a lunatic.

“Calum, where’s your shirt?”

He stopped dead and turned. Beth had come up behind him with a quizzical look on her face, one he’d seen many times over their lives. The tilt of her head, the slant of an eyelid, the press of lips he so desired sent a flood of affection through his heart. Yet he had no time to marvel at the continuity of this expression.

“Good bloody question. You see then, what happened was, that rapscallion in there, the Big Mac baker, and I use that term loosely because the man can’t bake a biscuit to save his life — ”

“Wait, did you just say rapscallion?”

“Yes, exactly that. He burned the buns. I gave a slight reprove, and he ripped my shirt. I had no choice but to throw it in the trash.” He marched to the garbage and tossed in the hamburgers — damn Finn — they smelled good. “We can’t eat these, and I’m not going back in there. The man’s not right in the head.”

Beth’s mouth formed a perfect doubtful smirk. “Right. You were bested by a Big Mac baker?” She emphasized the word baker as if there was no such thing, but then her stomach grumbled a diversion. She groaned. “I can’t believe you said rapscallion. You are so odd!”

He took her hand and guided her toward the car. “Come now, let’s go. We’ll stop so soon as we may. I need a new shirt.”

• • •

This was a disconcerting turn of events. Beth needed four hands to keep the car on the road with Calum sitting beside her half naked. The man had flawless abs. Or perhaps she’d need those four hands to circle that biceps of his. Never mind that, could a man be more perfectly toned? And, oh, his skin of sun–kissed gold — where had that come from at this time of year?

Scenery — that was the answer — focus on those gentle Laurentian inclines with the sun–drenched high points that shimmered with luminosity, on the rise and fall of hardened rock and virile muscle and kissable skin. Oh, no, that was so not working.

Come on, Beth, bring the mind back to … the St. Lawrence, now there was a river worth noting. A glorious expanse of aquamarine that purled and rippled and reflected puffs of cloud, chilly like a winter wind, nothing that inspired warmth or coziness. Nothing hot and spicy about a river flowing wild in the spring. No, anybody rising out of that water would have icy goose flesh and droplets dripping off their perfect skin and exquisitely hard nipples. Nipples? She let go a soft huff. What was she — fourteen?

“It says here,” Calum said, thank God. He’d been reading the map and tourist brochures the gas station attendant had given to Beth, “that Quebec City is the most romantic place on the North American continent, the ideal destination for lovers. I like the sound of that.”

“Definitely. I mean,” she cleared her throat. “I’ve never been. Stunning countryside so far.”

He shifted in the seat to face her. “Aye, truly stunning.” He spoke with a soft inflection and his gaze on her. “I am predicting ‘twill only get better.” His husky masculine scent nearly made her dizzy, he smelled so unbelievably good. Why couldn’t she have bought a truck, or a bus for that matter, something with space?

Eyes on the road.

He raked his fingers through his hair and she couldn’t help it — she followed the flexion of those biceps brachii like she was back in anatomy class, fully appreciating the extension in those chest muscles.

What had gotten into her? One naked chest in the car, and her brain was a fracas. Think sensible thoughts.

“Matthew didn’t answer his phone, again. That’s not like him at all. I’m going to be honest with you, Calum, when I do talk with him, I’ll be turning around.” There, she said it. “I mean, this has been fun with you, but Matthew should be able to straighten all this out with the police.”

“If I know you are safe, lass, then I will leave you with him if it is your wish. However, I’d like to think you’d not find it easy to leave me.”

Always persisting, he put the Energizer Bunny to shame. “You really need to improve your confidence, Calum. You just have no faith in yourself.”

“Very funny. I’ve no wish to hide my wanting you, Beth.”

“Why do you have to say things like that? I’ve made it quite clear, I’m not available.”

“You’re fairly sure of yourself then? I would think if you harbour the slightest attraction for another man, then you are not Matthew’s and never will be.”

Slightest attraction? Who was she kidding? Obviously not him. If she was a compass then his chest was true north.

“I challenge you to one night in Quebec City,” he said. “Then you will be sure of your heart.”

One night in the ideal destination for lovers with a fantasy warrior? Was that a fair test of a woman’s heart? It should be. If she truly meant to resist womanizing men like Calum, men who lured women, loved women, and left women, then she’d resist him easily, right?

“One night, Calum, but only because the real estate office is located there. Besides, Quebec City has a rich history. You may learn something. And so you don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not because you’re missing your shirt.”

• • •

Damn. Finn had been right. Who’d have thought? Beth had ogled him so thoroughly he’d thought she’d wrench her neck. It amused him to no end and more so because of the mask of indifference she constantly reapplied. But he’d been pleasurably aware each time her eyes flittered over his shirtless torso.

Enough was enough though. They stopped for food and a shirt. That done, they booked into a hotel in Old Quebec, the historic district within Quebec City. Beth had insisted the hotel have Internet. With no time to become computer literate, he left her to find what she could of the real estate office. She returned to the room dejected. The woman she sought was away from the office on holiday, so Beth could only leave a message. To ease her disappointment, he suggested they occupy themselves with a tour.

Calum was impressed by the charm of the old town. Its name came from the native people meaning where the river narrows. The walled city wasn’t nearly as old as what you’d see in Scotland, the land closest to his heart, but the city was fresh and clean, and it brimmed with life.

Drawn to the prominent Château Frontenac by the numerous towers and steeply pitched roofs, they walked through the luxurious hotel, and then they wandered the interlocking brick of Petit Champlain under flowering baskets and hanging lanterns, stopping for a late lunch. Beth’s enthusiasm inspired him. This was the Beth he remembered — spirited, vibrant, and playful.

She was by his side. That fact rang like the bell tower. No twenty–first century woman would stay with a man with his story unless, and he felt more convinced of it as the day waned, she felt something deep — a primal and ancient knowing that everything was right in the universe if they were together.

He touched her at every opportunity, hands pressing the small of her back, fingers grazing shoulders, legs brushing legs, thumbs glancing fingers. When she admired a spring dress in a shop window, he bought it for her. Strappy shoes? Undeniably. Silky black lace underclothing? Most definitely.

“You need something decent to wear to dinner,” Beth announced as they passed a men’s clothing shop. She steered him inside and gave him a quick look–over. “What size are you?”

“Everything’s in proportion, lass — extra–large.”

“Not helpful, Calum.” Her gaze dropped to his hips. “Matthew’s a size thirty–two, but you’re bigger than him, so let’s try a thirty–six.” She crossed to a circular display of black trousers and ran her fingers along the fabric. “Oh nice, butter–soft.” Pulling them off their hanger, she held them up to admire. “Do you like these?”

He gave them a quick glance. “Do you?”

Her pretty eyes widened appreciatively as she nodded.

“They’ll do nicely then. Pick whatever you like.” He leaned back against a sweater–piled table and watched her flip through the trousers. Selecting two pairs, she caught her luscious lower lip in her teeth while she scanned the store.

He had no idea what clothes she slapped against his chest a few minutes later. “You better try them on.”

“Here?” He looked down on her with mock disapproval. “If you’re trying to get me naked, Beth, this isn’t the place.”

“Not quite. Why don’t you try the fitting room like a normal person?”

Fitting room. And where might he find one of those? He looked over her shoulders and praise God, a sign indicating just that hung on the far wall over three closed doors.

She followed him across the store where a young woman with a wee ring hooped through one nostril opened the door for him. Since Beth didn’t ask the woman how she’d managed to get a ring stuck in her nose, he decided it was another twenty–first century phenomenon he’d never understand.

Inside the fitting room, he stripped out of his clothes and pulled on the pants Beth had chosen. The fabric was as she’d described — luxuriously soft. He’d rather she had run her fingers up the inseam with him inside.

“Perhaps these are a bit snug, lass.” He called through the door.

“Well let’s see, Calum.”

When he opened the door, she sucked back a short gasp. The ring–nosed woman turned and let go a soft whistle. “Are you ripped, or what?”

Beth glared at him. “Where’s your shirt?”

“I hadn’t got to that yet.”

“Turn around, let’s see how they fit,” said Nose-ring.

Now Beth had an amused look on her face. “Yes, Calum, spin around and show us your butt.” He did, although he’d rather Beth step into the wee room with him where he could show her in private.

Nose-ring emitted another sound of appreciation. “That tight fit is working for me.”

He looked over his shoulder to see Beth’s gaze fixed on his arse.

“No kidding.” Beth glanced at Nose-ring. “Definitely not too tight.”

“I’m glad you approve,” he said dryly. And so did others by the looks the women were shooting him. He stepped back into the room and closed the door.

“Does your boyfriend want a larger size?” he heard Nose-ring say. Calum’s ears pricked up and he moved closer to the door.

“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just friends,” Beth pointed out. Damn, not a hint of jealousy. How was he going to get a passion–infused kiss if she couldn’t even let a stranger think he was hers for mere minutes. Had he made no impression on her at all?

“Man, he’s hot,” said Nose-ring, speaking loud enough to be overheard. “On some men, a beard just looks scruffy, but his five-o’clock shadow is way sexy, don’t you think?”

Calum pressed his ear to the door and heard Beth’s quiet response. “Sexy as hell.”

Smiling, he slipped on the sweater, opened the door, yanked Beth inside, and shut it behind her.

Her eyes grew wide over the hint of a smile. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll not parade myself to a shop full of gawking folk. Now, are you pleased with the clothes you’ve chosen?” He took a step closer.

“I can hardly tell with you standing so close.” She took a step back and came up against the mirror. Her tongue flicked out and wet her lower lip as she looked him over.

“I think black is your colour.”

“Well, ‘tis practical enough.” With another step, he closed the short distance between them. “This woolen feels decadent against my skin.” He pressed his knuckles to the mirror behind her head, so his cashmere–clad forearm brushed her cheek. “What do you think?”

Her nostrils flared as she turned her cheek into his arm and traced a little circle against the fabric. “Oh, it’s nice … mmm hmmm, soft.”

He used his other hand to lift her chin and feather his fingers across her face. “Not nearly as soft as your skin.” Leaning in closer still, he brushed his lips against her cheek and gently rasped her with his sexy–as–hell beard. A faint sound escaped her. The kind of wee moan that sent the blood to a man’s groin. Dropping his hand to the nape of her neck, he ran his fingertips up through her hair over her scalp. She’d always loved that.

Rolling her head on her shoulders, her eyelids fluttered as her hand settled upon his shoulder. He angled her head just so. Kiss me now, sweet Bethia. It was a demand he kept to himself with no small effort. Finn, be damned. Calum would never have hesitated to kiss her now.

He felt her go still beneath his hands. Saw her chest rise in a slow, deep inhale. Sensed her breasts grow full and flush.

She gazed at him with dilated pupils. “Calum, I don’t think — ”

“Don’t think, lass.”

Her chin lifted, her lips parted —

“Do you need another size in there,” came a clipped voice from outside the fitting room. “There are people waiting, you know.”

“No, he’s fine.” Beth pushed against his chest, but he didn’t move. “Calum, we have to go. Move.”

“I don’t think so. You were about to kiss me.”

She ducked under his arm. “I wasn’t going to kiss you.” Even she must have noticed the lack of conviction in that denial. “I wasn’t.” Firmly said that time. “I have a boyfriend, remember? If you were a gentleman, you’d respect that.”

“Beth, if I wasn’t a gentleman, you’d be naked right now.”

She swallowed hard and left him alone with his cashmere and his disappointment.

Chapter 13

The Fantasy Warrior Made Me Do It

They returned to the hotel at about eight to shower and dress for dinner.

“You are lovely, lass. I don’t mind the look of you in those trousers, but you are a thousandfold more beautiful in a gown.” By the adoration in his eyes, Beth felt beautiful in the black and white tartan dress.

He wore the form–fitting black cashmere sweater and twill pants, and he hadn’t shaved his sexy–as–hell beard. The man looked spectacular. She should stop staring. “Thanks, Calum. You cleaned up pretty good too.”

Beth grabbed the black wrap that matched her dress. Calum offered her his arm, and they left the hotel room.

Dinner was fabulous with softly lit ambience and conversation that flowed easily. Afterwards, Calum suggested a horse–drawn carriage ride. They walked over to the buggy queue where he chose a spotted grey horse that nickered at his touch then rubbed its head against his muscled arm. Definitely a female, Beth thought. She noticed he paid the driver extra to forgo the guided tour. Interesting. No interruptions, no more history lessons. Just Calum’s undivided attention.

He offered his hand to step up into the carriage. Two steps and she was settled on the leather seat.

“You’ve been entertaining me all day with your storytelling,” he said, “painting me a picture of your life. Perhaps you’d care to hear a folk story from mine.”

“I would love to hear a story.” If truth be told, that accent of his was so sexy, she’d be happy to listen to him all night.

“Very good. Are you comfortable then?”

“Yes, quite.”

He gave her a heart–stopping smile and the tale began. “A long time ago there was a beautiful young girl named Janet who lived in Scotland. She was a striking lass, her hair shone gold in the sunlight just like yours.”

His fingers ran down one of the strands of hair that framed her face.

“And her cheeks were kissed with the fairest pink, just like yours.”

He glanced her cheek with his knuckles. Just for fun, she released an audible sigh.

“And in her eyes was the bright blush of love.”

“Not like mine?” she asked faintly. Her insides began to yield to the sound of his soft brogue. The horses light clip–clop through the night did nothing to aid her resistance.

“Ah, Beth, just like yours.”

Now her sigh was real. “So who did the beautiful maiden rescue?”

The tips of his fingers rested against the back of her neck. His light brown eyebrows drew together, his head cocked slightly, and his smile told her he was getting to that.

“One day, Janet was walking the woods of Carterhaugh, when she came upon a white rose shining in the bushes. As soon as she plucked the rose, a young man appeared. ‘I am the guardian of this forest,’ he said, ‘and that rose does not belong to you.’ Well, Janet had meant no harm and told the man so. He immediately forgave her. ‘I wish I could give all the roses of this forest to one as lovely as you.’ You see, the man was instantly smitten.”

She felt Calum’s fingers run lightly up and down her neck, so exquisitely arousing every sensual nerve she missed the next few sentences and had to ask for a repeat. If his fingertips felt that good, what would his lips feel like?

“The man’s name was Tam Lin,” he repeated. “This startled Janet because she had heard of the elf knight. But Tam Lin’s reputation had been tainted unfairly. He told Janet how he had been taken by the Elf Queen as a child and was now spellbound to her. The only way to set him free was if that very night, as the fairy folk rode through the hills, Janet pulled him from his white horse and held him tight to her no matter what the Elf Queen did. This touched Janet, and she agreed to free Tam Lin from the spell.”

A cool breeze blew off the horses backs over the buggy and Beth trembled, surely from the breeze.

“Come, I’ll keep you warm, lass.” He gathered her into his arm like her very own electric blanket. Oh perhaps she could lean here a little while, just an hour or so of bliss, in Vieux–Quebec, listening to her very own warrior tell fairy tales in that softly accented brogue that made her weak in the knees.

“‘Twas a night so fair as this, m’eudail.” His voice was gilded in magic. “Justly sparkling with the dust of fairies, a high silver moon hanging in gossamer threads, the woodlands gone soft and faded into the night. Janet did as Tam Lin had asked and hid in the shadows of a hawthorn, waiting for the fairy procession. At last, she saw Tam Lin on his white horse. Janet ran from the hawthorn, pulled him from the horse and held him tight.”

He snuggled Beth in closer. His chin glanced over her head, his warm breath a caress in her hair.

“The Elf Queen cried out and drew her horse to a halt. Her eyes glared as she cast a spell upon Tam Lin. He immediately shrank into a scaly lizard, but Janet didn’t let go. Then he changed into a slippery snake that she clutched to her breast. Suddenly, her hands seared as the snake turned to a hot coal.”

Calum picked up one of Beth’s hands and interlaced his fingers through hers. “Though poor Janet’s hands burned, she did not let go, for back in the forest when Tam Lin had promised her roses, she saw in his eyes her true mate and nothing would tear him from her.”

Nothing? Had she ever loved like that? She was starting to love the rhythm of Calum’s thumb tracing patterns on the palm of her hand.

“The Elf Queen knew she had lost Tam Lin, for Janet’s love was steadfast and strong. She shaped Tam Lin back into his human form, leaving him in Janet’s arms as naked as the day he was born.”

Naked? Now, there’s a picture, Tam Lin naked, Calum naked, his great expanse of golden skin …

The carriage stopped in front of a trio of woodwinds who strung a soft sounding Chopin. It really was the most romantic city in North America. When Calum shifted in his seat, his lips brushed her forehead. She turned into him, her hand resting against his thigh. The man was hard muscle, and she couldn’t help running her fingers toward his hip.

A faint groan sounded low in his throat as his lips grazed her temple. Her heart pounded in her ears. She knew he wanted her and the thought was intoxicating. His lips were so close, a finger’s width away. His promise came back to her. I give you my word; I’ll not kiss you until you ask me. No denying she wanted him. She was like a train engine bearing down.

She bridged the gap closing her lips over his, willing to take from him all he would give. It surprised her that he hesitated. He accepted her kiss but held back, as if distinguishing her need from his to read the depth of her intent. Fine, she would be the master.

Yes, I want you, Calum.

She ran the tip of her tongue along his upper lip. He tasted ripe and wild like fruit from a rain forest. His hair was like baby down against cheek. She swept her hand from his neck up the back of his head. His hair slipped smoothly between her fingers as she shaped her hand to the curve of his skull.

Give me more. He didn’t. He met her intensity, but let her place each kiss. She slipped her tongue through his lips, prodding. That, he responded to, greeting her gently, deftly, exquisitely surging to life, deepening the kiss to an exquisite ravage. No less than she would have expected from him.

Her senses filled as if she had never known her capacity. An awareness of the hard lines of his back, each muscle scarcely contracting under her touch blended with the awareness of his masculine scent, filling her head not nearly full enough. The taste of him was so right, like ambrosia she’d been denied. Each soft sound that played low in his throat was for her, and though her eyes stayed closed she saw him there pulling her in as if their need was to become one.

The display they were making was likely outrageous, and Beth had just enough wits left to keep from tearing his clothes off in the back of the buggy. That was new. She had never felt passionately aggressive before. Always under control. Never losing herself.

Oh no.

What was she doing? Reason and restraint whispered in her ear and tempered her desire to get under his shirt. Unrestrained passion was a nasty attribute and would carry her down the road to destruction. She knew that. Didn’t she?

His tongue was a sweet swirl around hers.

Perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps every moment of her life had been a highway to Calum with road signs warning do not yield, do not enter, do not give yourself to another. Had she not been alive before reaching this destination? How could the touch of this man over any other be so profound? Why deny herself? Why not let passion take her for a ride?

Calum pulled back to look her in the eye. “We’re a street away from the hotel. Do you want to go back?”

“Oh, yes.”

He sent her that smoldering look he did so well, melting her clear into the seat. Would she be able to walk?

She didn’t walk. She merely glided back to the hotel. Surely her feet never touched ground. He nearly devoured her as they waited for the elevator, barely possessing the wits to look abashed and resume control when the concierge cleared his throat loud enough for them to hear across the lobby. They weren’t alone in the elevator either. Calum caressed her neck so soothingly, Beth would have let him take her on the elevator floor if he only promised to do that forever.

Chapter 14

Returns and Exchanges

Things were moving fast. The lass was a freed dam, and he was about to get doused. Holding back, letting her dominate had fueled a deep–seated fire in her. Finn was wrong. She was his. Nowhere in that kiss had he felt her wish to free herself from him. By God, he’d missed her.

Calum paced the hotel room waiting for Beth to come out of the bathroom. He’d gotten his kiss. Finn would be satisfied, and while he felt slightly guilty for the Alfarian’s involvement, he still had a problem.

In the elevator, he’d felt some firmness in what had only lay flaccid since he’d been human, but it wasn’t near enough. He was nowhere close to oak, not even softwood. It was time to centre his will, and if that didn’t work … he’d think of something to tell Beth and spend the night pleasing her.

Perhaps he could be suffering an illness. No. That reeked of some horrific disease. A battle wound? No. Too permanent. He was saving himself for marriage? Think! It would be a nightmare if she thought him not man enough, or God forbid, that he didn’t find her sufficiently attractive to be aroused. It would have to be the battle wound, but something about to be remedied. He paced the floor a few more times.

The bathroom door opened. Calum drew a deep breath. This time he would be the one to dominate.

“Would you please explain this, Calum?” Beth asked with passion of a different sort glaring in those eyes.

“Huh?”

“This, Calum, this shirt I found under the towels in the bathroom. Look familiar?”

Beth held up the shirt that Finn had taken from him that morning. The trickster had put it back. The bastard. “Finn,” he said tightly.

“Pardon? Could a man sink any lower than to pretend to have lost his shirt to, what was it? Oh, yes, the Big Mac baker. Honestly, Calum, were you laughing inside thinking I fell for that one? Because I didn’t.”

“Beth, it’s not what you think.”

“How do you know what I think? Perhaps I think you’re a moron. Or perhaps you think your chest is God’s gift to womankind, and we all drop like flies from a good look. Or perhaps — ”

“Stop,” he interrupted. “That shirt was taken from me this morning.”

“Oh? How convenient that the thief returned it to the bathroom. I guess it really stunk!”

“That’s not nice.” He took a step forward. She took one back.

“I’m not nice? You want to know something about women, Calum? We don’t like being played. All you had to do, was be your honest self because, truth be told, I thought you were a great guy with your shirt on. But now, you … you’re not the person I thought you were.”

His honest self. The thought made him cringe inside. He planned to tell her the truth of who he was, but could he tell her that for their greater good, for his eternal soul, he must secure her love and then leave her to live this life alone? “No, I’m not the person you think I am. But you’ve not trusted me to tell you the truth.”

Beth crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve got my full attention, go ahead.”

He read her body language and rolled his eyes. “The reason why I had no shirt this morning was not because I think any part of my anatomy is God’s gift to womankind. That said, I want you to remember you promised to keep an open mind.”

He took a deep breath. “You know, there are many Scottish folk, everyday intelligent people, who believe that fairies live in the hills amongst humans. There have been many written accounts of it.”

The look in Beth’s eyes suggested she was not one of those believers. Best get it out fast. “I didn’t come to you from Scotland. I came from the Upper World, the place where souls go when they leave their lives on Earth. To get here to you, I enlisted the help of an immortal named Finn. He is known as a prankster, but I had no choice. He’s the one who took my shirt this morning and then put it back so you’d find it and think exactly what you’re thinking. No doubt Finn finds the mishap highly amusing.”

“An immortal.” Beth let her breath out in a loud spurt. “Well, thanks for sharing. I can’t imagine why you’d think I wouldn’t believe that one. Fairies, pranksters, immortals — all common enough stuff. Why don’t you ask the prankster to beam you up out of here because if that’s the best you can do, you need to go.”

“Beth …”

She wadded up the shirt and threw it at him. Her eyes filled.

“Don’t cry, lass. Why don’t you tell me what’s truly bothering you? I’ll not have you weeping over a shirt.” Calum reached for her arm, but she smacked his hand.

“You’ll not have it? Who gave you the right to tell me what to do? Nobody. So back off, Bucko. I’m going downstairs to phone Matthew. You can do something useful and get your own room.” She grabbed the room key and slammed the door after her.

Calum saw her purse on top of the television. He picked it up, slipped out the car keys, and went out into the hall.

“Beth,” he called as the elevator bell rang. “You might need this.”

She stomped the few feet to him and snatched it out of his hands without a word. He watched the door slide closed behind her.

He went back to the room and booted the chair. “Damn you, Finn! I am not here for your sport and amusement, you bloody …” But he stopped there. He’d have better success giving a starved dog a bone and asking him not to chew it. Invoke the immortal — pay the price. No one had forced him to go to Finn — if anything, he’d been warned against it.

No, he was responsible for whatever Finn chose to do. It was time to put this into perspective, it was just a shirt. He picked it up, tossed it on to the closet floor, and shut the door. Beth had overreacted because she thought she was betraying that Matthew ass. But what happened in the carriage was real. That kiss? That was the coming together of two souls meant to be one. That was the all–powerful, certainly bigger than two humans and one measly immortal.

Calum would not find himself another room. Nothing had changed. Beth was still in danger. And if she thought she could order him out of her life, she didn’t have an inkling whom she was up against. Order him out of her bed, he conceded, plopping down on the half–a–couch, but Calum never shirked a challenge, and this was naught but a minor setback.

Chapter 15

Headline News

She was a fool. Should she ask the question one more time? What was she doing with Calum? Clearly there was one of those physical forces working here, like gravity but yet to be defined. Some kind of physics crackup that caused her electrons to stick to his protons, powerful enough to vaporize what used to be her good judgment.

Beth had been so close to giving Calum everything. Take her on the elevator floor? Her perfect control for twenty–five years had been shot to hell from one kiss — one mind–blowing kiss, she allowed — but certainly no more a rush than what a drug addict might feel and equally as dangerous.

Okay, perhaps that was an unreasonable analogy. She drew a breath from the bottom of her lungs to calm her down so she could think.

Get a grip. She didn’t usually flare up over little things like guys taking their shirts off. That eruption obviously happened for some reason, and she didn’t have to think long to figure it out. Anger had come to her rescue — the perfect antidote to kill the urge to drag Calum to her bed. Did she always find something wrong with a man? The thought needled her, but she wasn’t motivated to dwell on that at the moment.

Since her cell phone battery was dead, she walked across the lobby looking for a pay phone.

Matthew was snippy with her on the phone when he found out she’d left Montreal. To save him renting a car and driving to Quebec City, she would just meet him in Montreal in the morning. Despite his irritation, he promised to find her excellent legal representation.

After stopping for a tea, Beth slipped into the hotel room. All was quiet.

Calum had not met her demand and gotten his own room — big surprise there. Part of her was pleased, the double–crossing part, although she wasn’t angry over the shirt anymore.

She supposed her softening was related to tomorrow’s departure. It was separate ways for them in the morning, and she’d like to carry the memory of him being her benevolent love–struck warrior. It didn’t matter any longer where he’d come from or what laws governed the force of attraction she’d felt. All that mattered was getting a good night’s sleep.

• • •

Later on that morning with the sun in the sky, Beth and Calum packed their few belongings. He packed them into the car before joining Beth for breakfast.

“Don’t let me forget to pick up a Toronto newspaper before I leave,” she said when he sat down with his plate. “I want to see if there’s anything further about Meals on the Move.”

“Good idea.” Calum slathered jam on his whole wheat toast. “Will you not eat something?”

“I’m not hungry. I want to talk about last night in the carriage, to set a few things straight.”

Good, she was thinking about that kiss.

“My behaviour was inappropriate and please trust me on this, completely out of character. The storytelling carried me away, and I haven’t been myself, as you can well understand. I know it was just a kiss, but it shouldn’t have happened.”

Calum shot her a playful grin to alleviate her seriousness. “I can’t agree with you on that. What carried you away was your deep and primal heart, and that kiss was an awakening of two parts meant to be one. ‘Tis precisely what should have happened.”

Beth exhaled a truck load of exasperation. “Will you stop talking like that?”

He didn’t answer in words. He sent her a look infused with everything passionate he wished to do to her.

“On second thought, I will get something to eat.” She retreated to the buffet. He watched her look over each serving dish before she picked up a plate.

A smooth English speaking voice rose over the din of the small dining room. “Bernard, isn’t that the woman from the newspaper, the jewel thief? Look at the picture!”

Beth looked up, clearly startled, a spoonful of scrambled eggs hovered over her plate. “W-What?”

“Good gracious,” said Bernard. “I think you’re right.”

Beth dropped her plate.

Calum’s chair scraped the floor as he pushed away from the table. Three steps later, he took the article from the woman’s hand.

A waitress spoke in the ear of another.

“You must see this, Carol,” Calum called to the frozen lass. “The thief has the look of you, to be sure, but her name is Beth Stewart.” He ran his finger under the picture of Beth accepting some kind of award for community service and smiled at the man named Bernard. “That’s my wife, Carol Cunningham. Do they not say that everyone has a double? Come see, Carol, you’ll not believe the likeness.” He smiled through tight teeth at Beth — God, woman, stop looking like stunned deer.

Beth picked up the two halves of the plate, set them on the buffet without looking, and approached the newspaper as one might approach a guillotine. Her voice squeaked at first, and then she cleared her throat. “I look like a jewel thief, do I?”

One of the waitresses had alerted the manager. High heels clicked across the floor toward them.

“Is there a problem here?” the woman asked in French–accented English.

Calum read the woman’s name tag as she quickly scanned the article. “No, no just a case of mistaken identity, Deidrie.” Her head rose to study Beth then fell back to the paper.

“It says one of the meal recipients may have been murdered in her home during one of the robberies,” Bernard offered.

Beth gasped. “Murdered?”

“What a shame,” Calum said and shook his head.

Deidrie’s eyes grew wide. “You are guests at the hotel?” She directed the question to Calum.

“Yes, we are. And a fine place to stay it is, though you may consider adding a seat or two to the couch.” Calum smiled at the woman who thankfully looked charmed.

“We will verify your registration then. Please come with me.”

“Ah, very good,” said Calum. “Carol, why don’t you fetch your identification from the car?” He hugged her and whispered in her ear, “Don’t come back in. Bring the car to the front door.”

Calum walked to the registration desk beside Deidrie. He had registered as Calum Cunningham. He drummed his fingers on the counter while he waited for Deidrie to retrieve the information. The concierge from last night was still on duty, so Calum sent him a wink.

“Well, I see your name here, Mr. Cunningham. I don’t mean to inconvenience you, but we must verify your wife’s identification.”

“It’s no inconvenience. She’ll be back in a moment.”

A couple from outside stepped into the revolving doors. The man clasped a suitcase in each hand, the woman followed with a shoulder bag.

“Ah, look there now, they’ve arrived,” Calum said. “Our good friends can clear up this wee misunderstanding — Ian, Morag!” Calum walked toward the couple emerging from the door. “How was the drive?” he called as he approached.

The grey–haired man looked up at Calum then glanced back over his shoulder. Yes, I’m speaking to you, Calum thought sharply and smiled tight.

The man’s response was tentative, “Uh, we came by train.”

“Did you now? Very civilized, I hear.”

He had increased his pace to a near charge. The man took a step back. Calum grasped the man’s hand, shook it once and said, “Welcome to the ideal destination for lovers.” He slipped into the door pocket and revolved out.

With a picture in his head of Deidrie picking up the phone to alert the authorities, he quickly scanned the driveway then ran toward the street they had parked on. No sign of Beth. Where the hell was she?

Chapter 16

Newton Stands Corrected

Beth left the hotel, each nerve a tremor from head to toe. She’d acted like frozen vegetables back there. She couldn’t have been more obvious unless she’d had “guilty” in little red lights flashing from her forehead. Thankfully Calum didn’t suffer brain freeze.

She expected him to come charging out of the hotel any minute and glanced back at the front doors. The car keys were in her pocket. As she reached in to grab them a hand clasped her arm.

She turned. “Matthew. What are you doing here?” The scowl on his face was alarming.

“You weren’t expecting me? Sorry to spoil your fun, Beth. I heard all about it from the concierge of the hotel — quite an illicit performance with your lover last night in the lobby. You couldn’t wait, Beth, not even to get to the hotel room?”

“Oh no.” A crude picture flashed in her mind. She’d never behaved with such passionate abandon in her entire life; it just figured she’d get caught. How should she explain? They weren’t broken up in his mind.

Matthew’s lips pulled back off his teeth like an angry dog’s. “What happened to your strict adherence to no sex without a commitment? It never occurred to me that it was you not committed. What kind of logic do you live by?”

“I didn’t have sex, Matthew. Let me go and I’ll explain.” His grip tightened as he pushed her down the driveway in front of him.

“Explain?” He snarled through his teeth. “I don’t think your behaviour requires an explanation. It’s straightforward enough. I’ve filled in the gaps, so I don’t need to hear the sordid details of your love affair.”

“I’m not having an affair. I kissed him, that’s it. But the fact remains he did save me from Bruce. I’m rather concerned with that event at the moment.”

His eyes turned black. “You know what, Beth? I’m concerned too. We’re going to have a talk about that backpack.”

They reached the road. His grip was like a bear trap.

“You need to let me go.” She forced the demand up over her trembling vocal cords. A woman was murdered in her home during a robbery. “You may be angry, but we have to put that aside for now. The police think I’m a jewel thief, for God’s sake, and now one of the Meals on the Move clients has been murdered. Did you know about that?”

His smile was an ice–cold shiver over her bones. “Yes, I did. Such a shame, love. Maybe we can make a deal.”

“A deal? What are you talking about?” Why would she need to make a deal? “Actually, I don’t need your help. I’ll get my own lawyer.”

He spoke through a clenched smile. “That’s the last thing you’ll do. I’ll not allow you to interfere with my plans. The ground is broken for my hospice, so you’re going to tell me where that money is. No games. No blackmail. Tell me the truth, and I’ll keep you out of jail.”

Blackmail? She and Calum had been right about there being something else in the backpack, something more important than $40,000. Her mind raced. “Let go of my arm, and we can sort this out.” If Matthew didn’t let go, his fingerprints would soon imprint her lower epidermis.

“Let go of my arm now!”

“Beth!” She turned and saw Calum run from the hotel to the street as the grate of a door sliding open sounded. Matthew pushed her off her feet. Unable to stop herself, she fell into the back of a navy–coloured van. Her wrist twisted under her. She skidded across the seat scraping her arm on a seat belt, trying to catch her balance. Matthew shut the door and jumped into the front seat. The vehicle accelerated.

If Matthew’s character shift hadn’t been enough to unnerve Beth, what happened next did it no contest. That event would stay forever planted in her brain in capital letters under “terribly traumatizing.”

The terror came on like a sudden storm with a wind that howled through her head. Not the kind of wind that pushed a person about like in a gale. On the contrary — this was a sucking sort of wind of such high velocity. Beth became a rag doll.

Where had her bones gone?

The upholstered seat whooshed out from under her. Turbulence knocked every molecule about with a force far worse than any ride at Disney World.

She had no time to scream, or perhaps she had and wasn’t able to hear herself.

Every colour of the rainbow flashed by and then smeared together in a downward spiral taking her along. She wasn’t in a bad Monet reproduction, and she wasn’t in the back seat of that van any longer.

Where was she going?

How was she going?

Moments later, she felt the sensation of substance returning to her bones. Her legs firmed like rapid set plaster. The world wobbled out of its whirlwind and she was suddenly standing on solid ground.

What the freaking hell was that?

Calum’s eyes were startled saucers before her — spinning ones — or perhaps that was still her. She felt his grip firm on her shoulders. They both stood on the street where her car was parked.

“What in the name of everything holy happened to you?” Calum demanded.

Nothing in Beth’s twenty–five years of experience, besides the few science fiction movies she’d seen and a couple of bad dreams, could help her answer that question.

“It must have been Finn,” he said. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”

Beth’s feet stayed planted. “What’s a Finn? Calum? We are not just carrying on. I need to know what happened to me. People don’t get sucked out of cars. They don’t whirl through space. They don’t — ”

“Beth, we need to leave now. I can manage Matthew, but I’ve no wish to fend off the police, and they are sure to be coming for us.”

Oh no. Had it really slipped her mind that she was a wanted jewel thief and/or murderer? She tried not to scream out loud at the thought. The screaming in her head was loud enough. “Yes, we need to get away.” She still had the keys in her pocket. Pressing unlock, she threw the fob to Calum. “You drive.”

They raced into her car.

“Go, Calum. Go!”

He fumbled with the gearshift; hit the gas too hard, braked, then eased off.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Woman, don’t harass me, I’ll get it.” Calum looked like a kid with a new toy. They narrowly missed a parked Jeep as he turned the corner.

“You drive like you’ve never driven before.”

“I did not say I had.”

How could that be? “Stop the car.”

“The hell I will, bloody narrow streets. You’re hands are trembling, Beth. You can’t drive. Don’t worry yourself, I will master this.”

“Stop the car, Calum! Before you kill somebody.”

They came to a screeching stop. She pried her hands from the dashboard.

How much worse could this possibly get? “Switch places,” she ordered, lifting up so he could slide under her. “Hurry up.”

They switched. Beth hit the gas.

“Turn right again,” he grumbled when they reached the stop sign. “We will make way out of the city.”

Calum might not be able to drive a car — and what was with that? — but he could navigate. Wits combined, they finally gained enough distance that she felt it safe to pull over at a gas station.

Beth slumped forward to rest her forehead on the steering wheel.

She felt Calum’s hand rest on her shoulder. “Did he hurt you, lass?”

Drawing her head from the wheel, she caught the look on his face — pure misery. “Matthew? The man who wanted to share my life, who just threatened to turn me in to the police if I don’t cough up the money from that backpack. No, not really, nothing more than a crushed spirit and a twisted wrist.”

His hand slid down her arm to bring her wrist to his lips. He kissed it, and then frowned. “It’s my fault. You were under my protection, and I failed you.”

She shifted to face him. “That’s very gallant of you, Calum. I’m not so fragile, apparently. I can be vacuumed up no worse for wear. What happened to me?”

He shook his head. “I can only guess. It might have been Finn. The shirt thief. I told you about him, remember?”

“No, I never let that one settle in my memory.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t let this one either.”

“Fat chance.” She didn’t believe in fairies, and while she’d never been to Scotland, as far as she knew the laws of physics were universal. “Calum, tell me again. Where exactly are you from?”

“I will try to explain it to your satisfaction, but this isn’t the place. Beth, I am sorry for it … for Matthew.”

She blew out a deflating breath. “I don’t know what he was more enraged about, the money or you?”

“Me?”

“He thinks I’m having an affair. The concierge at the hotel didn’t leave out any details from our lustful display last night.”

“I see, and he’s not man enough to seek revenge of me, but instead attacks the woman he claims to love.”

She could easily picture Calum dueling for her honour, but Matthew? No. “He acted insane — jealously crazed. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“There was somebody with him, but I couldn’t see through the windows.”

“I saw who it was. I recognized the shaved head before that great gust of wind sucked me to your side.”

“And I’ll thank God for that. Was it Popeye?”

She nearly laughed, but felt too dazed for humour. He said it like poop-eye. “Yes, the man driving was Bruce, and by the look of him, you did break his nose. Now we know they are in this together. I just can’t see them as drug dealers. Do you think this has anything to do with the Meals on the Move robberies?”

“Yes, I do. But we’re going to talk later. I’m uneasy here.”

Uneasy was an understatement, and yes, they had a few things to talk about. Matthew could never discover she’d given that money to Janine Miller. Janine’s safety was vital. She turned the car off. “First, I’m going to run into that shop over there and see if they have a Toronto paper. I need to read that article.”

“No, you stay here.” Calum opened his door. “Lock the car. Don’t move. I’ll go.”

Calum got out of the car. He had to cross the street to get to the store. As he stood waiting for traffic to clear, he felt that eerie wind lift his hair. Perfect timing. Finn materialized beside him.

“It wasn’t God and you’re welcome,” Finn said.

“I figured. It was good of you to shift her out of there, yet somehow, Finn, it leaves me thinking you’ve an underhanded motive.”

“Moi? I spend my days granting humans desire after desire, and you think me self–serving?”

The traffic cleared and Calum crossed the street. Finn appeared on the other side.

“By the way, thanks for the reappearing shirt. You love to see me squirm, Finn?”

“Yes, and knowing that, warrior, knowing you’ve completed your first task, do you still wish to play my game, or have you decided to remain celibate?”

Bloody hell, he wished he didn’t need the immortal. Calum opened the door to the shop, and then crossed to the magazines and newspapers. Finn popped in on the top shelf, his long legs dangling over Better Homes and Gardens’ spring issue.

“Do you wish to know your second task?”

His sigh fluttered the papers he leaned over. Foremost he wanted Beth safe, but he couldn’t deny wanting her in his bed just as fervently. A new realization sprang to light. Finn had rescued Beth and returned her to his side. As long as he kept Finn amused, the elf would keep her safe.

He scanned the selection of newspapers. “Fine then, what is it?”

“You’re in this then? Ready to play?”

“Yes.” A kid beside him backed away. Ah right, nobody else could see Finn.

Finn appeared on his feet by Calum’s side. “Good. Come with me then.”

With the newspaper gripped in one hand, he followed Finn over to the next aisle where shelves stacked with bottles, soap, and cotton puffs sat across from cat and dog food.

“You’re going to need this.” A bottle teetered over the edge of the shelf in front of him. Calum snatched it up before it hit the ground, glancing quickly along the aisle for customers.

He read the bottle: ‘Simple Pleasures Almond Blossom Bubble Bath.’ “Is this a jest? I’ll never get that woman into the bath with me. We didn’t end on a romantic note last night, which I’m sure you’re aware since you’ve mastered being in two places at once. It’s been a bloody hell of a day, and it’s only nine in the morning.”

“You don’t get to take a bath with Bethia, all sudsy and slippery and naked together.” Finn frowned. “Not yet, warrior. Don’t forget, the chase is just as entertaining as the conquest. She gets the bath. You will be her attendant. Wash her lovingly — her back, her arms, her feet — no further, no kiss this time and that I do stipulate. And, Calum, do a thorough job. I want you to rouse what she’s kept latent. Leave her breathless and aching for you.”

He cleared his throat and stopped short of rolling his eyes. “As decadent as that sounds, she will not welcome me anywhere near her bath. The woman’s shown no skin. She’s gotten herself into the most bashful human body I’ve yet to know.”

A lady pushing a stroller came down the aisle, but quickly retreated from the demented man talking to the bubble bath. He blew his breath out in a huff.

“That’s a shame because you would have but one task undone, and then …” Finn’s lips curled in a devilish smile.

“Fine, I’ll do it, but I don’t need your help. Don’t take my shirt or my pants or anything else.” What was he thinking? He shouldn’t give the immortal ideas. “Finn, just leave me to it, and I’ll do my best.”

“You always do. That’s what I love about you humans, you work so hard. If there was another Calum roaming about, the world would be a better place.”

Finn vanished. A bottle of body scrub with coconut oil tipped off the shelf just before the body cream fell. Calum caught them on top of the newspaper. He stood frozen for a moment, eyes darting, until he felt the breeze of Finn’s departure.

He could use a bubble bath right about now.

Calum walked back to the car. Where should they go? Which direction would effectively evade both the police and the crazed criminal halfwits, and let’s not forget best induce the desire for a bubble bath?

“It took you long enough,” Beth said as he got in. “Oh muffins, good work.”

Calum tossed her a morning glory.

“I called that real estate office to talk to Chantal Desjardins. She’s still out of the office, so I left a message that I was interested in selling my home here and relocating to Ashbury.”

“I thought your phone didn’t work.”

With a quick tilt of her head, she indicated a booth stuck in full view of the road. “I used that phone. It was only a minute and I kept my back to the road. It was driving me crazy sitting here doing nothing and why should I hide? I’m not guilty of any crime.” She snatched up the newspaper.

“Can I not leave your side for a moment without you risking your neck?”

She responded with a roll of her eyes over the top of the newspaper.

“It doesn’t matter that you’re innocent — ”

He watched her stop breathing as she read the article. With eyes wide, she told him what she’d read. “A woman from the meal program, Mrs. Cobbs, died a few months ago in her bed. There was no mention of foul play at the time, but the police are now revisiting the case.”

“Surely you’re not being accused of murder?”

“No, not murder, just jewel theft. I never thought I’d say that — just jewel theft. A sapphire necklace that belonged to Mrs. Miller, also from Meals on the Move, was found in my house. Cripes! How could that be?”

“Popeye was in your house.” He suffered little doubt now that Matthew was the one who had entrapped Beth, but one necklace wouldn’t warrant a life sentence.

Beth reached for the ignition. “Why steal a necklace and put it in my house? How does that help Matthew build his hospice? And what does he want from the backpack? Nothing makes sense. I have to go to the police and straighten this out before I am accused of murder.”

The fine hairs rose on the back of his neck. “No police, not yet. Not until we learn more. As far as I’m concerned, the police pose as great a threat as do the halfwits. I’ve a need to talk to the real estate agent myself and till then, I’d like nothing more than to hide you away safe in the hills if only there was such a croft …”

A strip of paper caught his sight as it fluttered out of the air into his lap. He spared a glance at Beth, hoping she’d not seen it. No luck.

“Calum?” She moaned. “Where did that come from?”

He shrugged. “Must have been in the newspaper?”

“But, it fell from … never mind. I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’m saving my breakdown for later.”

He read the ad. “A secluded, one–bedroom mountain retreat, rustic but quaint.” One bedroom. Damn, he was tired of sleeping on chairs. As he scanned the print, his eyes fell on the last line. Leave your troubles behind and safeguard your eternal bond. He folded the paper in half and slipped it into his pocket.

“I guess I’ll suspend my disbelief for the moment,” Beth said. “I know I didn’t fall down a rabbit hole, nor into a Mary Poppins painting, but someone is helping us, and whether it’s our fairy godmother or not, I say let’s go for the rustic but quaint retreat.”

“‘Tis no fairy godmother, and rustic but quaint could just as easily translate to wolf’s den but warm and furry. I agree with you though. It’ll fare safer than sitting here in the open. We’ve got directions, so we’ll retreat there.”

Chapter 17

Bubble Beth

“Stop the van,” Matthew demanded.

Bruce took his gaze off the road and peered at him through tired, blackened eyes. “Why?”

“Beth?” Matthew unbuckled his seat belt. “Beth’s not back there.” He pushed up out of the passenger seat and gripped the armrest as the van veered to the side of the road.

“How can she not be there?” Bruce asked.

Matthew cursed as he climbed between the seats of the van to the rear. He scanned the back seats from top to bottom as if a grown woman might have slid under the seat.

“How did she get out? You forgot to activate the childproof locks.” He added “idiot” under his breath.

“Not a chance,” Bruce shot back. “The lock must be broken.”

Matthew swung around and tried the door. It didn’t budge — locked. He collapsed into the seat and scowled. How did Beth escape a locked vehicle?

“You didn’t shut the door tight,” Bruce said and added, “idiot.”

Matthew had no idea how Beth had escaped, but he clearly remembered the door sliding into place securely behind her. If anyone was to blame, it wasn’t him.

“I’m turning around,” Bruce said. “We’re going back to the hotel.”

Across the street by the hotel, a man had shouted Beth’s name — the jackass she’d run with, no doubt. There’d been a despairing look on the guy’s face as he’d bolted into traffic. The anguished look had surprised Matthew. He quickly dismissed the possibility that the longhaired ass was despondent over losing Beth. Lose the girl, lose the money, which led him to speculate she hadn’t divulged the flash drive’s hiding place to the mountain man.

“Suppose Beth didn’t bring the flash drive with her,” said Matthew.

“If she turned it into the police like she said then we’re fucked.”

“Not the police. If she were innocent, she wouldn’t have run, but what if Beth doesn’t trust the mountain man? Or …”

“What mountain man?”

Matthew saw possible scenarios fitting into the flowchart he pictured in his mind. How many times had Beth praised his ability to commit and achieve each carefully planned goal he set? Her need for those characteristics in a man was deeply rooted in her and he fulfilled that need — perfectly. Had she truly been lured away from him? The more he considered it, the more unreasonable it seemed. But the fact remained — she’d been intimate with another man. The sound of his father’s taunt rang in his ears. Played for a fool again. You’ll never learn to use your enemies.

He turned his attention to Bruce. “The guy who broke your nose. I saw him chasing after Beth back at the hotel. She could be using him for his muscle because she’s afraid of you.”

A look of offence further darkened Bruce’s face. “That coward came up behind me. I wouldn’t count on his muscle in a fair fight.”

“He broke your nose from behind? Get a handle on your ego. My guess is the mountain man is just for hire.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the mountain man. Beth will try to get in touch with your realtor friend. Have you talked to her?”

Matthew got up from the back seat. “Chantal? No. Left her a message. Open the door. I’m going to drive.”

“Suit yourself.” Bruce unlocked the doors and got out of the van.

When they’d switched places, Matthew dropped the stick shift into gear. “We’re heading back to the hotel and talk to the concierge. Maybe he overheard something this morning that will lead us to Beth.” As he drove, he comprised a list in his head of all the reasons Beth’s mountain man didn’t measure up.

• • •

The rustic cabin retreat was impressive. Roughly hewed logs cut from the surrounding wilderness had turned out a small two–storey A–frame with a snug deck off the upper level. High in the mountains, past the touristy ski resorts, the view from the deck was spectacular. Calum stood there off the loft gazing through a frame of sugar maple and yellow birch into an azure lake folded in between softly rounded mountains rolling out into the mist.

The view was a reminder of young love, long ago when he and Bethia lived in the Highlands and he had fallen hopelessly in love with her great capacity to care for others. The memory of that life brought a stab of fear to his heart, and then it was gone. For the first time, he saw how that fear had carried forward into the lives that followed, affecting his actions although he’d never understood where the emotion originated. Her habit of putting the welfare of others before her own safety was an old one and would scare any man into becoming what she considered an overprotective buffoon. He looked forward to discussing that life with Beth, but before that could happen, she needed to remember who he was. ‘Twas his good fortune they were now in the perfect environment to stimulate her memory.

“There’s a fireplace and a Jacuzzi,” Beth called from the bedroom. “This is so much better than a hotel room, and before I think I’m in heaven, are you sure we can stay here?”

A Jacuzzi? Had she used that term to describe the bath at the hotel?

“I’m definitely taking a long, hot bath before this day is over,” she said.

“Ah then, ‘tis settled, we’re staying. But I want you to understand something. Come here, Beth.” She had avoided this conversation since they’d escaped Quebec City.

She joined Calum on the deck, coming to stand beside him at the railing. He leaned forward and pushed her sunglasses up off her face to see her eyes clearly.

“You’re taking all this remarkably well,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. She gave him a perturbed look and pulled the glasses back down. “No. I’m not. I feel as if the ground has broken up under me. My insides are shattered, and I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

Calum gathered her in his arms and held her until he felt the release of a deep breath, then she pulled back.

“Nothing is what I thought it was — Matthew, you, the laws of physics.”

“Aye, fair enough. Let’s start with Matthew.”

Her jaw clenched as she looked out over the mountain before speaking. “Matthew plans his life like a one–way street, no detours, no turning back. His mother died of cancer, and I thought his plan to build a hospice for cancer patients on a tropical island was a sweet, unselfish dream since he didn’t have the money for that kind of venture. Then I began to see another side of Matthew. He’s driven by a need to prove himself to his father, not to help cancer patients, and now I don’t think he cares how he achieves that — legally or illegally. Calum, we have to tell the police what we know about Matthew and Bruce. It’s not nice being accused of jewel theft.”

“You will not be charged with any breach of the law. I promise you that. We’ll uncover the truth now that we know Matthew is involved, but we’ll not include the police yet. I don’t want them holding you until they find evidence to the contrary.”

She nodded, her gaze far away.

“Do you want to talk about me now?”

Beth turned from the landscape and settled her sunglasses–covered gaze on him. “Tell me you are not an alien reptile under that skin.”

“Get a knife. You can cut me open — flesh and blood — I swear it.”

“You’d let me do it, wouldn’t you?”

“‘Tis true, but I wouldn’t like it.”

Her laugh was short. “So what are you?”

“I may be a lot of things, but I am not a what. I think I’ve made that perfectly clear — all man, Beth — the flesh–and–hot–blooded kind.”

“You may be a lot of things, but if you think perfectly clear is one of them, think again. I’ve been sucked through space today and received a floating ad for mountain retreats. Nothing about you, Calum, is perfectly clear.”

“Fine, I’ll concede you that.” But there was no way she was going to think of him as anything but pure male. He was beginning to get distracted by the vision of her in that bubble bath.

He forced his thoughts back to the present. “I am as human as you. Instead of starting this life as a babe, I’ve come in full grown with memories of my past lives, many I’ve lived with you. We have a special bond, lass, and believe me I wish you felt it like I do, because it’s sheer one–sided torture.”

She had the nerve not to look sympathetic at that.

He told Beth about the vision of her future and how he sought Finn and came to her aid. “It was Finn who shifted you out of Matthew’s car today.”

“If Finn is so powerful, why doesn’t he just set the record straight, so I don’t perish in jail?”

“He doesn’t work that way. Finn is inspired by human passion — that’s what satisfies him. He sent me here because when you and I come together, we have a reputation for generating extraordinary passion.”

Her mouth reverted back to that sardonic smile. “Right. You’re just saying that to serve your own self, Mister–I’m–a–Man–All–Flesh–and–Hot–Blood. I know where your mind is every minute.”

Calum laughed. “Proven, lass, you know me well. But ‘tis the truth about Finn.”

“This is so bizarre. I honestly wouldn’t believe any of it if I hadn’t been sucked out of that car today. So you’re human, and I never thought I’d have a reason to qualify that, but who is Finn?

“Finn is Elfin.”

A soft snort escaped her. “You’ve got to be kidding. You expect me to believe Finn is an elf?”

“Yes, lass, but don’t think of him as a wee leprechaun–like being. To mortals, he appears as a full–grown man.”

“I see. I suppose he works for Santa in the off season.”

“Very funny. Children don’t inspire Finn. Like I said, ‘tis passion that appeals to him.”

“And I thought the Matthew revelation was giving me an upset stomach. An X–rated elf is a bit much.”

Too much, he thought. No wonder her world felt shattered. Enough information for now. A reprieve from the bizarre would better settle her insides. “I’m needing to feel the earth beneath my feet,” he said. “Would you care to walk the hills with me?”

She looked out over the Appalachians. “Do you think it’s safe?”

“Safe and sure since Finn delivered us here.” It served the immortal to keep them protected and together.

“Okay, if you say so. But don’t think I won’t hold you to your promise of protection — there may be bears in those woods.”

• • •

It had been a long time since Beth had enjoyed herself to such extent without spending a cent. A latent part of her unfurled and bloomed in the mountains. It started quietly, with not a sound but that of the forest. Breathing the ripe, fecund air, the feeling built like heat inside her as she warmed in the sun, a peaceful kind of alive that expanded until she was running and laughing and teasing Calum.

They returned to the cabin late. With a fire burning in the hearth, he helped cook a stir–fry from groceries they had picked up earlier that day. In the open loft upstairs was a Jacuzzi bath and one king–sized bed — the only bed. Beth and Calum had a great afternoon — easy, relaxed, and comfortable — but she didn’t want him reading more into it.

She put the last fork in the dish rack for him to dry. “For what started as a disaster, this day has wrapped up pretty nice.” She pulled the plug. “I saw some bubble bath upstairs. I’m going to go and sink into that tub. Since there’s no door to lock up there, I’ll ask you to please stay put and enjoy the fire down here.” The water spiraled down the drain. “I’ll say goodnight before turning in.”

Well, that was pretty clear. She ran up the stairs before he could make any lewd suggestions.

Two minutes later she stood in front of the tub having snatched a few bottles from the vanity. ‘Almond Blossom.’ Sounded good to her. She dumped a stream into the tub. A light, nutty scent rose out of bubbles. She dumped in some more. After turning on the jets, she sank into the hot, burbling water, bursting with bubble blossoms. Now this was getting pretty darn close to heaven.

After ten minutes, she realized hindsightedly that night was coming on fast. She’d not turned a light on, but the room was faintly lit by the fire’s glow downstairs. Calum had put soft music on. She closed her eyes. Who needed light?

A few minutes later there was an intrusion.

“Ah, I thought you might like some atmosphere for your bath, Bethia.”

Figures that he turned into seduction with the sunset — she could tell by the way he warmed her name and laced it with hot caramel.

“What are you doing up here?” She sunk lower and scooped in bubbles.

He held a candle in one hand, which he put on the side of the tub and a steaming mug in the other. “Irish coffee, sweetened with cream. I thought you might like some.”

“That was thoughtful … perhaps. Thank you, Calum, you can scoot now.”

He sat down on the edge of the tub by her feet and picked up one of the bottles. The man was so not subtle. “Ah, what’s this? Almond blossom body scrub with coconut oil.” He pushed his sleeves up to the elbows. “Give me your foot.” With a quick turn of his wrist the lid spun off.

She flashed him a nice try look. He’d no idea he was up against the queen of resistance.

“Mmm,” he purred. “Smells good. Come on, lass. Who denies a foot rub? Give me your left toes first.”

“I will not. Okay, that’s enough, Calum. You really must go back downstairs.”

He leaned his magnificent shoulders back against the tiles. “You haven’t tried your coffee.”

“Will you leave then?”

The spiced smile he shot her sent the heat of a jalapeno between her thighs. How did he do that? “That’s what I thought. Get out.”

He didn’t move — big surprise there. Instead he dipped a finger into the bath and twirled circles over her feet.

“I will be a perfect gentleman, your most humble servant.”

“Excellent. You may serve by going back downstairs.”

His hand dipped lower. She wanted to tuck her legs up under her, but she had her bubbles right where she wanted them.

“I promise not to touch you anywhere you don’t want me to. Think about it, Beth, I’m offering to massage your aching feet.”

What had she been thinking telling Calum her feet hurt? “These jets are doing a fine job, thanks.”

“But I will attend all ten toes and ever so gently relieve the stiffness of the day, attentively rub away all your wee aches and pains till you are so very appeased and relaxed.”

Why did that have to sound so good? “You expect me to believe you’re not the kind of guy that takes a mile when offered an inch.”

“I give you my word. We did have a long walk today. What’s so appalling about a soothing foot rub?”

Nothing that she could remotely think of. Of course he pulled the word ‘soothing’ out like warm taffy. Why couldn’t she let Calum give her a foot rub? She hesitated. It was all the answer the warrior needed. He smiled pure conquest and grabbed her foot in one deft plunge.

“Lay back, lass, close your eyes, there’s nothing for you to do but enjoy.”

That sounded so good.

“Oh,” she moaned weakly, as his thumbs pressed into the ball of her foot. If one thing would prove indisputable, it would be that Calum would give the most excellent foot rub known to the female population. Enjoy? Total understatement. What he was doing to her foot was moving clear on past bliss.

Just the right amount of pressure and kneading and satiny oil sliding between her toes, up and down each toe, pressing gently, up and down, up and down.

“Ah,” she opened her eyes. Figures, he would mimic that. She gave him a look — she wasn’t nearly that innocent. His response was a make–your–heart–stop kind of smile — yes, the cliché she’d read about, but she’d truly felt her heart trip over itself. His eyes were soft and playful as he moved on to give both her feet a thorough going over.

Beth was now a puddle in the bath. When Calum moved up her calves, she sank deeper in the water, only solid enough to keep bubbles in important places. He didn’t move past her knees. That was unexpected — she’d wondered where she’d draw the strength to resist him, wondered why she would possibly want to. She opened her eyes. Where’d he gone?

“You look fairly relaxed there,” came a deep, sexy brogue behind her. “Sit up. I’ll do your back.”

But what about her bubbles? Back rub? Bubbles? Who was she kidding? Who would forgo a backrub from those magic hands?

Calum sidled up behind her. The smell of floral blossoms infused the hot languid humidity. Her feet were shimmering silk. She felt his fingers slide across her shoulder to her neck and stop there, twirling miniscule circles. He lowered his head close to hers and whispered in her ear. “Sit up. I promise you won’t regret it.”

With her knees pulled up, she leaned over and pressed her chest close to her thighs. Her breasts felt heavy with arousal, her nipples beaded and ached for attention.

A low laugh sounded from his throat. “You’re not making this easy on me. I’m going to need a back rub after.”

“I thought you were my humble servant, not my whiny, complaining one,” she said into her knees. She just couldn’t help resisting him.

“Ah true, my suffering is insignificant, knowing I give you pleasure.”

He did make her smile. “That’s more like it.”

Calum rubbed the almond oil on Beth’s back. “Do I?”

“Hmm?”

“Give you pleasure, Beth?”

“It feels good, Calum.”

“Just good?” He kneaded her shoulders then withdrew.

“Really good.”

His fingers ran down along her spine so delicately she trembled.

“Sometimes, close to the edge of aching is exquisite pleasure.”

What mode of massage was this now? He touched her so softly, every sensitive nerve purred to his touch. Goose bumps rose on her skin as delicate trembles roused in the wake of his touch. Where the foot rub had rendered her to putty, she felt utterly aroused now.

“Let me hear what sounds you make, m’eudail, when you let yourself go.” He pressed into one muscle, and then eased up over another, undulating her back to a rhythm that melted into the softly playing Latin music.

It was all she could do to swallow back the moan that hid in the back of her throat.

“When you ask me, Beth, I will indulge your desires with exquisite leisure. Don’t forbid yourself. Take your pleasure, and I will bring you over the edge, over and over again.”

Take her to the edge with exquisite leisure? Could the man impart more passion with those hands? The flickering candlelight bounced over the water.

How was she supposed to sustain sexual control with him whispering promises like that? She had already determined this man in her life would bring nothing but complication. She should tell him to stop. And she would.

Soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

Each of his fingers seemed to play its own sweet melody. She moaned, she just couldn’t hold it back. A sexy low rumble sounded near her ear as he expanded his touch, slipping farther and farther, trailing up her sides so close to her naked, heavy, stimulated breasts. Oh … bliss, not to mention she was deliciously approaching the sweet aching part.

“Is there something you might ache for, Beth?”

Mind–reader. He’d caught on to the effect his touch had on her. She detected a note of amusement in his voice.

A soft cry escaped her as he ran his hands down her low back and then slightly lower finding more sensitive skin to play with.

In that husky brogue, he kept up a coo of promises that sounded like requests until she realized she would like nothing more than to sit under his hands until the water turned clear into vapour.

She wanted him. Hadn’t she always? No one else but him, naked in the tub, in the bed, in the trees, everywhere. Exquisite pleasure? Okay, take me now, I’m yours.

She leaned back, every nerve in her body craving his hands, his lips. “Calum, don’t stop. It’s you I’m aching for. Since the moment we first met. I’ve never had trouble resisting men, but you’re like a tsunami over my little picket fence of restraint … Calum?”

She turned to look behind her. No one. Her eyes darted around the room. Downstairs she heard the screen door slap against the wood.

Her warrior was gone.

Chapter 18

Aroused to no Avail

The next morning, Calum stood at the stove stirring chopped green onions and fresh basil into eggs and cream. Finally he heard some movement upstairs — the toilet flushed. That woman could sleep.

No wonder. She had the entire bed to herself. He had taken the couch, again, exasperating the kink in his neck. Little choice he’d had.

Last night, much to his distress, his body had not sprung into solidity after tantalizing Beth in the bath. Every other muscle had tuned in, ready to perform, but not the captain.

Leave her aching for you. Thanks, Finn. Where was the sense in that? He beat the eggs a little faster. He’d come to a decision last night. Beth must never discover the kind of passion–rousing games he’d been playing. She’d be furious. Since the theme of Finn’s game was seduction, and Calum could not yet perform, it would be hands off Beth until the last task was complete.

Finn would appear sometime that day, spell it out and by nightfall Calum and Beth would reaffirm their bond. The day would be a platonic one, like good friends — walking the hills, cooking together, telling stories — the kind of relationship Beth was comfortable in.

Calum looked up as she bounced down the stairs. Fresh and gleaming, her cheeks were kissed with pink, a shine on her lips, long blond hair in a cascade over her shoulders, and that was all he intended to notice.

“Hey, Calum, I missed you last night.” He felt her gaze on him as he scrambled the eggs.

Missed him?

“Where did you go?”

“Went for a walk, lass, in the moonlight — a long walk.” And a swim in the frigid lake, but he wouldn’t tell her that. Neither would he disclose what else he’d noticed in the moonlight, not until he was sure.

“Oh. I waited for you but you had me so relaxed, I fell asleep.”

“You waited? Ah, I suppose you wanted to berate me for my boldness in the bath. I’ll save you the trouble and apologize for the things I said and the way I touched you. I hope you’ll forgive me when you taste these eggs.” He turned them out onto two plates beside seven–grain toast and cherry tomatoes.

“That does look good. And no, I have no complaints about your behaviour last night.” She came around the table and ran her hand up his back before she swiped a coffee cup off the shelf. Warmed by the heat of her touch, every nerve electrified.

He put the plates at opposite ends of the table, as distant as possible, and then he sat down. Beth joined him. She picked up a forkful of eggs and placed them rather slowly into her mouth, blatantly showing him that rose pink tongue of hers.

“Mmm,” she hummed, “good eggs, nice texture, lush, and hot, and — ”

Lush eggs? “Glad you like them.” He cut her off before those eggs hatched into more sensual images. The woman was flirting with him. Where had this Beth come from? He was the pursuer, she the resister. That’s the way it was supposed to be. Him in control.

“Calum, I have a suggestion. Let’s take the day to relax and clear our minds. Look at this place — it’s paradise — and did I mention that foot rub last night was heavenly, and my shoulder is a bit stiff. Did you see the hot tub in the back?” The way she raised her delicate eyebrows in coquettish suggestion would have had him on her in an instant — normally.

He eyed her warily then rose from the table. This change in conduct was alarming. Finn, he cursed silently. The trickster knew exactly how to notch up Beth’s arousal levels. The bubble bath backrub unraveled her resistance and stimulated her deep–seated desire when he wasn’t ready for her yet. He’d forgotten about the entertainment factor. This was a game to Finn. He quickly strategized, hating to do it, but Beth needed to be diffused.

She looked up at him with a smile like morning sunshine.

“If Matthew intends to build a hospice as you believe, he will need more than forty thousand dollars. Does Meals on the Move have a large bank account?”

“No, it’s a nonprofit organization that survives by donations and volunteers. They charge a small fee to cover the cost of the meals. Honestly, I can’t imagine any of their clients have jewelry enough to finance Matthew’s plans. Besides, he doesn’t know anything about jewelry.”

“What does he know about?”

She placed her fork on the plate. “Real estate, mortgages, and he’s done well in the stock market.”

“Let’s speculate he has robbed someone associated with your food service to finance this hospice.”

“I’ve heard of contractors stealing from the elderly for unnecessary house repairs, but that wouldn’t work for Matthew.” She slid her plate across the table. “I need time to think about it. I’ve done nothing wrong. If I don’t believe the truth will prevail, then I’ll go crazy worrying.”

He stood against the counter wanting to hurl her worries into the next galaxy. “All right, lass, let me clean up this mess.” As she stood up from the table, Calum turned on the faucet and squeezed in dish soap.

She slipped her plate into the sink and slid her hands over his. “Do you think you have enough bubbles?” Scooping a dollop of suds, she dropped it on his forearm and twirled figure eights with her index finger.

“Yes, I have enough. Stop that now.” He focused on broken egg shells and burnt toast, anything but her feminine scent, fresh as a spring meadow. She deserved nothing short of a rapturous reunion and he was too close to regaining his potency to admit to a performance problem now. “Would you pass me the coffee pot?”

“The big, strong warrior seemed to like the bubbles last night.” She dug out another handful and mashed them into the back of his neck. Sloppy and wet. He glared at her and swiped them off.

“I’m warning you, Beth.”

Her hand dove back in. The woman was taunting him. “What are you going to do, spank me?”

“Do you feel ill this morning?”

Her smile turned into exactly the kind of devilish intimation he would have used.

“Why don’t you take your shirt off, Calum? Come on, I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t ask me to.”

She was playing his game, the little fiend.

“You don’t want to splash dishwater on it.” She whipped up his shirt and plopped suds in a nasty wet spray across his back.

Shaking his hands off into the sink he turned, freed from his previous inclination for self–discipline. He could smile like the devil too. “You’re all hell–fire this morning, aren’t you? Well now, lass, you asked for it.”

A wee scream escaped her as she dodged him and bolted toward the sitting room, knocking over a chair on her way around the couch. He righted the chair and came after her.

They stood on opposite sides of the three–seater. Her eyes flared wild with excitement, her chest rose and fell rapidly. Feet spread, knees bent, she was ready to dash around the furniture.

A laugh squeaked out of her. “You may be strong, but I’m fast. You’ll never catch me, warrior.”

Calum vaulted over the couch and caught her around the waist as she took off.

“That was not fair.” She tried to pry loose his grip.

“‘Twas as fair as sudsing an innocent man.”

As he lifted her off her feet, her scream came out tangled in laughter.

“Thought you were fast,” he teased.

She dug her teeth into his arm, just hard enough to hurt. He didn’t let go. “Ah now, that’s just nasty.”

He dropped to the seat of the couch pulling her down on top. Beth misread his intent and relaxed her struggle. He gripped her tightly in his lap, smiled like the lust–filled warrior he was, and then lowered his mouth toward hers. His woman went limp. It was all he needed. Two seconds later Beth was flipped over his knee.

“You barbarian. Let me go.” She twisted and dug her teeth into the side of his leg.

“Bloody hell,” he yelled, shaking her loose. He held her head against the couch so she couldn’t get him with those teeth. “I’ll not let you go until I’ve delivered that spanking you asked for.” He had her pinned solidly; her arms caught between his legs, her sweet behind at his mercy.

“If you’d like to see the sun rise tomorrow I’d suggest you let me go,” she warned.

But Beth wasn’t struggling with any heart. The woman was fully piqued, and Calum was completely with her in that sense.

He cupped her buttock in one hand. “Sorry, lass, keep in mind that discipline is a burden for the punisher. It’s not nice to bite, you wee hellion.”

“You bullshitter, you’re loving this. You keep in mind, Mister-Caveman-Mentality, I will retaliate when you least expect it.”

“Ah, I’ve no doubt you will.” He kept his tone amused. “And thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to consider your threat as I dole out a fair punishment.”

She let out one hearty cry of frustration.

He slipped his hand down between her thighs — he couldn’t help it. Sweet mercy, she was warm in there. She went utterly still. “What are you doing?”

“You know, this didn’t have to come to violence.” He slid his hand over the tight denim, down her leg to fondle the back of her knee. Too much material there, so he ran his fingers back up her thigh.

“Calum, let me go.”

“Och, I’m not nearly finished with you. It’s been a long while since I’ve had a woman in this position.” He circled over her buttock again, enjoying her sweet, round bum. The muscles in his legs contracted. “I’ll have to take some time to consider how many strokes are fair.” With the tips of his fingers, he ran back and forth at the uppermost part of her leg where it met those engaging curves.

A muffled moan sounded from below, bringing a smile to his lips.

“And this material is fairly thick.” He followed the seam in a slow, deep exploration. “What do you think fair — ten good wallops?”

She answered with a gasp.

He dove down deeper, rolling his thumb over her sensitive nub, once then twice, before sliding back up.

Another gasp.

“Ah, good,” he purred. “You’re cooperating. Sure to go in your favour — seven strokes then.”

“Calum …” she said weakly.

He would deliver strokes, long sensual strokes. This was his favourite pastime. He could draw those gasps out for hours. Or that sharp inhale. How many of those could he extract? They’d always responded differently to each other over lifetimes, but respond, they did. What did this Bethia crave?

He felt his own craving come on strong.

Then it hit him. Since when did he have the will of a mouse?

By all that was holy, he was a bastard. Hadn’t he decided not one hour ago that there’d be no intimacy between them today and look where his hand was. He pulled away.

“Sorry, I no longer wallop women. That will have to be punishment enough for you, my wee hellion.” He let her go, slipped her onto the couch, kissed her forehead, and went back to the soap suds.

• • •

Beth watched Calum doing the dishes. What the heck was with this guy? That was twice she’d ricocheted from get–your–hands–off–me to don’t ever–stop–touching–me–like–that. And twice, he’d stopped. No man had ever stopped — that had always been her job. One she excelled at to the sound of her mantra ringing from the stars — unrestrained passion led to shattered hearts. Calum was bringing about a serious mantra shutdown. She didn’t stop to wonder why. Every nerve ending under her skin was turned on high.

It looked like Calum was working those dishes over to save his life. She took a moment to study him. He had a body that would catch any woman’s eye, whether it was the lines, or proportion, or shape, or a combination of all three — the man was hot. She scanned his back from the wide shoulders, those upper muscles gently flexing, then she followed the tapered slope down to his firm butt. Did he have dimples there? She should find out. After all, fair is fair, and he couldn’t have gotten more personal with her. With her gaze on her target, Beth stood.

“Gee, Calum, I’d hate to see what you’d do to me if I’d drawn blood.”

“Me too. As you can see, I’ve no manner of self–control. If you wish to save yourself, I’d suggest you remain on that side of the room.”

“I have been saving myself, for twenty–five years.” She crossed the room. “I’m losing my will for it. What did you promise? To bring me to my knees?” She delivered this last question as a throaty whisper in his ear.

He flinched. “Back off, Beth. I’m no better than a beast around you.”

She ran her fingers down his spine and over the curve of his butt, feeling his muscles instantly tense. Interesting reaction.

“Bloody hell, what’s gotten into you, lass?”

“I think it was this finger here.” She slid her hand down his arm under the suds to grasp his index finger.

“I’m sorry about that. Not that you didn’t ask for it, but ‘twas inappropriate.”

“I’m not asking for an apology.” She ran her fingers over the sun–kissed hairs on his arm. Touching him gave her an extraordinary feeling, as if her tactile senses had been tweaked up major octaves. Under the hardened muscles, fine tremors ran through him.

He stepped back, slipping her hand from his arm. “Beth, are you having this change of disposition because of Matthew? Do you want to hurt him for hurting you?”

“I don’t want to talk about Matthew. We’re very much alone here. I want you, you want me — you do want me, don’t you?”

His eyes narrowed. “Always … but you’ve not given yourself to a man ever, not even Matthew?”

Beth felt the heat rise in her face. She didn’t mean to still be a virgin at twenty–five, but she’d never met a man who exuded the kind of sensual overload that Calum radiated. “No, and I’m not the only twenty–five–year–old woman who hasn’t had sex, you know.”

“Do many women in this time have relationships with men and keep their maidenhead?”

“Of course.” She tried to think of one. She must know one virgin. Surely she wasn’t that weird, was she? “There’s my cousin Jessica. She’s still a virgin and nobody thinks that’s strange. So she’s only seventeen, not a huge gap in our ages, a mere eight years.”

He pressed his lips together in a dry smile.

“Listen, Calum, I have scruples, okay? If you were born to a mother who didn’t want you, you’d give the matter the seriousness it deserves.” She’d believed it for so long, she couldn’t imagine why she now wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“I’m only trying to understand you, lass, I didn’t mean for you to defend yourself. It is serious, and I admire you for the stand you’ve taken.”

She definitely didn’t like the way the conversation had turned. There he was saying all the right things, and for the first time she didn’t want to hear them. Turned on full throttle, watching Calum take steps backwards was enticing her to no end. She’d no idea how much fun it was to play the aggressor, and she would figure out why he had suddenly changed tune. She wasn’t nearly finished with him yet.

“Let’s talk about something else.” She took a step closer, getting into his personal space. “You. What’s up, Calum? You seem uncomfortable all of a sudden.” She gripped his hand to prevent him backing up farther. “Do you only like passive women?”

He smiled wryly at that. “Ah, no.”

“You like touching women.” She rested her fingers on his waistband. The strangest current ran through him.

“Not all of womankind as you make it sound.”

“Don’t you like to be touched?” She slipped her hand under his shirt and ran over the ridges of his abdomen. Oh nice. Like a Grecian sculpture. An erotic pulse started deep in her belly.

“I like it just fine,” he said through his teeth.

He acted as if he held a tight rein on a pack of skittish stallions. She smiled, feeling an astonishing sense of power. They would go as far as she wanted this time, and she wanted more.

She slid her hand farther up his chest over smooth skin, hardened muscle and soft bristly hairs. He tensed. She sensed him ready to retreat, so she pushed him back against the counter.

“Don’t you move. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but if you think it’s fair to hold me still over your knee because you’re bigger than me, think again. What’s good for the goose is good for the warrior.” Calum was fighting some interior battle, and she was getting to the bottom of it.

“Beth …”

“Shh. You can’t have it all your way.” She slipped her hands under the hem of his T-shirt.

“No.” His hands folded over hers.

“No?”

“Not just yet.”

“When? I know you’re not shy.”

Another wry smile.

“What if I told you I want to put my lips on you for a while, and I’ll only — ”

Calum stopped her words with his mouth. He pulled her in tight to his chest by her wrists, keeping them firmly in place at his side, and kissed her savagely, bruising her lips with his, taking her breath.

Then in what was becoming a thoroughly annoying habit, he slipped aside and retreated to the door, leaving her with an utterly inadequate explanation.

“I want you, Beth, God knows I do. But there’s something I must attend to that can’t be left another moment. Please forgive me, lass.”

With that said, he was gone.

• • •

Calum’s purpose in escaping the cabin was threefold. First and most urgent — a need to cool them both down. Not only had Beth been a heartbeat from ripping his clothes off, he knew now that a similar inclination for Matthew had not struck her, or she’d no longer be chaste. Proof enough she was still his Bethia. He looked down the mountain in the direction of the cabin and broke the crown jewels of smiles.

The path was steep there. He jogged up the rough incline to a plateau that looked out over a substantial valley where the lake flowed.

Secondly, he had to find Finn. This tension couldn’t go on between him and Beth. He could only blame himself — getting her into that position over his knee. When it came to Bethia, he had little restraint. It was the memories. Carrying a thousand years of passion–inflicted lovemaking reminiscences was as distracting as a wolf to a sheep.

Calum stopped and looked out over the valley. Even Finn would be inspired by this vista. He climbed down to a ledge cut out of the mountain and sat with the rock as his backrest, letting one leg swing out over the edge.

This was the perfect vantage to consider the third reason he’d headed for the hills. He had noticed something unusual when he’d walked the woods last night. He might not know the lot of the twenty–first century, but one feature had struck him — it was crowded. Traffic, day and night, even the road into the mountains had a fair share of vehicles. He scanned the valley from end to end — not a human sign in sight — no roads, no houses, no boats on the lake. Calum was beginning to wonder where exactly Finn had led them.

That thought brought him back to problem number two. Where was the meddling trickster hiding?

Calum sang the calling chant over the hills.

Silence.

“Finn!” Damn, where was he? The trickster’s absence began to worry him. Surely, Finn knew that Calum would end up fending Beth off — highly entertaining, to be sure — but how long would Finn drag this out?

He swung up off the ledge and cursed under his breath. Finn would drag it out as long as the entertainment continued. By provoking Beth, Calum had played along nicely.

The only way to induce Finn was to bore him. Calum grimaced. All he wanted was to rekindle the love between him and his soulmate, He would rather not chance an awkward confession regarding his impotency — it might lead to her discovering the tasks he’d performed.

“Ah, I’m on to you, Finn, and your wicked games. We made a bargain and I’ve kept to it. You’ll not be playing me for a fool. So come now and let’s get on with it.

“Finn!”

With his hands clasped behind his back, Calum began pacing the edge of the cliff.

Chapter 19

Just a Wee Bit Off Earth

Matthew pulled into a gas station to top up the tank as his cell phone rang. He glanced at Bruce and smiled. “Hello, Chantal, thanks for returning my call.”

Chantal Desjardins admitted that since they’d spent that weekend together last month, she’d thought of Matthew often.

“I hope to have a repeat of that weekend soon, Chantal.” He winked at Bruce. “I’d love to see you in a bikini on a tropical beach, just as soon as I tie up some loose ends.”

“Oh? I’ll bring my skimpiest bikini then. I got your message, and I did have a voice mail from a woman wanting to sell her home and relocate in Ontario. I’ve not returned her call yet. Do you think that’s the woman who’s been harassing you?”

This was too easy. “Could very well be. I appreciate your help with this, Chantal. If you could set up an appointment with her and let me know, then I’ll come by and have a look. Have you ever been to Belize?”

He finished the phone call with Chantal’s promise to alert him when she’d heard from Beth. From the concierge at the hotel, he’d learned the identity of the mountain man — Calum Cunningham. An internet search had pulled up nothing on Cunningham, so he’d called an old client of his, a private investigator and asked him to find out what he could.

“I’m getting something to eat,” Bruce said and nodded his head toward a take–out window. “Want a hamburger?”

Matthew abhorred fast food and it irritated him that Bruce couldn’t recall that fact. “No. Go ahead.” The way Bruce smacked his gum irritated him too.

Next door to the take–out was a grocery store. A bulletin board hung on the wall inside the entrance advertising goods for sale and cabins to rent by owners — perfect. He needed something isolated, not a resort. Two phone calls later, he had rented a fishing cabin on a lake up in the mountains. The owner lived in town and Matthew could swing by any time within the hour to pick up the keys and directions.

Bruce might not recall Matthew’s food sensitivities, but Matthew’s memory was seamless — Bruce had a severe peanut allergy. Even the dust gathered in the bottom of a small package of nuts could kill him in twenty minutes, which was why Bruce always travelled with an EpiPen.

Matthew ordered a roast beef sandwich and two chili dinners to go from the deli. One ingredient to go with the chili, he found in the snack section.

As he left the store, he saw Bruce leaning in the window of a Mazda laughing at something a brunette had said. Matthew finished his sandwich by the time Bruce ended the conversation and joined him.

“Hey, I told those babes we’d meet them later at the martini bar in town.”

“Good thinking, space cadet, babes are a major priority right now.”

“We might as well have some fun. We can’t look for Beth in the dark.”

“Get in the car.” Matthew threw the wrapping from his lunch in the garbage and walked around to the driver’s side. He set their dinner on top of the newspaper on the back seat. He’d read the article relating Beth to the jewelry taken from the seniors at her meal program. Last month, a woman who’d received daily meals had died of a heart attack. She hadn’t expected to find Bruce in her bedroom. He should have known then Bruce was a fuck–up.

Matthew started the car. “I found us a cabin to stay the night. Since the cops think Beth is still in the area, we’ll stay put and do some investigating ourselves until we hear otherwise. We’ll pick up the keys to the cabin and scout out the area.”

“Sure, good plan. Hey, what smells so good in here?”

“That’s our dinner, Bruce, homemade chili. You’re going to love it.”

Bruce opened his window and yelled out as the van passed the Mazda. “Later, ladies. The martinis are on me.”

• • •

Calum may have insisted, but Beth didn’t know if she’d be able to keep him out of her bed much longer. Last night she’d fallen asleep in his arms on the wool rug by the fire. It had been the sweetest night. He had carried her upstairs and tucked her in. She’d woken early and seen him unfurl from that couch. If nothing else, the man would soon be disfigured if she didn’t allow him some mattress.

Standing at the kitchen counter, she peered into the basket filter of coffee grounds. How many scoops had she put in? She didn’t have a clue. She dumped them back into the tin and started over.

Though she tried to deny it, her wanting Calum was a peculiar phenomenon that made her wonder if she’d been dating Matthew because deep down, she’d not wanted Matthew badly enough. She had wanted security, commitment, and all wayward passion tightly controlled, so she reigned superior, unchallenged by the kind of craving Calum invoked. Her motives for being with Matthew seemed rather messed up now that she thought about it.

Uh oh, was that four or five scoops? One more, she decided — better strong coffee than weak.

Perhaps she’d longed for security from Matthew because she was insecure herself. It was possible. Had she not loved the flashes of envy sent her way from women ogling Matthew? Not unlike the attention Calum garnered. Beth’s mother might not have wanted her, but look at the man who did.

She chopped a green onion and tossed it in with the red pepper already sautéing in the pan.

Be that all as it may, was it sensible to feed her sudden sexual appetite just because she finally had one? After all, she’d only known Calum a few days, and that was exactly the kind of promiscuous behaviour Beth abhorred.

Oops — eggshell. The slippery piece escaped her fingertips as she chased it around the pan.

But, and there seemed to be no end to those buts, she’d be narrow–minded to define Calum’s allure as purely physical. Her errant warrior had an undeniable appeal that wasn’t the least bit physical. Calum made her feel treasured.

She stopped buttering toast for a minute to let that revelation sink in.

“Ah, now that’s better,” Calum said jogging down the stairs after his shower. He peered over her shoulder at the sandwich she was putting together. “Smells good in here.”

“Toasted western.” She smiled into his eyes. The faint scent of ‘Almond Blossoms’ lingered on his freshly scrubbed skin. His hair hung long and warrior–like, dampening the shoulders of his T-shirt.

“I meant you.” He kissed her lips good morning.

“You smell pretty good yourself,” she said after the kiss. “I got right on breakfast because you wanted to go somewhere today?” She passed him the hot egg sandwich.

“Thanks.” He devoured half the sandwich in one bite. “Very good. We’re going to that market just down the highway. There’s a phone for you to check in with your father and the real estate woman.”

“Do you think it’s safe to be seen there?”

His mouth was set tight. “We need to go, Beth. Don’t worry, I’ll not let any harm come to you.”

She relaxed her concern and wiped crumbs off the counter into the sink. He was right. They couldn’t expect to stay hidden indefinitely.

• • •

Calum snatched the keys from Beth. “I’m driving.”

“You don’t have a license to drive.”

He looked out over the vacant hills. Not much of a danger to humanity here. “How do people learn to drive?”

“It’s called graduated licensing.”

“Get in the car, Beth.”

She got in.

A few minutes later, Beth commented on what a fast study he was. It was charming in the fine morning, luxurious to picture their life like this. Was she thinking the same? Too much of a wish, perhaps. He sensed that she’d put herself in his hands to see her through this crisis, but would she remain there if given the choice? She’d not asked if he was there to stay. Guilt unfurled in his stomach with that thought, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. With their eternal bond at risk, he couldn’t reveal he’d soon be taken from her. She would never allow herself to fall back in love with him.

They drove for nearly thirty minutes before Beth noticed.

“Uh, Calum?” Her voice dipped off an eerie edge. “Why haven’t we reached the store? Did we miss a cutoff? Wait a minute; I don’t remember seeing any road signs since we left the cabin. That’s strange.”

When he slowed the car to a stop, he turned to face her. He hadn’t wanted to alarm her until he knew for sure, but this ‘trip into town’ had confirmed his suspicions. There was no town. “We didn’t miss the cutoff. Beth, be assured there’s no need to panic, but we may not be precisely where we thought.”

Her eyes darted across the countryside. “What do you mean by that?”

“I think Finn has led us somewhere just a wee bit off Earth.”

“Cripes! Don’t say that.” She grabbed the dash as if to hold the car down. “Why would you even think something like that? Where could we possibly be?”

“I could take a guess. Each dimension follows its own physical laws, so it’s complicated, but I’ll try to explain it as best I can. The universe is a multidimensional space in which lies a complex web of field lines that Finn is able to modify. I would guess he has rotated us through to another dimension. But, Beth, it’s quite safe. Don’t worry — ”

“Don’t worry? Are you insane? How is this not something to worry about?” She rolled her top lip over the bottom. “I’ve been pretty good with all this, Calum, with the thousand–year thing and the space warp and the immortal Finn, but what you’re suggesting? Rotated us a wee bit off Earth? That is pushing it!”

She slammed the door shut behind her. Calum got out and followed her storm cloud up the road, jogging a few paces to catch up.

“How could we possibly not be on Earth?” she reasoned. “We didn’t say ‘open sesame,’ we didn’t fly over any rainbows, there were no black holes, so you are mistaken. And in case you’ve forgotten, this is exactly what Earth looks like. Those are maple trees for goodness sake, so I’m going to walk over there and I’ll see a highway with General Motors cars and a roadside bakery with actual humans eating tourtières, and then you are going to feel rather foolish, Bucko.”

“I’ve checked all directions from the cabin. Driving this far without reaching an intersection or seeing a road sign is confirmation enough. Nothing is out there but mountain, Beth. We’re in Finn’s world now.”

Beth’s bottom lip quivered. “This is a problem. You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Who’s to say I’m in any less shit than I’d be in if I’d never left Ashbury. As a matter of fact, I don’t see how this couldn’t be the most shit any one has ever been in — just a wee bit off Earth! What the hell is that? See what happens when I lose control of my life? I want to go home, Calum. I want to go home now!”

“We have to wait for Finn. My guess is he’s removed us from danger. After all, he shifted you out of Matthew’s car when you were threatened.” Calum thought Finn’s game was the reason for the relocation, but one never knew what motivated Finn.

“Don’t say another word. Take the car. Go back to the cabin. I’ll find my way there.”

“Ah, no.”

“No?” Her eyes flashed furiously. She looked ready to punch something. When Calum took a step back, she directed her fury to an apple–sized rock and kicked it off the ground. Dust flew as she kicked another and another.

“That behaviour is of no help,” he said.

She stopped in mid–kick, narrowed her glare, shifted slightly and kicked a stone a finger width past his right leg. Now that was uncalled for. He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes to match hers.

“The elfin folk don’t take kindly to mortals who disrespect nature, and they’re a bit sensitive to moods, so it’d be best to cool your temper, since we don’t know our exact whereabouts.” He didn’t miss the irony in him advocating for temperament change.

“Is that so? Well, you can tell your elfin folk friends that this mortal doesn’t take kindly to being manipulated like a checker piece. I don’t recall asking for elf help.” Her mouth twitched at that declaration, but she bit back any humour and fixed a scowl back in place.

“I’ll not leave you here alone. You take all the time you need. I’ll wait.” He walked back to the car and looked out over the mountain.

Finn! Make an appearance, he willed.

“Patience, human!” spilled from the ether.

“Finn!”

But once again Calum’s plea went unanswered.

What the hell was he supposed to have done differently? He’d gotten them bumped off Earth. There was benefit to it. They appeared to be safe. And being here with him — was it so bad? This was paradise. She’d not been complaining. Jacuzzi foot rubs, walks in the woods, languishing by the fireside — she had the whole damn bed to herself. Aye, it’d been terribly rough on the lass.

Beth returned to the car and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Better now?” he asked.

“No.” The woman was frosty.

“Come now, Beth, get over it. We have everything we need. It’s not so appalling. Can we not make the most of it?”

“Get over it? Easy for you to say, Mister Upper Worlds. I liked my world just fine.” She turned her back on him.

He came up behind her and talked over her shoulder. “I know you’re afraid.” His lips brushed her ear. “I’m asking you to trust me. We are not dealing with your world any longer. This is Finn’s world, and as much as it abhors you, this is about pleasure and decadence. We are to enjoy it, Beth, and be patient.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No. He asked for patience, that was it.” Demanded was more like it, but Calum didn’t want to make Finn sound anything but compliant. It would only worry her.

“Let go, Beth,” he whispered in her ear. “You know what this is? This is our chance to be together again. Listen to your heart. That’s where you know me, inside. I’m not any man, m’eudail, I’m yours. Does your body not respond to me as if your flesh and bones know who I am? When you close your eyes, do you feel me?”

He moved aside her blouse and laid one kiss on her shoulder, one on her neck. Her tension relinquished, slightly. With a hand to her waist he eased her back against him, where she belonged. He didn’t know how else to convince her of that truth but with his body. To feel it. He swept the hair from her neck and claimed her with his lips, his tongue, and his teeth until she let go a soft whimper.

His grip on her hip held tight. I am yours, Bethia, but you best not forget, you belong to me.

She threw back her head and drew a long breath as his unshaven jaw rasped her neck. Her surrender followed. When she turned, he nudged her lips apart with his thumb, and then teased her with the tip of his tongue. Her lips parted, and he slid his lips across hers. There was no urgency. He loved the sensuous build from languorous and slow, the laying down of promises she would anticipate and he would keep. Like the feather touch of his fingertips over the sensitive skin mounding above her bra. He laid a promise there with a brush of his thumbs against the fabric covering her nipples. He knew she waged an interior battle to keep to her rules, knew how to unravel her resistance, knew she would suffer no regret when the time came.

The heat of her mouth instantly warmed the blood in his loins, but he wouldn’t be satisfied until her desire for him turned fierce. Perhaps when he submerged his tongue and stroked hers with long, lazy licks. Ah, she liked that. Her fingers raked through his hair. The taste of her need was sweet and freed a groan from his throat as her lips fastened on his tongue when he attempted to pull back. He could certainly tarry, so he slipped inside to ravage her mouth again.

Finally he lifted his mouth from hers. She was beautiful, skin flushed, lips swollen, eyes closed. “Feeling improved, lass?”

Her eyes opened as if from a dream. She sighed, but Calum read the lines of irritation still present in her brow.

“Am I kissed all better, do you mean?”

His smile was dry. Had he misread her? “Not quite yet, I see.”

“Not quite.”

“Shall I try again then?” He lowered his head.

“No, Calum, let’s go now.”

She drove them back, but didn’t stay. When Calum got out of the car, Beth reversed, and called out the window.

“I need some time alone. Don’t try and stop me. I’ll obviously be back.”

He let her go. What else could he do? Until Finn doled out the final task, he had nothing to do but ease Beth’s worries, temper his physical needs, and practice infinite patience.

• • •

Since the road into the cabin dead–ended, Beth headed back over the same route they had just taken, but she didn’t go far. What was the point? She only wanted to get far enough away so her thoughts were not gilded with pictures of getting naked with Calum.

He did kiss her better, surprisingly, though she’d not felt like admitting it. When he’d made those male sounds of pleasure–giving seduction in her ear and said he wasn’t any man, he was hers, an exquisite hot wave of arousal rippled through her. Calum wasn’t just heat–inducing, he was hazardous and could easily sweet–talk Fort Knox into tumbling open. No, he wasn’t any man. No man charged every particle in her body like he did.

Beth shut the engine off and got out of the car. So maybe they weren’t on Earth any more, she thought, slightly hysterical. They were somewhere spectacular, the air delicious, the sun savoury, the woods wanting and wild.

She needed to expend some energy. A brisk walk would ease her agitations and get her mind off seduction — focus on the pull of different muscles for a change.

Leaves rustled in the canopy high above a trail that looked inviting. She headed that way. What if she gave herself to Calum, her spirit guide warrior, gorgeous and impassioned and bloody good with his hands? She’d hardly experienced that sensuous mouth of his, not to mention what he had in his …

Oh! How easy her mind slipped into thinking about Calum’s body parts. She needed to focus on dire matters. Like how in this world was she going to get back to her world? It all came down to that Finn character. Calum said the immortal deferred to humans. She was human. Why couldn’t she summon Finn?

Beth stopped cold. A strange looking man sat with a casual air on a tree stump so close, she came to an abrupt halt to avoid smacking into him. Why had she not spotted him from farther back? Must be those camouflage clothes — he wore a comical green suit and a smile of pure mischief. His long white hair blew in a breeze that wafted Beth’s neck. Wait. Unless he was a Cirque du Soleil performer, no one could defy gravity like that. The seat of his pants hovered over the stump. There was no contact!

“Hello, Bethia,” he said.

Her heart thumped into her rib cage. She shrieked, turned, and ran in a beeline for her car with that strange wind tickling her nape.

The creature popped into place in front of her.

Ack! She skidded to a halt. How’d he do that? “That’s not fair!”

The elf being, for it couldn’t possibly be human, smiled. “You’ve no idea how fair I really am.”

“Perhaps we could discuss that later … in the next century.” She took a retreating step.

He smiled pleasantly. “You called me.”

“No, I didn’t. I would know if I did, and since I’ve no idea who you are, it’s safe to say I didn’t call you.”

He held his head at a regal tilt. “I go by many names. You’ve settled on Finn, so be it.”

“Pardon?” His name had blown over her like a puff of smoke, sounding something like ‘Phew.’

“You may pronounce it F–I–N Finn. You humans don’t have the capacity to address me properly.”

She took a closer look. Did he have pointed ears under that hair? “You’re Finn?”

“Ah, you’ve heard of me then.”

“Briefly.” She had thought Finn would look like a picture–book elf, but he was fairly easy on the eyes for an unworldly creature. “I was thinking about you.”

“Yes, I pointed that out. Strange that you beckoned, yet when I came, you shrieked an annoying sound that still rings in my ears and ran. Very strange behaviour, indeed.”

Her behaviour was strange? “How was I supposed to know you’d appear floating over the ground like that? You nearly scared me to death.”

“Not yet, dear Bethia, it’s not your time. Are you going to explain your summons?”

She suddenly felt like she’d won the lottery again — her very own elf to do her bidding. Sweet. “Why do you call me Bethia? My name is Beth, or don’t you have the capacity to address me properly.”

The creature’s eyes widened and seemed to flare with gold fire. It sent a hissing sound that blew Beth’s bangs off her face. Sweet? Apparently not. Finn disappeared then suddenly reappeared behind her. Startled, she stood perfectly still while he circled her.

“You know …” She swallowed. “Bethia is just fine. As a matter of fact I quite like the name — means life, or so I’ve been told.”

Finn came to a stop in front of her, a blatant invasion of her personal space. “Good, Bethia. I know what you want, and I’m going to grant it, but first I want to talk about you and Calum.

“Okay.” Like she had a choice.

“He may not know it, but I’ve a fondness for the human.”

“Calum?”

“Yes,” Finn said with a nod and amiable demeanour. “You know why he’s here, don’t you? To save you, Bethia. He’d give his life for yours without thinking. He has before. Now, you may not consider it a great sacrifice, thinking he carried the knowledge of life–after–life, but he did it without that wisdom. Do you think it a great sacrifice?”

“Dying for me? Yes, I guess that qualifies.”

“How generous of you to say so. You’ve a sympathetic heart to be sure. That’s why I want you to know that Calum has a problem.”

Her heart pumped a shot of alarm through her body. “He does?”

Finn nodded again, his thin lips pressed in a tight curve. “You see, ideally, Calum walks the earth and you find him, but you’re too disconnected in this life. It’s the Old Ones doing, they like to manipulate you poor souls while keeping you in the dark.”

What was he talking about?

“Irregardless, Calum found you, but he paid a price, Bethia. Something vital was taken from him.”

Finn looked quite compassionate. It must be something terrible. What had Calum sacrificed to rescue her? “What was taken?”

“Calum is a man of great passion, Bethia.”

“I’d be hard–pressed not to have noticed that.”

“Good. Did you know that energy from passionate people such as Calum is fodder for the universe, so to speak.”

“Fodder?”

“Yes, and the world is in need of that kind of energy. There’s an imbalance — too many are driven by greed — it’s abhorrent and it pains me.”

What was this goblin getting at? He started to hover off the ground, floating back and forth in front of her.

“Could you perhaps stay rooted to the ground?”

Finn ignored that request. “I want to see Calum restored. Would you help?”

She felt sick to know he’d suffered a terrible affliction to come to her aid and without one complaint. The man defined gallant. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

A wide smile swept over his face. “There should be more humans like you — and Calum, of course — willing to sacrifice for others.”

She stiffened. “What kind of sacrifice?”

Finn made a dismissive gesture. “Oh meager, Bethia, quite meager. As I was saying, Calum thought nothing of himself when he perceived your crisis, and granting him a human form was truly my gift. Calum is a man of great passion — ”

“Yes, yes, you said that. The man is passionate, the world needs more like him, and he sacrificed. I get that. What was taken from him?”

“Impatience is not attractive, Bethia.” Finn held her eyes and drew a slow breath before continuing. “They took a vital thing, that which means the most to him, besides you of course — they stripped from him the vehicle to express his passion fully.”

What vehicle? “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

A slight smile played on his lips. “He is unable to raise the flag, if you catch my meaning.” The trickster glanced at his own groin and grimaced at Beth. “Impotent. Can’t perform.”

A laugh burst from her throat. “Right. There is no way that man can’t perform.”

“It’s quite true.”

“You don’t understand. Calum never stops performing. The man is turned on every moment of every day.”

“I know. His arousal never ceases. It’s quite a pity. All that passion going to waste.”

“You know, Finn, I could believe anything else, but not that.”

His iridescent eyes narrowed as he swooped in close to her face. “I may pick and choose what I reveal, all in good sport, but I don’t fabricate.”

“Okay, okay, it’s just …”

“I know. It’s just that he wants you so badly, dear Bethia. He suffers day and night knowing he can’t please you.”

Could that possibly be true? Beth took a nervous step back and tripped over her feet.

“It was terribly unfair, don’t you think?” He continued. “You must understand that Calum is bound only to you, and wants desperately to renew the union with his only true love. He feels every desire to do so, every aching need, but alas, he cannot.”

She was painfully aware of the aching need feeling. “That is rather awful.”

“Yes. But, you could help him, sweet Bethia.”

Here it comes. “How’s that?”

“If you were to become the seducer, if you allowed your passion to grow with his, if you freed your soul to feel for Calum, then I can assure you, he will regain his ability, and you will not be left wanting in any way. You will never know satisfaction of a greater kind.”

“You want me to have sex with him?”

“Sex won’t work. You have to make love, let your passion for Calum free, feel it, and want him, Bethia.”

A sudden thought occurred to her. “Did he put you up to this?”

“Calum must never know we had this talk or everything will be lost. Everything he came here to put right.”

“But, I have a, uh, a mantra, and — ”

“You must let it go. Have I not made myself clear? You will not be left wanting in any way. You have my word. If you see Calum for the man he is, then the beliefs that hold you back cease to exist.”

“You promised to grant my wish. I wished to go home.”

“I know.” The immortal held up his hand and a crimson key appeared between his thumb and forefinger. “When you want to leave the mountain, this key will let you out. Using it brings an end to the game. All you need do is put it in your ignition and drive. But, Bethia, if you tell Calum that I’ve talked with you or show him the key, it won’t work.”

Game? “What game?” Calum said the trickster liked to play games.

“Now, you choose.” Finn placed the key in her hand and floated backwards. “You either put your trust in the man who spanned worlds to get to you, or put your trust in the rest of the world.”

Finn vanished in a gust of wind.

Chapter 20

There’s Nothing Sexier than a Man Cooking Dinner

Beth sat in the car outside their rustic retreat running her fingers through the silver tassel tied to the end of the key clutched in her hand. When given the choice to leave Calum and go back to the real world, she’d not had to think hard. She would stay. It wasn’t because Finn emphasized Calum’s great sacrifice. It wasn’t because she feared the immortal and didn’t want to be in his disfavour. It wasn’t even because Calum needed her to solve his “problem.” It was simpler than that. Neither her mind, nor her body, nor perhaps her soul wanted to leave him. Whether they’d been together for a thousand years or five days, it wasn’t nearly enough. And that had not come clear until she’d had to choose.

With that decision made, she moved on to the conundrum that followed in its wake. Calum unable to perform? She would never have believed it if not for his behaviour yesterday. When she’d become aggressive, he’d fled the cabin with important things to do. Right. His behaviour didn’t add up. The man was atomic energy when he had the upper hand, when he thought she would stay above board, keep to her beliefs. What would Calum do if she didn’t back off?

All her life she’d been fueled by feelings of inadequacy and abandonment. She’d used self–control to feel empowered. But she didn’t feel inadequate or abandoned any longer. If Calum and Finn spoke the truth, she’d sustained the love of the most upright man she’d ever known for lifetimes. She was certainly adequate in Calum’s eyes.

If you were to become the seducer, if you allowed your passion to grow with his, if you freed your soul to feel for Calum, then I can assure you, he will regain his ability, and you will not be left wanting in any way.

So what if it was true? No room there for abandonment. Calum said he was hers — 100 percent committed. It sounded like her quota was filled. Beth stuffed the elf’s crimson key into the back of the glove box and headed for the cabin.

As she stood in the doorway watching him, Calum turned from the stove. There was nothing sexier than a man cooking dinner.

“Hi,” she said. “That smells good.”

“Ah, you’re much better, I see.” He flicked his head, tossing a long strand of crème–caramel hair from his face and sent her a breathtaking smile as he regarded her change in mood. Okay, that was sexy too. Not to mention that he’d read her from a mere glance.

She tossed her purse on the table and came to peer in the pot. He had one hand on the handle, stirring with the other.

“Stew.”

His hands were occupied, so Beth wrapped hers around him, resting her cheek on his back. She felt him rumble with pleasure.

“You’ve forgiven me for stranding you just a wee bit off Earth?”

“You were right, Calum. We should make the best of it. This is paradise, and who am I to scoff at pleasure and decadence.”

“You’re no imbecile that I’ve noticed.”

“Gee thanks.” She swatted the back of his head. “I’m going to make us a toasty fire to snuggle by.” And then, she was going to light a different kind of fire, in the pit of Calum.

Ten minutes later the flames were a warm glow. She plopped down on the sheep’s wool rug, her back against the couch, her legs stretched out.

“So you are fine with this now?” Calum asked, hanging the ax in place.

“Being here with you? Or did you mean my fire?”

“The with me part.”

Slow and purposely, she swept him from top to toes with her gaze. The man was beautiful. Cutting wood, he’d handled that ax like he was slicing bread. She had nearly drooled watching the muscles flex in his graceful arms.

“Come here, and I’ll whisper it in your ear.”

He hesitated. There he goes again. Or, maybe not. Calum sauntered over and straddled her, a knee on each side, his forearms resting on the couch aside her head.

“Tell me, m’eudail. Why?”

Beth smiled into those eyes of blue. “Well, it’s not because you’re a lightweight.” She bumped his butt with her knee. He didn’t budge. “Though you are a good cook, and I can’t tell you what a turn–on that is.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Tell me everything that turns you on.”

She glanced to the hearth. “You know how to start my fire.”

He smiled. “I plan to keep it burning.”

“Good, we’ll get on that as soon as I’m finished.”

His biceps were solid under her hand. “You’re strong — certainly comes in handy.” She ran her hands over those muscles a few more times. “Actually you’ve got nice arms, and your shoulders aren’t bad either. And that back of yours, well, let’s just say you’re a fine specimen of perfect physical attributes.”

“You love me for my body?” With her head cradled in his big hands, he began to move his thumbs up and down the sides of her head across the sensitive skin behind her ear.

“Every time you touch me I feel like melting. For such a powerful man, you are very gentle.”

His gaze softened as his thumbs started to twirl circles on her neck.

“No, Calum, it’s not just your physical appeal. You’re considerate and chivalrous, yet sensitive too. You’re kind and fun–loving, and oh wait, persistent, let’s not forget that one. But the thing I like most about you is you make me feel treasured, as if there’s nothing you want more than me.”

He laughed softly.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s not that, m’eudail. Do you know what it means? M’eudail?”

“I hope it’s something nice since you keep calling me that.”

“It means my treasure.”

“Oh,” she said faintly. “You’re making me melt again.”

“Before you turn to mush … thank you for what you said. I wasn’t expecting that. You make my insides weak too, Bethia.”

“You’re doing it again, dipping my name in chocolate, and if you’re about to dissolve, maybe you should lift off me.”

“Hell no. I love having you in this position.” He eased off a touch by leaning forward to bite her jaw.

“You have a real need to dominate, Mister I’m-About-To-Dissolve.”

“Yes, and still you let me get you into this position.” He held her hands tight to the floor. “You are the first course, m’eudail, and you’re not getting the second course till I’m done with you.”

The man had a way about him, and Beth didn’t know whether to be infuriated or infatuated. She was supposed to play dominant tonight — rather difficult considering she couldn’t move.

“Close your eyes,” came his seductive demand.

“Oh,” she moaned weakly as her eyes fluttered shut. Calum’s hot mouth closed over hers in a savage claim. Dominant, he would be, over and over until she had given him everything. He rasped her cheek with his jaw, bit her neck with his teeth, and ravaged her mouth with his tongue. With her eyes closed she could do nothing but feel, immobilized by his body. It was incredibly sensual. She arched and leaned her head back on the couch, not knowing where his mouth would tantalize her next. Her eyelids, her earlobe, her mouth, her neck. With each placement of his lips, he savoured her as though she was his last supper.

“Take whatever you want,” she offered. “Just don’t stop.”

He made a low sound in his throat as he travelled down her neck with his lips, leaving her trembling in anticipation. He released her hands, only to grab her by the hips and pull her flat. When she reached up to touch his face, he smiled mischievously, took both her hands in his and raised them over her head.

“Keep them there. Don’t touch me, m’eudail, or I will stop.”

Long strands of hair brushed his cheekbones as he unbuttoned her blouse, grazing her skin with the backs of his fingers, holding her still as his gaze slid over her like a torch — daring her to move. She didn’t.

Her breasts rose and fell, slowly, heated with desire and aching for his touch. She had never felt such exquisite anticipation. Starting at the top of her shirt, his fingers slid into her buttonholes to leave each button undone until her blouse lay open. Her belly tightened with an exquisite sexual response when he opened her blouse.

His lips parted as he gazed down at her breasts rising and falling inside her bra. She watched while he ran his fingers under the edge of the cup, touching her skin. His expression never wavered from confident as she imagined him determining the fastest way to get her out of that bra. Would the warrior search for the clasp? Would he find it between her breasts? Would he notice she’d stopped breathing?

A quick flick of his fingers and her breasts sprung free.

“Every time, Beth, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Your body is always perfection.” He traced patterns on her breasts with his thumbs, down her belly, up to her throat, her lips. She pulled his fingers into her mouth, wanting some taste of him. The firelight cast him in a soft glow as he savoured and soothed, both rough and gentle.

“Mmmm, let me help you out of your shirt, Calum.”

He shook his head and the wicked smile came down on her nipple. She gasped as the sensation shook her. She had never felt an erotic pulse go so deep and spread through her with such intensity. The man was magic, as if he knew exactly what she craved, how much pressure, where, when.

“Oh Calum,” she moaned, weakly. He was sending her over the edge with the flick of his tongue, his fingers a gentle compress. Artfully adapting to exasperate every peak he brought her to, he then brought her to the next one. Her whole being rose to meet a surge she had never fathomed finding there. An intense rapture rippled from her breasts to the swelling nub between her thighs, to her womb, and she drew her breath in a long gasp as her climax left her panting against the pillows.

“Oh, I never … Calum, w-wait.”

“You don’t like it, or you need to catch your breath?” His smile was pure seduction, glinting with self–satisfaction. Although he’d pleased her, the look in his eye suggested she should think twice before asking him to stop.

“That’s never happened to me before.” Her heart was still racing. “I didn’t even know it was possible. You … . How did you do that? How did you know how to touch me so precisely?”

His expression turned soft. “Because I know you, m’eudail. For a thousand years, you’ve been my study. I’ve learned to tune into your peaks, your valleys and to bring you through them, and back and through them again. Having those memories is gratification in the most sensual sense.”

It would take a few minutes or months for her to wrap her head around that. “I’d like to see if I have any memories.” She slipped her hand under his shirt.

He got up on his elbow. “No. This isn’t about me tonight.”

“It is now.” She dove back under his shirt.

He laughed and grabbed her wrists startlingly fast.

“Do not think you are going to manhandle me into compliance.” She struggled uselessly against his iron hold. “Let go. I’m taking your clothes off whether you like it or not, and it’s happening right now, Bucko.”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “You need some lessons in romance, lass. That’s no way to get a man out of his pants.”

She dissolved in a pool of laughter. He couldn’t have hit that nail any squarer on the head.

“I’m sorry.” She started to laugh again. “You’re right. I was frenzied for a moment. So … let me start over.”

“Beth, wait. You don’t know how badly I want you to … but no, the time isn’t right. That is …”

“What is it, Calum?”

“Damn. I know I brought this on. I can’t keep my hands off you, lass.”

He picked up Beth’s shirt and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“I wasn’t complaining.”

“I know, and if it wasn’t your first time, it wouldn’t matter so much.”

“What wouldn’t matter so much?” She hated seeing him struggle with this. If only she could tell him he had nothing to worry about, that his restoration lay in her hands.

A look of resignation crossed his face. He stood and took her hand to pull her up to sit on the couch. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

• • •

“Would you like a whiskey?” Calum asked, retreating to the counter for a glass. In all their years together, he couldn’t remember once stopping in the middle of lovemaking for a glass of whiskey. What a fine predicament. Indebted to an immortal trickster so he could make love to his woman. No turning back now — in for a penny, in for a pound.

“No thanks,” she said. “I thought you wanted to talk?”

He poured the drink and turned to face her. “No, well, yes, uh no.” He didn’t. He couldn’t think of any topic he would rather discuss less. What rationale would explain why he was all over her like bees to a flower head but fended her off if she touched him?

“Whatever it is, I’ll help you with it. Trust me, Calum.”

“Trust you?” He smiled wryly. He’d asked no less of her, given her no option but to trust him.

“Come on, out with it.” She buttoned her blouse and crossed the room to the kitchen table. Pulling out a chair, she sat down. He had her full attention.

He studied her expression. She wasn’t going to give it up. Admitting to his impotency was one thing, but he’d best not admit he’d bent her will.

He began by sitting down across from her. “All right then, this is the way of it. I was granted a human body by Finn, the trickster, but the Old Ones of the Upper World weren’t pleased I’d gone behind their backs. For some inhuman reason they thought I’d be of better service to you, if I was not so distracted by my, er, intent to get you into bed.”

“No kidding? And you hide it so well.”

He ignored that sarcastic truism. “I suppose I need not tell you that it didn’t work. One look at you, lass, and I’m like a rutting buck.”

That confession brought a smile to her face. “You poor man — slave to the nature of a beast.”

“Well, in my defense I do carry salacious memories.”

“What did these old people do to you to focus your attention away from your penis?”

“I’m getting to that. Beth, first let me remind you that I do want you.”

“I know that, Calum.”

“I could happily spend my life pleasing you in ways we’ve only begun to explore.”

“I don’t doubt that. Calum, just spit it out.”

“I’m impotent. Do you know what that means, lass? I can’t,” and he couldn’t help but grimace, “that is, we can’t join as man and woman are meant to.”

“Oh.”

His woman didn’t look nearly as distraught by the news as he’d imagined. She must not understand.

“Like you said before,” she said. “You and I have a unique bond. Let’s just try and see what happens.”

“Ah no. Believe me it doesn’t work, and I’ve no desire to suffer any further on that account. But there’s no need for you to do without. Pleasing you gives me pleasure enough.”

“I don’t want a gigolo. I’m not keeping my hands to myself. I want to please you as well.”

“And you will, just not yet. I need a couple more days.” He would not tell Beth about Finn’s three tasks. She’d think he’d abducted her from her home to seduce her, not protect her. Until she felt what it was like to join in love, she’d not understand why he’d relentlessly pursued it.

Beth stood and came around behind him. She rested her elbows on his shoulders, her chin on his head. “You’re not having a couple more days, minutes maybe, but not much more. I’m turning the table. You are to put yourself in the same position you put me. Hands up, Mister, let me play with your nipples.”

He laughed. “You think I’m going to say no.”

“Yes, I do.” She kissed behind his ear and tickled his neck with her tongue like he’d done to her.

He had no choice. The lass was inexperienced, and she didn’t have the memories. First times were always delicate and Beth deserved better. If he couldn’t live this life with her, at the very least he would leave her with the memory that no man would ever please her as he did.

“Watch yourself.” Calum pushed back his chair and pulled her down on his knee.

“Feel this.” Her voice was soft and seductive as she leaned forward to kiss him. Her lips were an invitation, warm and moist, they met his in a slow kiss, then she pulled back. “I don’t have your vast experience, but on the other hand, who does? Frankly, I’ve never been in a more bizarre situation, but being with you feels exactly right. I’m here, Calum, offering you what I’ve never offered any man. Whatever happens between us will be beautiful enough for me.”

It hadn’t occurred to him she wouldn’t offer herself. That wasn’t the issue. It would be beautiful to say the least, but not like this. Finn had asked for patience. Calum had no choice but to give it. If Beth wouldn’t take for herself, they would have to find something else to do.

She kissed his nose and then stood up. “Why don’t you put another log on the fire?”

Chapter 21

Make Love Not Comedy

No chance Calum was getting out of this. Could she tie him down and have her way with him? No, he’d see that coming.

She considered what tactic to employ. Seduction might be his area of expertise, but she was a fast study, and he’d been a proficient teacher. He might be warrior tough, but she could make him tremble, she’d felt the fine tremors run through him. Besides, he’d just shown her his weakness. The man suffered a serious lack of restraint. He tended to get caught up, so she would distract him enough to catch him off–guard.

After arranging a candlelit periphery, she put on soft music. The sight of him fixing the fire rendered her motionless. One side of his face was aglow, his jaw darkened by his light beard angled into a square chin, his hair flecked with gold brushed his neck. He stood up and leaned into the mantle, arms stretched above him, the hard lines of his body graceful. The dusky room cast his broad back in shadow, and the scent of sandalwood candles mingled with wood smoke enticed her. She let out her breath.

A few steps brought her up behind him where she ran her fingernails down his back lightly in waves. The sexy low noise he made in his throat prompted her to knead the muscles in his shoulders.

“That feels nice, m’eudail.” Knowing he treasured her was a direct turn–on. She stayed behind him, slipped her hands under his shirt, around to his chest and down to feel the gentle ripples of his abdomen. Touching his bare skin intensified the pulse beginning to beat low in her womb. The strength of the sensation felt completely new to her.

When she lifted his shirt, he went perfectly still, so she kissed his back, inching the hem up and up, running her fingernails in lazy circles over his skin. When the position was just right she swept the shirt over his head, and while he could have stopped her, he didn’t. Nothing like a good back scratch to distract a man. He turned and gave her a wry look.

“A shirt for a shirt is only fair. Of course you know where it leads.” She used her most sultry voice as she clamped down on his nipples.

His chest drew a slow inhale.

“Touché, lass.”

“You have a beautiful body, Calum. Did you truly look like this before?”

“Yes, when we gave our oath to each other. Shall I tell you about those days?”

“Not now.” That story could wait, like she’d been waiting to have his flesh at her mercy. And she did have him there. His breathing deepened as she kissed him from shoulder to shoulder, and she hadn’t released his nipples. This was fun. She was going to play with him, tease and arouse, exactly as he’d done to her. She tasted every inch of warm skin, slid her lips over hard muscle, titillated each nerve ending, and brought the blood surging to the surface. He stood still all the while. His hands didn’t move to touch her.

Calum made that sexy noise in his throat again, the voice of a wildcat struggling with what he would allow her to do. The pulse in her grew, and she used it like a rhythm to move her body against his.

“You keep doing that to me, and you will find yourself naked on the rug, lass. I’m giving you fair warning. One of us will find some release.”

She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Her desire was a newfound gift and she wanted to explore. Up and down, across and back in a slow dance of her lips learning his chest, her fingernails travelling his back. Like her insides, the man was hot and fierce and wildly aroused. Perfect.

“Lie down with me,” she whispered, letting her lips touch his earlobe. He pulled her down and tried to place her in a sweet cuddle that would position him behind her, out of reach. Not what she had in mind. Before she thought about what she was doing, she grabbed his groin.

Her gentle squeeze stopped him cold.

“Let go your hand. We talked about this, no? Tonight is for your pleasure.”

“I’m not letting go, and I’m not waiting.” She had a substantial handful for a man unerect. “You don’t seem to be lacking any endowments here.” She palpated him, discerning what was what.

“Bloody hell, woman, that feels good.” He spoke through his teeth. She smiled her best seductive smile, not nearly as refined as his tended to be, but enough to melt a sliver of his tension and pop one of his buttons.

The mixed look on his face of disgruntled and excitement gave her a heady feeling that translated to giddiness. He grabbed her wrist. “That’s enough, lass. There’s nowhere for this to go.”

She squeezed, feeling a fun sort of wickedness. He released the pressure on her wrist, but only slightly. Her desire grew like a wild thing inside her. “Lay back, Calum. I’m not stopping, and if you don’t do as I say, I’ll squeeze you into compliance.” She gave him a little compress as emphasis.

“Holy God, are you meaning to damage me, then?”

“Not permanently.” To have a hold over the rugged warrior was such fun. “What was it you said about some edge between pain and pleasure?”

“I didn’t mean that kind of pain. I was referring to the ache of anticipation.”

“Oh, I’m feeling that ache, believe me. Just lay back, I’ll have you aching too, in no time.”

“That’s just it. There’s no end to the aching, Beth, don’t you get it?”

“Let me try to ease that for you.”

“Listen to me, it’s not that I wish to fight you on this.”

“You’ll fight it as long as I did when you had me prone over your knee, touching me just enough to, well, you know, and then you walked out. So I get the aching part. I’m not going anywhere, Calum, and I’m telling you right now, these pants are coming off.” A bubble of laughter escaped her.

“You’ve no idea how long a memory I have,” he warned. “And I’m bigger than you. You can’t hold my balls forever, and when you let go, I’ll teach you what it’s like to really ache, Beth, because that episode over my knee, that was child’s play. I will go so slow and take so long with you, you’ll be begging for climax, and you won’t have it, not until you’ve paid tenfold.”

“You’re really scaring me, Calum, but you’ll have to wait your turn.” She tried not to laugh again. Her bottom lip trembled. “And, Mister I’ve-Got-A-Supersized-Memory, did you forget that you’ve had your way with me more than once. I can tell you’re not the submissive type, but I do have the upper hand on your balls right now, and I’m not letting go until you release my wrist and lie back on that pillow.”

“It’s not going to work, and we’ll both be disappointed.” He dropped her wrist.

She popped another button. “Get over it. Lie down.”

She could tell it was killing him and felt just a little guilty for wanting to laugh so badly.

“If I had any doubts over your innocence, they’d be set to rest now. This is no way to make love. When you give a man your virginity, you give him a gift, and you’ve no chance to reclaim that first time, lass. ‘Tis a gift of trust and my duty is to give you memories to cherish.”

“That’s lovely, Calum. Don’t worry about me. Let me do this my way.” She popped another button, then leaned over and kissed his lips. “I don’t care what happens. If you work or you don’t. I’ve been saving myself for you, whether it’s this moment or another. My wanting to touch you is no less than what you feel.”

She reached into his pants and touched skin. That did it. He expelled a sigh, punched the pillow under his head and lay back, grumbling something she didn’t quite catch, fortunately.

Beth ran her fingers lightly over what was still stuck in his pants then tucked her hands into his waistband. “Lift your butt.” He didn’t argue, and the pants came off. He lay perfectly still for her, naked and glorious. She sucked in her breath, and ran her hand up his powerful thigh.

“You are magnificent, you know.”

His smile was still wry.

“Thank you, Calum. I know it wasn’t easy for you.” Her smile was mischief.

“You’ve got me at your mercy, lass.”

“I know. I’m relishing it.” She ran her fingers through the curly, light brown hairs at his groin, wondering how to fulfill those promises she had made.

Fascinated by the feel of satin skin, she touched his shaft tentatively for a few minutes, applying pressure gently as he’d done to her, rolling his smooth head between her palms until she felt tremors begin to shake him. She obviously had a natural talent for this. He rose up on an elbow and caught her eye.

“You sick man.” His tremors had been of a different sort. “You’re laughing?”

“Sorry, lass. You’re very sweet, but how many men have you stripped naked?”

“One.” She didn’t add she had been six years old at the time. How had she reached this age without feeling the desire that now pulsed through her veins, desire that turned her nipples to hardened peaks, desire that plumped the folds between her thighs, desire that craved long, hard strokes deep inside? “Why? Do I not make you sizzle?”

“Come here.” He sat up and with a finger under her chin, brought her lips to his and kissed her gently. “You warm my blood to a sizzling point when I’m watching you from afar, so imagine how hot your touch makes me.” His smile was a flame to her blood as he clamped down on her forearm. “I believe I made you a promise.” He scooped her into his arms and carried her upstairs to bed.

So perhaps she lacked a little finesse, but at least she had the man naked. He laid her down on the bed and began to make good his promise. She learned fast that he had every intention of drawing this out. For a long while, he did nothing but kiss her, surely a prelude to heaven, a slow tantalising push and pull. Her arousal grew like a force of nature, sending her hips gyrating against the bed. Swollen with need, her breasts pushed against her shirt aching for that flick of his tongue.

With painstaking precision, he removed her blouse once again, one unhurried button at a time, touching her skin with the backs of his fingers, ascending her breasts in a slow climb performed with every aspect of his mouth, bringing his lips so close to her aching nipples, then nibbling her too lightly. He wouldn’t let her reach the summit he had brought her to before. The tease made her vibrating body burn inside.

“Calum,” she begged, breathless over wanting him. “You’ve made your tenfold point. No need to torture me any more.”

He flashed her a smile of devilish satisfaction. “Lie still now, love, ‘cause I’m just getting started on you.”

“You are evil.” Deliciously evil.

“I gave you fair warning. Now, it’s time to slip these pants off and get to the sweet torture.” His fingers dipped in under her waistband while his tongue dipped into her navel. An erotic jolt electrified her loins.

How had he managed to turn the table on her once again? She had never felt so far out of her league, on the edge of the unknown, vulnerable, both craving and anxious over what he was about to do. There would be no denying him. She would have to be brave.

Her breasts were alive from his relentless attention. It was an exquisitely excruciating feeling. She imagined her entire body heightened to that extent and pressed her fingers into his arm in sensual frustration. It only served to please him — the beast.

It took him forever to get her pants off. With the tips of his fingers, he touched her so delicately over every fold under her panties, leaving them in place, leaving her chest panting, leaving her hips grinding. He moved to her feet and lavished his way up to the backs of her knees, caressing and tasting, along the inside of her thighs, not an inch of skin escaped his attention. When he finally pulled off that last piece of clothing and nudged her legs apart, he pulled back to look at her. “Ah, Bethia, you are as stunningly beautiful as always.”

As he drank in the sight, her exposure only served to heighten her arousal. When he leaned in close, she felt his warm breath over her aching nub. When he flicked his tongue over her, she couldn’t restrain the mewls that escaped her as the tempo inside her swirled to its limit. Yet every time she was so close, he backed off and nibbled at a new place. He even had the nerve to moan himself as if he was the one on the excruciating edge. The man was clearly enjoying himself.

“You are beyond evil. What do you want? The sun? The moon? And how do you read me like that? Calum, seriously I get it now, the aching part, you win. Please … just please.”

“Ah, love. I didn’t mean to tease you like that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Perhaps I did,” he conceded, “but not to make you suffer.” He kissed the inside of her thigh. “You’re breathing fairly hard.” Another long, wet, exploratory kiss. “Was there anywhere on your glorious body my lips felt good?”

“You have to ask? I thought you knew what you were doing?”

He knew. It was written all over his smug face. Then his expression changed, and she saw the game was over. When his lips came down on her again, sucking, nibbling, laving, she lasted mere moments before he adeptly brought her to her second earth–shattering end that night.

Gathering her resplendently limp body in his arms, he whispered in her ear, “So, m’eudail, are you ready?”

She felt drained down to her toes which exasperated her problem, stealing the energy needed to drive her brain. How was she supposed to restore Calum? Nothing had worked. Her feeble attempts had left him unchanged.

Perhaps tomorrow would serve them better. “Ready for what? Aren’t you tired?”

“Tired of playing games, yes.”

“And that means …”

“I’m wanting to make love to you, Beth, as best I can.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

He snorted. “Ah, no. It’s not been about love between us, not yet. It’s been about conquering and teasing. It’s been fun, lass, but that’s all.” He picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles. The gentle gesture moved her.

He was right. Finn had said it — sex won’t work. Their sexual play hadn’t been about love, not on her part at least. No doubt, she’d been excited, but more than once she’d had to grit her teeth — first and foremost to stop laughing — not that she thought his problem humorous. The absurdity had been the circumstance — she’d not foreseen having to threaten the master of seduction out of his pants.

Beth looked down the slope of his body. With his naked magnificence established and duly noted, would she be in this bed if Calum had chosen a different body? If he’d come to her less gorgeous? She studied his face. When had she decided he was gorgeous? He’d been merely attractive at first glance. Perhaps it had been his endless pursuit of her that had endeared him, or that he treasured her enough to change worlds, or that he accepted her exactly the way she was, or that he knew the difference between sex and making love. Perhaps it was because she could keep adding to the list of what rendered him gorgeous.

You’re not ready to see me, Beth. She saw him now. Yes, she would be in this bed no matter what body he wore.

The moment felt tender all of a sudden, her need to heal him, body and soul, to have him feel what welled up inside her, no words. If you allowed your passion to grow with his, if you freed your soul to feel for Calum. What she felt for him, she felt passionately, and what struck her was the purity of the feeling. Her passion for Calum was not tainted by her childhood perspective and for the first time she had no wish to quell it.

Touching him this time wasn’t about sensation. She ran her fingers along his cheekbone with an overwhelming affection from her soul to his. Every touch, every kiss connected them until her head hummed with the soul–craving chorus of their love. Hours could have passed, she lost track, feeling only the stillness of this time.

They paused when a honeysuckle breeze wafted in, caressed up the fine hairs on their bodies and gave Beth a tremble that took her breath away.

“Holy God,” Calum breathed heavily. “I feel something.” He looked down, confirming with his hand. Her warrior looked ready to weep his heartfelt gratitude. The look on his face was bliss. “Give me your hand, Beth.”

She wrapped her hand around his erection — satiny hard. Her insides dipped in a frenzy of anticipation.

“I can’t wait, lass, not another moment. It has to be now.”

And while she thought his urgency might render him less tender, it wasn’t the case. He took a deep breath that seemed to slow him down and then took time to ready her. Slow kisses to her lips in between whispers of his love brought them together as he pushed gently inside her. He waited while the pressure eased, and their eyes locked in passionate discourse, and the feeling inside Beth unfurled and blossomed. Every slow movement intensified until she wanted to feel him deeper inside and she lifted her hips to draw him in.

His groan thrilled her to know she could pull those pleasure sounds from him. He grasped her hips and showed her how to move with him, so their rhythm became a dance that flowed on a wave of rapture.

His eyes watched her as the understanding dawned that she would never feel so profoundly connected to another man, only this man who’d crossed worlds to reach her. A slight flicker of unease struck her at this realization before she was captured by the ecstatic spasms that enveloped the man inside her, and she became hopelessly lost in the glory of coming together as one.

Chapter 22

Who Needs the Real World?

Calum woke as the sun approached its zenith. He drew a fresh breath from the rich forest around him, clean and satisfying. It had been a beautiful dawn. In the early morning, he’d wrapped Beth in the duvet and carried her outside where they laid together in a hammock and watched the first light of day brush colour into the mountain. The poor lass hadn’t the energy to walk, he recalled affectionately — he’d brought her to her knees more than once. She still slept tucked in close to him, her cheek on his chest, her hand covered in his hand and drawn up under her chin.

Finn was an immortal of his word. Calum had been fully restored with the drive of a young warrior denied far too long. Last night had been worth the wait, possibly better for it. Once he’d joined with his woman, he’d been able to feel the wave build in her and within minutes felt his own rush run along the length of the same wave. As he’d moved inside her, slowly at first, he let the intensity build. Some waves washed gently by, a mere lapping of her soft tissues as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts, tuning into her unrestrained sounds, loving the sweet look of awe in her eyes. Then he rode them out on a swell to high waters where their passion increased, and her deep resonation grew loud in his ears, oh the sweet sound, and together they met the same surge as they reached orgasms drawn from deep down in their souls.

The hammock swung gently as he stretched to reach a bottle of water. Their lovemaking had been his revelation to deliver, showing her the rapture between them, what only he could do for her. She’d responded with uncaged enthusiasm. He wasn’t surprised. He’d known all along that when she allowed her passion, their soul connection would catalyse the fervour she’d held stagnant. Eventually, he’d been the one to refrain, likening her to a tender spring flower, while she turned to him as though he were the sun.

He twisted the top off and guzzled the water.

He was slightly concerned about that third task though not inclined to ask questions. Patience? That was it? He’d be well pleased if both worlds forgot about them, and he planned to act as if it was so for the next few days. They had some catching up to do.

A current of unease ran through his belly. Had it been wrong to seek his restoration and make love to Beth when he must leave her? Surely she would understand he’d done so not for this one life, but for their future lives, the lives they would live together. Explaining this to her would be a challenge to be sure, but one he would handle with love, honesty and concern for her utmost well–being. The thought of such a conversation gave him a sharp shudder.

Finally the lass opened her eyes. She looked confused for a moment and squinted out the sunlight. As she focused on Calum, bliss shone in her eyes. He felt himself wake up all over again.

“Did you get any sleep?” she asked, after Calum kissed her good morning.

“More than enough. Here, have a drink.” He smiled watching her quench her thirst. “How do you feel? I wasn’t too rough on you, was I?”

“Inside or out?” she asked. “Because I feel deliciously battered on the inside.”

“Good. You are just a little saddle sore. Your insides will warm up to it.”

“Are we planning to fit anything else in today?”

“Ah no. I thought I’d eat my eggs off your belly.” With that picture in mind embers in his belly began flickering to a flame. He rested his hand over that very spot on Beth.

Her light brows drew together. “Over easy, I suppose. Sorry, I don’t think I’m a yolk in the belly button kind of girl.”

“Fair enough.” He moved his hand downward. “I’ll find something else to better meet your approval.”

“I’m sure you will.”

• • •

They ate their eggs off plates later that day. The sun hung hot and bright over the mountains, close to the solstice as it was. Beth was learning that Calum wasn’t one to sit idle. They hiked down to the lake and along the shoreline. The water reflected a perfect replication of the mountains rolling off the high horizon.

When they came to a rocky outcrop, Calum stopped to take his shoes off.

“Come, lass, we’ll go by way of the water.”

She walked to the edge, squatted and dipped her fingers in. “I don’t think so. It’s frigid. It was likely ice last week.”

“Ah, it’s nowhere near. Besides, we won’t be in it for long.” He tied his boot laces together and dropped them on the ground.

“Don’t look at me like that, Calum.” Her warrior wore a look of tomfoolery.

“Don’t tell me you’ve lost your spirit for adventure.” He took off his pants. “Come, it’ll not reach past your thighs.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun,” she said, but when that half–naked warrior advanced, she stood still while he undid her shoes and peeled off her pants. Then he scooped her up. Beth screamed and tried to wiggle her way down, but he had too tight a grip. His laugh was devilish as he stepped knee–deep into the lake.

With one incredibly quick maneuver, he yanked her panties off.

“Hey! I will never forgive you if you drop me, Calum!”

“You mean like this. He dipped her naked rear into the water.

Beth screeched and scrambled up his body. “You are an evil spirit. Just carry me around the rock to dry land. There was no reason for me to get undressed.”

“No reason? Ah, I keep forgetting, you don’t know me so well as yet.” He smiled like the devil he was.

Beth narrowed her eyes as scornfully as she could. “I thought the cold shriveled men.”

He raised his brows. She felt the hard length of him against her leg.

“You’re insatiable, Calum.”

He dipped her again.

“Stop that!”

For standing in frigid waters, the man was a rapid burner on high. “God, Beth, you look flushed and beautiful when you’re excited as you are. You don’t know what it does to me to have you relying on my strength so.”

He shifted her so she had no choice but to straddle him. His muscles stretched taut and quivered finely as he positioned her. “Easy, m’eudail, I’ll not drop you. Come down a bit.”

“Perhaps not. I really don’t want to go for a swim. Can’t we find a plush meadow to lie in?”

“No. I need you. Here and now.” His teeth scraped along her neck.

“Then move to shallower waters, Bucko.”

He shook his head with her neck still between his teeth, then released to show her the lustful look in his eyes and the one that lay behind it — the not–to–be–denied look.

“The mix of hot and cold will be scintillating. You’ll like it. I promise.” He bent his knees and dunked her again. That time the shock wasn’t as strong, and she began to feel a tingle of excitement at being so exposed, at the element of risk, at the startling temperature differences. “Does every encounter have to be a thrill with you?” Her complaint held little heart.

She knew he sensed her relenting. “You never used to find that a fault in me.”

When she loosened her grip a bit, she slid down. He was ready and sheathed her like a sword. Beth sucked in her breath as the sensations shook her. Every time her bottom skimmed the cold water, her nerve endings shivered setting off an exquisite chain reaction. Would she never prove him wrong? It didn’t take long before her worry over an icy dunking was overruled, and she was once again lost in the thrill of Calum as his muscles clenched and shuddered.

He didn’t drop her. Beth let go a zealous cry that rang off the mountains as she lost herself utterly in the moment.

He carried her around the rock and deposited her on the shore with a kiss. Then he stripped off his shirt and dove into the lake surfacing with a penetrating yelp. “Bloody hell, that’s cold.” He retrieved their clothes and joined Beth whose heart had yet to still.

The emotion that coursed through her felt newly awakened. Considering that she’d won the lottery, one would think she knew elation, had experienced thrills. But being with Calum was fresh, decadent in a different sense, elation on a higher level.

She kissed him as her passion welled like a geyser. “Every time you touch me, every time I look at you, I feel alive, Calum, in every fiber of my being, as if I’ve only now awoken.”

“I’m glad to know it.” He nuzzled her neck. “I know the feeling well. I only have to think of you, m’eudail, and my soul is roused. All I crave is to be with you, to please you.”

“Why would I ever want to live without you?”

“Promise me something, Beth? Don’t ever wish us apart. No matter how black the moment, remember, there’s nothing we can’t overcome.”

He was such a romantic. “I will never wish us apart.” She thought she saw a cloud cross his eyes. “Is there something wrong, Calum?”

Chapter 23

Eternal Bond

“Nay, lass, all is well.” He kissed her forehead thinking a day or so of unencumbered lovemaking before they must face the real world was not too much to ask of one life. “Shall we go onward then, or would you rather head back?”

“With you? It’ll always be onward.”

“Good.” He tossed her pants to her. “Let’s get dressed and see how far we can get.”

They followed the lakeshore, climbing from rock to rock then pushed through the woods along a trail. It widened out as they climbed the mountain, using the roots of trees and embedded stones for purchase. Calum boosted her up huge granite boulders, till they reached a plateau where the trees parted. The view was spectacular to the lake below.

If only forever could continue uninterrupted from this moment. He could spend a good part of eternity hill walking like this. Drawing an exhilarating breath of the mountain air, he let the belonging wash through him. He’d already begun to learn the character of this place, the valley that cut through it, the granite that jutted from the earth, the mix of hard and soft woods, the spirit and nature of the land.

He felt invigorated to travel by way of his own legs. When they came to an eight–foot rock face, he showed Beth where to put her toes and pointed out a hand–hold to grip. Then he climbed it and leaned over to help her.

“I can do it.” She peered up at him through sunglasses. She did, with his light hold to steady her as she reached the top on her knees.

Beth got to her feet and looked back over the rolled–out incline they had just hiked.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Let’s sit and enjoy the view.” Sinking to the ground, she dropped her legs over the edge. Her skin glowed fresh and bright. She’d parted her hair on the side and pulled it back into a tail — a harmony of golden shades warmed by the sun. Calum leaned over and kissed the top of her head. He sat down angling his back against a beech tree. She wrapped her arm around his bent knee and rested her chin there gazing out over the landscape.

“It was a fine day as this, the first I saw you as my true mate.” He’d been thinking about the life when they’d pledged their eternal oath to each other. For the first time, he saw how he’d threatened that bond soon after it was sealed.

“Oh, do tell me about it, Calum. You said we met in Scotland.”

“Yes. Now, if you need to scoff, do it and get it over with. It was the twelfth century, the time of King David.”

Her eyes widened with incredulity, but lacked ridicule, finally. “Right, of course, King David, never heard of him. I do know about Robert the Bruce and Charles Stewart, not first hand mind you. I told my sixth grade class I was related to the bonny prince after seeing a Jacobite special on television.”

“This was a bit before their time and more peaceful for the most part. But we’ll get to the quiet days in a minute. The good life came after a couple rebellions. I fought with the Royal Army. We put the Earl of Moray to rest at Stracathro, and then a few years later the king attempted to push the Scottish border south, and it was from this that I returned to inherit my land and take a wife.”

“Once a warrior, always a warrior.”

“Not always, lass, but it’s annoyingly befitting that you should comment so with that look of disapproval.”

“Oh? I didn’t like warriors then?”

“No. But it was bad manners to cast judgment before you’d even met me.”

“That does seem shortsighted.” She squeezed his leg in support. “I’ll bet there were rumours, though.”

“Ah, you do remember.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not exactly.”

“Perhaps you do, buried somewhere in there so deep,” he tapped her forehead, “that when a memory surfaces with no context to attach it to, it gets dismissed as imagination.”

“If you say so. But, Calum, I’m not having any ancient memory surges at the moment.”

“Yes, I realize that. So let me bring it back for you, and by the way I love that sheen on your lips.”

“Lip gloss?”

He’d seen her apply it from the tube in her pocket. “It’s lovely.” He leaned over and kissed it off. “Now, don’t try and distract me or I’ll forget it, and the story will never be told. As you said, there were rumours. You see, I knew your father. I’d fought with him at Stracathro.”

“Are you kidding me? You were a cradle robber?”

“A what? No, I was not so old as your father, so don’t go thinking I was a decrepit thing ‘cause it wasn’t the case, not at all. And you have to remember, ‘twas nothing like it is today. Your father was injured and turned poor. He gave you to me to keep you alive.”

Beth shook her head. “Ugh, what an awful concept.”

He steeled his eyes. “You’ve not changed over much, you know. For the record, your ill–favoured opinion lasted as long as it took for you to come to know me.”

She kissed his knee. “If you were half the man you are now, I’ve no doubt you won me over — grey hair and all. So, go on.”

He clasped her chin in his hand. “Beth, look at me. This is what I looked like then.”

“Oh right, I forgot. You were hot, Calum, rather you are hot. Hot enough to bring about changes in states of matter — as in my matter, from solid to liquid. One look from you and I’m pudding.”

He smiled. It was going to take all day to tell this story, but he was of no mind to complain. Taking time out to turn her to pudding was fine with him.

“What did I look like?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

“Ah, you were a rare beauty, smaller than you are now with wee bones. You had hair like copper and amber and cinnabar, long waves of it, and delicate pearly skin were it not for the hard life.” He picked a strand of grass gone to seed and flicked it over her nose. “You had a smattering of freckles right there.”

She wiggled her nose and laughed. “So why didn’t I like you?”

“I already told you. Because you didn’t know me. Your family was Norman, newly settled in the Borderlands. Though your da was loyal to Scotland, you and your sisters had a rough time settling in, which generalized your ill–favoured opinion of the Scots.”

As a cloud drifted in front of the sun, she pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. “It’s hard being new in town.”

“To be sure. I’d been away a long while, and when the few of us returned there were grand stories told that quickly grew to tall tales, and well, you were a lassie of sixteen. You thought I was a murdering barbarian.”

“Were you?”

“Nay, I was a murdering Christian, though it isn’t murder when you’re fighting for your king.”

She gave him a raised eyebrow look, but he would not defend actions taken nearly a thousand years ago. “Though you didn’t think it at the time, it was a good match your da made for you. I wasn’t so poor, and he thought my maturity an asset and me an honourable man. So he journeyed with you to Rokesburg where we were married that very day.”

The memory made him laugh. “It nearly didn’t come about. Like I said, you were a rare beauty, that I knew, but I’d not heard tell of your rare temper and wicked tongue — an insolent thing, if truth be told.”

“Rightly so by the sounds of it. A young girl handed over to a strange murdering heathen. What did you expect?”

He grimaced. “Not the slew of profanity that utterly belied the innocent look of you. I’ll admit I yielded for a moment to reconsider that marriage, you wee hellion, but then I saw your da was about to give you a beating. And just so you know, were it not your wedding day I would have let him.

“I can see you were bursting with compassion.”

“I’ve always loved your spirit, lass.”

“Tell me about the wedding night,” she said, eyes all a twinkle.

Calum snorted. “The one where you shut me out of my own bed.”

She gasped. “The horror.” Then she had the nerve to laugh.

“‘Twas a long courtship,” he said sternly. Then he shot her that smoldering look that she’d referred to. “But you came around.”

“I hope I didn’t cave too fast.”

He cleared his throat. Cave too fast wasn’t even close. “It was five long, lonely, frustratingly punishing months.”

“No! You weren’t the master of seduction then?”

“It was a long time ago, Beth.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Wipe that smirk from your pretty face, or I’ll not tell you the rest.”

“Oh, you’ll tell me Mister I’ve-Never-Had-The-Upper-Hand-On-My-Wee-Wife.”

He laughed. She was right on that mark. There’d always been a fire in her that flared under pressure and, while he’d been scorched a few times, he’d learned not to get burned.

“We had a remarkable life together, m’eudail. Ours was the envy of every man and woman we knew and those we didn’t, and it wasn’t for fortune, nor renown, but was for the love between us. You took my breath away each time I saw you till the day you died, and it didn’t stop then.”

She picked up his hand and kissed it. “You say all the right things.”

“You sacrificed your life for us, m’eudail, for me and our children.”

He surprised her with that one.

“Did I?”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised. I only wish your need to come to the aid of others was not at risk to yourself. When you love someone, Bethia, you love them fierce.”

“Why do you call me Bethia?”

“It is your soul name. It’s how I think of you when I think you mine.”

“Oh,” she said in that weak way she did when he’d moved her. She slid closer to him, and he was relieved to know she wanted him to think it, to claim her as his. God knew he loved the fire in her, but he loved to see it quelled just as much.

“We were living in Rokesburg when the pestilence hit nearby in Kelso. You were ahead of your time. You rallied the people to strengthen their health. ‘Twas a sensible plan, and some even drank the tonics you took door–to–door. Heavens knows we did. Like I said, you were a rare lass. You’d always been interested in herbals and whenever you came upon another as fascinated as yourself, you’d ask questions upon questions. I knew better than to disturb you. I didn’t say it often enough, but I admired you, m’eudail. You were deeply connected to your intuitive powers, you made fine distinctions in judgments, and you always kept a clear head.”

As he talked, he watched her assimilate this knowledge, and he thought it strange that with the passing of so much time she seemed younger now than she had then.

“A season passed before one from our clan took ill. You bade me go and talk to the survivors, to learn how it was that they lived. Then you mixed herbs, and you made medicines. When our boy took ill, you fought for him, lass. Then I was sick. And you were on your own, tending us, the garden, the ale house as you could.”

“One of the desperate folk who’d ridiculed your tonics early on tried to steal the medicine for her family, and there was naught that I could do. You didn’t sleep, but worked to make enough of your brew for all who were sick. You nursed us, you doctored us, and you saved many of us. And then, the vile sickness took you, and in your weakened state, I couldn’t save you.”

A swell took his eyes. So many years ago, and it was still a wrenching memory. Knowing that she lived, seeing her eyes shining directly into his, didn’t lessen the emotion transferred somehow to the cells of his flesh — the devastation of his loss. He now saw how the fear of losing her had played forward into each life thereafter. Perhaps he had become a touch overly protective.

“Before you died, you pledged your love to me until the end of time. I made the same pledge, and here we are, m’eudail, and as I look at you I pray we are nowhere close to the end of time.”

She put her arms around his neck and pulled him close, dropping her head to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin lightly on her head. She is so young again, he thought, remembering how the bearing of children changes a woman, remembering what he could of changes. The memories didn’t come as clear as they had a week ago. But the love was there, fierce as it had always been. That, he remembered.

Love for him shone in her eyes. Lovemaking had indeed secured the bond between them. He kissed the top of her head and smiled at her soft sigh. Now he could get on with saving her hide.

Chapter 24

It’s Not Easy Being a Modern Man

They climbed down the mountain later that afternoon. Calum kissed Beth at the front door of their rustic retreat then went around back to split wood for a fire. She went inside to make tea. After a few minutes, she heard a noise and wondered what it was, then laughed when she noticed the whistling kettle — she’d been sidetracked by happiness. Envisioning the rest of her life as a repeat of the last few days was bliss. And why couldn’t she have bliss?

Oh, right — life. Sooner, not later they’d have to climb the rest of the way down the mountain and participate in the real world where she’d been accused of a terrible crime.

She had to remember she’d done nothing wrong. Now that they believed Matthew and Bruce were the culprits, she felt confident in approaching the police. Calum tended to be overprotective, so she would be firm when she told him her decision, yet she wouldn’t scoff at 200 pounds of muscle–ripped warrior with supernatural contacts.

Beth tossed a chamomile tea bag into her cup. Outside, the rhythm of wood splitting pealed through the mountain. Tea in hand, she went out to join him. He looked up as she walked off the deck toward him. His bare back glistened in the last of the sun. Oh nice, she thought, but it was his sensuous smile that tumbled erotically through her womb.

“Sit down, m’eudail, I’m nearly finished.”

“Are you expecting a hard winter?” On one side lay a collection of dead wood, on the other, a neatly stacked pile.”

He snorted. “Old habit, I guess.” But he kept on, steadying another log for the blade. “What are you thinking about, lass?”

She’d been thinking about not wanting to use that key. “I was thinking what a nuisance it is being a wanted jewel thief.”

A low rumble of exertion sounded as the blade sliced the piece in two. “Nuisance is it? Hmmph. I don’t want you to worry. I will handle it. I give you my word.” His arms swept up in an arc, splitting the half to quarters. Put herself in those hands? Okay, she could do that. He let the ax drop and then caught it deftly repositioning his grip.

“I know you’ll be wanting to talk with your father, but I won’t risk you being recognized until I’m sure you’re out of harm’s way. I will invoke Finn to get off the mountain. But I’ll go alone. You’ll stay here safe.”

“I don’t think so, Calum.” This was no good. They didn’t need Finn, what they needed was the car. She was the one who had to go.

He rested the ax blade on the stump and regarded her. “I’ll come back for you, lass.”

“That wasn’t my concern. I do need to talk to my dad. It’s not as if there’ll be a posse waiting for us, no one knows where we are. I’m going with you, Calum.”

“No.” He picked up another piece of wood and brought the blade down with a crack.

Beth stood up and took two steps closer. “No?”

“It’s too risky and for what? Tell me how I may contact your father, and I will allay his fears and get caught up on the news. I will also check on a few particulars.”

“But you suggested we go to town together earlier. Why are you so concerned now?”

“I only made that suggestion to confirm there was no town. I didn’t intend to let you be seen. News will have travelled by now.”

“I am not staying here alone, waiting and wondering what the heck’s going on.”

One sandy brow rose. “You’ve little choice, as I’ll not take you with me. Matthew had you in his hands the last time I let you out of my sight. I’m not taking that chance again. You’ll stay here — safe.”

“Of all the outdated chauvinistic attitudes! Who do you think you are, telling me where I’ll stay? I’ll do what I like, Mister-Stuck-In-The-First-Century. Times have changed, Bucko. Women no longer take orders from men.”

He set the ax down. Gone was the ever present ardent expression. She took a step back.

“I’m not ordering you, Beth, not yet. I’ve a gut feeling that you should stay here. I only wish you had a care for your own safety, and like I told you before, take one step toward hell–fire and you’re over my shoulder. And don’t,” he added in a low growl, “call me Bucko.”

Beth let go a frustrated shriek. “Don’t you threaten me with your brawn. You get your way because you’re bigger than me? I don’t think so.”

“It’s reality,” he countered. “Matthew is bigger than you, so is Popeye and the police. You don’t know how to defend yourself, and you don’t seriously understand what men are capable of.”

“I know your capabilities. You’ve threatened, you’ve manhandled, and you’ve held me down and taken what you wanted.”

Calum took a step forward. Beth took one back, averting the sight of his bared teeth. “Don’t think to degrade me,” he said. “I would never dishonour you.”

She knew it was true, but she was past admitting it. He could order her or threaten her, anything short of tying her down. She had the key, and she had every intention of using it. The knowledge came out as a wicked smile that flashed back to Calum’s narrowed eyes.

“I’ll take my tea elsewhere.” She turned her back on him. The blade sounded a crack that likely went clear through the stump. She flinched as she reached the cabin.

• • •

“Bloody woman,” Calum growled, steadying a piece of wood the girth of his thigh. He raised the ax and swung in full fury. A thundering crack peeled through the forest as the wood fractured and fell to the ground.

Stuck in the first century. Hardly. Little could he help it if she didn’t approve his progress as a man. He’d moved through time just as she had. Had he not proven it so the other day? He’d not walloped her arse like he’d wanted to. And look where it had gotten him. How was that progress? He’d like to get her back over his knee right about now, obdurate hellion, and for the record, that was a trait of Beth’s he didn’t pine for.

What did she think his brawn was good for if not to protect her? And if she thought he wouldn’t use it against her, she’d be sorely mistaken. Bloody hell. Hadn’t she noticed he loved to manhandle her, that it turned him on to no end to rouse her spirit that way? He snatched a log from the ground and julienned it like a carrot.

He’d seen the look on Matthew’s face after that car door closed on Beth. Calum knew that look, and it bore no resemblance to a man bent on protecting his woman. Matthew was dangerous. Unease crawled up the nape of his neck as if the man was close.

He’d held her down and taken what he wanted? Calum had no desire to dominate Beth or any other woman that way. Not in any bloody lifetime — that reeked of force he would never use on a woman. Hold her down and give her what she wanted — that he would do, and he’d challenge her to admit she didn’t crave it. There was a gross dissimilarity between rousing a spirit and crushing it, and she’d do well to see the difference.

It hadn’t been his intent to invoke Finn yet. He wanted another day with Beth, though at that particular moment his amorous mood had taken a sharp nosedive.

The wood clapped into place as he stacked it behind a good measure yet to be cut. Perhaps when the ground lay clear, he’d have worked off sufficient frustration to talk sense into the lass without losing his good temper.

From the far side of the cabin, Calum heard the Mercedes’ engine rev. Apparently Beth hadn’t had her fill of the mountain yet today. So be it. It’d do them both good if her steam dissipated in a direction he wasn’t standing in. After all, she couldn’t go far. Calum hauled a length of hardwood into position and got to work.

• • •

Bloody man! It was just like him to throw his weight around expecting her to topple to his command. Not this time … “Bucko!”

Beth took the crimson key from the glove box, slipped it into the ignition and hit the gas. She half expected Calum to tackle the car, but he didn’t know she could leave Finn’s world. Ha! One didn’t have to be a warrior to reign triumphant.

As if she’d pop into place in the grocery store, where Matthew or the police would have tracked her and stood waiting for four days ready to snatch her back. The odds were ridiculously in her favour that she could phone her father and pick up a newspaper without being recognized. And it occurred to her, Calum would ask where she got the newspaper from. She could make him guess — that way she’d not have told him — and having technically followed Finn’s rules, the key would still work. Besides, he had a way of invoking the immortal.

She knew Calum had a caveman mentality about protecting her. As infuriating as it was to be on the receiving end of his obstinacy, she secretly conceded the thoroughly feminine strand in her that rooted for the warrior in him. That was the strand that savoured being treasured and traitorously relished it when he held her still and had his way — her insides trembled their acquiescence at the thought. Beth sighed. She was hopelessly in love with the warrior.

But that didn’t mean he could order her around. She was open to suggestions, she would consider options, but when it came down to deciding how best to safeguard herself, she would rule.

“Why not use your home equity to take that dream vacation you’ve longed for?”

Beth jumped in her seat as her heart slammed against her ribcage. Who said that?

“Or help your family. Or pay off debts.”

The radio. She recognized the familiar ad for Brown’s Financial Services. Her heart resumed a normal pace as she realized she was back in the real world. That had been easy. The key had worked without even a ripple or a gust of wind or one measly earth shatter. She passed a road sign indicating she was back on Highway 89.

The jingle on the radio continued. “Put your house to work for you. We can show you how at Brown’s Financial.” She changed the station. Home equity wasn’t a priority right now.

She hit the brakes as a thought occurred to her. A few months ago, she’d seen a cheque on Matthew’s desk for over $300,000, payable to his law firm. She’d joked that he could buy them dinner in Paris that night. He’d explained the money wasn’t his, but was held in trust for a mortgage he’d handled for a client. What if Matthew decided to keep a few of those cheques for himself? But then the client wouldn’t get their house and Matthew would be caught.

A car appeared in her rear–view mirror, so she pulled off to the shoulder as her thoughts accelerated — Matthew, Bruce, Belize … Mrs. Miller, Chantal Desjardins — two real estate lawyers, one tropical property, one homeowner, one real estate agent. They were all connected to real estate in some way. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she recalled her last conversation with Mrs. Miller from Meals on the Move. Last week, I found my passport, of all things, on the floor beside my desk instead of in the drawer where I always keep it.

What if the client had no idea their house had been mortgaged? Was that possible?

Mrs. Miller wasn’t suffering memory loss. What if someone took her passport, someone who needed a copy of her identification, so they could mortgage her house? Someone who planned to blame Beth.

Because of her lottery winnings, Beth had not needed a mortgage to purchase her house in Ashbury, so she wasn’t clear on the paperwork required. To substantiate her budding theory, she needed to know if mortgages existed on Mrs. Miller’s house and possibly those belonging to some of the other Meals on the Move clients. The only person who might release this information to her was Matthew’s secretary. She’d known Amanda, his secretary, much longer than he had. Amanda was the little sister of one of Beth’s best friends.

Was she taking an unnecessary risk by communicating with Amanda?

No, she decided, if she had any hope of clearing her name, she might need to take a risk or two. Matthew would never disclose his personal business with anyone he worked with, especially his secretary, so Amanda wouldn’t be apprised of the recent developments between them. She would likely know of the accusations against Beth, but Beth would speak as if she had Matthew’s support and that he required this information.

The service station should be 20 kilometers or so down the road. She would find a phone there. She also needed to check her cell phone messages. Hopefully Chantal Desjardins had returned her call.

Ten minutes later, Beth pulled into the lot and parked. She slung her purse over her shoulder as she entered the restaurant. A phone hung on the wall beside the restroom. Pretending to study her fingernails, she waited for a tall man with some serious beard growth to finish his conversation. He smiled at her and said bonsoir. With her adequate French, she knew he’d not accused her of being a wanted criminal. The people in the restaurant didn’t even glance her way.

Beth dialed Matthew’s law office, praying they hadn’t closed for the day. As soon as the phone rang, Amanda asked her to hold. A few minutes passed before her voice came back on line. “Thank you for waiting. How can I help you?”

“Hi Amanda, it’s Beth.”

“Oh, Beth. I’m so glad to hear from you. How are you? I just read the newspaper. What a ridiculous accusation. Hold on a minute.” Amanda sounded like she was on fast forward. Beth heard Jason, Matthew’s partner, asking her to call the bank right away. Amanda came back on the line. “Sorry, we’ve got one of Matthew’s irate clients here trying to get into their house, and we don’t have the papers from their bank yet. They’re taking a strip off Jason. I know Matthew is tied up trying to help you.”

Is that what he told her? “Yes, he’s quite busy at the moment and has asked me to get information for him, just a quick mortgage record.”

“Okay, Beth, not a problem, but I’ll have to call you back or Jason will be dead meat.”

That wouldn’t work. “My battery is dead. I’ll have to call you back, Amanda. All he needs are some mortgage numbers for a few clients — Edna Miller, Dorothy Fitzhenry and Lucille Wickwire.” She didn’t care about the numbers; she only wanted to know if mortgages existed.

“Give me a half hour or so. Oh, and tell Matthew to call me right away, or he’s dead meat too.”

Beth promised to relay the message. Hopefully Matthew would be dead meat soon. She hung up and retrieved her messages. Chantal had returned her call asking Beth to contact her as soon as possible to discuss the listing of her fake house. She dialed Chantal’s number.

“Bonjour, RE/MAX, c’est Chantal Desjardins.”

“Pardon, parlez-vous anglais?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Hello, Chantal, this is Sue Smitherson calling.” Beth had assumed the name of her favourite high school teacher. She explained that she’d like to meet with Chantal the next day to discuss her relocation to Ontario. “I’ll need some mortgage advice as well, if you know anyone who can help.”

“The stars must be aligned. Yes, I have a contact in Ontario for you, but I can’t see you tomorrow. I’m fully booked. I can fit you in right now if you are free. Why don’t you stop by my office, and we’ll talk about listing your house.”

Stars aligned, my ass. Chantal Desjardins could be as corrupt as Matthew. “I’m sorry, Chantal, but I can’t today.” Not without her warrior bodyguard. “Can you recommend an agent who’s available tomorrow?”

“Let me see.” A quick pause. “I do have some time first thing in the morning. Shall we say nine?” What a surprise.

“Nine is good. I’ll see you then.” She hung up the phone, convinced that Chantal Desjardins should be approached with caution.

Next, she dialed her father. When the answering machine picked up, she left a quick message saying she was fine and would call the next day. Hopefully she’d not need Dad’s lawyer after all.

Chapter 25

Time Flies — Or Does It?

Matthew squeezed his eyes shut and leaned into the paneled wood wall of the hunting cabin. He swallowed hard and stepped away from the bed where Bruce lay dead behind him. Forcing a deep breath in through his nose, he felt the warm exhale against the roof of his mouth. With each long breath in and out, his mind sharpened and composure flowed back through his veins.

When Bruce had reacted to the peanut–laced chili and found his EpiPen empty, Matthew pretended to call 911. Earlier on, Matthew had dumped the epinephrine when Bruce had wandered into the woods for a piss. Bruce knew they were too far from the hospital for an ambulance to arrive in time, so Matthew insisted on driving Bruce out to meet them halfway. Unfortunately for Bruce, the ambulance never made it. When he’d dragged the body into the cabin from the van, Matthew’s cell phone had been ringing in his jacket pocket. He’d already ignored two messages from his office and that was out of character, so he needed to return that call.

Matthew scanned the woods as he approached the van. Did the woods seem stiller than they had before? He shook off the odd feeling, retrieved his phone, and listened to his messages. One from Jason, two from Amanda, all concerning the McKinley’s mortgage closing that day. “Shit.” Perfect time for a fuck–up and one he had to deal with now. He checked his watch while dialing his office.

Amanda answered and filled him in on the developing McKinley crisis. With steadiness that impressed even him, Matthew told her where to find the bank’s instructions.

“Thanks, Matthew,” Amanda said. “The McKinley’s are due in an hour, and I didn’t know what I was going to tell them. If you can hold on a minute, I’ll get that information you wanted.”

His mind scrambled through the past few days, but he couldn’t remember asking Amanda for any information. What the hell else had he forgotten? “Refresh my memory, Amanda. What information?”

“Well it was Beth that asked, but hold on and I’ll — ”

He froze. “When did you talk to Beth?”

“Just a minute ago. Isn’t she with you?”

Pulling the keys from his pocket, he got in the van and started the engine. “No, I have no idea where she is. She’s been elusive lately, and I’m concerned about her. It’s hard to believe she would steal from her Meals on the Move clients, but something’s up. I’m worried she may be in some sort of trouble. Her cell phone is dead, and I’d like to help. Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She did sound a little odd. Do you want those mortgage numbers?”

Mortgage numbers. Why would Beth want mortgage numbers? Ice cold fingers clenched his gut. “Yes, but first look on your call display and give me the number Beth called from.”

Amanda read off a Bell Canada payphone number. “I know a website to locate the phone booth, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that. Which names did Beth give you?”

Amanda gave him the names. Matthew cursed silently, but his demeanour was collected when he took the location of the phone booth, and he smiled when Amanda couldn’t locate the three mortgage numbers Beth had requested.

“I’ve got to go, Matthew. Say hi to Beth and tell her to keep her chin up. I know she can count on you.”

“I will, Amanda. I’m doing everything I can to help her out of this mess.”

• • •

The smell of restaurant food was a sharp reminder Beth hadn’t eaten since eggs earlier that day. After picking up a newspaper, she sat down at a table and ordered the roast chicken dinner special, then asked for another to go. Calum might require some appeasement when he discovered what she’d done. She drew a deep relieving breath. Her theory, even if it needed work, alleviated the feeling of helplessness and confusion that had sidled her since she’d dug up that backpack. At least she was no longer puzzled by the appearance of a warrior in her life. A warrior whom she couldn’t wait to get back to and share her thoughts.

It struck her odd that Amanda said she’d just read the news about Beth — strange that the news hadn’t travelled faster. While she ate, she searched the newspaper for further information, but found nothing. She finished her dinner and decided to take Calum’s food to the car before calling Amanda back. Outside in the parking lot, she blinked as sunlight glinted off her side–view mirror. She looked up to the sky. The sun blazed down from a high point straight overhead.

How could that be? She and Calum hadn’t returned to the cabin until late in the afternoon. It had to be close to six by now.

A cool prickle began at the tip of her spine and spread like mice feet scampering up the back of her neck. To shake the odd feeling, she rolled her head on her shoulders and then scanned the parking lot affirming she was completely safe. As she shifted the newspaper to reach for her keys, her eyes fell on the date: Friday, May 15. It had to be a mistake. With the ceaseless events, she’d lost track of the days, but it couldn’t possibly be Friday.

She took a step closer to her car as a vehicle pulled into the next space. Her mind scrambled backwards to find dates. They’d escaped Quebec City on Thursday. On Friday, she’d chased Calum around the cabin. She would have smiled at that, but felt too disoriented at the moment. That meant it had to be … Sunday? But that didn’t make sense either. If it was Sunday then Matthew’s office would be closed.

The sound of a van door sliding open behind her was like a warning surfacing through a sound sleep. A chuckle turned her blood cold, and she heard the words: “Hello, Beth.” A gloved hand covered her mouth and nose. A rotting smell assailed her nostrils. Calum’s dinner dumped to the ground. Beth wasn’t aware of another thing.

• • •

Calum didn’t get the rest of the wood cut. Something wasn’t right. He felt it in his bones, and instead of throwing Beth over his shoulder like he’d wanted, he’d let her get under his skin and had gotten angry. Bloody hell! Now he was angry and worried.

“Finn!”

The zephyr ruffling the fine hairs on his neck did nothing to ease his trepidation. The immortal appeared as a waver, flickering in and out, until finally coming solid.

Finn sprung off the top of the wood pile and circled Calum, his long white hair slicked back off his head in a queue. His iridescent eyes dropped to Calum’s groin then flashed back up. “You are a full–fledged warrior once again. How is it?”

“‘Tis good. I need to find Bethia now.”

“I noticed. You’ve been like a rutting buck. Perhaps the lass needs a moment to acclimatise. She might have caught a chill on her behind.”

The bastard. “You watch us?”

“As your liege, I am always aware. And you, human, are doing splendidly.”

Calum exhaled loudly. Of course Finn watched them. He’d made that clear early on. Calum was entertainment, and Finn didn’t want for anything else. This brought to mind an omission. “You didn’t assign a third task, Finn, yet I am restored.”

Humour played in Finn’s eyes, though his mouth remained a hard line. “Oh, but I did.”

“Patience? I expected something more challenging.”

“That was but a small part of the third task, and I beg to differ — patience was quite a struggle for you.”

“Because Beth wouldn’t keep her hands off me. I don’t know what got into the woman. She had me by the balls.”

Finn propped his boot up on the stump and regarded his fingernails innocently. His gaze swept up to behold Calum’s dawning expression.

“Bloody hell, what did you do?”

“The third task was Bethia’s. I told her about your problem and suggested she do something about it, but to achieve full satisfaction, I insisted she keep you in the dark about our chat.”

She’d known? “You did what! Of all the humiliations! And you — you’ve no right to muddle her mind.”

Finn’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head daring Calum to further question his tactics. “You forget your station, human. Need I remind you?”

Calum wanted to strangle him. Was there no restraining the embarrassment Finn would have him suffer? No wonder the lass couldn’t hold her humour, squeezing his bloody circulation off to have her way. Yet despite all her innocence, she’d done it. She’d not allowed him to intimidate her. She’d lain with him and given him everything.

“I fear for her, Finn. Something is not right. I feel it in my bones.”

Finn wavered again as if Calum saw him through gases. His time with Finn was coming to an end. “Bethia summoned me with a request,” Finn informed him. “She wished to return home. I gave her a key to enable it.”

Fear grew scalding hot in his belly. “Did she use the key?” He didn’t bother to keep the low growl from his voice.

“Of course she did. You forced it upon her.”

Bloody fool! “Me? Can neither of you see it’s the last thing I intended? I couldn’t have made it clearer she was to stay here — safe!”

“You’ve not learned much in your thousand years together. It’s disappointing, Calum. Bethia’s will is too strong to succumb to yours.”

At least his will was reasonable. He was about to tell Finn so, when his rebuttal tripped in his throat. Bloody hell, the elf was right. He’d been too riled to notice himself backing Beth into a corner. It’d been easy to do since he’d not known she had the means to retaliate. He released a long exhale of self–reproach, finally stepping into the light of understanding. How many times over their lives together had he driven her to take action, reckless or not, just to spite him? Why had he not seen it before?

Calum groaned. “Where is she?”

“For someone hell–bent on safeguard, you’re not doing so well,” Finn pointed out. “Bethia is in the mountains, in a cabin, not nearly as quaint as yours. She doesn’t have long to live.”

The blood drained from his heart. She’d fallen prey to Matthew. Torturous variations of Bethia helpless under Matthew’s hand stormed his brain. “No, Finn, she can’t come to harm. ‘Twas the deal we struck. You must set me free of this dimension. I will destroy her tormenter and see her safe.”

Finn crossed his arms over his chest. “Yet another request? I’m not your personal genie. It will cost you, human.”

Calum crossed his arms too, but more so for restraint. Any more games and he would throttle the immortal. “Whatever price, Finn. We’ve no time to bicker over this.”

Finn relaxed his stance. “No time? You’re right; your time here has run out. Does it not rile you that in the Upper World, you are long denied the skill to manipulate time? The Old Ones withhold that knowledge while they manipulate the mechanisms behind your very soul. We are alike, warrior, enticed by the forbidden. For that reason, I not only granted your request to rescue your true love, I bestowed you and Bethia with yet another gift — time — three days here while time on Earth hardly moved. You should be thankful. I know humans who would kill for it.”

His muscles stretched taut over bone ready to flee to her. He didn’t care one whit about gifts of time. “I’ll be thankful when she’s safe,” he snapped with more menace than he intended. Damn. Temperance characterises the greater man, he reminded himself, more so when seeking the favour of an elf. “Your gift is greatly appreciated, Finn.”

“You could have her back in the Upper World, you realize. All you need do is nothing. It won’t take long.”

Let her die. Calum felt only a flicker of temptation. Until that moment, he’d not truly recognised the power behind his dedication to safeguard Bethia on her human sojourn until the prescribed time of her departure, and that time was decades away. Every fiber of his being was now acutely alert to that cause. Pleasing himself by cutting her human experience short was not an option. He’d always known that. “Our evolution may be slower than the Alfar, and it’s no secret I oppose the Old Ones’ reluctance to share wisdom. I took an oath to guide and protect Bethia until the end of her journey. She is not meant to return to the Upper World now. I must intervene to prevent that.”

“Ah, yes, a so–called miracle. What if I offered to bring you back to my world? To open your eyes to the Alfar and train you in the alfatofrar powers you may only read about in books. What then, warrior?”

What then? The possibilities presented like sweet enticement. He would no longer suffer the frustrating powerlessness that forced him to sit back while humans made grave errors. He could scry their future, intercede, and show them where they were headed. He’d no longer suffer the indignity of having his hands slapped by the Old Ones, no longer be branded disobedient, no longer crave knowledge thus far withheld.

He caught the look of superiority on Finn’s face and glanced away. A guarantee that he wouldn’t end his days in that desolate dimension, but what price would he pay for Finn’s ‘training?’ Where then would his allegiance lie? With Finn, the devious trickster he’d be a fool to trust? With the Alfar who’d exiled Finn? As if they would have him. With humans he could no longer expect to follow to the Upper World? The Old Ones would surely banish him. And what of Bethia? He had gained remarkable insight into their relationship foibles, but was it too late? When she learned the full truth behind his intervention, the little ground he’d gained with her these last days, would come undone — that he sensed clearly. Had he truly lost her now?

Finn bristled and the sky darkened. Calum felt his gaze boring into him. “I cannot accept your offer, Finn, generous as it is.”

Finn vanished.

“Damn it, Finn! Take me to her!”

A boreal wind gusted in over the mountains, rustling up dried leaves, thumping the ax to the ground, clattering through the hardwoods like a squall rising Calum’s hackles. Finn’s silver voice spilled off the mountain, freezing Calum to the ground.

“You will do as I order, vassal. You serve, not dictate! You will finish the game by my rules. Do you concede?”

Calum gritted his teeth. He squinted against the dust and dirt thrown up by the wind hitting his face no matter which way he turned. He’d no choice but to chance enraging Finn further by attaching a condition. “If Bethia is safe and free to live out the rest of her days to her prescribed end, then yes, I will abide by your rules.”

The gale slowed to a gust and Finn appeared as a shimmer before him. “Very good. I hate feeble surrenders. Your loyalty to the woman you love is admirable. It always has been. But for true love, Calum, there is nothing nobler than sacrifice, and the time has come for yours. I hope your restoration was glorious. Are you ready?”

Yes, it’d been glorious, everything he knew it would be, a gift, but too short. Better to have had it, than not. He’d pay any price to abolish Beth’s suffering, and that included eradicating her memories of him. For that’s what the Old Ones would do once she was safe. He would not have one moment of her precious life spent pining for him. He would pine until they were reunited, if they were reunited, an insufferable sixty–three years hence.

Calum steadied himself. “I am ready.”

Finn’s golden eyes flashed pleasure. “Good. For Bethia’s freedom, this is what you will do.”

Chapter 26

It Must Be Candid Camera

Beth pulled herself awake through a hazy dream thinking it strange she’d fallen asleep so early in the evening. Blinking away the blurriness that coated her vision, she focused on yellowed, water–stained tiles covering a low ceiling. Instead of wood smoke, the smell of mildew stung her nose as if it’d been raining inside the four walls. Sprawled upon a bed, she craned her neck backwards to see her hands were tied to the headboard. Her immediate reaction was to yank at her bonds and scream.

“Go ahead, scream.” It was Matthew. The voice was familiar. The cruel mocking tone was not. “No one will hear you. Not for miles.”

She stopped. Screaming wasn’t doing anything other than tearing her throat. She focused on Matthew who leaned against an ancient refrigerator alongside a short counter in what appeared to be a one–room hunting cabin presided over by an antler head tacked to the wall.

“Untie me, Matthew!”

Matthew gazed at her with cold impatience cloaking what used to be gorgeous dark eyes. He stalked to the side of the bed. She pulled back as far as she could, which wasn’t nearly far enough.

“I wasn’t expecting you to wake up,” he said. “But then again, narcotics aren’t my specialty. Bruce said it would knock you out, but he didn’t have time to expand.”

“What?” Her head felt shipwrecked. The last thing she remembered was … Calum chopping wood, they argued, she used the crimson key and …

“How did I get here?”

“You’re suffering retrograde amnesia. Do you remember learning about that in Psych 101? The drug is from the same family as a date–rape drug — messes up the short–term memory for a few minutes — a side effect, Beth.”

“A side effect? You’re frickin’ insane. What are you doing with a date–rape drug?”

“You can get all sorts of nasty things off the Internet these days.”

Beth’s retort wedged in her throat. The fog in her head lifted, and her attention fixed on something she’d not noticed before. Her stomach convulsed. She was not alone on the bed. The screaming took her again.

“Shut up!” The razor sharpness of Matthew’s voice shocked her enough to still her scream, but not the shudder that rattled her bones.

“M-M-Matthew? What have you done?” Sprawled on the bed next to her, Bruce Hopkins was equally restrained, but that’s where the similarity ended. Cadaverous eyes fixed blankly on the rafters overhead. A white bandage bridged his nose, and he was naked — a sight that debased the dead man.

“I got you a bed partner. Sorry he’s not as lively as what you’re used to. No, Bruce didn’t satisfy you at all — so you killed him. Tsk, Beth.” Matthew shook his long, elegant gloved finger at her as if she were an errant child. A noise of distaste erupted from his throat. His eyes were perilous like a man gone off the deep end, so inconsistent from the Matthew she knew, she couldn’t fathom it.

“You killed Bruce?” This couldn’t be real. It was time for the guy behind the camera to pop out and say, “Ha! We got ya, Beth Stewart.” And then Beth would give a shaky laugh and say, “Oh come on, you didn’t fool me. You TV people went way overboard. It was too crazy to be real.” And that would all happen any time now.

But the guy behind the camera stayed hidden, and Matthew kept playing the illusory, lunatic character.

“You remember Bruce’s peanut allergy. It was terrible luck his EpiPen was empty, don’t you think? He couldn’t imagine how that happened.” Matthew’s smile was empty. “We got in the car, but I was so distraught by his impending death, I took a wrong turn and got lost on the way to the hospital. Bruce couldn’t navigate. He was too distracted by his throat suffocating the life out of him.”

Beth now understood the look of horror on Bruce’s ghastly face. It mimicked hers.

“You dumped his medication and fed him peanuts?”

“Yes, Beth, but the police will find your fingerprints on the pen. This is how it will look: You and Bruce were lovers behind my back working together to steal a vast sum of money from your Meals on the Move folks. But you got greedy wanting it all for yourself. He didn’t taste the ground peanuts in the chili you fed him, sidetracked as he was. Who knew what kinky games you and Bruce liked to play — securing him to the bed so he’d not escape your kiss of death. But Bruce took you by surprise. He got hold of you, and you didn’t make it — suffocation. Sorry, Beth.”

Okay, this was becoming a bit much. “No one will believe that, Matthew. It’s crazy!” She yelled that last part as if he might believe it at higher decibels. “You’re not a killer, for God’s sake.” But she was still thinking Matthew: lawyer, tennis player, goal–setter, enjoys Thai food and walks on the beach.

“It’s your own fault, Beth. What did you think I was going to do? You ran away with your lover. You have one chance to save your life. Give me back the flash drive and I’ll let you go.”

Flash drive? She stopped herself short of blurting out, what flash drive? Her mind was a mess. “You expect me to think clearly with drugs in my system?”

“You don’t need to think, just tell me where it is.”

“I’ll tell you nothing until you untie me.” If there had been a flash drive in the backpack, it must have been with the money since both she and Calum had searched the backpack and found nothing.

Matthew crossed the room to the window, pulled back the brown–checked drape and peered out. “You have two minutes to think.”

She wouldn’t send him to Janine Miller. A muscle in her arm cramped. She bit back the pain. A story. She needed a reasonable story. The cramp tightened. Digging her heels into the bed, she braced and pulled back away from the bed frame as hard as she could, but gained no ground. Damn! Duct tape. That bloody stuff worked on everything.

No denying the tape was authentic, but Matthew the killer? That couldn’t be real. When you were not in the real world there was only one thing to do. “Finn!”

Matthew turned back to face her. “Be quiet, Beth. Your lover’s not going to save you this time.” He crossed the room in four steps. The quiet tone he used unsettled her more than if he’d yelled.

Beth shot her leg out and kicked hard, slamming into his thigh. The impact knocked him into the wall beside the bed. He looked down at his thigh and then lifted his head and pierced her with eyes aghast. If he thought she was going down without a fight, he truly was deranged. She wiggled her bum back tight to the headboard and braced herself for his retaliation. Fists clenched, he looked ready to strike, but he didn’t move.

“I guess I wasn’t rough enough for you.” He straightened his back. “Is that what you wanted, Beth? Does the mountain man force you into submission? Did he force you to steal my flash drive, sweetheart?” The naked light from the bulb overhead grotesquely emphasized the dark shadows under his red–veined eyes. Keep him talking. Give Finn a chance to save the day. She called out to the elf character again, but silently this time.

“I didn’t steal your flash drive. I told you what happened back in Ashbury. Bruce attacked me in my kitchen. I was scared so I ran.” A sick thought suddenly turned her stomach. “You told Bruce I’d found the backpack, didn’t you? That’s why he ransacked the house and threatened me.” Had Matthew ever cared about her? On the flip side, Calum had crossed worlds to save her from a menace he hardly understood.

Matthew scoffed. “You think I believe that? You needed someone to break the encryption, for leverage, for blackmail.”

“Blackmail you? We came to Quebec to question Chantal Desjardins. Her business card was in the backpack. Why are you stealing money, Matthew? You have a successful career, live a good life. What more do you need?”

“Don’t play dense, Beth, like you forgot how it felt to win the lottery. I suppose you didn’t think sex with me could compare to a body rush like that. You think you’re above me, don’t you, just like my brother.”

Why had she not seen his twisted perspective before?

“Your lack of discipline sickened me,” he continued. “But still I persisted, tried to teach you how to manage your life. Your money sense is kindergarten level, Beth. I could have done so much more. At least you were malleable. And you’re not without admirable qualities, your community service was truly commendable.”

“Commendable or convenient? How do you sleep at night? You robbed the people in my meal program by mortgaging their homes.”

“I stole from them because they don’t have the decency to think beyond themselves. They hoard their money and let the banks get richer. Do they ever give anything back? Their money is building a hospice in Belize for cancer patients. I’m giving them some good fucking karma.”

“Good karma? That’s how you justify robbing the elderly? Where’s your integrity, Matthew? This is about feeding your ego. Who gets credit for the hospice? Not Mrs. Miller, that’s for sure.”

He cocked his head and cupped his clean–shaven jaw in a gloved hand. “You phoned Amanda to check for mortgage records. The timing of it was synchronistic. My finding you was meant to be. The hospice is meant to be.”

“Didn’t you need signatures and identification to set up mortgages?” Keep him talking. She’d have more information to use against him when this was all over.

As she’d hoped, his smile was pure ego. He wanted to talk about it. “Remember when you got sick and couldn’t deliver the meals for a couple weeks? The timing was perfect.” She remembered — a devastating flu virus.

“Bruce and I served breakfast to the old folks in your stead, love. I didn’t phone you in sick like I said I would. I told Sophie you were running late and charmed her into handing over lunch. While I was at each house, Bruce showed up offering a free mould inspection to the seniors, an inspection I advocated. You know unchecked mould can be a killer on old respiratory systems. I kept them busy serving breakfast while Bruce photographed their identification.”

Matthew circled the bed, eyeing her feet. “We targeted old folks with their houses paid off. I took out a $400,000 mortgage on Mrs. Miller’s house alone.”

She suddenly remembered a startling detail from the newspaper. “Did you kill Mrs. Cobbs?”

“No one could have anticipated her heart condition. Shame we couldn’t mortgage her house then.” He flexed his fingers, fingers that had threaded through hers only a week ago. “Enough chitchat. You’ve had time to sober up now. Where’s the flash drive, Beth?”

“This plan of yours won’t work. The police will figure out what you did. You’ll be running for the rest of your life with murder hanging over your soul.”

“I’m not worried about my soul, and I’m not spending a minute in jail. There’s nothing linking those mortgages back to me, just to Bruce, and now to you. To recover from the shock of burying my lover and my best friend, I’ll take a much–deserved vacation in Belize. I won’t come back.”

She tasted a bead of sweat that rolled off her upper lip. Finn!

“There’s just one thing I haven’t quite figured.” He stopped pacing at the end of the bed. “How did you get out of the van in the city? I was sure the door was locked.”

Where the hell was that busybody elf! Her breathing began to trip up in her throat. “This is crazy, Matthew.”

“How did you get out of the van?”

“It wasn’t locked, damn you! You made a mistake! And you’ll make more, and they’ll catch you, and you’ll spend your whole pathetic life in prison.”

The conversation had been feeling too real. Matthew and Beth talking over the day. Meeting for pad thai lunch. Making decisions. Driving to Ashbury where Beth had taped colour swatches up on her wall for the house in Belize. She’d said, “Do you like ‘gentle tide’ better or ‘shadow dream?’” And he’d said, “I don’t like either. What happened to the ‘Mojave?’” But ‘Mojave’ was too dark for the kitchen. Why couldn’t he see that? Mahogany on the cupboards, on the floor, that was enough already. And his insisting that a dark colour was right for the kitchen had really bugged her because who spent more time in the kitchen? She did. She knew kitchens. He didn’t like to cook. He liked to control everything and veto her colour swatches. That’s what he was good at. And one other thing — letting his friend die of anaphylaxis. That he excelled at! Beth felt hysteria percolate under her skin as big bubbles of it rose in her chest.

She swallowed hard. Calm down. She forced it. She willed it. She breathed it. And as she did, the feeling of Calum washed through her; overwhelmed her for a moment, like he’d gotten inside her somehow, was here to comfort her.

But not here enough.

Finn will swoosh me out of here, soon. He had saved her from Matthew before. The elf would send her back to Calum, and everything would be as it was supposed to be, and she’d never leave Kansas again.

“The only mistake I made was to believe in you, Beth.” Matthew was still talking. “It’s ironic, you know. If you were a virgin, the police might not think you the kind of girl that ties up her boyfriend for kicks.”

Beth had only half a mind for that irony. Her eyes were riveted on Matthew as he slipped the pillow out from under Bruce’s head and circled the bed to her side.

“You need an incentive to give up the flash drive. It’ll be less gruesome for both of us, if you don’t fight this.” His tone was lecturing and controlled and emotionless.

“Matthew, stop!” A douse of adrenaline raced through her blood as she drew back her legs preparing for a sharp kick. He dodged her feet and came at her with the pillow gripped in his two hands. Drawing tight to the headboard, she thrashed against the bindings while every instinct to lunge, claw, and attack howled through her veins.

“This is how you will die if you don’t give up the drive.” He straddled her, dropping his full weight on her hips. The pillow descended.

This was not happening, not to her, not now.

She arched her body, bucked up against him and then slammed into his back with her knees. She heard his teeth snap together as he took the beating. One side of the pillow slipped from his grip.

This was not her end. She would not die! Knocking him toward her with her knees, she reared back and head–butted his nose with a violent, focused energy. An explosion of pain sliced through her forehead as he howled.

Blood spewed from Matthew’s nose.

Oh no! Her vision doubled. A sickening dizziness swirled through her head from ear to ear. Was she going to pass out? Head–butters never seemed to suffer injury on television. Slamming her eyes shut, she tried desperately to remain conscious.

Chapter 27

Breaking the Bonds

The crushing weight pinning Beth’s hips to the bed vanished. Had she lost consciousness? Eyes closed, she heard pounding, thudding, and grunting. The blinding pain in her head began to subside enough to feel the strain of that shoulder muscle she’d pulled.

Silence drew out long enough for her to hear her own heart pounding in her temples.

She opened her eyes, and then he was beside her.

Calum. Her enraged heart raced wildly to catch up. Breathing robbed her of everything but a sudden onslaught of tears. She swallowed hard and blinked the stream away to see his face clearly. Her lips rose in a dopey smile. “What took you so long?”

“Bethia, God, Bethia.” He said this while kissing her hair, her forehead, her lips. When he pulled back, his eyes glistened with a maelstrom of worry and relief. “It’s over. He won’t be hurting you again.”

“H-He’s dead?” She finally managed a long inhale as her heart slowed to a trot. Matthew, the man she’d once loved, had tried to kill her. The shock of it ran like an electric jolt over her bones as she remembered who lay stiffly beside her on the bed. She couldn’t help but glance at Bruce.

Calum caught her gaze. He sprang from the bed, all power and grace, rummaged through the kitchen drawers for a knife and sliced through the duct tape restraining Bruce’s body. A scowl darkened his gorgeous face as he dumped the body on the floor out of her eyesight.

“A flash drive that will incriminate Matthew was hidden with the money in the backpack. I gave that money to one of the Meals on the Move clients, Mrs. Miller’s granddaughter. Calum, we need to get it back.”

“Oh? Well, lass, flash drives are beyond my understanding, but I will use it to be sure your name is clear.”

“Yes, that’s the idea.” Using her heels to push herself up to a sitting position, Beth waited for him to release her. He moved to the end of the bed, set the knife on the dinette table, and remained there while he surveyed the room.

“Calum, cut this tape off me. I want to get out of here.”

His head turned as his shoulders dropped, his expression grim. She couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. “I can’t, Beth.”

She didn’t know what alarmed her more — his refusal or the troubled expression on his face. “I’ll not take any chances now. You must appear to be my victim.”

Her brain must be suffering oxygen depletion. Why was he not taking her into his arms and ending this nightmare? “And why’s that, Calum?”

He retreated a step and gripped the back of a chrome chair as if he needed to grasp something other than her. His knuckles turned white. “I will confess to taking you from your home in Ashbury because I was bent on blackmail. ‘Twill be clear that I held you against your will, keeping you from the police, since there’s no reasonable explanation for why you ran to Quebec. I killed Matthew, Beth. With him and Bruce dead, the police must harbour no doubts as to your innocence.”

Panic churned inside her stomach. His plan was impossible. Did he truly think she would rather he sacrifice himself to save her? “So you spend your life in prison? I don’t think so, Calum. That is so not okay with me. You may think it self–sacrificing, but it’s not. What you are suggesting is selfish.” At least that’s how it felt to her. Did it not hurt worse to watch a loved one suffer? “Cut this tape off me, and we’ll talk about this rationally.”

His gaze travelled over her face, over her body as if forcing each feature into his memory. “There’s nothing further to discuss, lass. It’s been decided.”

The finality in his tone angered her. She ground her teeth and resisted the urge to snap at him — no easy feat — but a shouting match was the last thing she wanted. He tended to snap back. One of them needed to be reasonable. “You can’t make a decision that affects both our lives and expect me to submit like your subservient subject. We will come up with a solution that appeases the police and keeps you out of jail, like perhaps — the truth — minus Finn and your role as spirit guide. If you have ever loved me, Calum, you will listen to me now and treat me like a partner.”

Releasing the chair, he crossed the room to sit beside her on the bed. Her hands should be roaming across the smooth ridges of his muscle–ripped shoulders, slipping through the silky strands of his crème–caramel hair, gliding across the hard planes of his old–world chest. Instead, her hands were going numb.

“It was not my intention to sound like your lord and master,” he said. “If we had more time, I swear I’d break the habit. There may be other ways to end this, but it’s out of my hands now.”

What did he mean by that?

“Beth, you need never question my love. You are the breath that gives me life.”

Before she could respond his lips fell on hers. His light beard rasped her face as her mouth immediately accepted his hot, wet tongue. It was no gentle, unhurried kiss, but one of hunger and passion and despairing emotion that terrified her.

She got lost in it for only a dozen or so heartbeats. This matter was not nearly settled. “Listen. Listen to me, Calum.” Her plea got garbled against his mouth until he pulled back. “If you think to kiss me goodbye, you’d better think again because losing you is not an option.”

He brushed his lips over hers once again, and then he sat up rigid as a warrior on guard. “No, it’s not optional. It never was. My leaving was always a fact. I was allowed this human body for as long as it took to see you safe, Beth. My time here with you is over.”

Something shattered inside her chest. Her heart? She felt the moment freeze around her, between them, the horror hanging in the room ready to flatten her lungs and throw her entire life into agony. “No.” The simple denial was all she could force up. A new surge of tears blinded her. She let them burn in her eyes before blinking them away. A salty stream fell over her lips as they quivered like a child’s. “You wouldn’t do that to me, Calum, not to us.”

His eyes, like the bluest mood, had not left hers. The pain exposed there brought a whimper to her lips — too much truth to look at.

“Beth, please look at me.”

She kept her eyes fixed on the deer antlers nailed to the wall. If she didn’t find a way to stop her heart from breaking, she’d die right then.

He took her by the shoulders. “It’s not over between us. Our time apart will be a short journey until we’re together again. I’ll always be with you — ”

“That is such bullshit!” Anger felt better, like a lid she could shut on her pain to keep it bottled so she couldn’t feel it. “Don’t say you’ll be there for me like a ghost in my dreams as if that’s sufficient. I’m a person! I need a man to grow old with, not a spirit. How could you pursue me until I fell hopelessly in love with you when all along you knew you were leaving? You seduced me. You used me. How could you do it? You lying, heart–crushing, arrogant, barbaric throwback of a man!” The words coagulated in her throat, choked on her sobs.

He flinched. Leaning forward, he wiped the streaks from her cheeks with his thumbs and hung his head. “I can’t deny it. I couldn’t stop myself from making you mine. I’ve always loved you fiercely, Bethia, perhaps too much so.”

How gullible did he think she was? She wanted the torment to stop. She wanted to hate him. “What you did was not nearly as innocent as that, you bloody man. From the very beginning, this was about trust. You came here because you are too afraid to trust. Since you can’t trust me to make my own decisions, you interfere and you control and you call it protection. Well, guess what, Bucko? I don’t need you, and I don’t need you to come to my rescue again. Don’t whisper advice in my ear. Don’t wait for me in your afterworld because I won’t come looking for you. I can’t do this. I can’t ever see you again.” It killed her to say it, but she had to hope she would heal. The only possible way to stop her anguish was to strike him from her life.

He rose from the bed, walked to the window, and threw open the drapes. Facing the outdoors, his broad shoulders quivered while he stood unmoving. A small part of her wanted to take back her hateful words, to console him, a self–betraying part she quickly overruled. Think self–preservation! Unless she’d rather bind her soul to a man who could so easily destroy her.

Silence hung thick in the room for long, uncomfortable minutes until he broke it. “You know me, Bethia, better than I know myself.” He didn’t turn to face her. “You’ve judged me true, and I’m sorry it’s come too late. Ever since I lost you so long ago in Rokesburg, my fear of losing you has carried forward, my love for you grew oppressive. Your suffering is of far greater consequence to me than my own, so I became the worst of mother hens in trying to safeguard you.” His voice grew raw with his admission. “Our last life together ended badly, lass. I feared for the love–bond between us, and now I’ve done naught but ensure it be severed.”

Beth heard bells ringing in the distance as if he’d conjured a choir to accompany his soulful revelation. She barricaded her heart against succumbing to him again.

“You’ll be free of me soon, m’eudail. Free of my meddling, free of my temper, free of my overbearing weaknesses. In letting you go, perhaps I’ll free myself.”

Good, she thought, and clenched her jar against another ridiculous rush of tears. The bells sounded louder and less heavenly. He moved to the table where a canvas bag sat — Matthew’s she supposed. She watched him search for something. He was not a beautiful man. Not beautiful at all. The flexing of solid muscles under his clothes was just a reminder of how deadly he could be.

God help her hate him.

He left the bag and crossed the room to the side of the bed. “I’ll accept whatever you choose, Beth, in this life, in the next. I’ll always love you, but you must love another, that’s your only hope for happiness.”

Love another. As if she would. Had she learned nothing from the mother who’d left her? She’d known all along that love equaled loss, hurt, and devastation.

Never again.

She turned her head away, so she wouldn’t see the signs of his eternal promise in his eyes. His love wasn’t offered freely. His love was a tease, a cruel joke, a pit of despair. She ground her teeth together. The bells sounded like alarms.

Suddenly she realized they weren’t bells at all. Sirens! Nearly upon them. Her gaze flew to the window as the sound of tires split gravel and came to a grating halt.

She felt his lips graze her hair, heard him whisper some sentiment in his Gaelic tongue. She snapped her head away. I do not love you.

“I’ll spend eternity perfecting my love for you, my Bethia.”

Don’t look at him. Her throat throbbed from her sobbing. His fault!

“When you wake up, you’ll be free of me.”

The cabin door crashed open and hit the wall.

“Ca — ” He covered her nose and mouth with a cloth. She’d not paid attention to what he taken from Matthew’s luggage, but now she knew. The same rotting smells as before. She didn’t struggle. Let him go. She was better off this —

Chapter 28

Untrue Confession

Beth was furious, frightened and falling through the wet rain, nothing but a mess of clouds above her, a mountain, a sheep, a man. Calum? The face hadn’t been right, but the eyes. He had Calum’s eyes. And the emotion. The emotion was the same — anger, frustration, passion.

“Hello, Beth, can you hear me?” A voice with a heavy French accent prodded. A man flickered through the clouds. A dark man in dark clothes. That couldn’t be good. Dark men hovering over her were trouble, and she wouldn’t put up with them. She squeezed her eyes shut. Go away.

“Wake up now, Beth. Can you hear me?”

Couldn’t he let her sleep?

He gripped her hand. “Beth, wake up.”

No. She didn’t want to hear any more of what he had to say.

“Come on, Beth, open your eyes. Squeeze my hand.”

Cripes, he was persistent. Her eyelids were unusually heavy. With no small effort, she raised them and hoped she’d not regret it. The world came into focus. Oh, better this time. This wasn’t the man she feared — she didn’t recognise him at all in his uniform and empathic smile.

“Can you hear me?” he said again.

She cleared her throat. “Y-yes. I hear you.” She wasn’t falling anymore, hadn’t been falling at all. Trees rustled in a soft breeze overhead. When she craned her neck to look past the uniformed man, she saw an ambulance and two police cars parked outside a small wood cabin. She lay on a stretcher.

“You’re doing good, Beth. My name’s Adrien. I’m a paramedic. Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.”

Her hand felt heavy. She lifted it up to have a look.

“I’ve put you on intravenous,” Adrien said.

A person appeared on her left side — a woman police officer. “Hello, Miss Stewart. I’m Officer Delaney. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you’re up to it. You are Beth Stewart?”

“Yes. What happened? How did I get here?” She tried to sit up, but pain sliced through her head, so she stayed where she was.

“You’re fine, Beth, you’re not in any danger,” the officer said. “We’ve got him. He confessed to kidnapping.”

A kidnapper? What was wrong with her memory? She’d used the crimson key and drove into town. She bought chicken. There were antlers on the wall and brown curtains …

The police officer’s radio crackled. The woman stepped back to have a conversation Beth couldn’t hear. Those clouds she’d been flying through had lodged in her head. She tried hard to remember how she’d gotten there.

A low voice mentioned a blue Dodge Caravan. A van door slid open in her memory and then …

She gasped.

Matthew!

The horror of the cabin came back to her in shard–like memories.

The police radio buzzed again then Officer Delaney spoke. “They’re bringing him out now.”

Careful not to jar her head too much, Beth pushed herself up to sit. Bringing him out. Here?

“I want to take your blood pressure again, Beth.” Adrien picked up her arm.

“Other than a headache, I feel …” she was going to say fine, but felt a sudden rebellion waging in her stomach.

A police car radio cackled. Behind her, the cabin door creaked open. A rustling sounded in the bush.

Adrien slipped the cuff over her biceps. “Guess this wasn’t the best time to take your blood pressure. He’s coming now. No need to look at him.”

Look at whom? Matthew? Matthew was dead. Turmoil rolled through her insides. Nothing here in these woods felt real. Why was she confused? She turned as footsteps sounded beside the stretcher.

Her breath came head over heels in her throat.

Calum!

I will confess to taking you from your home in Ashbury. “No,” she cried to Adrien. “He didn’t — ”

But Beth couldn’t utter a word. Her stomach heaved and slammed into her lungs as she was violently ill over the side of the stretcher. She felt Adrien’s hand on her back and heard his voice tell her to let it go. Black pinpricks appeared in her peripheral vision, closing inwards like a camera lens shutting out the light.

Chapter 29

No Happy Ending in Sight

“No really, dad, I’m okay,” Beth said over the phone. “You don’t have to come and stay with me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Beth had just arrived back home in Ashbury, released in good health after a week at her father’s house. He’d insisted she call him as soon as she arrived home. After reassuring him that the doors were locked and she was no longer shaky, he promised to leave her alone until the next day when he would visit with her stepbrother Craig. They would barbeque hamburgers just like a normal family. But normal was a murky yardstick that Beth couldn’t yet measure her days against.

Her house was in good order, thanks to Craig and his wife. As she stood in her spotless kitchen, she remembered, without any of that disturbing heart–pounding affection, how Calum had tossed her over his shoulder when she’d refused to go to a hotel — the controlling brute. She was so better off without him.

Just as he’d promised, he was gone from her life. He’d manipulated her knowing full well the heart–wrenching suffering his abandonment would cause. He’d not only claimed her virginity, he’d nearly managed to claim her soul. He had no right to one jagged piece of her heart.

After Beth had fainted on the stretcher, she woke in the hospital, insisting that someone contact the police department immediately. As furious as she was with Calum, she would not let him hang himself, any more than she would she speak to him again.

Gandhi said an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind. She wished she had a sliver of his capacity to forgive because she was nowhere near ready to forgive Calum. However, she had been determined to set the record straight, mainly because she didn’t want Calum to get his way. She’d been at his mercy in the cabin, but no longer. Besides, he’d rescued her from a wrongful imprisonment, possibly death, and the thought of him in a jail cell tugged at her sympathy — just a little.

She’d not realized what Calum had done until it was too late.

Officer Delaney informed her that Calum admitted Bruce Hopkins had hired him to ransack Beth’s house and find a flash drive that would incriminate both Bruce and Matthew. Calum took Beth to blackmail Bruce for the flash drive.

Beth explained what had truly happened. Calum hadn’t kidnapped her. They’d run to Quebec because of Chantal Desjardins’ business card. Calum suspected she was being entrapped by Matthew. Running was a mistake, yes, but as it turned out, he’d been right.

Officer Delaney raised one delicate eyebrow and said, “You are not the first woman to be attracted to her kidnapper, but trust me, Miss Stewart, don’t fantasize about this man. He’s dangerous. Perhaps, your discharge from the hospital was in haste. You are traumatized, non? Overstressed?”

She gave Beth’s shoulder the kind of little pat you give disgruntled children.

Two days later, Officer Delaney informed Beth that Calum had escaped. Nothing was found in his cell, but the clothing he had worn, left in a pile on the floor. Nothing tampered with, no evidence of his escape, no sign of him at all.

She had to face it. He was truly gone. In case she harboured doubt, the clothes left behind in the cell were telling. That symbol of exiting one world for another, like Tam Lin when the Elf Queen released him from her realm — naked — born again to Earth. But Calum hadn’t been released into the arms of his true love.

She relived every moment, engraving her mind with the feel of him, his scent, and his eyes of blue that smoldered with desire for her, his powerful arms that wrapped her in safe.

So few memories.

She knew now how he’d suffered upon losing her in that life so long ago. She saw now how his loss had grown to the fear that drove his overprotective behaviour. How had she reacted to his fear over their lives? She knew herself well enough to imagine. Push back for all she was worth — just as she’d done when she’d escaped with Finn’s key.

They could change all that now.

But not in this life. Her last words to him had been her cruelest. That memory stung, so she latched on to a memory more salient, the lovemaking — not the tease, not the pursuit — but the tender coming together, the rekindling of love, a thousand years old. True love. No longer did she doubt the age of their love considering its strength. Strange that it came so clear in its absence. Sad that she’d not deciphered the solid truth of it immediately.

Chapter 30

There’s an Immortal in My Fruit Bowl

“Stop moping, Beth,” her father demanded. “Come on, love, all is well. Give me a smile.”

All could not be further from well. She moved her mouth in a general upward direction, but there was no feeling behind it. The pretend smile appeased her father though.

“Good girl.” He kissed her forehead and went back to flipping burgers.

Craig and her nephews ran off to explore the ravine. Kids laughing, trees blooming, birds singing. What more could a girl want?

She had a supportive family, and she owned her own home — mortgage–free. She was weeks away from a university degree, and she wasn’t in jail or dead. Her education and career goals were clear. Many people her age couldn’t count all those blessings. Nope. She sure was lucky.

Behind her, Beth heard her sister–in–law Linda laugh at something her father had said. Beth slipped inside to slice an onion. As she fanned the pieces onto a plate she wondered if she would ever laugh again like she meant it. Perhaps one day, one single strand of joy would slip in and take her by surprise. But would she laugh again with a man she’d loved for a thousand years? No. He’d ruined her for all men — the thoughtless swine — so she wouldn’t love again, not in this life. She had to acknowledge the upside though. No longer did she fear she must wield control to avoid the sex addiction her mother suffered.

The screen door snapped open and Linda’s flip–flops slapped across the kitchen floor. “Your father wants to heat the buns up on the grill.”

“I’ll get them.” As she turned, a soft wind breezed in from the patio door and sent strands of hair fluttering across her face. She reached up, grabbed the buns from the cupboard, turned, and shrieked.

Linda shrieked back, just as startled. “What? What’s wrong, Beth?”

A white–haired elf sat cross–legged in the middle of Beth’s kitchen table picking through the bowl of fruit. Finn!

“Oh, uh …” Could Linda see Finn? Linda followed Beth’s line of sight to the table, then back to Beth. Phew! No mention of a green–suited man inspecting her fruit bowl.

“I’m going to get your dad.”

“No! No, it’s nothing, Linda. I’m fine. I did something, poked myself, I don’t know. Here, take the buns.” She didn’t have the mind to make up a story. Finn chose a banana, peeled back one fraction of skin, and turned his head to Beth, silver brows raised.

“Were you having a flashback, Beth?” Linda gave Beth’s arm a caring touch. “It must have been terrible what Bruce did. Your kitchen was a mess. You shouldn’t be alone here. After dinner, I insist you come and stay with us. Take however long you need to put this horrifying event to rest.”

Finn puffed out his lower lip. “Ah, poor Bethia. Perhaps I should return when you’ve sufficiently recovered.”

“No!” Beth didn’t mean to shout. It made her sound desperate, which she refused to be. With no little effort she turned to Linda. “I mean, no thank you. I’m fine — really.” She let out a puff of breath. Her mind didn’t seem to hold the capacity for anything else besides Finn and ultimately Calum.

She pulled in a deep breath. Did she want to open a wound not yet healed? “Linda, Dad’s waiting on the buns. I’m going to cut up a tomato, and then I’ll be out.”

Finn sprang off the table and came to stand beside Linda. He cocked his head, studying her for a moment then blew into her face like one might blow an eyelash off a finger.

Beth couldn’t help smiling at the look on Linda’s face as she blinked, then glanced at the window which just wasn’t in the right direction to have let in a puff of air.

“Did they hurt you, Beth?” Geez, the woman wouldn’t stop. “I had a bad experience in high school with a football player, and I know how it feels to be taken advantage of. It did me good to talk about it.”

Finn sprang back onto the table and peeled the rest of the banana. Was there a banana floating through midair? She guessed not. Linda likely would have noticed that.

“‘Tis not the kind of story I like to hear, Bethia,” advised Finn. “Causes me to question if there’s hope for humans, at all.”

“Nothing like that happened to me, Linda. I’m fine, except I … I need the bathroom. Would you excuse me?” As much as she wished to protect her broken heart and deny any interest in what Finn had to say about Calum, she couldn’t pretend indifference, it just wasn’t in her. Any decent human being would check to make sure Calum arrived safely in his Upper World.

Beth glared at the puckish being, then flicked her eyes in the direction of the front hall, and scooted to the bathroom.

There wasn’t much room to pace. Where was he? Quietly, she opened the door and peered into the hall. She took a step out to inspect through to the back of the house — Linda had taken the buns outside. No sign of Finn. She took a step back.

“Cripes!” she shrieked having stepped on the elf. “Couldn’t you make some noise? Do you always have to scare me half to death?”

Finn smiled. He seemed pleased to rile her. Beth pushed him into the bathroom and closed the door. The immortal had the strangest feel, weightless, or at least lighter than air. He merely glided across the floor from her touch. No doubt he’d allowed her to move him like that. Nothing about Finn said “pushover.”

“I suppose you’re here to talk about Calum, not that I care, much. And thanks for suggesting I sacrifice my virginity, not to mention my heart, to give him a hard–on, just before he abandoned me. That was real sweet, Finn.”

His pale lips turned in a frown. Long white hair tied in a hundred thin braids dressed his head. “I didn’t misrepresent myself, Bethia. Who did you think you were taking advice from?”

He had a point. Anyone called the trickster should have been treated with caution. “Like I’ve had any experience dealing with immortals.”

“Ignorance is no defense. Tell me, how is life without the warrior?”

Empty, lonely, meaningless. “Fine, I’m just fine without him.”

Finn swept backwards to perch on the toilet tank. It unnerved her to no end. “The warrior’s not fine without you. I bring news from the Upper World, dear Bethia. The Old Ones have decided to make an example of your warrior and reward his undying, unswerving faith to his true love — you. But if you’re doing just fine without him … .”

Beth’s cool heart got a jolt of fire. Reward Calum? How? “Don’t mess with me, Finn. Are you telling me Calum can come back?”

“It all depends on you, Bethia. Wish him back in your life, and I’ll tell you where to find him.”

“Oh,” she said weakly, feeling like a tree about to go over. Then she remembered who she was talking to. “What do I have to do this time, Finn?”

The creature had the thinnest, most mischievous smile she’d ever seen. It wasn’t wicked or haunting, but was child–like, although she didn’t think for a minute the elf held the innocence of a babe.

“I’m finished with you and your warrior,” he said. “I’m about to start another game — my work is endless. Yours played out rather well, don’t you think?”

“No, Finn, I don’t think so. You know why? Because losing Calum was agony. Perhaps you don’t know what it’s like to have a wasteland for a heart. There’s no end to my wanting him. I can’t imagine anything worse.”

“Ah, but you know now, don’t you?”

It was true. “That I want Calum? Yes. Loud and clear.” And how many times had Calum suffered this agony over losing her? She suspected more than a few. “If he can’t return here, to Earth, I’m willing to go back to that world of yours if I can be with him.”

“To monotony, Bethia? That’s the true wasteland. Just the two of you, cut off from family, friends, day after day, with no satisfying work to do.”

Possibly, but she was beginning to feel desperate, and it was easier to make sacrifices in that state. Easier wasn’t smart. She envisioned a more desirable scenario. “You have a point, Finn. So how powerful are the Old Ones anyway? Can they wipe out the memories of those policemen, clear the record of Calum’s confession? Can you? Because he can’t be free with that hanging over his head.”

“No. They can’t do that. The news of your warrior’s confession was printed and read in the newspaper by all sorts of humans. It’s much too complicated now.”

“But that’s not fair. He only confessed to spare me, and — ”

“I know,” Finn interrupted. “You need not explain it to me. Don’t forget, it was my game.”

“Okay. So, Mister-Playing-With-Real-People-Is-Just-A-Game-To-Me, how can Calum and I be together then?”

“I told you I’m not pleased with the state of you mortals. The Old Ones have left you too much on your own, and frankly, Earth is a mess. There were never enough of you to affect us, but that’s changed now that you humans have become overpopulated and all–consuming. Human passion is misdirected. While passion for art or music is good energy for our worlds, most of you have forgotten the most important quest — true love — the universe requires it.”

“If things don’t change here on Earth, then my people will be forced to find a new home — and it’s no fun being displaced. I abhor moving. That brings me back to you. Good work, Bethia. You’ve always loved Calum well.”

Had she? Except for the times she was telling him never to speak to her again. Why did that have to be the last thing she said to him?

Finn still hadn’t explained how Calum could return. “You humans, restricted by your brains and your scientific methods, are still arrogant enough to believe you have a great understanding of the workings of the worlds. But, Bethia, you understand little more than fish in a pond. So I’ll explain it to you simply. Calum has been living a life on Earth for twenty–eight years now. He works with his hands as a designer and builder.”

“What? Calum who? I don’t get it.”

“Don’t try to understand it, Bethia. Acceptance is all you need do. Calum lives in Scotland — no surprise to you, I’d assume. When he began his term as your spirit guide, his recollection of the life he was simultaneously living on Earth was veiled, so he could focus on you without distraction. Upon his return to Seraphina, The Old Ones showed him how the energy of the soul may split to manage more than one task.”

Beth’s mind felt like a pretzel. “So you’re telling me that some guy in Scotland is the same Calum I met here. How could he have any memory of me?”

“He doesn’t. He is a mere human in every sense.”

“No way. I don’t believe it.”

“That’s too bad. Because the only way for you and Calum to be together in this life, is if you accept what I’ve told you.”

Beth let out a deep breath. Could her life get more bizarre? She hated to broach the thought. “Does he look the same?”

“For the most part. His present day form descends from the ancient warrior you knew and is strikingly similar. I don’t lack foresight, Bethia. The Calum of today is not made of as much muscle as the Calum you knew, but he carries the same look. He was given the name Colin, but he’d answer to his soul name Calum and not even know why.”

“This is so odd, Finn.”

“Will you go to him, Bethia?”

“He won’t recognise me?”

“He’ll be struck by you. Recognition will come later.”

Beth didn’t have to think hard. Calum’s feet were on Earth, not a wee bit off, not in a world between. He was here and he would soon be back in her life. One tear escaped before she sniffed and straightened up. “Yes, I’ll go to him — in a heartbeat. Where do I find him?”

Chapter 31

Has Anyone Seen the Flute Player?

Beth hugged her dad goodbye, checked her bag through airport security, and walked to the gate.

It had been a month since Finn had popped in. At first she wanted to get to Calum immediately, but then when reality sank in, if she could call it that, she got cold feet.

He would be a stranger to her, and she’d be in the exact position he had when he’d first come to Ashbury. She had a new respect for him. It had taken guts to come to her, although he’d had an advantage. She couldn’t throw him over her shoulder and steal him away until he fell in love with her again.

The plane landed in Edinburgh at one in the afternoon Scottish time. Beth caught a cab from the airport to the hotel. She fell in love with the old town at first sight. The majestic clock tower and spires of St. Mary’s Cathedral rose above the chimney pots of old houses. She’d not realized that Edinburgh Castle was in the middle of the city, but there it was, strikingly perched on the crags of an ancient volcano, so said the cab driver who explained that men had inhabited Castle Rock from as far back as the Bronze Age.

Imaginings ran through her like a conductor for ancient currents. Considering Calum’s love of Scotland how could she not have been there at some point in history? Beth pictured herself safe in the fortress long ago.

Tension ran under her skin and increased to a fine drone. He was here.

Finn had told her the name of Calum’s store and its location, but she’d not been able to find it on the Internet. She pictured a little shop smelling of wood chips, a mist of fine sawdust floating in a beam of sunlight over finely crafted tables and chairs. She’d chosen a hotel on Grassmarket because it was close to Crafted by Cunninghams, Calum’s business.

After checking in, Beth showered, carefully applied her makeup and dressed. For the pièce de résistance, she slipped into the black–and–white tartan dress Calum had bought her in Quebec City. A bit dressy for daytime, but hopefully it would ignite a memory, and she had to go now if she expected to find him at work. Standing in front of the mirror, she smoothed her dress and blotted a smudge of mascara off her eyelid. Okay. No more stalling.

The day was flooded in sunlight — no small blessing. She had put Scotland and rain together and had been worried about showing up with no dazzle and too much drizzle. With her Versace sunglasses perched on her nose, she clacked down the walk in her high heels. The lady at the hotel desk had verified she could follow Victoria Street to the Grassmarket.

Normally, Beth would need blinders to walk past those shop windows and keep on course, but she hardly noticed the shoes that would match her new chartreuse dress. Since she’d pictured a little wood shop, she nearly walked right by Crafted by Cunninghams. The store stretched the length of three shop fronts and had a row of kitchen cabinets on display in the windows.

A bell tinkled as she pulled open the antique oak door and stepped inside. Rich, dark paneling gleamed from the back wall. Along the side wall hung various door styles, ranging in trim and colours. The show room was short with a faint smell of varnish. A saw’s buzz sounded from what must have been a workroom in the back. She headed for a trestle table where a man leaned over a sheaf of drawings. Darn. Not Calum.

He looked up, a pencil stuck in his teeth.

“Hi there,” she said. “I’m looking for Calum Cunningham. I heard he works here.”

“Do you mean Colin?” The brawny man tucked the pencil in over his ear. Geez, another one built like a brick house. Though he was older than Calum, he had to be related. It wasn’t just the same square chin — it was the smile. Not smoldering but definitely warm.

“Oh right. Yes, Colin. Is he here?”

The guy shook his head. “No. He’s gone for a pint. May I be of service?”

Beth hid her disappointment in a pretend smile. “No, thank you. I wouldn’t mind a pint though. Do you know where he went?”

His eyes flicked over Beth’s hot pink jacket and designer dress to her strappy black pumps. “You’ll find him at Auld Reekie’s.”

“Auld Reekie’s?” She stifled a chuckle instantly picturing a rank tavern thick with smoke. “And where would that be?”

“Out the door to the left, then carry on. It’s not far. You can’t miss it.”

Ten steps into that pub had Beth yearning for the smoke–free establishments back home. “Ugh.” Just like London. Her plan felt weak. She would tell Calum she needed a cabinet built and he’d been recommended for the job. It was her hope that he would be drawn magically to her, and the rest, history, again.

She stood in the doorway scanning the place — no Calum in the immediacy. Best fortify her nerve at the bar. The bar chairs were half filled. She slipped the jacket off her shoulders, hung it over the back of the chair and ordered what else? A whiskey. Just one to clear her head, well, it worked for Calum.

As she waited for her drink, she wondered how to awaken the spirit’s memory. And where exactly did that lie? Memories start with a sensory experience then are magically transferred to brain matter. That’s it. Better to define it all as magic. She should have majored in magic.

The bartender slipped a coaster across the bar and placed her glass in front of her.

She wrapped her hand around the glass. “Thanks. Do you know Colin Cunningham?”

He wiped his beefy hands on his apron, gave her a quick look–over, and smiled. “I do. He’s with the lads in the back. They’re wanting him to play a set tonight.”

Play a set? That was interesting — go figure the man had hidden talents. “What does Colin play?”

“Most times, it’s the flute, but he’s not half bad on the fiddle.”

She loved the flute. Her knees twitched. Don’t buckle on me now. He hadn’t played one heavenly note yet.

“Pardon me,” he said, catching the eye of a woman motioning him over.

Calum was somewhere in the back! She had to see him now. Leaving money on the bar, she scooped her coat over her arm, picked up her drink, and headed to the back.

The pub was divided into rooms, the rearmost larger than the front, with a different feeling, a nighttime ambiance, no windows. Beth counted six occupied tables as she stood in the doorway and checked the features of each occupant, quickly ruling out four tables of women and men too old to be Calum.

Would she recognize him? Yes, Finn said he looked much the same. Knowing he was close by sent her heart all a–pitter–patter. She headed to a table closer to the back. A raised platform was situated in the corner where instruments were being set up. She noticed the harp right away, make that harps, there were two. And more strings — a guitar and fiddle. Where was the flute player?

Tossing her coat onto a chair, she sat down just off the side of the platform. Not one man in the place radiated sensual heat. No crème–caramel hair, no sexy five–o’clock–shadowed jaw, no heavenly fanfare. Where was he?

She angled her chair toward the stage, leaned back and crossed her legs. An ice cube clunked against her top lip as she tilted the glass. Whiskey dripping from her chin — that’d make a fine, second first impression. She returned the glass firmly to the table and spent a few minutes wringing her hands. Calum lived there as a guy named Colin and had no memory of her. How bizarre was that?

“Ah, lass, you’re a bit early for the entertainment, but perhaps you’d be an approving audience for a wee practice.” The voice, smooth as cognac, had come from behind her then swirled round and floated down in a softer brogue than she’d expected, but with no less effect on her heart that promptly stopped.

“I’m not so adept, but they’re making me play.” His smile rose to his eyes and was ancient in its familiarity. He held her eyes as if he might have more to say; yet he winked and left her sitting there open–mouthed. Calum joined the men on the platform, a wooden flute clasped in one hand by his thigh.

Chapter 32

To Sleuth in Pink

The love of her lives was 10 feet away. How could she have doubted recognizing him? Every nerve in Beth’s body woke, purring like a million kittens arching their backs, rubbing against a leg, rolling over — scratch my tummy. It was a battle of will to stay put in the chair and not slip her hands under his shirt.

Oh, he looked good. From where she sat, she’d be hard–pressed to find differences, though she fully intended to examine him closer, starting immediately. His hair was the same crème–caramel colour but cut more stylishly, not as long. Eyes still sky blue, but younger somehow. Same feline shape to his face, square jaw, shadows under his cheekbones — clean–shaven though. The breadth of shoulders was not as wide, and he still had a perfect butt. Warrior didn’t come to mind, but there was nothing slick or urban about him either, rather he looked like a man of the woods, possibly due to the fine sawdust that clung to the hem of his pants.

Calum said something to a man with a guitar; the man looked over at Beth and nodded. She was the official audience now. The guitar was laid aside for a fiddle.

The fiddle player tested his strings with a few short notes. He started then stopped, and then started again grinning at Calum.

“All right then, here we go.” He launched into a quick and light tune Beth didn’t recognize. Then Calum joined him. The nimble notes snapped off the flute. He’s modest, she thought, sitting up straighter in her chair.

The two instruments complemented each other. Calum’s body moved gracefully with his music. His fingers flew over the holes and the look on his face was alive as the flute conversed with the fiddle. All conversation died behind her. She felt the vigour of the music down to her toes as her eyes trained on the flute player.

The last note sounded and Calum held it, his lips poised over the instrument until the song faded.

Beth whistled and clapped with the sparse audience. Calum nodded his head and looked over at her, his gaze warm, smiling and holding hers, holding …

“Never mind the flute, Colin love, come and play me, won’t you?” called a tarty voice from behind Beth.

Calum’s attention was diverted. Darn! Just when they were making eye contact. What kind of wanton women were they letting into this place?

Beth turned to see who had spoken. Yeck. A woman leaned against the back of a chair, a top–heavy, skinny thing with long bare legs because her skirt barely covered her butt, and short, black lacquer-like hair. The kind of bawdy look men noticed.

The sound of Calum’s voice drew her attention. “You flatter me, Lizzie, but I’m not nearly practiced enough for such an instrument as yourself.”

Good one, Calum, Beth thought.

“You leave your wooden flute over there, and I’ll teach you what to do with that mouth,” said the floosie.

“Now there’s proof that music charms the savage beast,” Beth said under her breath, but not so quiet to escape Calum’s ears.

He snorted a laugh and looked over to her.

“Ah, a newcomer. We should play for you, lass.” His eyes flicked so quickly up and down her body that the look–over was almost imperceptible. “You’ve surely come far to visit our fair land of brown heath and shaggy wood, no?”

She didn’t hear what he said to the fiddle player before he raised his flute. This time he played a satiny soft serenade, his eyes on hers, telling a stirring story. It was a good thing she was sitting. The long, lush lilt was a string of notes he played truly to unravel her. Minstrel vibrations sang deeply, intimately, not from the flute but from his eyes, from the melodious wave that ebbed and flowed between them. Did he feel it as well?

When his lips rose off the flute and the song ended there was no clapping, no noise at all, dead silence. The world shut down with only space left between Beth and Calum. It was humanly impossible for her to tear her eyes from his. Then he smiled and when the world came back she realised it had been there all along.

Now that was a connection.

He turned back to talk to the music men. Beth let her beautifully intense breath out. Now what? He would come over and speak to her, wouldn’t he? The old Calum would. She should have worn her hair up. No, then she would look even more overdressed. Lip gloss. He liked the sheen, hadn’t he told her so? She reached for her purse and unzipped. How could that tube get lost in such a small purse?

“Where are you from then, lass?”

She abandoned her search as her heart took off like a racehorse. She would die right there if she started panting.

“Canada,” she said, hoping the darn racehorse would trip.

“Ah, that’s why you caught my eye. I’ve a great love of Canada. I spent three years there after graduating.”

“Well, now that you’ve piqued my curiosity, you must sit down and tell me about it.” If he was still telling her about it next week, all the better.

He frowned. “I’d love to, but I’ve got something I need do to finish up the day.”

“Not yet.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to play like that and then abandon me with my heart all aflutter. Who knows what trouble I could get into in such a state?”

“Oh?” When he smiled, she was ice cream on hot pavement. “I’d not thought about that. I suppose it’s a matter of duty then.”

Oh dear God, he was exactly the same. “I’m glad to see you take your responsibilities seriously. Just one coffee, then I’ll release you back to your work.”

Calum pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. They introduced themselves then he asked, “What brings you to Edinburgh?”

How she would like to tell him the truth. You, Calum–Colin. I came to pick up where we left off. But she said something rational and mundane instead. “Perhaps the same thing that brought you to Canada. I just finished school and needed a holiday. Things had gotten a bit crazy.”

“Bad breakup?”

She laughed. “You could say that. And you? Did you escape a crazed woman by running to Canada?”

“No, that wouldn’t be fair to say. So where in Canada are you from?”

They talked through two coffees. She learned he’d grown up in Inverness, and then attended the University of Edinburgh earning a degree in environmental geoscience. His parents had divorced while he was in university, and his dad moved to Edinburgh utilizing his woodworking skills to grow a successful business that Calum was drawn to when he returned from Canada. He loved working with his hands.

She wasn’t surprised. The Calum she knew was good with those hands, whether it be wood, or music, or lovemaking. It was the strangest feeling talking with him like he was new and old at the same time. The look of him was the only constant. Being with him was like uncovering secrets. She knew things about him, he didn’t yet comprehend. He was a stranger in her lover’s body, but then he raised a brow, or smiled with his eyes, and she was instantly with ancient Calum. It was a trial in self–control not to pull him to her and kiss him senseless.

“Where are you staying?” He pushed his chair back.

She told him the name of the hotel and address, barely holding back her room number and giving him the key.

“Since you don’t know anyone else in Scotland, I could show you around a bit, if you’d like an escorted tour, that is.”

“Yes! Definitely. I’m ready to go when you are.” Forget your old life, Calum, I’m here now. She willed it across the space between their eyes.

He chuckled. “Hold on, like I said, I’ve some things to finish up this afternoon, but I could pick you up tomorrow morning.”

Tomorrow was so far away. She tried not to pout. “Okay, I suppose I can wait till then. I’ve had a great time talking with you, Calum.”

“Me too, Beth, and it’s Colin, by the way.”

Shoot. That was going to be a problem. He just didn’t feel like a Colin.

“Sorry. You look so much like a Calum I once knew.”

“No problem. Let me get this.” He stood, reached into his pocket, and tossed money onto the table.

Reluctantly Beth relinquished her chair. He picked up her coat and held it up for her to slide into. For a second, she was standing in his arms. Warmth rose like a wave, her warmth, deep inside at the thought of him touching her skin at the nape of her neck. She turned to face him. Their toes were nearly touching. She was going to do it. She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. It was a quick kiss, but firm, one he obviously hadn’t anticipated as his response was a little weak for her liking.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she said.

He held her eyes for a moment, his narrowed as if he was on the verge of solving a great puzzle, or maybe he was thinking better of spending the day with a woman who kisses every guy who buys her coffee.

“My pleasure,” he said finally. “Is nine a good time to pick you up? Or are you jet–lagged? Do you want to make it later?”

“No.” At the mention of jet lag, she became suddenly weary. She checked her watch — five o’clock. Noon Canadian time, and she hadn’t slept last night on the plane. “I’m going to go to bed early, so I’ll be up in the morning.”

He waited for her to walk out in front of him. Now she felt foolish for kissing him. The man was incredibly attractive and likely had to beat women back with a stick every time he played that flute.

“See ya, Colin, love,” the floosie said as they passed her table. Oh, great. Now he’d plunk her into the general mass of groupies fawning over him. So he’d noticed her enough to play her a song and have a chat over coffee. Their time together had been pleasant, but hadn’t exactly been fireworks. And she pitiably recalled, he’d not wanted to chat — she hadn’t given him much choice. He probably couldn’t wait to be free of her.

“Colin,” called the barkeep. He held a piece of paper up in his hand. “Tiffany wants you to pick up these groceries and get home with them if you’ve a care to be eating tonight.”

Oh no! Tiffany? Who the heck was that? His mother? Right, that’s it. Lots of auld Scottish mothers are named Tiffany.

Calum retrieved the list. Beth would have moved if she could, but was frozen to the floor, her eyes wide and staring at the barkeep.

Seemingly immune to her paralysis, Calum checked the list as he walked past her. When he held the door open, she shook the zombie feeling and stepped out ahead of him.

“I’m off this way.” He indicated the opposite direction she needed to take. “Do you know how to get back to your hotel?”

She tried to relax her face, just smile naturally, she told her mouth. “Yes. It’s not far.”

Just as Beth regrouped her emotions, panic hit her. Oh no! She checked his hands — no rings. Thank God for teeny–tiny mercies. He wasn’t married to Tiffany. She’d never been the kind of woman who went after guys with girlfriends, but this was different. After all, she had the green light from an all–powerful elf — what other boyfriend snatcher could say that. Sorry, Tiffany, Calum is mine!

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” She’d not let him out of it, no matter what he thought of her. Her heart began to race again, like there was so much at stake and she wasn’t performing well.

“Nine o’clock.” He smiled tightly.

“See you then.”

He headed down the street away from her.

Beth watched his back. She wanted to run her fingernails up and down that back. And she would. She affirmed it again — Tiffany or no. Maybe she was his sister? Why would Calum offer to show a stranger the city if he was in a relationship? Either he’s incredibly thoughtful, or he’s a two–timer? No, it couldn’t be. Could it?

She needed to know what she was up against. Sleep was for later. Calum had gone down Grassmarket, so she headed in that direction, discretely following behind to learn what she could of this Tiffany.

Her warrior had slipped out of sight. Where had he gone? She picked up the pace. There! She spied the navy shirt under the sun–kissed head moving with the same confident, graceful gait as always. Her feet click–clacked along the sidewalk. She should have worn running shoes.

“Oh, pardon me,” she said to a woman whose arm she’d nearly knocked off when she deked suddenly to catch Calum entering a doorway. Beth stopped two store fronts away at a genealogy shop.

Trace your Scottish heritage here, it promised. She couldn’t go in or she might miss Calum. Was she far enough away to observe yet remain unobserved? What do people do to look inconspicuous? She turned to the street and studied her watch.

Ten minutes later Calum popped out of the shop with a bag. Tiffany’s groceries she assumed. Oh no! His head turned her way. She spun her back to him. Shoot — pink coat. She was too close. Had he seen her gawking? Please no.

Then again, what if he’d not seen her? She would lose him if she didn’t take a little peek.

With a discrete swivel, she faced the genealogy shop and spared a glance down the street.

She shrieked as her heart slammed into her rib cage.

Calum stood directly beside her. “You look lost.” His brows raised in what must have been sheer wonder.

All she could do was swallow — hard. “Uh, no, no I’m not lost. I … I thought I’d do a family tree while I’m here. Although, it is getting late. Perhaps I’ll leave it for another day after all.”

He looked amused. “Good plan. The shop’s closed.”

“Oh, so it is. Look at that.”

“Are you all right, Beth?”

“Yes.” Another swallow. “Yes. Fine. I’m fine. Just a little tired. I should head back to my hotel now. Nice to see you again. Looking forward to tomorrow.” She forced her mouth into a smile to prevent herself from rambling something even more ridiculous.

“Nine o’clock,” he reminded.

With no more than a nod, she turned in a full retreat. Her feet couldn’t carry her fast enough. Obviously Sherlock Holmes did not sleuth in hot pink.

Their reunion was not going as smoothly as she’d anticipated. He was supposed to look into her eyes and be instantly smitten. Instead, she’d made a fool of herself more than once and botched her stakeout, leaving Calum free to have dinner, and probably breakfast, at Tiffany’s.

After a deep breath, she exhaled slowly. Best not to forget she did have a date with him tomorrow. She could do this. Whoever Tiffany was, she was no match for a thousand–year connection.

She thought back to when she’d first met Calum. He’d not been deterred by the whirlwind of extraneous events competing for her attention. They’d never have come together if he’d not persisted, and persist he had.

Beth climbed the steps to the hotel. Sleep was necessary to clear her head, not whiskey, not coffee.

You ain’t seen nothing yet, Calum-Colin, she vowed. That kiss — child’s play. She could sizzle too and not just in the kitchen. The oven mitts were coming off. Tiffany would soon be yesterday’s dinner.

Chapter 33

Something About That Canadian Lass

The next morning Colin Cunningham stepped out of the shower, dried off, and wrapped a towel around his waist. In the kitchen while coffee dripped, he popped bread into the toaster and checked the sky out the back window — bright, no clouds. Excellent. A fine day for sightseeing. He was eager to see Beth Stewart again. Eager and intrigued.

Yesterday when he’d caught her spying on him, and there was no doubt the lass had followed him, he’d had to grit his teeth not to laugh at the startled look on her face as she’d fumbled for an excuse. He was definitely intrigued by the Canadian lass.

When he’d come down from Tiffany’s last night, there had been a message on his phone from his brother. Had the foreign lass in the pink coat found Colin at the tavern, and how had she come to know him? Good question. Yesterday, Beth had sought him out at his workplace, but at the pub, she’d not let on she knew his name. Knew his name? Hardly. She’d called him Calum.

That mystery wasn’t all that intrigued him, the lass was bonny to be sure. Her smile lit her eyes like the sun rising over the firth, though he’d no idea their colour or shape. It wasn’t their physical beauty that had grabbed him, but something else, something personal, something familiar, something intimate in her eyes. Yes, he was looking forward to the day.

Colin ate his toast as he pulled on a pair of jeans and a long–sleeved T-shirt. An envelope sat on the desk in the vestibule. Tiffany and Edgar’s rent money. His tenants had likely knocked on his door when he was in the shower. Small mercies. He didn’t feel like explaining his behaviour at dinner last night.

Their symbiotic relationship worked well — Colin shopped, Tiffany cooked, Edgar cleaned up. Last night, Edgar had invited his coworker Rebecca to dinner. A sleek, dark–haired woman with model looks. Rebecca was overly congenial. She agreed with his every word and laughed a little too long. He’d been close to demanding a contrary thought from her.

After dinner, the four of them sat at the table talking about past relationships. Edgar had praised Tiffany for saving him from a disastrous situation where he’d become slave to his old girlfriend’s pendulum moods. Edgar referred to the folk story of Tam Lin thanking Tiffany for her valiant rescue.

That’s when it happened. Colin had a strong recollection of telling Beth Stewart that very story in the back of a horse–drawn carriage. He’d felt a lustful surge at the thought of her tucked so close to him and an urgency that she must kiss him. He couldn’t imagine where the thought came from. The look on his face must have been comical as he sorted out the bizarre confusion. How could he have a memory of a woman he’d just met? When would he have ridden in a carriage with Beth Stewart? Never. He was sure of it, as sure as he’d been of the memory. A strong déjà vu settled over his bones.

Edgar had winked at Colin, exaggerated a yawn and announced he’d had a hard day. Ah, the signal. Colin was supposed to take Rebecca downstairs to his flat. But it was all wrong. He didn’t feel comfortable when her hand had slipped over his. He’d pulled away, apologized, and left, feeling three pairs of eyes burning holes in his back. No wonder he’d had a lousy sleep.

The Canadian lass had him piqued and distracted.

Colin brought the envelope inside his flat and tossed it on his kitchen table, his mind on Beth Stewart. It had been a while since he played tour guide.

Though he couldn’t define it, he hadn’t immediately dismissed the exceptionally clear memory of Beth in the carriage as a fault of his imagination. He was anxious to find out more about the Canadian lass who had sequestered his memories. Swiping the keys off the top of the television, he locked up and headed over to Beth’s hotel.

• • •

For the life of her, Beth couldn’t remember the name of the town where she and Calum had pledged their eternal love. Last month, when he’d told her the story, it wasn’t minor details like setting she’d noticed, it was the emotion behind his eyes as he recounted his love for her. All she remembered was that it happened during the reign of King David. Little help that was.

The appropriate environment could stimulate his deep–rooted feelings for her — sights, smells, sounds of where they’d fell so profoundly in love. King David had tried to push the Scottish border into England. She remembered that much, so she planned a picnic south of Edinburgh. It was as good a start as any for a passion–rekindling reminiscence.

And reminisce she would. She couldn’t begin to understand the workings of it, but somewhere Calum–Colin carried a memory or a feeling of being with her. Had she not felt something for the warrior from their first meeting? Definitely. Though she’d been slow to admit it, Calum had her attention from the very start. Tiffany was much the same as Matthew had been — a bump she must push Calum over and leave behind. Sorry, Tiffany, but she was talking a thousand year romance, so technically he was hers first.

By eight-forty-five, Beth had rented a car, shopped for a picnic lunch, and returned to the hotel.

Not only did Calum look sexy as hell as he approached, he was on time. He didn’t appear to notice the two women check him out as he walked toward Beth. The urge to kiss him curled her toes. So unlike her, but she loved the feeling. By the end of the day, she silently pledged their relationship would be in warp speed and there would definitely be kissing.

“I thought we might go to the castle first before it gets busy,” he said, after greetings. “You’d not want to miss the chapel of St. Margaret, if it’s a history lesson you’re after. From there we can walk the Royal Mile to the city chambers and go underneath to Mary Kings Close, a sixteenth–century town, home to the first skyscrapers. If we’re in luck we’ll see the ghost. We can stop to have a wee lunch somewhere along the way. Does that sound good or was there something else you wished to see?”

“Actually, there is. I hope you don’t mind, Cal … Colin,” ugh, she hated calling him Colin, “but I rented a car. I’d love to get out of the city and see a bit of the countryside.”

“You’ve come all the way to Edinburgh and you’re not wanting to see it?”

“I do, but not today. It’s a beautiful morning, and I was up early so I packed us a picnic lunch. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

One of Calum’s eyebrows rose. He brushed his fingers through his hair — a familiar gesture that touched her heart.

“You didn’t need to rent a car, you know. I could have driven.”

“It’s done now, but you can still drive.”

“Right then. A picnic. Not what I expected but very good. Better. I’d rather spend the day in the country and since you, Beth Stewart, wore sensible shoes, I suppose we’d best be off.”

He had noticed her strappy black sandals yesterday. Once again, she’d dressed in clothes she hoped he might recognize, the ones she’d worn when they’d hiked in Finn’s world — running shoes, jeans and a pink T-shirt under a navy zip–up sweater.

They walked down the street to where Beth had parked. The automatic Rover had cost a fortune. Hopefully it would prove its worth. After she dropped their lunch on the back seat, she handed Calum the keys.

“Right then, we could drive to the firth, it’s very fine, or go up toward the Highlands.”

“No.” She hated to be disagreeable, but their love lives were at stake. “I’d prefer to see the border country, if you don’t mind.”

He smiled as if content that she vetoed his every plan. “Not at all. I’m pleased you speak your mind, lass. South it is, then.”

Beth couldn’t possibly have kept that car on the road, what with the stunning vista stretched out panoramically, not to mention the one in the driver’s seat. Being distracted by Calum was no surprise, but she’d never been so affected by a landscape before. The beauty of the heather–covered hills washed through her completely, seeping into empty parts of her she only now recognized were vacant.

As Calum talked on about the countryside, his brogue and the relaxed look of him stirred her emotions. She worried that the sound of her heart pounding would ring through the high braes and low glens, and the sheep would begin to stampede.

“You should see your face.” He glanced at her as he drove. “Looks like you’re in a dream–come–true kind of place.”

Her face hurt from smiling. “I’m having one of those ecstatic experiences like the great yogis. I swear these hills are speaking directly to my spirit.”

Calum’s smile was alive. “Ah, I’m glad to hear it. We’ll drive a bit farther then. I know a good spot for a wee hill walk to stimulate that spirit of yours.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“So tell me something, Beth. Are you always so trusting of strangers? You’re not concerned I could be a Deacon Brodie?”

She’d learned from the visitors’ guide that Deacon Brodie was more commonly known as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. How should she explain herself? “Well, I’m quite psychic, you know, and I have a good feeling about you, Calum.”

He laughed. “Ah, a lass with decent instincts, and I’ve a good feeling about you even though you called me Calum again.”

“Sorry about that.” He had a good feeling about her. She’d be in trouble if he didn’t, but it was nice to hear. On that subject, it was time to find out if Tiffany had cooked her way from Calum’s stomach to his heart.

“I’m not sure why Calum is stuck on my tongue because he’s ancient history now. What about you? Is there anyone special in your life?”

“More special than a lass who flies all the way from Canada to visit my shop and upon finding me absent, tracks me down at the local pub? Strange that you asked for me by name, but can’t seem to get it right.” He peered at her with a raised brow although his eyes were smiling.

Cripes! The guy in the cabinet shop had ratted on her. Great idea that had been — dressing to be noticed. “I heard you were an excellent craftsman, and I may buy a small cabinet while I am here. I wanted to get right on it, so there’d be time to have it built.”

“How nice to hear I’m known over so far and wide. You didn’t mention that yesterday.”

“Because you mesmerised me with your music and all thought of business went out of my mind.”

“Are all Canadian lassies so pitiable liars as you? It’s a good thing I’ve got all day to get to the truth of the matter.”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” she said under her breath.

“Oh? Now I’m truly intrigued.”

She shouldn’t have said that. It was too comfortable speaking with him. It’d be easier if he didn’t look the same. She didn’t see a way to tell him the truth until he knew her better, until he felt some attachment. Otherwise, he’d not only think her a liar, but crazy to boot. Best change the subject and fast.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she pointed out. “Are you dating anyone?”

“Why do you ask? Were you wanting more than my services as a tour guide?”

Yes, but she’d already decided not to be that honest. A thought struck her. No, he wouldn’t have that performance problem in this life. Would he? Her gaze flicked to his groin before she could stop herself.

Oh no, he’d caught her. A devilish smile curved his beautiful lips. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you?”

Heat rose to her face like a tectonic eruption. “No, I’m really not. It was just a reflex response to your suggestion. Please just forget it.”

“You are one interesting lass, Beth.”

He’d skirted her question again. Fine. It didn’t matter. Calum–Colin was hers, no matter how many Tiffanys he was dating.

“I’ve a friend Edgar,” he said. “He believes he’s found my perfect match in a woman he works with because he thinks her incredibly beautiful.”

Incredibly beautiful? There was only one thing to do about that — off with her head!

Beth cleared her throat. It had gotten lumpy in there suddenly. “Perhaps Edgar should date her then.”

“Tiffany wouldn’t like that.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with Edgar?”

“Nothing at all. Tiffany is Edgar’s girlfriend.”

What? Was Calum seeing Edgar’s girlfriend behind his back. “Wasn’t it Tiffany who asked you to bring home groceries last night?” Ha! He probably didn’t think she’d remember her name.

“Yes, it’s the least I can do. She feeds me well. Tiffany and Edgar live in the flat above me.”

“Oh.” Beth let out a short exhale. There was no need to feel deflated. Had Edgar’s beautiful goddess flown all the way from Canada for him?

“Do you think you’ve found your perfect match in Edgar’s choice of woman?” She tried not to wince as she waited for his answer.

He snorted. “I admit to a physical attraction, but it’s not likely to go further than that.”

Further than that? Physical contact was more than far enough. Okay, enough about the goddess. Calum had his perfect match — right there in Beth.

“That’s all I need to know,” she said. “Neither of us have ties, so we’ll see how you do as a tour guide, then I’ll let you know if I require further services.”

He shot her a warm look — not sizzling — not quite yet.

Chapter 34

Tam Lin Inspired

Beth didn’t direct Calum in any way once they’d left Edinburgh. Now that they were together she let his instincts guide them. Let the pull of the past be the beacon she prayed he felt. She’d been amply rewarded.

When they’d passed a sign coming up on the town of Roxburgh, she had nearly exclaimed out loud. Every fine hair on her body rose as if summoned to attention. Roxburgh. That was it! The cadence of Calum’s voice came back from the twelfth–century story as he’d recalled her Norman father bringing a young Beth to meet her barbarian husband. So he journeyed with you to Rokesburg where we were married that very day. They’d lived somewhere in these hills. She was sure of it.

Calum pulled over and parked the car beside a sweet–smelling stream forged out of the flat land between rolling hills. The air hummed, buzzed, and twilled. Clear water burbled over rocks edged in high waving grasses that beckoned them to come.

“Wow.” It was all she could say for the moment. Her eyes trailed the brook that tinkled a sweet song through the glen dappled with angelica and yellow iris gently swaying in the warm breeze.

“You look like a lass who’s only just discovered the sky.” He smiled as she caught his eye. “Would you care to walk the hills a bit? We can come back and take our lunch by the water.”

His smile reached inside her and resonated warmly. This wasn’t going to be easy. These hills beat in her heart, and she wanted things to be the way they had been. No more pretending they’d just met. She wanted to shout their history at him, then throw herself into his arms, and make love in the heather.

But that was a fantasy. She wouldn’t chance scaring him off. After a week or so of hill walking and sightseeing, when they’d grown closer, she’d start spilling one bean at a time till all their past was out.

They walked along a bike trail for a couple hours or minutes, she didn’t feel time moving. Talking was easy and comfortable. He told her stories from his childhood, from university, from Canada. She told him she used to feel shortchanged not having a mother until a friend helped her shed that destructive disappointment. Now she reveled in what she did have and shared father–daughter stories with him.

“Oh look.” She grasped his hand, having spied a glass–winged butterfly. It felt thoroughly natural to hold his hand as they stood still watching the transparent wings flutter on a cross–leaved heath. His callused grip was as strong as ever.

There was no escaping the passage of time when Calum’s stomach rumbled loud enough to make her laugh.

“We should go back and have lunch,” she offered.

“Not yet. I want you to see the view from the top of this hill. We’re almost there.”

When they reached the softly rounded peak, Beth tried not to gasp. A shimmering river ribboned along the valley from the far off uplands brushed in butter yellows and lilacs. There was no place to look that didn’t steal her breath. Calum closed the distance between them to stand behind her. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. As usual his touch electrically charged every particle in her body. He hesitated as if he felt it too and then his grip came firm again. She leaned into him magnetically.

“You might think I’m a wee gowk for telling you this, but I feel a connection to you, Bethia, in this place, as though we’ve been here before.”

He’d called her Bethia! “You feel it?”

She turned to face him.

“Do you?” he asked.

“Yes, I do. There was a reason I wished to drive this way. Last night, I had a dream we’d lived together here, in this place. I recognise it now. I dreamt that we pledged our love for all eternity.”

“Pledged our love?”

“Well …” Oh, what the heck. “Yes, I have a belief in past lives, Colin, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you and I lived a life here in the twelfth century, where I thought you a murdering barbarian until I came to know your better side, and we lived a blissful life together that was unfortunately cut short when I died from the plague.”

She checked his expression carefully, but he didn’t have a smirk of disbelief on his face like she would have. He merely looked puzzled. “Why do I have to be a murdering barbarian in this fantasy of yours?”

“It’s not murder when you’re fighting for your king.”

“No, I suppose it’s not. Perhaps you should tell me more of your dreams.”

It was one thing to admit to a little déjà vu, quite another to spring their history upon him as if it was the stuff of dreams. How could she tell him? Would she start with his impotence? Oh, right, there’s a good conversation starter. Or perhaps Finn, the trickster? Or Matthew, the thief? Or should she start way back with their thousand–year pledge? No. Too bizarre.

She reached for Calum’s hand and held it between hers. “When we met, I had a strong feeling about you, as if you are a kindred spirit, and I love to tell stories — ”

“Do you know the story of Tam Lin?”

Beth squeaked. Was it possible? “Why do you ask?”

“Yesterday after we met, I had a fleeting memory of being in a carriage with you telling that story and,” his tongue brushed his bottom lip, “I was stressed about a kiss as though I shouldn’t kiss you even though it was what I wanted.”

Not kiss her? That didn’t sound like the Calum she knew. But he remembered it! And if he thought they were going to talk about kissing and not do it …

“You know, strangely enough, I have a recollection of that very same moment.” She flashed him a smile of invitation. His fingers threaded through hers as his eyes of blue lit with interest.

“I believe I did kiss you,” she said. “But you definitely leaned in first. Here, let me show you how I believe it happened.”

His sexy lips parted then he smiled like he knew what she craved as he leaned in closer.

“And then what?” he asked in a voice gone husky.

“You swept your hand through my hair by the nape of my neck.”

“You’ll have to come closer then.”

“Like this?” He brushed his fingers through the hair at her temple to the back of her neck. The slow, lazy feel of each finger was fire on her skin.

“Oh yes, nice. Now, in my dream, the kiss wouldn’t have happened if you’d not made the night magic with the fairy story of Tam Lin and the horse–and–buggy ride. Yet as I recall, you did wait for me to kiss you.”

“Ah, you likely intimidated me with your bold ways.” His eyes were a soft enchantment.

“Intimidate you? Not a chance.”

“But if I leaned in, lass, my intent was clear enough, no?”

Whether he had or not didn’t matter, he kissed her then, and it was magic. Beth heard the bells of heaven ringing a sweet song at their coming together. There was nothing new in the feel of his lips on hers, the tip of his tongue, the taste of him, his erotic male scent. For her it was like coming home to the place where life’s heart beat, where her spirit was born and sustained, where her senses were heightened to their capacity.

She didn’t kiss him like she’d known him a mere day. They dropped to the ground where her kiss spoke of timeless love and greeting her cherished friend and lover, different from the kiss in the carriage, when she’d been overwhelmed by the physical sensations of his mouth on hers. That kiss paled in comparison. Profound this time, she kissed him with her ancient, primal heart.

When they finally drew apart, they lay in the grass together, he on his back, his thumb tracing the outline of her lips, she on his chest, her forefinger running the length of his angled cheekbone. As their gazes locked, he concentrated as if she were a diary to be read.

“I’ve never known a kiss as that. Who are you, Beth Stewart?”

“I’m yours and you are mine. And by the way, if you think to find your perfect match in Edgar’s goddess, it’s not going to happen.”

“Is that so? You’re fair certain then. What if I’m not the man you’ve foreseen in your dreams?”

“I’m willing to take the chance. You do not feel like a man I’ve known a mere day. This is love at first sight for me, and I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, but I’ve not nearly the self–control you had, though I didn’t think you had any at the time, but I see now you did, because this is very difficult, and if you had any sense you’d stop me before I tell you things that will make your head spin.” She sighed. “You must think I’m crazy.”

He’d been watching her ramble on with a look of amusement. “If I thought you crazy, I’d not be rolling through the heather with you. Don’t worry over much, lass, I feel a strong connection to you as well. You are so familiar to me that I’m willing to risk that head spinning. But first come here. Kiss me again.”

Six months later

Outside the window at the Inverness Inn, Earth slept, gilded white under snow crystals that sparkled in the light of the full moon.

So this is love, Beth revered, momentarily lingering in the stillness of the glistening night. Pretty spectacular. Love, that is. Loss and abandonment no longer lived within her.

“Have I told you how fine you are to me, m’eudail,” Calum said to his wife, drawing her back from the window against him. When she’d related the Gaelic endearment to him, he’d taken to it fondly assuring her that she was the finest of treasures. He wrapped her in his arms and leaned forward. His jaw grazed her temple as they stood still as the night.

“Yes, but I’ll never tire of it.” She leaned back to feel the length of him against her.

“Then come to bed and I’ll tell you again.”

It was their wedding night, six months from the day she’d arrived in Scotland. She’d not left. The power of love had quickly bound them unremittingly. Her family had flown in a week ago for the wedding.

Calum pulled a pin from her hair releasing a curled strand to her shoulder, and then he pushed it aside and kissed her neck. One kiss and she trembled. Would there ever come a day when his touch did not tantalise her?

“Did you notice my mother with your father?” he asked.

“You mean that dance?” Beth laughed. “I would guess that it’s been a long time since my father has pressed up against a woman like that. I don’t want to even think about what they’re doing now.”

“Ah, no. I have something else for you to think on. How do we get this dress off?”

“Undo the clasp above the zipper there, do you see it?”

He took his time finding it. The tip of his tongue drew up fine tremors from under her skin in the same way he’d always done. And always was a long time. Slowly, he made his way to the clasp.

“I’ve got something sensuous and decadent to rub you all over,” he whispered, his lips on her neck, “and it smells good too — oil of jasmine. My sister gave it to me.”

“Your sister?”

“Aye, she wants to make sure I treat you well. She likes you.”

“I can’t imagine ever complaining, Calum.” It just hadn’t felt right to call him Colin.

“‘Tis my intent to keep a smile on your face. Now take off that dress and get you over to that bed, woman.”

He’d dropped their bags just inside the door and went to retrieve the oil. “That’s strange. I know it’s in here. I remember putting it in the outside pocket.”

His clothes piled up on the floor as he searched. She was about to tell him to forget the oil when an oddly warm but familiar breeze blew through the room, ruffling every flimsy thing to a flutter.

She didn’t need to see who had appeared behind her. The look on Calum’s face said it plainly enough.

“Come off the bed, lass, and keep behind me.” He crossed the room.

Beth slipped down and turned to see the white–haired elf standing fully erect, eyes flaring gold fire.

“It’s okay, Calum, this is Finn. I told you about him, remember?”

Calum’s eyes narrowed as he either pulled forth the memory of Beth telling him of Finn or a memory from his own past.

“Hello, Bethia.” Finn’s gaze swept her half–naked body up and down. “My timing is good, you’ve still got clothes on.”

A low growl sounded in Calum’s throat. “I’ll ask you to keep your eyes off my wife.” He stepped forward, flicked a sheet from the bed, and draped Beth.

“Is it a challenge you’re wanting then?” Finn asked Calum, who eyed the elf with distaste and provocation.

“No!” Beth interjected.

“Why don’t you state your business,” Calum said.

“I liked him better a thousand years ago,” Finn confided to Beth.

“I liked you better before you ogled my wife.”

“She wouldn’t be your wife if not for me,” Finn pointed out.

“Ah …” Calum appeared to think better of what he was going to say. “It’s true, I suppose. But from what I heard, you are not innoce — ”

“Calum.” Beth sent him a sharp look. This was her wedding night, and she didn’t want it becoming a Finn–versus–Calum embroilment. “We don’t want to take any more of Finn’s time. Let him tell us why he’s here.”

“Your wife has good sense. You could learn a thing or two.”

Finn’s eyes flickered with amusement, Beth noticed, relieved. He promptly disappeared, quickly reappearing on the other side of Beth, his fingers perched on her shoulders. The message was clear — no matter how valiant Calum’s effort to protect his wife, Finn had the upper hand.

Calum didn’t take the bait, but instead crossed his arms over his chest and kept quiet.

“You’re a quick study,” Finn said. “‘Tis why I like you, and I do, warrior, so you’ve no need to be defensive. I’ve not invaded your wedding chamber with ill intent, but to wish you well in this marriage. While you’ve no memory of it, your unions have carried a heavy share of turmoil. Still, you have persevered to yet another beginning. I am here to bestow upon you blessings from your neighbors, the Fair Folk. There will be no tragedy in your lives and your cup will be full evermore and,” he spun Beth around like a top to face him, “in answer to your wonderings, Bethia, his kiss will always tantalise you in the finest way.” He swept Beth back into Calum’s arms. “Don’t think ill of the trickster. We had fun together, no? Warrior?”

Finn winked at Calum and held his eyes in a strong stare. Calum’s own eyes widened.

“I remember you now,” Calum recalled. “You assigned three tasks. You …” He glanced back and forth between Beth and Finn. A sheepish look crossed his face. “Never mind.”

“Yes, wise. Best left unsaid,” Finn suggested. “As I was saying, do accept these blessings, a wedding gift from the noble trickster. Don’t disappoint me. Remember, Bethia, fodder for the universe.”

Finn glided back, a smile curved his thin lips. He bowed gracefully, his long white hair dusted the floor, and then he rose and tossed Calum the missing jasmine oil. With a silver tinkle and standard puff the trickster was gone.

“Well, that was brief and all the better for it,” said Calum.

Beth let out a short breath as he pulled her into his arms.

“Fodder for the universe?” he asked.

“Three tasks, was it?” she countered.

“Let’s leave it for later.”

“Good idea.”

“We’re very lucky, you know.” He rested his forehead against hers. “A Fae blessing is nothing to scoff at. And don’t think it won’t come to pass, the tantalising part, I mean.”

“Is that so?”

He kissed her long and deep until her body deliciously purred from tip to toe. Tantalise her he would, till the end of their days and he wouldn’t stop there. Beth wiggled out of the sheet and led Calum to the bed.

Scoff at Finn’s blessing? Not a chance. She didn’t scoff easily any longer. Beth had never fully landed back in the real world, nor did she intend to.

The delicate scent of jasmine blossomed around her sigh as her husband’s hands moved over her skin. His eyes were magic as they drew her into the promise of everlasting, unencumbered love. This was the real world and here in this place with her very own warrior, she would stay.

Acknowledgments

I want to thank Jennifer Lawler and all the staff at Crimson Romance who had a hand in this novel and in making my publishing experience swift and smooth.

I also want to thank my critique partners: Sherry Isaac, Urve Tamberg, Carole-Ann Vance, Siobhan Minty, Jennifer Filipowicz, Linda Cassidy and Geoff Weaver for their honesty, constancy and support.

One more thank you to Brian Henry for his editing expertise in the early stages of Love of Her Lives and for suggesting Calum needed more attitude.

It’s a long road to publication, and I’m also thankful for the endearing support of my blog partner Carole St. Laurent and to Gloria Richard for providing the necessary giggles and to my wonderful family and friends who have listened to my story problems and dreams for a long time now. I wouldn’t want to do this without you all!

More From This Author
Rhapsody by Sharon Clare

Immortal Love

Carmen Ferreiro-Esteban

Avon, Massachusetts

This edition published by

Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com

Copyright © 2012 by Carmen Ferreiro-Esteban

ISBN 10: 1-4405-5476-5

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5476-6
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5477-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5477-3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123rf.com

Cover Design Elaine Lee at forthemusedesigns.com

To Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer and Federico García Lorca, my two favorite poets, whose lives, so tragically short, I have expanded in my novel, by granting them immortality.

An immortality that, in spirit, they have already attained through their work.

To Marie and the members of BILY (Because I Love You) at Doylestown. My family outside my family. I wouldn’t have made it without you.

To my critique group, the Paper Whites, who read it first.

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One: Bécquer

Chapter Two: Madison

Chapter Three: Federico

Chapter Four: Matt

Chapter Five: The Portrait

Chapter Six: The Kiss

Chapter Seven: The Party

Chapter Eight: Beatriz

Chapter Nine: Kidnapped

Chapter Ten: Ryan

Chapter Eleven: Bécquer’s Request

Chapter Twelve: Rachel

Chapter Thirteen: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Chapter Fourteen: The Contract

Chapter Fifteen: Richard

Chapter Sixteen: The Consequence

Chapter Seventeen: Bécquer’s Letter

Chapter Eighteen: In the Hospital

Chapter Nineteen: The Pact

Chapter Twenty: Cesar

Chapter Twenty-One: Red Roses

About the Author

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

Chapter One: Bécquer

Bécquer called Sunday morning.

I was arguing with my daughter at the time, because she wanted to go to a Halloween party and I said no. I said no, not only because the party started late, but also because the outfit she planned to wear would have been too small had she been five, and she was fifteen. Caught in the middle of my impassioned speech to support my refusal, I picked up the receiver and barked a sharp hello.

A voice, deep and beguiling, answered mine. “Carla, this is Bécquer.”

The dark eyes his name evoked sent my heart into overdrive so that my voice shook when I returned his greeting.

“We met last Sunday at the Eastern College Writers Conference,” he explained.

As if I could forget.

He had been the only agent to ask me for a full manuscript that day. The only male, too, in a sea of female agents, a fact that would have made him memorable even if he hadn’t had the impossible good looks of a pagan god. He was older than most agents at the conference, mid-thirties was my guess, and, unlike all the others, he knew who I was.

“I read Two Moon Princess,” he’d told me when I sat down at his table. His voice, loud enough to be heard over the noise of other attendees furiously pitching their stories, was warm, creating a comforting intimacy between us. An intimacy his words only enhanced.

He was the fifth agent to whom I’d delivered my pitch that morning. Or maybe he was the sixth. I’d lost count of how many had told me already, with canned smiles glued on their faces, that my project was not a good fit for their list. As for someone reading my published work, that was a first. Ever.

“You did?” I mumbled, trying to remember whether I had sent a resume with my application.

“I ran a search on you.” He answered my unspoken question. “I’m interested in Spanish history.” Nothing personal, his words implied.

“Your accent — ”

“Still there after all these years,” he interrupted me as if to discourage further inquiry. “Tell me about your new novel. Did the boy kill the queen?”

“It’s a love story,” I told him, reluctant to give away the ending.

Bécquer smiled, showing a perfect row of white teeth between his sensuous lips. “Marvelous. I adore love stories, especially when they have tragic endings.”

Bécquer’s voice came through the phone, bringing me back to the present. “I finished your manuscript and would like to meet with you to discuss it. If that’s all right.”

“Yes, of course.” I tried and failed to sound nonchalant. “When?” I grabbed a pen as I spoke and faced the calendar on the kitchen wall to mark the date.

“Café Vienna on State and Main in fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen minutes? You mean you’re here in Doylestown?”

“Exactly.”

I would have asked for more time, but I could hear Madison screaming her head off up in her room, probably complaining to a friend about her impossible mother. Because my mind was busy blocking her voice, I didn’t have a lot of brains left for thinking. So I agreed, only to panic as soon as I hung up.

What was I thinking? I would never make it on time.

But I did. It took me a minute to run upstairs, give Madison an ultimatum — either she could go to the party in another costume or wear that one at home — and rush in, then right back out of my room.

• • •

Bécquer was sitting by one of the windows, a cup of coffee in front of him. He got up as I approached and, after inviting me to the chair across from him with a movement of his hand, asked me what I would like to drink.

“An espresso would be nice,” I said, taken aback by his old-fashioned manners. When was the last time someone, male or female, had offered to get my order? Yes, I knew gentlemanly manners were a sign of male dominance, and I had endured enough of the drawbacks of a misogynistic society as a child to be certain I didn’t want to live in one. But the way Bécquer asked was not condescending, more like offering a courtesy to an equal. If he wanted to impress me, he succeeded. Somehow, I thought he wasn’t trying.

Soon he was back from the counter and set the espresso in front of me: a small cup on a saucer, the European way. I thanked him for the coffee and for the fact that he had brought me a real cup. How did he know, I wondered, that I missed the Spanish cafés and the coffee served like this, in white porcelain cups? Maybe he missed them, too, and he had guessed.

How strange the little things I remembered from my old life, the one I gave up when I followed my ex-husband to the States. I shook my head to get rid of the memories, and sipped my coffee while Bécquer stared at me.

“I loved your story,” he said, when I put the cup down.

I waited, out of habit, for the “unfortunately it doesn’t fit my current list” I was certain would follow, but it didn’t come.

“I hope you don’t have an agent yet, for I would like to represent you.”

“You want to represent me?”

“Yes, of course. You didn’t think I came all the way here to apologize for not taking you as a client, did you?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I trust you have checked my credentials by now and know I’ve run my agency for ten years and been pretty successful placing my clients.”

He laughed when I blushed, for he had guessed right.

“So?”

I knew I had a speech prepared for this occasion stored somewhere in my brain. But when I searched my mind I couldn’t find it. I nodded. “Yes, I would like you to be my agent.”

“Good.” Bécquer reached for the briefcase resting on the windowsill. He had beautiful hands, wide and strong, an artist’s hands. Long ago, when I was younger, I had looked at hands as a way to judge a possible suitor. Bécquer’s would have passed the test big time. Not that it mattered anymore. I was not thinking of a suitor now. Hadn’t since I’d married. Not even after the divorce. When you marry the devil you don’t want to try again.

“Are you all right?”

I blushed furiously under his dark stare and nodded.

Bécquer pushed a paper toward me. “I took the liberty of bringing the contract with me. Care to sign?”

“Now?”

“After you’ve read it, of course.”

An alarm went off in my head. Every piece of advice I had ever heard told me to be cautious, to read the small print. But when I looked down and saw the contract, I frowned in surprise. It was handwritten, with the flowery calligraphy they don’t teach in schools anymore. A style that would have been outdated, even in my time. Yet it was easy to read: the text was short and straightforward, the conditions better than the ones on a standard contract. No fine print to ponder.

I looked up. “It seems reasonable,” I said, and then stopped, suddenly aware of the total silence around us. Everyone, I realized with a start, was frozen in place, as if they were actors in a movie I had paused by mistake.

“What happened?”

“Beatriz.” Bécquer pointed at the door where a woman in a smart suit stood facing us. “My personal secretary. She found me.”

My stomach hurting as if the coffee I’d just swallowed had turned to ice, I looked from the woman back to him, and then again around us, taking in the impossible stillness of the place.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice broken with fear.

Bécquer sighed and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“I’m Bécquer,” he said. “Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer.”

He pronounced the name slowly, his eyes on mine, and I knew he wasn’t lying. Yet the truth was unacceptable.

“You may remember me from your Spanish classes,” he continued. “Literatura it was called back then, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s impossible.”

I stood so abruptly my chair crashed to the floor. I remembered Bécquer, all right. He was the Spanish writer whose poems of unrequited love I’d memorized when I was thirteen, as every other Spanish girl, before and after me, has done the first time a clueless boy breaks her heart. Yes. I remembered Bécquer. But Bécquer …

“Bécquer is dead. He died long ago,” I said louder than I had intended, my fear, now a wave of panic that threatened to swallow me.

He nodded, nonchalant, a smile playing on his lips as though he was pleased that I remembered him. “In eighteen seventy to be exact. Only, I didn’t really die. I just stopped being human.”

“And what are you now, then? A monster?”

He winced as if my words had offended him. “I’m not a monster, Carla. I assure you I’m not evil. The change gives us powers, but doesn’t alter our true nature. I’m still who I was when I was human. Neither angel, nor demon, but a little bit of both at once.”

He had moved to my side as he spoke, and lifting my chair, set it on its legs.

I took a step back. “Don’t touch me.”

He bowed to me in a formal way that didn’t seem out of place. “Would you please sit down?”

I did as he said, mesmerized by his stare and the utter impossibility of his existence.

“You need a drink,” he said. “Just wait, I’ll bring you one.”

Skillfully skirting the tables and the people sitting, eerily still, he walked to the counter where a barista stood, a cup in her frozen hands.

I considered running away, but dismissed the idea as he would find me, I had no doubt, and bring me back. Besides, I wanted answers.

So I waited, my body shaking, until Bécquer came back and, retrieving the contract, set a steaming espresso in front of me.

“I meant to bring you something stronger,” he told me, “but couldn’t. After twenty years in the States, I still forget they don’t always serve alcohol in the cafés here.”

“Twenty years? Two more than me.”

“I know.”

His answer reminded me he had checked me online and thus knew more about me than I would have liked. Not to mention the fact that I had probably given him my card at the conference and so he had my address. Not a reassuring thought.

He motioned for me to drink the coffee. But I could not.

“What do you want of me?”

“Only the honor of editing your work and representing it.”

I scowled. “If you were who you claim to be, you’d write your own stories, not waste your time editing mine.”

“I’m that Bécquer,” he insisted, his eyes dark and serious. “Or I was when I was human.” There was anger in his voice and something else, frustration perhaps — or was it pain? “My mind was full of stories then, stories I could easily dress in words to show the world. But since I became an immortal, I have no stories or, if I do, words fail me when I try to capture them. Since I became immortal, I can’t write anymore, and I miss it. I miss it terribly. I miss the raw, unrestrained outburst of the artistic creation.”

“‘When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke ‘round me, I am in darkness — I am nothing,’” I said.

“Virginia Woolf,” Bécquer attributed my quote. “My thoughts exactly. That is why I need you. You and others like you who have the gift, so I can bear witness to the birth of their stories and, through them, through their words, feel the flame that now eludes me.”

“And that is all you want from me?”

“That is all, I promise.”

“Why did you stop time then? Because you did it, right? You can change it back?”

He laughed, amused, it seemed, at the panic I couldn’t conceal from my voice as the thought struck me that this was to be forever, that we were to be the only ones alive in a frozen world.

“Yes, I did this, and we will join them in normal time after you give me your answer.”

“But I don’t understand. Why did you do it?”

“Because of her.” He pointed again at the woman by the door. “I was afraid of your reaction were you to learn from Beatriz that I am — immortal.”

“Why would she want to tell me?”

“To break your trust in me.” He shrugged when I frowned at him. “She’s jealous of you because she thinks I want you to take her place.”

“As your secretary? Why would I want to?”

“Precisely.”

“Didn’t you tell her?”

“Of course I did. Yet, she is here. But enough about her. Would you sign with me?”

My thoughts running wild at the idea of Bécquer still being alive, I hesitated.

“If you do,” he insisted, “you will never have to worry about the business part of writing. You will be free to write full-time while I deal with the editors and publishers. I used to be terrible at convincing people to buy my stories when I was human, but I’m surprisingly good at it now.”

I suppressed a smile. Was he really that clueless or was he just playing me?

Considering his striking features and the fact that most people in the industry were women, I didn’t find his success surprising at all. And his offer was most tempting. Like his human self, I also lacked the social skills needed to sell my work. Four months had already passed since I’d started my sabbatical. Four months I had spent mostly querying. If I signed with him, I could maybe finish my sequel before returning to my teaching. Yet …

“You’re scared of me.”

“I — ”

Bécquer smiled. “It’s only normal. No need to apologize. To fear the unknown is a survival skill we all possess. Would you sign if I promise you I won’t hurt anyone?”

I opened my mouth to say no, but didn’t. Instead, I nodded.

Bécquer beamed. “Then it’s done, for you have my word.”

He moved aside the espresso I hadn’t touched and once more set the contract in front of me.

“Should I sign with blood?”

A glint of red flashed through his eyes.

“That would be lovely.”

I winced.

“But not necessary.” He smiled a crooked smile, and passed me a pen, an antique black pen, I swear wasn’t there when I asked.

Our fingers brushed as I took it. His were not cold as I imagined, but pleasantly warm, as human’s would be.

“I told you I’m not a monster.”

With a flourish of his wrist, he signed his name beside mine.

“I will ask Beatriz to send you a copy,” he said, whisking the contract into his briefcase.

I looked up at the woman standing by the door and, as I did, she came to life and stepped inside.

With the feline grace that characterized all his movements, Bécquer stood — the noise of his chair skidding on the floor lost in the clamor of conversations that once again filled the room — and motioned his secretary to join us.

“Beatriz,” he called, as she came closer, “what a pleasant surprise. We were just talking about you.”

He flashed her a smile that would have charmed a miser out of his gold. But the pinched expression on the woman’s face remained unchanged. “Indeed,” she said and stared at me.

I rose to face her.

“Federico called,” Beatriz said after Bécquer had introduced us and told her I had signed with him. “He’ll be landing in Philadelphia in an hour and wants you to pick him up.”

Bécquer swore with an old-fashioned Spanish word I had never heard spoken. “Why didn’t you send Matt?”

“Because Federico insisted he wanted you to go.”

Like a boy told he must do his homework before playing, Bécquer sulked. “Is that why you came? To tell me this?”

Beatriz nodded. “I called your cell first. But, as usual, you left it at home.”

“I don’t need a cell phone.”

“You better go,” Beatriz insisted. “It took me a while to find you. Federico’s plane will be landing soon. And he hates waiting.”

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he? Even more than he hates me.”

“Federico doesn’t hate you.” Beatriz’s voice was firm as if talking to a stubborn child. “He — ”

“Then why does he do this to me? Now, I won’t have time to arrange things for the party.”

Beatriz took a step back as if urging him to follow. “You don’t have to worry about that. I told Matt to set the lights and decorations after you left this morning, and I double-checked with the catering service. I thought you were too busy this year to care for such trivial matters.”

Bécquer stared her down. “I appreciate your concern,” he told her, the stiffness of his body saying otherwise. “But you know I like to attend to the preparations in person.”

“You can always change the decorations if they are not to your liking.”

“Of course.” He looked at his watch, a flash of gold on his wrist. When he continued, the anger was gone from his voice, “But you were right in asking Matt to do it. If I am to get Federico, I will just make it in time before the first guests arrive. Which reminds me.” He turned toward me. “I have not invited you yet. Have I?”

“No, I don’t think you have.”

“How rude of me! I host a party for my authors and publishers every year for Halloween. I would be thrilled if you came.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but — ”

“The party starts at six,” he interrupted me. “Don’t worry about the directions. I’ll send Matt to pick you up. Expect him around five-thirty.” Then again, he addressed Beatriz. “Please remind him if I forget.”

“One more thing,” he said to me. “Please, don’t mention my — condition. My other authors do not know.”

He smiled when I agreed and, after grabbing his briefcase, wrapped one arm around Beatriz’s waist and whisked her away.

I watched them go — he, dark and tall, she swaying slightly on her high heels — their closeness bothering me in a way that it shouldn’t have.

When they reached the door, he opened it for her with his free hand, his other never leaving her waist, and as she stepped outside, their bodies touched.

Beatriz looked back over her shoulder and glared at me, her pale blue eyes slits of cold hate, her lips closed in a tight line. Then she was gone.

I sat back.

I was breathing hard, I noticed, and my heart was beating fast. What had just happened? Was Beatriz jealous of me, as Bécquer had suggested, jealous that I’d take her place? Or was she warning me that Bécquer was hers? But he wasn’t, was he?

“She’s my personal secretary,” Bécquer had told me. How personal? I wondered now. Had he meant that they were lovers? And what if they were? Why should that bother me? But they were not, could not be for she was close to my age and he was … almost 200 years old.

I closed my eyes for a moment to calm myself. What was I thinking, worrying about Bécquer’s private life instead of worrying that he had a life at all, as he, by all logic, should have been long dead? Unless none of this had happened. Unless I had imagined he’d stopped time for us. Unless his claim that he was Bécquer had been a lie.

Outside the window, coming down Main, a blue BMW convertible waited at the light. While I watched, the roof rolled back and the sun poured inside the car, on the black hair and pale skin of the man who claimed to be Bécquer. I held my breath, afraid that he would burst into flames. Across the distance, Bécquer smiled and, in my head, I heard his laughter, a clear laughter of childish joy. Before I could react, the light turned green. With a slight movement of his hand, he shifted gears and disappeared in a blur of blue.

His acknowledgment of my reaction did nothing to assuage my fear because, as far as I was from the window, no human eye could have seen me. And so I knew that Bécquer was Bécquer as he claimed, an immortal that could step out of time, and I, by signing the contract, had just bound myself to him.

I took a deep breath. The smell of coffee now overpowered the other scent, lemon with a hint of cinnamon, that Bécquer had left.

Steam still rose from the second espresso he had brought me. I picked it up and swallowed the coffee in one gulp, burning my tongue. But caffeine did not change how I felt. The fear remained.

Unfortunately, as Bécquer had mentioned, in the States, you can’t get brandy in a café. And that was what I needed now, a shot of brandy in my coffee. Or, even better, a shot of brandy straight. I needed a drink.

Chapter Two: Madison

“Good for you!” was all Madison said when I told her I had an agent.

Her headphones back in her ears, she resumed her typing, while talking simultaneously to the heads of her girlfriends trapped on the screen.

“He invited me to his party,” I said.

Not surprisingly, I got no answer.

“MA-DI-SON!”

“What?”

“Close your laptop and look at me. We have to talk.”

“About what?”

I just stared.

“I have to go,” Madison spoke to her laptop, and then snapped it closed. “I was busy,” she said, pulling off her headphones.

I ignored the challenge in her voice. For all her attitude, and unlike her brother at her age, she at least obeyed me. For the moment that was enough.

“Have you decided whether you’re going to your party tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you have decided, or yes you’re going?”

“Yes, as in ‘I need a ride to the mall to buy a costume.’”

“Today?”

“It’s your fault, or have you forgotten you won’t let me wear the one I have?”

“I can’t take you to the mall. My party is at six.”

“You’re going to a party?”

Her surprised disbelief irked me, for it implied this was as rare an event as finding her in a good mood. Which was, in fact, the case.

“Yes, I am. I just told you. My agent invited me.”

“Then, you’re the one who needs to go to shopping. You have no costume.”

“It is not a costume party.” I frowned. “At least I don’t think it is.”

“You don’t know? Really Mom, you need help.”

“Okay. I’ll take you to the mall. You’re right. I need a dress.”

“Cool!”

Madison jumped from her bed and, in one of those sudden changes of mood I could never predict, sauntered over the piles of clothes scattered on the floor and hugged me. “I love you, you know?” she said.

“Yes, I know.”

“Now, about tonight,” I said as she started digging into her closet. “I will ask your brother to give you a ride at eight.”

Holding a pair of jeans small enough to fit a Barbie doll, she turned to me. “Are you kidding? He’ll be too stoned by then to drive.”

“Madison! Ryan has been clean for a year.”

“If you say so. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather ask Abby if her mom can drive us.”

I left her texting on her cell, and headed for my room. But her words about Ryan haunted me. Was she badmouthing her brother out of jealousy for all the attention he had gotten over the years by misbehaving, or had she seen something I’d missed?

But what? His urine tests, taken randomly since moving back in with us in late August, had been negative. And, as far as I knew, he had been attending his classes at the community college. A friend of mine taught there and I’d asked her to keep an eye on him. She would have called me had he missed too many classes.

As for his behavior, Ryan was polite to me, as polite as a teenager could be, and whenever he didn’t come home to sleep, he always let me know in advance. What else could I do? He was eighteen. I couldn’t tie him to a chair. That would be illegal, as the humorless psychologist had told me when I suggested it the previous year. The psychologist my ex had hired to evaluate us and advise the court on who should have custody of Ryan. I had meant it as a joke. He hadn’t.

I heard doors opening and closing and the water running in the shower. Drawn by fear and by the memory of a time when this was routine for me — the time last year, when I was trying to find proof that Ryan was using to force my reluctant ex to believe me — I stole into his room.

An unmade bed, a guitar against the wall, open books by the computer, and dirty clothes on the floor. Nothing obvious at first sight suggested drugs. No empty pens, no folded pieces of aluminum foil, and no dryer sheets. None of the paraphernalia I had found then, for at his worst, Ryan had not even tried to hide the evidence, as if he was too wasted to care, or maybe, on a subconscious level, crying for help.

No, nothing obvious, and I had become an expert at detecting everyday objects that could have another, lethal use, or unusual ones, like the glass container I was told was a bong by my friends at Because I Love You, the support group for parents like me. The glass container that, otherwise, I would have put on my mantelpiece. For it had that artsy look.

I bent down and picked up his rumpled jeans. With expert fingers, I checked his pockets: his cell phone as was expected, a box of matches from a club I memorized and, at the very bottom, a small piece of paper, rolled in itself.

I unrolled it distracted, my mind a thousand miles away, already considering what this meant, and the few possibilities I had to make it right, now that Ryan was eighteen. I held the paper in my hand. A business card, I noticed. Then I saw the name, Bécquer’s name, beautifully rendered in the old-fashioned calligraphy I had seen earlier today. Bécquer’s name yelling at me.

“Ma, what are you doing?”

Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed the water in the shower had stopped running. But it had, and now Ryan stood at the door, a towel wrapped around his waist. The boy who once had fit so snugly in my arms, a boy no more, loomed over me, his dark brows raised in a question.

He wasn’t angry. Not yet. Only curious. He wasn’t angry, until I raised my hand and showed him the card. “Who gave you this?”

Fast and furious, Ryan reached forward and tore the card from my fingers. “What does it matter?” he asked as he squeezed it in his fist. “Are you spying on me?

“You don’t trust me, do you?” he continued, his voice getting louder with each word. “I did what you asked me, I took your dumb tests, and still you don’t trust me?”

“Have you met Bécquer?”

“Why should I tell you anything? You won’t believe me, anyway.”

Before I could answer, he grabbed some clothes from the floor and left the room.

I sat on the bed.

My two worlds that until then I had kept apart, my writing and Ryan’s addiction, had unexpectedly collided and lay broken at my feet.

Was Ryan using again? Why had Bécquer not mentioned he knew him?

Could it be he had met him, but didn’t know he was my son? Besides, even if Bécquer knew who Ryan was and had given him his card, that didn’t mean they had been together when Ryan … It was only a rolled card. It didn’t have to mean he had been using. But if he hadn’t, why had he refused to answer me?

“Mom?” I looked up. Madison, dressed to kill in a short dress over tight pants, and wearing more make-up than I use in a month, stared at me. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?”

Madison pouted. “Don’t tell me you’re bailing on me? Whatever Ryan has done this time, we need to go to the mall.”

Lucky for me, I had somebody to set my priorities straight.

I knew better than to say that aloud, as Madison didn’t take well to sarcasm. Besides, she was right, we did need to go to the mall. As things stood between Ryan and me and, despite the fact that Bécquer was not quite human and I barely knew him, my guess was I had a better chance to get an explanation from Bécquer than from my son. And that meant I had to go to the party to talk to him, and thus needed a dress.

I stood up. “No. I’m not bailing on you.”

Chapter Three: Federico

Madison rolled her eyes when I pulled the black lace dress from the rack.

“That won’t do, Mom. It’s Halloween. It has to be a costume party. Why don’t you call and ask.”

But I couldn’t call because I didn’t have Bécquer’s number with me. Thinking wearing no costume to a costume party would be less embarrassing than to show up in disguise to a regular one, I ignored Madison’s advice and bought the dress.

The dress was too fancy for me and much too expensive, but we didn’t have time to shop any longer. As it was I had barely finished my make-up when the doorbell rang.

I called to Madison to open the door while I put on my earrings and struggled with the clasp on my necklace.

Downstairs, I could hear a male voice pronouncing my name with a Spanish accent that mimicked mine.

“Mom,” Madison called as I left my room. Without inviting the man inside, she climbed the stairs. “I told you it was a costume party,” she whispered when she reached me.

I looked over her shoulder at the man framed in the doorway. He was dressed in an ivory suit that would have been in fashion a century before. Yet, by the easy way he carried it off, the jacket open, revealing a white shirt with the two first buttons undone, and a red handkerchief loosely tied around his neck, I knew it was not a costume. I also knew, by the wide smile spread across his face, he had heard Madison’s comment.

I smiled back at him. Apologizing would have made the situation even more awkward. Instead, I offered him my hand.

“I’m Carla, and you must be Matt.”

He was handsome, I noticed, with black hair and dark sensitive eyes that stared openly at me.

“Federico, actually,” he said and took my hand.

I looked at him with renewed interest. Federico. The friend Bécquer didn’t want to pick up. The one who didn’t want to rent a car.

Federico took a step back. “Shall we?”

In the dim light of the only lamp outside, I noticed a reddish glow in his eyes, a reddish glow that could only mean he was an immortal.

I stopped. Why had I agreed to go to this party? What if immortals fed on human blood like the vampires of lore and the party was Bécquer’s excuse to lure me to his house?

But that was absurd. Bécquer had given me his word that he would not harm me. Besides he needed me alive if I was to write for him. And I would not be the only human there. He had invited other authors “who didn’t know of his condition,” as he had put it. Other authors who had been his clients for years — I had checked — and who were still very much alive. And Beatriz, his secretary, was human too and would be at the party as well. Although this last fact was not reassuring. The hate in her eyes when leaving Café Vienna had been unmistakable. Beatriz would not help me if her boss decided to drink my blood.

I hesitated at the unsetting thought and considered excusing myself. But when I met Federico’s eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to lie. Besides, I needed to see Bécquer. I needed to ask him why and when he had given his business card to Ryan. So I nodded, put on my coat, and followed Federico into the gathering dusk.

“I really appreciate your picking me up,” I told him as we reached the silver Mercedes parked by the curb.

“My pleasure,” he said opening the passenger seat for me. “Actually, I’m in your debt. Bécquer and Beatriz were arguing and I was glad to have an excuse to leave the house.”

“Why were they arguing?” I asked him after we joined the traffic.

Federico stole a quick glance at me, as if wondering how much I knew, then shrugged. “The usual,” he said. Without warning he switched to Spanish, his words flowing fast, in the clipped pattern of Southern Spain. “As far as I can tell, she didn’t want Bécquer to represent your work.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t be offended if I were you,” he continued, without answering my question. “On the contrary. Beatriz has no literary talent. Yet she has taken it upon herself to save humanity. Through books. She believes only philosophy treatises should be published, and literary books dealing with the human condition. You know the ones where nothing happens and the authors are so much in love with their own writing, they forget to tell a story. I don’t understand why Bécquer has put up with her this long.”

“You don’t like her much.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“That wasn’t my impression. This morning, she convinced Bécquer to go to the airport to pick you up.”

He braked sharply and swerved off the road, bringing the car to a halt on the dirt shoulder.

“Bécquer didn’t want to go?”

“He … he had things to do and — ”

“Things to do. Like what? Decorating the house? I haven’t seen him in a year, and he needs convincing?”

His voice rose as he spoke so that by now he was shouting.

I looked ahead at the trees caught in the headlights and waited for his anger to pass. When he spoke again, he sounded subdued.

“What else did he say about me?” he asked.

“Nothing. Really. He left right after Beatriz came. Well, not after she came. First, he stopped time for us so she wouldn’t interfere with my signing the contract.”

“He stopped time? So you know? You know what — who he is?”

I nodded.

“What about me? Did he tell you who I am?”

“No, he didn’t mention it.”

“Of course not. I’m not important enough. For two decades we were lovers. And what am I to him now? An inconvenience when I come to visit, an errand to add to his list of things to do before his guests arrive.”

I gasped. Lovers? Bécquer and Federico were — had been lovers?

Federico was not looking at me, but straight ahead, his hands grabbing the wheel with such intensity it broke loose. He stared at it for a moment as if puzzled, then opening the door, threw it against the darkness. His eyes flaring red, he turned to me.

He hates me, Bécquer had said. He doesn’t, Beatriz had told him. And she was right. Federico didn’t hate Bécquer. He was in love with him.

I stood still, eerily aware I was sitting next to a man who was not human and that, for all his gentle appearance, could break my neck without even trying. As he had the wheel.

I had to leave. Now.

My hand trembling uncontrollably, I reached for the door.

“Don’t.” Federico’s arm flashed in front of me and grabbed my hand.

“Please, don’t,” he repeated, his voice softer now, apologetic. “Bécquer might forgive me for breaking his car. Or for failing to drive you to the party. But if I do both, he will kill me for sure.”

I frowned, surprised at his self-deprecating tone. “I thought you were immortal.”

“I’m sure he would find a way,” Federico said, releasing my hand. “His ingenuity to cause me pain knows no limit.”

“You love him.”

I regretted my words the moment I said them for I was afraid my inappropriate comment would throw him into another fit of anger. But Federico didn’t seem to hear. He was staring at the gaping hole in the dashboard where the wheel used to be as if willing another one to appear.

“Bécquer is right,” he said after a moment. “I do overreact sometimes.”

He sounded so defeated I felt sorry for him. Bécquer was charming, I had to admit. It was not difficult for me to imagine falling for him and the pain at his rejection.

“Not at all,” I agreed to keep him calm. “Your reaction was understandable given the circumstances. He should have offered to pick you up.”

“You think?”

When I nodded, he added wistfully, “Let’s hope Bécquer agrees with you when I tell him.”

I waited for him to produce a phone and call Bécquer to ask him to give us a ride. Although it wasn’t cold outside, I was not looking forward to walking in my too tight black dress and fancy shoes. But Federico didn’t move and when, after digging into my handbag, I offered him mine, he shook his head.

“That won’t be necessary. Bécquer just told me Matt is coming.”

“He told you? But how? You didn’t … ” I waved my phone at him.

Federico shrugged. “I don’t need a phone to talk with Bécquer when we are this close.”

“You can read his mind?”

“Not exactly. I only hear what he wants to share. I cannot force myself into his mind. He would notice and block me. Actually, he just did that before, when — Did Bécquer ask you to be his … secretary?”

“No, why would I want to be his secretary? I’m a writer.”

“Of course.” He smiled, a friendly smile that lit a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. And I found myself warming to him. “And what do you write, if I may ask?”

“Fantasy stories set in medieval times.”

“It sounds like something Bécquer would love, and Beatriz would hate.”

“And you?”

“Me? I would have to read the story first. I used to write dramas when I was human. But I’ve mellowed with time.”

“You were a writer before you were immortal?”

“I was indeed.”

Federico bent forward and worked the CD player with his long fingers until he found the right track. “Listen,” he said. Sitting back against his seat, he closed his eyes.

The broken voice of Leonard Cohen came through the speakers, declaiming a poem-made-song. The first song I had danced to at my wedding with the husband who had since become a stranger: Take This Waltz.

Federico, eyes still closed, sang along, keeping the beat on the dashboard with his fingers.

I looked at him in profile and, as if seeing him for the first time, I noticed his dark wavy hair, his cleft chin, and his arched bushy eyebrows. I gasped. “You are Federico.”

My voice broke before I could complete his full name: Federico García Lorca, the most beloved Spanish poet in the twentieth century.

Federico nodded. “Yes. I am ‘that’ Federico.”

Without missing a beat, he resumed his singing, his voice fitting perfectly the lyrics of the song, the lyrics that were Cohen’s translation into English of Lorca’s perfect words.

Chapter Four: Matt

“My cross, indeed,” Federico said when the song ended, repeating the last words of the poem. “I wrote this years before I met Bécquer and he made me an immortal. I wrote it for a lover long forgotten. But they reflect my feelings for Bécquer exactly, on our first winter in Vienna.”

“Bécquer made you an immortal?”

Federico nodded.

“Why? Did you ask him to do it?”

“No. I was unconscious when he found me, bleeding through my broken skull and half buried in the ditch that was meant to be my grave. I didn’t ask him to do it, but I don’t blame him. I would have died otherwise.

“I don’t blame him either for my falling for him. He never claimed that he loved me. Never hid his other lovers from me, the ladies he lured with his charm and forgot as soon as they loved him, for it was his gift that they would love him, his curse that he could not love them back, after they fell for him.”

“He played with them, and with you. Why did you let him?”

Federico shook his head. “He didn’t play with me. I knew he didn’t love me. He couldn’t, nor the way I wanted: Bécquer is not gay. He took me as his lover to heal my broken soul when he realized I did not want to live. I had lost my will to live that summer of 1936 when I witnessed my friends betray me and saw the void of undiluted hate in the eyes of my killers.

“Bécquer cured me of my despair. He took me as his lover and healed my soul with his passion and words of love he reinvented for me. I fell in love with him, how could I not? But he never guessed it. He had not planned or expected this to happen. Until he met me, he thought immortals could not love.

“When I told him, when he realized how much he meant to me, how much I hurt when I saw him with others, he left me, making clear that, from then on, I was allowed to see him only once a year for a week. He thought, that way, I would forget him.”

“But you did not.”

Federico stared at me. “Don’t let his charm blind you, Carla. Do not fall for him.”

I laughed, too eagerly perhaps. “I won’t, don’t worry. Bécquer’s only my agent.”

“Of course.”

Turning his head away from me, Federico looked through the window to the road ahead. “Matt is coming,” he said. “Good. I was starting to suspect Bécquer had forgotten to pass him my message.”

I followed his stare, and saw nothing but a wall of darkness beyond the halo of our headlights.

“Don’t worry. He’ll be here soon. I feel his mind.”

“You feel his mind? So Matt is an immortal too?”

“Not at all. Matt is quite human.”

“But … then. Are you saying you can read minds? Human minds?”

“No. I don’t read minds. I sense them when they are close enough.”

He said it casually as if unaware of the magnitude of what he had just revealed to me.

“You tricked me, didn’t you? Right now. When you asked me about Bécquer, you forced me to think of him so you could read my feelings for him.”

“Yes.”

“How dare you?”

“I needed to know to warn you that Bécquer … ” He stopped and with a sudden movement of his hand flashed the headlights. As if conjured by his signal, a beam of light glowed in the distance. “Matt is almost here. I’ll explain later, I promise, after we change cars.”

He was still speaking when a car drew near and, leaving the road, came to a stop facing us. It was not the blue convertible Bécquer had driven in the morning, but a white limousine. Somehow, the idea that Bécquer owned still another car — Federico had told me the silver Mercedes was Bécquer’s also — irked me in an irrational way I found most disturbing.

“Carla?”

I turned toward Federico’s voice and found him standing outside the car, holding the door open.

Too startled to speak, as I had no recollection of him leaving my side, I took his hand and stepped outside. Beyond the halo of the limousine, I saw a man emerge from the driver’s seat.

With easy strides, Federico walked toward him. “Hi, Matt,” he greeted him, as he got closer. “So nice of you to come.”

“My pleasure, as always,” the man said, in a formal way that belied his age. For he was young, I realized once I moved into the beam’s halo and the light stopped blinding me. His youth made even more evident because, instead of the standard suit I had expected, he was wearing a leather jacket and tight black jeans with metal chains hanging from his belt.

“Nice costume.”

Matt sulked. “I thought all the guests had arrived so I had already changed when Mr. Bécquer asked me to come at once. Please, Don Federico, don’t tell my mother I came like this.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t mention your costume to her, you have my word.”

Matt smiled a crooked smile that lit his face with pride. “It’s not a costume. I’m playing later.”

Federico raised an eyebrow in mock admiration. “A paying gig?”

Matt nodded.

“My congratulations,” Federico said, taking the boy’s hand in both of his and shaking it firmly.

Matt shivered at the contact, and when Federico moved toward the car, Matt’s eyes followed him. If Federico noticed the boy’s reaction — how could he not when he could sense feelings? — he said nothing.

I didn’t mention it either when we were sitting side by side in the back of the car, although the window to the front seat was closed and Matt could not hear us. The boy’s feelings for Federico were none of my business, and I was still upset at Federico for intruding on the privacy of my mind.

“How many cars does Bécquer have?” I asked him instead.

Federico frowned. “Two that I know of. This limo is not his. He rented it for the party. But why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Yes. Bécquer is quite wealthy.” Federico answered the question I had not asked. “When you can manipulate minds to do your bidding, it is not surprising the books you represent end up on the bestseller list. Money follows.”

“Manipulate minds? Is that what you are doing with me?”

“No. I have never manipulated anybody’s mind.” I glowered at him. “I’m afraid you’d have to take my word for it,” he insisted. “I cannot prove it to you.”

“But Bécquer does — manipulate minds, I mean?”

Federico shrugged. “I don’t think he does it on purpose. Every time I have confronted him about it, he has denied it. Yet things seem always to go his way. In business and in love.”

“Is that what you wanted to warn me about?”

Federico stared ahead, crossing and uncrossing his fingers as if trying to clarify his thoughts.

“Bécquer has a new love interest,” he said at last. “I thought she might be you.”

“Me? That’s absurd. I only met him twice.”

“But he has read your books, liked them enough to sign you as a client. And Bécquer is quite impulsive when falling in love. Childish you may say. He falls not so much for the person but for his own idealized image of her. Seeing you twice would be more than enough for him to think himself fully in love, especially when he has glimpsed your soul in your stories. Yes, you could have been his new beloved. I’m glad to see that you’re not.”

“And you know that by reading my mind?”

“In a way. For if Bécquer were in love with you, he’d have charmed you already and you’d be blindly in love with him.”

“But I wouldn’t be really in love with him. My feelings would be an illusion.”

“Exactly my point. You wouldn’t be yourself anymore, just a puppet to his will. Yet Bécquer doesn’t seem to realize that distinction. He insists he does not change the feelings for a first attraction must be there. He just pushes the victim slightly in that direction.

“Victim being my chosen word, of course. The so-called victims would call themselves fortunate, because to be chosen, to be loved by Bécquer, is an exhilarating experience. Nobody, not a single one of them has complained yet and, trust me, he has had many.”

“What happens when he tires of them?”

“They still love him for a while, I guess. But when he stops charming them, their love eventually wanes and they forget him, and thus forgive him for leaving them.

“In fact, most of them remain friends with him until he moves on. For, of course, like all immortals, he can’t stay more than twenty years in a place before his not aging becomes obvious. Then he has to go somewhere else and reinvent himself.”

Twenty years he had told me. He had lived in the States for twenty years. Did that mean he was ready to move? Now that I’d just found an agent, was he about to disappear and leave me agentless once more? He wouldn’t, now, would he? That would just be rude.

Federico laughed.

“Are you reading my mind again?”

“I wouldn’t if you were not shouting.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Anger sounds that way to me, to us immortals. Don’t worry. He’s not planning to leave. Not yet. He’s been an agent for ten years only.”

I sighed in relief. I guess an immortal, manipulative agent was, in my book, better than no agent at all. Which didn’t say much about my ethics. Maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh on Federico for reading my mind. It was not as if he could help it.

“Friends?” Federico asked.

“Friends.”

As I spoke, the car came to a stop. Through the window, I saw the facade of an imposing stone house covered in ghoulish spider webs glistening in the glow of blinking orange lights. Several jack-o’-lanterns flickered on the stairs that led to the porch.

“Oh well, here we are,” Federico said. “Let’s hope I’m wrong because if Bécquer is in love, Beatriz is going to cause him trouble.”

“Beatriz?”

“Forget what I just said, and let’s go inside and enjoy ourselves. Bécquer’s parties are always interesting. I have the impression this one will not disappoint.”

Chapter Five: The Portrait

Matt opened the limousine door for me. Although I didn’t delay, by the time I got out, Federico was already coming around the front of the car, the gravel crackling under his light steps.

“Thank you,” he said to the young man. “Please don’t forget to call the garage and ask them to tow the Mercedes.”

“I have already.”

Federico smiled. “Great. Now you better park this one in the back before your mother sees you.”

Matt glanced toward the house. “I better,” he agreed and, with a nod in my direction and a last longing stare at Federico, he disappeared inside the car.

Federico waved his hand toward the house and motioned me to go first.

Following his suggestion, I crossed the open space and climbed the stairs.

Up close the spider webs looked too perfect to be spooky and the artistic designs in the jack-o’-lanterns flanking the stairs to the porch inspired more awe than fear. An aged iron ring hung on the right side of the massive double doors that would have been perfectly in place at a Castilian noble house.

Just as Federico reached my side, the doors swung open and a woman appeared in the doorway. A woman dressed in a low cut dress with a tight bodice and a long skirt that fell to the floor.

“Here you are at last,” she said as a way of hello.

Her face was in shadow, but her voice, I recognized. It was Beatriz´s. Beatriz, wearing a dress that belonged to the mid-nineteenth century, to the time in which Bécquer had been human. Madison had been right, I realized with regret: this was a costume party.

“What a perfect choice.” Federico’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Bécquer must be delighted that you honor him so.”

I looked up, puzzled by Federico’s words. Tossing back her auburn hair that fell in waves over her shoulders, Beatriz revealed a silk blue scarf.

“La banda azul,” I whispered.

The blue scarf that Beatriz, the protagonist of one of Bécquer’s most beloved short stories, loses in the mountains. The blue scarf she goads her cousin to go find later that evening. He agrees because he loves her but does so against his best judgment for it’s Halloween and, that night, the mountains are said to be haunted by the souls of dead warriors that roam the earth trapped in their skeletal bodies. The following morning, Beatriz finds the scarf torn and bloody in her room and dies of fright guessing right that her cousin never returned from his quest alive.

Beatriz smiled. “So you noticed.”

I saw a glint of victory in her eyes as they moved up and down my embarrassingly plain, black dress. “Please, come in,” she said and moved back. “Bécquer is waiting for you.”

I breathed deeply to ease my discomfort, and was about to follow her when I felt the pull of Federico’s hand on my arm.

“Thank you, Beatriz,” Federico said. “But Carla and I are not quite ready yet. Don’t worry about Bécquer. You are so lovely tonight, I’m sure you can charm him into forgetting everybody else.”

Beatriz stared at Federico, like a tiger about to jump its prey. But Federico stared her down. “Of course,” she said, and closed the door, leaving us standing outside.

Federico smiled when I frowned at him. “I apologize. I should have realized that this being a costume party, you would feel uncomfortable not wearing one. Please, come with me.”

I hesitated. “Don’t you think it is a little too late now to go get a costume?”

“Don’t worry. We don’t have to go anywhere. A mask will do. And I know where to find one.”

I followed Federico around the porch decorated with white ghosts and black witches’ hats until he reached another door set on the left aisle of the L-shaped building.

“Are you sure Bécquer doesn’t want you to be his secretary?” he asked me as we walked.

“I told you I’m a writer. And, I assure you that organization is not one of my assets. No one would hire me as secretary. Why?”

“Because Beatriz thinks so and resents you.”

“Did you sense that in her?”

“No. I cannot sense Beatriz. I know because she conveniently forgot to tell you about the costume.”

“You can’t read her? But she is human.”

We had reached the end of the porch and Federico stopped by a side door. “It depends whom you ask,” he said as he turned the knob. “Matt is not so sure.”

“Matt?”

“Yes, Matt. From what he tells me, she is not the maternal type.” When I looked at him nonplussed, he added, “Beatriz is Matt’s mother.”

He smiled at my surprise and motioned me inside. We left our coats and my purse on the iron rack set against the wall, and then climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Crossing the door at the end of the corridor, we entered a big room furnished with a low table, a love seat with silver leaves on dark blue velvet, and an antique desk set before matching curtains that, I guessed, covered windows.

Federico asked me to wait there and disappeared, through a set of French doors. From where I stood I could see that the next room was even larger and was dominated by a four-poster bed carved from dark wood. Several pillows were arranged on top of the blue eiderdown. Both the bed and the heavy wooden chest with iron reinforcements that sat at its foot were of Castilian style. That and the familiar smell of lemon and cinnamon that permeated the air made me realize this was, most probably, Bécquer’s bedroom.

Startled at the thought that I was intruding on his privacy, I stepped back and bumped hard against the low table behind me. I swore under my breath at the sudden pain in my leg, and then again at the thump of metal hitting on wood.

I turned.

Two picture frames lay face down on the table. I picked one up. It was an oval painting of three children, the eldest one formally dressed in an old-fashioned suit, the two little ones in white gowns. A boy and two girls. Or maybe three boys, I corrected myself, as I remembered young boys used to wear gowns in centuries past. I set the painting back down and took the other frame. It was a photograph, a color picture of a young man I knew well. A picture of my son.

I started, my thoughts reeling in confusion. Why did Bécquer have a picture of my boy? And not just a picture among many, a collage of faces tacked to a cork, the way Madison kept the pictures of her friends. But an 8-by-10. A picture taken with care, framed with love. Love. The word brought to my mind Federico’s conversation in the car, his conviction that despite his denial, Bécquer had a new lover.

At the disturbing image my mind had conjured, my hands froze and the picture slid through my fingers and hit the wooden floor. This time the glass shattered.

The sound broke my reverie. I shook my head. What was wrong with me? The boy could not be Ryan, just someone who resembled him. I kneeled and lifted the picture. Over a dozen straight lines diverged from a central breaking point making recognition impossible. Holding the frame in my shaking hands, I removed the bigger piece of broken glass to uncover the boy’s face.

It was Ryan. No doubt about it. Ryan smiling as he had not done at me in a long time.

I swore in anger and disgust. Anger at Bécquer for stealing my son, disgust because he had charmed him with his powers, for I knew Ryan was not gay. I had seen him fall in love when he was barely two at the sight of a beautiful girl dressed all in black. I had seen his head turn 180 degrees to follow a pretty neighbor in a too-short skirt a couple of years ago. No, Ryan was not gay.

“Carla,” Federico’s voice called from the door.

I stood. Holding Ryan’s picture in front of me, like a priest would hold a cross to exorcise a demon. I advanced toward him. “Since when?” I demanded, my voice raw with hate.

Federico’s look of concern quickly changed to alarm as his eyes fell on my hands. “Stop,” he ordered. His voice, low but firm, entered my mind, overpowering my will. I stopped.

“Please, Carla, put it down. Whatever it is that has upset you, we can talk about it in a civilized way.”

The pressure in my mind had dwindled to almost bearable limits, as his tone changed from commanding to pleading. I didn’t move.

“Put. It. Down.”

Again his voice resonated in my head with an intensity that erased any resistance. Powerless I saw my hands moving, as if they didn’t belong to me.

“On the floor.”

I set the picture down.

“The glass.” Federico’s words burned bright red inside my head.

Confused, I hesitated for a moment. Then I noticed the piece of glass I still held in my right hand and bent again.

With a speed that was not human — as if I needed a reminder of that unsettling fact — Federico was at my side and, lifting me by the waist, pushed me against the wall.

“Why did you try to kill me?”

I felt the pressure of his mind on mine. A pressure that turned to pain so that it made thinking impossible. Or lying.

I shook my head. “I didn’t.” Even in my ears my voice sounded weak. “I did not try to kill you. How could I?”

“Don’t lie to me. Remember I can read your feelings. And there was murder in your mind.”

“Bécquer — I was thinking of Bécquer. Not you.”

His eyes, glowing red, stayed on mine but, as the pressure in my mind eased and disappeared, Federico set me on the floor and took a step back. “Why? Why do you hate Bécquer? What caused the sudden change?”

Too shaken to explain, I pointed at the frame lying on the floor.

Again Federico moved almost too fast for me to see. When he came back the picture was in his hands. “Do you know this boy?”

“He’s my son.”

Federico gasped. In the silence that followed I could almost hear his mind working along the lines mine had followed.

“You think Bécquer fancies your son,” he said at last, voicing my assumption. “You think they’re lovers. That is why you’re angry at him.”

I nodded. “What other explanation is there?”

“Does your son like men?” Unlike mine, Federico’s voice was even.

“No. That is why this is so very wrong. Apart from the fact that Ryan is only eighteen and Bécquer is what — two hundred years old? He has forced him. He has charmed him to do his bidding.”

Federico shook his head. “I understand your concern, Carla. But I think you’re mistaken. Bécquer is not gay. In all the years I have known him, I was his only male lover. And, please believe me, Bécquer would never force anyone.”

“That is a lie. You told me so yourself. You told me that he charms his lovers.”

“But the attraction must be there. And if your son is not gay — ”

“Don’t play with me. I know you can control humans. You did it with me right now. You are monsters.”

Federico moved back as if I had slapped him. Taking advantage of his hesitation, I ran to the door. But when I reached it, Federico was already there, blocking my exit.

“Carla, please. Wait. There is something you need to see.”

His tone was not threatening. It needn’t be. “Do I have a choice?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Gently but firmly, Federico steered me to the desk set against the far wall. He moved back the chair and, once I was sitting, produced a key — from where, I didn’t see — and opened the top drawer.

Careful, almost reverentially, he removed a leather-bound book and set it on the table.

“Open it.”

As I did what he ordered, I realized it was not a book, but an album, its thick pages yellowed with age separated by onion sheets. Each page held a photograph of a different boy. As I turned the pages, the pictures, yellowed with age and vignetted around the edges at first, became color prints, and the serious expressions in the boys’ faces gave way to playful smiles.

“No,” Federico said, reading my mind. “They are not his lovers, but the children he has sponsored over the years.”

I looked up.

“How much do you know about Bécquer’s life? His human life?”

“I know he died in his thirties. But, of course, he didn’t. So I guess I know nothing. Only that he wrote short stories and poems published under the title Rimas y Leyendas.”

“Which, by the way, were not widely known when he was human. All his life, his human life, Bécquer struggled and failed to be recognized as a writer, but that is another story. What matters here is that Bécquer had three children, three boys. They were young when he died, the oldest barely eight.”

“The boys in the frame,” I whispered.

Federico frowned as if not following my train of thought. Then nodded. “Yes. That painting is the only thing he has of them. That and his memories.

“Bécquer loved his children more than anything. ‘Take care of my children,’ he asked his friends shortly before his staged death. And they did. They published his work the following year, and Bécquer ensured it sold well to procure enough money for his children and his wife. Still, he missed them.”

“Couldn’t he see them afterward?”

“No. It’s forbidden. The Elders, the Immortals Council, if you wish, doesn’t allow it.

“That’s why to alleviate his longing, he took care of various children over the years. Orphans as Bécquer himself had been since the age of eleven, children with artistic talents, or just children he met who needed help. He gave them a chance at life, but never interfered afterward. There was nothing dark in their relationship, nothing he should be ashamed of. My guess is that Ryan is his latest interest.”

“Ryan is not an orphan, and he’s eighteen.”

“Is he gifted?”

I shrugged. “He’s good at music.”

Federico lifted the album. “If he’s one of them, he must be here.” He passed the pages forward, then stopped. I felt his intake of breath, as he slammed it close.

“What is it Federico?”

“Nothing.”

“Let me see.”

He hesitated for a moment, and then handed it to me. “Please don’t jump to conclusions. It’s just a picture.”

I didn’t notice anything unusual at first. Yes, Bécquer was standing close to Ryan, their hands touching. But it made sense in the context as he was directing Ryan’s fingers on the strings of the guitar my son was holding.

It was a candid picture, obviously amateurish as the top of Bécquer’s head was cut off and neither of them was looking at the camera. Yet it was terribly effective at conveying the easy rapport that existed between them.

“They are close,” I said.

“It doesn’t mean they are lovers,” Federico said. But there was doubt in his voice.

It was only as I turned back the pages to compare the picture of my son with the others, that I noticed the difference: Bécquer was not in them. Bécquer was not in any of them, because his picture would have given away the fact that he didn’t age. But then, why had he kept this picture of him and Ryan?

I looked up and met Federico’s eyes.

“You are right, Carla, something is different in Bécquer’s relationship with Ryan. Still, I don’t believe Bécquer has forced him. Please, let me talk with Bécquer. Let me ask him what Ryan is to him. I promise I’ll report to you what he tells me.”

“No.”

I stood to go, but Federico grabbed my arm. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Carla. But you must understand, I won’t let you hurt Bécquer either.”

“As if I could.”

“Don’t pretend with me.”

“Pretend?”

Federico stared at me for a long time and I knew he was reading my feelings and resented him for it, but could do nothing to stop him. Finally, he shook his head. “Either you’re good at hiding it or you really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“About the glass.”

“Know what about the glass?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I see. You don’t trust me, but I must trust you. I don’t think so.”

Federico sighed. “You’re right. If you are to trust me, I must trust you too. But before I do, promise you won’t ever repeat what I’m about to say.”

“We call ourselves immortals, but that is a misnomer,” Federico told me when I promised. “We can die.”

“How?”

“You really don’t expect me to answer that, do you? Let’s say we heal fast. Any wound we receive disappears almost instantly once the object that caused it is removed. But a cut from glass doesn’t close as fast, and the loss of blood leaves us vulnerable.”

“You heal fast. How fast are we talking?”

“Let me show you.”

From somewhere about his person, he produced a pocketknife. Holding the blade in his right hand, he ran it over his left palm. Briefly, the line he traced filled with blood then closed again, or so it seemed to me for, as I looked, my vision blurred. As my knees gave way, I fell into darkness.

Chapter Six: The Kiss

When I came back to my senses, I was lying on the four-poster bed I had seen through the French doors that opened into Bécquer’s room. I tried to sit, but the walls started spinning, so I gave in and laid back once more against the pillows. Through the cotton cloud that filled my mind, I heard angry voices coming from the anteroom. Bécquer’s voice and Federico’s. Then Bécquer’s again, louder this time.

“Why did you bring her here?”

So much for my hope that he never learned I had been in his room. I didn’t have to strain my ears to hear Federico’s answer for he was also shouting.

“Because you forgot to tell her this was a costume party, and your dear Beatriz didn’t waste time to point it out to her. I came to find her a mask.”

“What does it matter whether she is wearing a stupid costume or not?”

“It matters to her.”

“I see. What would I do without you, Federico? I guess being straight has its disadvantages. I miss those subtleties in women you see so well.”

“So you’re straight? Still?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I’m straight.”

“Then why did you frame the picture of her son?”

“Ryan.” Bécquer’s voice was softer now, almost inaudible. “His name is Ryan.”

“You love him,” Federico shouted. “You love this boy. Don’t deny it. I know you too well. Your voice changed when you said his name.”

“Yes, I love him. But it is not what you think.”

“Stop lying to me, Bécquer. I’m tired of it. You know I’d give my life for you a thousand times. The only thing I ask is that you tell me the truth. And you haven’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I asked you this morning if you had a new lover, and you said you didn’t. But it was a lie.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I don’t believe you. I think you were ashamed of confessing that you had taken a boy and forced him against his nature. Or maybe not ashamed, maybe he has resisted you. Has he? Is that why you signed Carla, to have an excuse to be close to her son?”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I think not. I feared that Beatriz was going to get you in trouble with the Elders. Now I hope she will. The only thing I regret is that I won’t be here when it happens because I’m leaving. Now.”

“Calm down, Federico. You’re overreacting as usual.”

“Goodbye, Bécquer.”

“Federico!”

I had left the bed upon hearing Federico’s accusations and Bécquer’s weak denials and, as the door slammed close behind Federico, I slid the French doors open and entered the anteroom.

“Is that true?” I asked to Bécquer’s back.

Bécquer turned.

Despite the fury that burned inside me, my breath caught in my chest, for he was a vision of beauty in his three-piece black suit, the jacket open to reveal a white shirt, a red vest, a white rosebud caught in its lapel. His black hair, slightly longer than fashionable, came almost to his shoulders, framing his handsome face that, even now flustered in anger, had the beauty of a Michelangelo statue come to life.

In a swift movement, Bécquer was by my side. “How much have you heard?” he asked, a trace of irritation in his voice.

“Answer me. Is that why you chose me? To be close to my son?”

His eyes glowed red. “No. I chose you because you have the gift. The gift of turning words into stories. The gift and nothing else in a world that is blind to beauty and deaf to song. And thus, you, like me when I was alive, like all of us with an artist’s soul, struggle to survive, but not quite make it, for we have no mind for business. That is why I chose you. I thought you needed me. I thought I could be of help to you.”

“I may need you, but my son is not the price.”

“I agree. He’s not. I never meant him to be.”

“Then why do you have his picture?”

“Because … ” For the first time ever, Bécquer struggled for words. “Would you please take a seat, Carla, I — ”

“No. Tell me.”

He hesitated for a moment longer. “All right.” He took a deep breath. “I have his picture because Ryan is my descendant.”

“Your what?”

“My descendant. His great grandfather, your grandfather, Carla, was my grandson.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

Bécquer shrugged. “It’s the truth. I was human once, you know, and I had children.”

You’re my ancestor was all I could think. This man to whom I was, undeniably attracted, was my ancestor. I started shaking.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit?”

I shook my head. But when he grabbed my arm and guided me to the sofa, I didn’t resist.

Bécquer didn’t sit, but walked to the curtains that covered the wall and, after drawing them aside, stood by the window, his eyes lost in the distance as if reading a story in the darkness outside. Finally he turned and, pulling out a chair that stood by the desk, dragged it over and sat heavily, facing me.

“All right. Here is the truth. You’re a descendant of my wife’s third child. But you are not biologically my descendant for the baby was not mine. My wife and I had parted ways more than a year before his birth. She had left me for she loved somebody else.

“When her son was born, I recognized him as mine, out of shame perhaps, or as I wish to believe, out of concern for the baby who would have been shunned otherwise. So, in a way, I didn’t lie to you before because legally he was my son and later when he came to live with me, I loved him as such.”

The warmth in his voice when he talked betrayed the strength of his feelings. I sighed deeply, relieved to learn he was not my ancestor for his love for this boy — who in that time long ago when he was human had caused him so much shame — had only increased my attraction to him.

“Thank you for telling me.”

He shrugged. “Do you believe me now?”

“So you knew about me and my children all these years. Why did you approach Ryan now?”

“No, I didn’t know about you until recently. When I became immortal, I had to give up seeing my children. I followed them from afar over the years — my children and their children and their children’s children — making sure they were all right.

“Then, for personal reasons, I left Spain in 1936, at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. When I came back, years later, I couldn’t find my descendants anymore. That monstrous war had swallowed them, and erased all trace that I had ever been alive.”

“My grandfather died in Madrid the first year of the war,” I explained to him. “My grandmother moved north after it ended, with their son, my father. That’s why you couldn’t find him.”

“I know. I ran a search on you.” He smiled his disarming smile as I glowered at him. “Don’t get upset. I read your book first then got curious about you, a Spaniard whose last name was Esteban. Could it be we were related?”

“But your last name is — ”

“Dominguez, actually, not Bécquer. But Emilio took his mother’s name, Esteban, when he was of age after he learned the truth about his birth, I guess.

“You are his descendant. I had no doubt,” Bécquer continued. “And when I learned you had a son, I had to meet him.”

“I have a daughter too.”

A fleeting smile played on his lips. “I don’t do so well with girls.”

I was about to give him some feminist speech about his blatant misogyny when I remembered Madison’s moody behavior of late and let it pass. I wasn’t doing well with girls these days either.

“How did you meet Ryan?” I asked him instead.

“I arranged to give a talk at his college and approached him afterward. When I discovered he played guitar, I told him to call me for I knew Matt’s band was looking for a new member. He called a week later and I invited him to come over to meet Matt.”

“You gave him your card?”

Bécquer stared at me. “Probably. Why?”

“I found it in his pocket today.”

“He’s not using.”

“How did you know — ?” I stopped as I realized that, like Federico, Bécquer was reading my mind, or whatever it was immortals did. I glared at him.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Then don’t.”

He shrugged. “You don’t have to worry about Ryan. He’s clean. You must be proud of him. It’s hard to give up an addiction. Believe me, I know.”

He got up. “Now that everything has been clarified between us, let’s go. Whether I want it or not, I have a party to host. Which reminds me … ”

He was gone and back so fast that, but for the mask he held now in his hands, I wouldn’t have noticed he had moved at all.

I stood and examined the mask, a delicate piece of art made of ivory silk with colorful feathers.

“Don’t you like it?” Bécquer asked, as I hesitated to pick it up.

“It’s beautiful.”

Again he smiled, the smile of a child pleased with himself. “Federico bought it for me last year when he was in Venice.”

He talked about Federico affectionately as if he had already forgotten his friend had just stomped out of the room, threatening to leave at once. When I mentioned this to him, he shook his head. “He won’t leave. He’s with Matt.” And for the way he said it, as a fact, I understood he was feeling his mind. Did he know, I wondered, of Matt’s attraction to Federico? But, of course, he must.

“Shouldn’t you apologize to him?”

“Apologize to him?” Bécquer repeated, his eyes glowing red. “How can you suggest such a thing? He was the one who insulted me. He accused me of perverting Ryan — ”

“Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”

“And spoil his fun? Federico enjoys thinking the worst of me.”

“That’s not true. He worships you.”

“I wish he didn’t. I am no god. Thus, no matter what I do, he’s bound to be disappointed.”

“I think you like him to worship you. Or you would have put an end to his infatuation long ago.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

“Obviously not hard enough.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Stop playing games with him, Bécquer. If you really want Federico to forget you, you must treat him like your equal. Tell him the truth.”

“I will eventually.”

“Do it now. Mind to mind.”

“Even if I did, he won’t believe me because he would sense I’m hiding something from him. Which I am. But what I’m hiding is a surprise for him, not an ugly secret of mine. I’m hiding that I taught Matt and Ryan to play some of his poems set to song, and they’re going to perform them tonight.

“So you see why I have the right to be resentful of him? I plan a concert in his honor, and he pays me back by throwing wild accusations at me.”

“You care what he thinks,” I said, for the eagerness of his discourse suggested he was genuinely hurt.

“You seem surprised. I see. Federico has convinced you that I’m a monster. It’s useless. No matter what I do, Federico will never forgive me.”

“He has forgiven you long ago. It’s forgetting he has trouble with.”

Bécquer looked away.

“We must go,” he said, “the guests are waiting. And I want you to meet Richard Malick. He’s interested in your manuscript.”

He offered me his arm, but I hesitated. I don’t like parties. Parties are full of people. I like people in small doses. Not all at once. And, if facing a room full of strangers was enough to send me into a panic, talking with a publisher, even if that was the main reason I had come to the party, made my knees grow weak.

“Are you all right?” Bécquer asked.

I breathed in. “Yes.”

“You don’t seem all right to me. And you just fainted. Why?”

“I … Federico cut himself. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

Bécquer frowned, and stared at me, his face expressionless, his eyes as dark as unfathomable wells. As I stared back, his lips parted, to reveal white flashing teeth. For a moment, his canines, longer than what seemed normal, rested on his lower lip.

I didn’t see him move, yet he must have, because his body was close to mine, his hands cupped my face, and his lips were on my lips, pressing them open. Over the familiar scent of lemon and cinnamon that was his, I felt the salty taste of blood and in my mind I heard his words: “Take it. You must take it.”

As he spoke, I felt a pressure in my mind and images formed unbidden: a woman dressed in white sitting by a fountain; a young actress declaiming her lines on stage; a baby in a laced gown; an abbey — its bells ringing — outlined against the background of a solitary mountain; an angry mob burning a horse-drawn carriage while the horses reared, neighing in panic; the face of a woman, beautiful and pale, smiling with blood stained lips.

“Better now?”

Bécquer’s voice intruded in my mind and the visions disappeared. I looked around. I was still sitting on the sofa, and Bécquer was staring down at me, his perfect features set into a mask.

“What have you done to me?”

“Nothing, really.”

I checked with my tongue and found no wound inside my mouth to justify the taste of blood my mind still remembered. So the blood had not been mine.

“You gave me your blood.”

He shrugged. “Only a couple of drops. Just enough to solve your problem.”

“I didn’t know I had a problem.”

“You just told me you faint at the sight of blood. And I couldn’t help but notice you were terrified of joining the party. Now, you won’t be.”

“Have you changed me?” I asked, my voice higher than I had intended.

“No. Of course not. You would need a lot more of my blood for that. I gave you enough to make you stronger.”

“How wonderful. I don’t know how to thank you.”

Bécquer gave me a crooked smile. “A kiss will do.”

“I was being sarcastic, Bécquer. Don’t you get it? This is exactly what I was trying to explain to you before. You manipulate Federico, and everybody else, for all I know. You assume what people want and give it to them. Then get upset when they are not overjoyed by your interference.”

“I meant it as a gift.”

“Maybe. But even if your intentions are good, it is not all right to force your will on others. I didn’t ask for this ‘gift.’”

“All my lovers beg me to give them my blood. I thought you’d want it too.”

“I’m not one of your lovers.”

Bécquer looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I see what you mean. I … I would take it back. But I can’t. The effect of my blood won’t last long, though, and I promise, I will ask next time.”

“You don’t have to ask next time for the answer is no. I don’t want your blood. I don’t want to be like you. In fact, I wish — ”

I wish I had never met you, I was about to say, but stopped because I didn’t want to offend him. Besides it wasn’t totally true. Although I’d rather not know there were immortal beings among us with powers to control humans’ minds, this ancient yet childish god who had just kissed me like a lover also fascinated me. And I hoped he had learned his lesson and was not sensing my feelings, because just then, I wanted nothing better than his lips against my lips and his arms around my body. A stupid wish I knew I must stop at once.

I stood up. “I wish we would stop wasting time and join the party,” I said a little too loudly.

If Bécquer was surprised at my sudden change of the conversation, he hid it well, for he just smiled and, already on his feet, offered me his arm. “Of course, my lady. Your wish is my command.”

I took his arm.

Chapter Seven: The Party

Bécquer stopped by the wrought iron balustrade overlooking the ballroom and turned to me.

“Do you think you can take them?” he asked.

I looked down through the slits of the Venetian mask Bécquer had just adjusted for me. The room was big, bigger than I had thought when I spied it from the front door, and it was crowded.

Under the wheel-shaped chandelier hanging from a central beam, men dressed in suits of bygone eras and women in long evening gowns stood in small groups, gathered around the central island getting their drinks, or sat on the sofas that hugged the walls. But for the raised platform at the back of the room that supported the piano, there was no empty space on the whole floor.

My guess was that close to one hundred people were there. More than enough to send me into a frenzy any other day. But not today. For the first time ever I didn’t feel like fleeing because I could sense their minds — I sensed their hopes, their uncertainties and their fears — as if I stood at the edge of their awareness. And thus, I knew that the crowd was not, as I had often imagined, an all-powerful beast ready to devour me, but made of individual human beings as flawed as I was. As I used to be. Because right then, high on Bécquer’s immortal blood, I felt invincible.

I could take them, as Bécquer had put it. Even more, I was eager to meet them, to learn their stories and even discuss with them the ones I carried, still unfinished, in my mind.

An unbidden smile came to my lips. “Yes,” I said.

Bécquer bent his head toward me. “So you’re not mad at me anymore?” he whispered and, when I said I wasn’t, he took my arm again. “Let’s go, then.”

We were halfway down the wide staircase when I spotted Beatriz. I recognized her by the blue shawl that barely covered her naked shoulders. She was talking to a man with a trimmed mustache and a goatee that looked too out of style to be real. As I watched her, Beatriz raised her head and her eyes met mine. I felt the ice of her stare, almost a physical touch that halted my step.

Bécquer groaned and stopped by my side. “Sorry, Carla. I was hoping to blend in unnoticed. Too late now.”

As he spoke, Beatriz detached herself from the gentleman and brazenly pushed her way toward the stairs, the brouhaha of conversation ebbed in her wake, and heads turned to follow her, until everybody in the room was staring at us in expectant silence.

Basking in his guests’ recognition and with the ease of a medieval king certain of his subjects’ loyalty, Bécquer addressed the room.

“Dear friends, please help me welcome my new author, Carla Esteban.”

He waited for the applause to subside then led me downstairs.

I felt the soothing comfort that emanated from his mind, spreading like a wave over the crowd, urging them to mingle, so that by the time we reached the floor the party had resumed in earnest. But Beatriz did not move.

“Where have you been?” she asked of Bécquer, her sharp voice belying the smile that curled her lips. “The guests were getting impatient.”

“You honor me, Beatriz, to suggest anybody would notice my absence.”

Ignoring Bécquer’s beguiling smile, Beatriz looked up to the staircase behind us. “Where is Federico?” she asked. “He’s scheduled to play in five minutes.”

“Oh, yes! Federico. Right,” Bécquer said lightly. “I’m afraid he won’t be playing tonight.”

“Really, Gustavo,” Beatriz said, and by addressing him by his given name she suggested a familiarity that excluded me. “Couldn’t you have waited to antagonize Federico until the party was over?”

She produced a cell phone as she spoke and started punching numbers.

In a flash, Bécquer’s arm shot forward and the phone was in his hand.

“You can’t ask Matt to cover for him. He’s practicing now for his performance.”

There was such finality in his voice that Beatriz didn’t argue.

Still holding her phone out of her reach, Bécquer scanned the crowd. Soon a playful smile lit his face. “Ask Sheryl to play for us,” he told Beatriz. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”

I followed his stare and noticed a red-haired woman holding a glass in her ringed hand while listening attentively to a middle-aged man whose crazy hair and overgrown moustache reminded me of Mark Twain.

“Sheryl is busy right now,” Beatriz said. “You can’t expect her to entertain your guests.”

“Actually you will have her eternal gratitude if you were to interrupt her, for she would like nothing better than to get away from her present partner. She is only with him because her boss asked her to do so.”

Although nothing about the perfectly made-up face of the woman betrayed her annoyance, I knew, thanks to my new awareness, that Bécquer was right.

Bécquer caught my eye as I looked back and winked at me. Beatriz was not pleased. “What is it with you, Bécquer? Why is everything a joke to you?”

“My dear Beatriz, I assure you that is far from the case, but taking the world too seriously doesn’t make it a better place.”

With a flourish, Bécquer handed Beatriz back her phone. “And now, if you’ll excuse us. I must introduce Carla to Richard. Judging by his last e-mail, he’s very much interested in her novel.”

Beatriz glanced at me, her pale blue eyes cold and dismissive. I was glad for the mask that hid my features for I was certain my dislike of her was written on my face. I could read the hate on hers, as plainly as if I had sensed it in her mind. Which I hadn’t. For, unlike my experience with the woman Sheryl, I couldn’t read her mind. Federico hadn’t either. Why? I wondered. Why was Beatriz different?

“I agree he’s interested,” Beatriz was saying to Bécquer. “It’s with the subject of his interest I disagree.”

“Really, Beatriz. Who is the cynic now?”

“What is her problem?” I asked Bécquer as he led me through the crowd.

She’s jealous of you, Bécquer said, although he didn’t really, because at the same time he was talking with one of his guests, shaking a young man’s hand, bowing to a pretty woman with an ample bosom barely concealed by her low-cut dress, then moving past them, he complimented a tall gentleman on his attire, and kissed the gloved hand of his lady. So, really, he couldn’t be talking to me. Yet his voice was in my head explaining Beatriz was upset with him because she had noticed he liked me.

You like me? The question formed in my mind before I could stop it. Embarrassed, I turned my head away to hide my blushing.

Bécquer laughed but didn’t answer for just then we had reached the back of the room where a man in his thirties was leaning against the wall, a glass in his hand.

“Richard,” Bécquer said.

The man fixed his kohl-enhanced stare on Bécquer. “Bécquer, at last,” he said, his husky voice creating an intimacy that excluded everybody else. But Bécquer, his arm still on mine, nodded to him briefly and introduced me.

Limping slightly, Mr. Malick detached himself from the wall and bowed to me. “Enchanté,” he said.

“The pleasure is mine.”

“Getting into character, are we?” Bécquer asked him.

The man smiled, drinking Bécquer in with his stare. “Not everybody can pull Dorian Gray without make-up.”

“I meant the limp,” Bécquer said.

“Of course.” Mr. Malick turned to me. “Lord Byron,” he explained pointing at his flowing robes that consisted on the loose shirt and pants the Greek nationalists wore in the nineteenth century. “He had a congenital limp, the good lord. Mine is only temporary.”

Bécquer frowned. “You mean it’s real?”

“Quite so.”

“You should have told me. I would have gone to see you during the week. You didn’t have to stress yourself by coming here.”

“Nonsense.” Richard waved his hand to encompass the room. “I couldn’t possibly miss your party.”

“Let’s get you a seat.”

As Bécquer spoke, a couple sharing the sofa further along the wall got up.

A coincidence perhaps. Perhaps not, I thought as I remembered Federico’s conviction that Bécquer manipulated minds.

I do not. Again Bécquer’s voice was in my head as clear as if he had spoken aloud.

I glowered at him. Stop it.

Bécquer raised an eyebrow. Why? It’s quicker and precludes misunderstandings. Besides I like being in your mind.

I mean it.

He shrugged and continued his conversation with Richard, a conversation he had managed to maintain even while we were engaged in our silent one.

When we reached the sofa and, after he had helped Richard to sit and asked me what I wanted to drink, Bécquer excused himself and disappeared into the crowd.

“Charming, isn’t he?” Richard said, the longing so strong in his mind that it flooded mine. “You’re lucky he’s your agent.”

“Indeed,” I said, somehow insulted at the implication that it would be Bécquer’s charisma and not the strength of my writing what would get me a contract.

I felt confusion in his mind, then embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he rushed to apologize. “I respect Bécquer’s judgment tremendously. If he has signed you, you must be seriously talented.”

I laughed. His overuse of qualifiers reminded me of Madison, who couldn’t leave a noun alone or use one adverb when she could use two.

“Seriously.” I smiled. “I’m guessing, by your words, that, contrary to Bécquer’s belief, you’ve not read my manuscript.”

His fingers tapping nervously on his glass betrayed his embarrassment. “I may have given him that impression in my last e-mail. I promise I will read it as soon as I get home.”

“Any time in the next four months would be all right,” I teased him, to put him at ease, for I could sense how much he would hate Bécquer to catch his lie. “Querying is a long process. I’ve learned to be patient.”

“A week only. And that is a promise.”

“A week?” Bécquer repeated joining us.

“For my contract,” I joked.

Bécquer passed me the glass of Riesling I had requested and raised his. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

And we all drank.

Another of Bécquer’s authors stopped by soon afterward, eager to share with Mr. Malick an idea she had just had for a horror story. She seemed surprised because she hated the genre, she explained, and all her novels so far had been realistic fiction. Bécquer encouraged her and used her presence to excuse himself and take me with him.

“You gave her the ‘idea,’” I told Bécquer once we were far enough for them not to hear.

“And why would I do that?” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “To be with you?”

“Certainly not. I — ”

“Actually I did,” he said setting his glass — still full, I noticed — on the tray of one of the waiters passing by. “I wanted you to meet other people, and didn’t want to leave him alone. Is that a crime?”

I didn’t argue.

Over the following hour or so, I met many of Bécquer’s authors, and several editors who requested my manuscript. Bécquer came and went freely. But whether he was there or not, the conversations flew with ease, driven by a common love of books and writing, and my enhanced ability to sense people’s emotions.

It was a strange feeling being able to do so. Disturbing, yet exhilarating, for knowing how people felt, I soon realized, gave me power over them. I found it increasingly difficult, as the evening wore on, not to use it to my advantage.

Apparently, Beatriz had been successful in asking Sheryl to perform, because she had been playing for some time now. Her choices, classical piano pieces, Chopin and Beethoven mainly, blended with the discussions, never too loud to cover the voices, yet audible enough to fill awkward silences.

After each piece, all conversation ceased as a round of applause recognized her efforts, and provided an excuse, if needed, for the guests to part and regroup. I had just taken advantage of one of those breaks to take my leave from my last partner — a mystery writer I had always admired, but who, in person, had turned out to be most boring — when I spotted Bécquer.

He was helping a young woman to one of the sofas. His gesture, paternalistic and condescending as it was, was also annoyingly touching.

Bécquer looked up and his eyes met mine over the tiara the woman wore with the easy grace of a young queen. Embarrassed at being caught watching, I stumbled back and hit somebody.

A firm hand steadied me.

“Thanks,” I said and turned.

Beatriz stood by my side, a glass of red wine in her hand, her eyes intent on the couple.

“Her name is Sarah,” she said. “She is one of Bécquer’s readers and, as far as I know, his latest lover.”

“Lover?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No. But I thought he — ”

It wasn’t that he had a lover what surprised me. Federico had made it clear that Bécquer had had many over the years. What surprised me was that, as Bécquer moved to take his seat by the woman’s side, I had seen by the bump her Empire-style gown couldn’t totally conceal that she was pregnant.

“You thought he was the perfect gentleman?” Beatriz finished for me. “Well. Sorry to disappoint you, but he has had many lovers. They don’t last long, though. At the end, he always comes back to me.”

I had disliked Beatriz from the moment I first met her. Just then, I plain hated her. I hated the patronizing innuendo in her voice. I hated the way she pronounced the words with the harsh edge of her foreign background that gave them the opposite meaning. And, even though I didn’t want to admit it, I hated her, because she had confessed to being Bécquer’s constant lover and, although I didn’t care for him, or so I told myself, she seemed to think I did and she had meant to hurt me.

“Bécquer’s personal life is none of my business,” I said. “Why should I care whether he has a lover?”

“Why indeed?”

The sarcasm in her voice grated at my nerves. Especially because her disbelief was justifiable. Even in my ears, the harshness in my voice had belied my words.

I took a deep breath, and turned to go. Once again, my eyes fell on Bécquer and his supposed lover. She was talking and he smiled as she took his hand and set it gently on her protruding belly. I remembered then, what I’d meant to ask before Beatriz interrupted me: not whether the girl and Bécquer were lovers but whether the baby was his. For if Bécquer could have children of his own, why had he gone through the trouble of contacting and befriending Ryan?

“Is the baby his?” I blurted, my desire to know outweighing my profound dislike of Beatriz.

Beatriz laughed. “No. Of course not.” There was contempt in her voice as she added. “So you don’t know?”

“Know what? That he is immortal!”

Beatriz’s grabbed my arm. “What else did Bécquer tell you?”

“Let me go!”

I yanked my arm, but her grip was strong and held. Beatriz pulled me closer, and as her eyes bore into mine, I felt a pressure in my mind, like a migraine about to happen. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pressure disappeared. But her grip did not.

“You’re protected.” A deep frown creased her forehead. “But how … ?” Her eyes widened. “He gave you his blood,” she finished, her voice dripping contempt. “You pathetic little human. Have you any idea of what you have started?”

Again I felt the pressure in my mind, followed this time by a stream of images, disconnected and confusing, like a movie trailer in fast forward. Images of Bécquer, his eyes glowing red, his lips curled into a snarl to reveal his canines, sharp and longer than they should be. Then as his face grew closer, unfocused, I felt the pain of his sharp teeth piercing my neck, followed by a sudden jolt of perfect bliss. By the time he pulled away, his eyes had lost their glow and were just two dark wells of sated desire. There was blood on his lips that his tongue was playfully licking.

“Beatriz!”

Shattered by the harsh intrusion of Bécquer’s voice, the images disappeared, and I was back in the ballroom. But now Bécquer was before me, holding Beatriz from me.

“You liar!” Beatriz screamed.

The room had grown eerily silent, even the piano had stopped playing, and Beatriz’s voice resonated hollowly against the walls. But when I looked around, expecting to find everybody staring at us, I realized time had stopped, as it had that morning in Café Vienna and the people, frozen as they were, could not hear us.

“Enough, Beatriz!” Bécquer roared. “You have no right to question me.”

“You told me she was of no importance,” Beatriz yelled back, seemingly impervious to the threat of his tone. “Yet you gave her your blood. When were you going to tell me I was dispensable, before or after your first feed?”

“You’re mistaken. Carla is not to take your place as my blood giver.”

“Isn’t she? Then why? Why have you revealed yourself to her?”

“I owe you no explanation.”

“I won’t go easily, I warn you. I deserve to be made an immortal. You as much as promised.”

Bécquer let go of Beatriz and took a step back as if distancing himself from her. “I promised nothing.”

“You never denied it either. You knew it was the only reason I let you feed on me.”

Bécquer laughed.

Too stunned to intervene, I had followed their conversation hoping perhaps that Bécquer would deny what I had seen in Beatriz’s mind. But he hadn’t. Without a trace of guilt or remorse, he had admitted it was true that he had taken her blood and had laughed at her for expecting to be made an immortal in return.

And so I had to admit that, for all his charm, Bécquer was, indeed, a monster that fed on humans, and if Beatriz was right, I was to be his next victim, his next blood giver. I turned to flee, but Bécquer grabbed my arms. Forceful, passionate, his voice broke into my mind. I’m not a monster.

“Get out!”

“Please, Carla. Listen to me. I never … ”

He spoke aloud this time, but I pulled from him, screaming.

For a moment, he stared at me, his eyes not red, but black as night. Then, brusquely, he let go of my arms and, cupping my face in his hands, pressed his lips against mine, effectively silencing my crying.

As if reflected in the trembling surface of a shallow pond, an image swirled before my eyes. The strikingly beautiful face of Beatriz, a younger Beatriz, her beguiling smile and her dilated pupils that almost drowned the pale blue irises of her eyes, a teasing, irresistible call to the senses.

Beatriz, a voice whispered. Bécquer’s voice, distorted in my mind.

I knew this was Bécquer’s memory, a disturbing, unwanted memory. I fought it back and the image faded, only to be replaced by another, of a tearful Beatriz pleading to Bécquer to give her his blood and take her as his blood giver, followed by another of Beatriz sucking greedily on the bleeding wrist of a man’s hand. The same hand I had admired this morning in Café Vienna. Bécquer’s hand.

Out of nowhere a flash of pain struck me, and the images disappeared.

I opened my eyes. In front of me, Bécquer stumbled.

“Carla, go,” he said. But his voice, strangled and broken, carried no power. I didn’t move, but watched Beatriz step back, her eyes bright with madness, holding in her hands a broken glass red with blood.

“Bécquer!” I called and reached for him. But I was too late.

A red stain rapidly spreading on the collar of his white shirt, Bécquer fell to his knees.

Chapter Eight: Beatriz

I screamed.

I screamed and lunged at Beatriz, who was about to strike the fallen Bécquer once again. Without even looking, Beatriz pushed me aside and sent me flying against the wall.

By the time I came back to my senses and yanked from my face the crooked mask that blinded me, Bécquer and Beatriz were gone. There was shattered glass on the floor where I had last seen them and a red smear leading to a closed door.

Blood, I thought and stood, panic stricken, as I remembered Bécquer bleeding at my feet. At the sudden movement, my stomach lurched in complaint and the room started spinning. Gritting my teeth, I leaned back against the wall.

A million questions rushed through my mind. Where was Bécquer? Had Beatriz killed him and dragged him outside to dispose of his body? But that was impossible. Bécquer was immortal. Yet the pain in his mind when the glass cut his throat had been real. The glass. Glass wounds heal slowly in immortals and the loss of blood leave us vulnerable, Federico had told me. Beatriz knew this, I was sure, and was angry with Bécquer. Angry enough to kill him?

Bécquer and his stupid pride. If only he had told Beatriz I was his descendant, she would have understood his interest in me. But, Federico was right: Bécquer liked to play with people’s feelings and was too proud to explain himself to anyone. And now he was hurt, maybe too hurt to explain. I had to find them. I had to tell Beatriz the truth about Bécquer and me. I had to stop her from harming Bécquer any further because I believed him. I believed Bécquer had not forced Beatriz to give him blood. She had agreed to it willingly. Even if Bécquer’s memories were misleading, and he was in part to blame for taking Beatriz’s blood, her attack on him had been unwarranted.

I took a step and the room erupted into movement and the noise exploded, deafening, in my ears, as if I had just emerged from being underwater in a crowded pool. Even the piano playing, so pleasurable before, pounded in my head. Carefully avoiding the broken glass at my feet, I made it to the door.

The corridor on the other side of the ballroom was empty.

In the diffuse light coming from the iron sconces that hung on the walls I could see several doors on the wall across, all closed, the rooms behind them in darkness. But at the end of the corridor, a rectangle of moonlight escaped through the opening of a heavily carved set of French doors.

I ran to them and slid them open. A piece of cloth lay on the floor. I picked it up. It was the blue shawl Beatriz had worn at the party. The blue shawl stained with blood.

I stepped inside and looked around, taking in the tall bookshelves, the slick wooden table and matching chairs that cast long shadows in the silvery moonlight pouring through the far wall, that was, ironically enough, made out of glass.

A noise to my left caught my attention, a moan maybe, a whisper? Then I heard his voice, Bécquer’s voice inside my head, Leave. But it was weak, too weak to overrule my will. So instead I dashed around the bookshelf that partitioned the floor, toward the sound, then stopped. There was no need for me to go further. I had found them. I had found Bécquer, and he didn’t need me, for he was lying with Beatriz in a sofa set against the wall. Bécquer, his eyes closed, his head resting on the leather armrest had his arms around her body, while Beatriz’s head nested against his chest.

How could I have been so stupid to think Bécquer’s life was in danger? For seeing them now, so closely entangled, I understood that, for all the drama of their exchange and her vicious attack, their whole argument had been nothing more than a lovers’ quarrel. A disagreement already forgotten.

“He always comes back to me,” Beatriz had told me. And so he had.

Please, Carla, leave now. Bécquer’s voice was again in my mind, so weak I could have dismissed it. Except this time I had no reason to. I took a step back.

Stay!

Beatriz’s call, strong and willful, stopped me. I looked up and saw her standing in front of Bécquer, blood on her bodice and a snarl on her face. “I did so hope that you would come,” she said, this time aloud.

Her eyes glowed red. I froze in fear for that could only mean one thing: Beatriz was immortal.

Behind her, Bécquer struggled to get up. “Let her go,” he whispered.

He reached forward and grabbed her arm. But Beatriz pulled away. “Why?” she screamed as Bécquer stumbled back and collapsed on the floor. “Why do you care so much for her?”

“He doesn’t,” I said.

In a flash, Beatriz was at my side. “Don’t lie to me.” With apparent ease, she lifted me from the ground and yanked me back against the bookshelf. “I know him. I know him better than he knows himself, and I know he cares for you.”

“But it is not like that … He cares for me because he is … because I am his descendant.”

Beatriz glared at me, her eyes a burning fire, and I felt the push of her mind entering mine, a harsh, painful thrust, like the prodding of a fingernail in an open wound. Then, she released me suddenly, and I hit the floor so hard my knees gave way and I fell down.

“I see you’re telling the truth,” Beatriz started. “I wonder why — ?”

She halted, and her eyes seemed to withdraw as if they were looking inwards. One moment she was looming over me, the next she was gone, leaving behind the echo of a latch unfastening and her unfinished sentence haunting my mind.

I climbed to my feet and looked around, searching for clues of what had just happened. But for the sliding door opened to the night outside, the room was as it had been.

For a moment, I considered whether Bécquer had stopped time again and left, taking Beatriz with him. But when I looked, I saw him, lying still on the floor. I rushed to his side. His eyes closed, his chiseled features paler than ever in the soft light of the full moon, Bécquer did not answer my frantic callings. Scarier still, he had no pulse.

I panicked, at first, for no pulse meant death in my mind, until I remembered Bécquer was not human. Did immortals have a pulse?

Grateful that Bécquer’s blood had made me immune to my usual blackout reaction at the sight of blood, I opened the collar of his shirt, drenched in blood, and checked his neck. A nasty cut ran from ear to ear. There was something bright inside the wound. A shard of glass.

Just as I pried it loose, two hands grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me back.

“What have you done to him?” Federico roared. His back to me, he bent over Bécquer. Then again, he faced me. “You cut him with a broken glass and took his blood,” he shouted.

For the second time that evening, his strong arms held me in the air. “I told you I would not allow anyone to hurt him.”

I tried to speak but his hands were at my throat. I closed my eyes, certain I was about to die for Federico’s thoughts screamed of murder. But another voice was in his mind, a tenuous presence, like a thought made out of mist, fighting his instincts.

He put me down.

“Leave,” he ordered. Turning his back to me, he knelt by Bécquer.

I didn’t move. “Is he going to be all right?”

Federico didn’t answer.

“Beatriz cut him with a broken glass,” I said. “I never hurt him.”

“I know. I can sense your feelings, remember? I know your hate for him is gone.”

Gently, like a mother cradles her child, Federico lifted Bécquer and set him on the sofa.

“Bécquer is my ancestor,” I talked to his back, simplifying the story. “He’s Ryan’s ancestor too. Not his lover.”

Federico looked at me. “That is why he has his picture.”

I nodded.

“Is he going to be all right?” I asked again.

“Yes. But he needs blood and soon.”

He needs blood. I shivered at the implications of his words. With Beatriz his blood giver gone, I was the obvious choice to replace her.

I could leave, of course, as Federico had urged me to do and for a moment I did consider leaving. But if I left, Federico would force somebody else to feed Bécquer. He had made it clear he would not let him die. I couldn’t let somebody else take my place. Besides, finding this other somebody would take time, and Bécquer didn’t look as if he could waste any more time. I chose to stay.

“But first we must clean his wound,” Federico continued. “Any glass left inside would prevent it from healing.”

I watched as Federico removed the red handkerchief from his neck and used it to clean Bécquer’s cut. After retrieving several shards, he stopped and looked up.

“We need a bigger cloth to dress his wound,” he explained as his eyes took in the room. “Perfect,” he said, pointing beyond my head.

Faster than my eyes could follow, he left and returned holding a scarf, Beatriz’s scarf I must have dropped when she attacked me. While I held Bécquer, Federico wrapped it around the wound.

“You should go, Carla,” Federico told me when he finished.

“Go? But you said Bécquer needs blood.”

Federico frowned, and then, as a spark of understanding lit his eyes, he shook his head. “My blood, Carla. Not yours. How could you think I would take yours?”

“I thought he needed human blood.”

“No. Mine will do.” Kneeling, he cut his own wrist with a knife and held the wound to Bécquer’s lips.

I watched Bécquer, looking desperately for some sign of life, for although he had made Beatriz an immortal —

You’re wrong. Bécquer’s voice resonated inside my mind, and so relieved I was that he was still alive, I didn’t fight his intrusion this time. Not even when his memories came rushing in. A fuzzy memory of Beatriz dragging a reluctant Bécquer through the library, of Beatriz drinking blood from him, of Beatriz, her eyes glowing red, staring at him with wild desire.

Good heavens, Federico yelled, moving back. You made Beatriz immortal!

Bécquer sat up. I didn’t. She stole my blood. Give me some credit, for Carla’s sake.

Federico stared at me. You can hear us?

“Yes,” I said, aloud now. For only then, I realized the previous conversation had taken place inside my head.

Federico turned to Bécquer. “You gave Carla your blood?”

“What if I did?”

“Really, Bécquer. No wonder Beatriz attacked you.”

“Glad to hear you approve.”

“You knew Beatriz was concerned about Carla taking her place,” Federico continued, ignoring Bécquer’s sarcastic retort, “yet you give her your blood. What did you expect?”

“Certainly not that you’d condone her attack.”

“I do not condone her action. But this wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t use humans.”

“I don’t use humans, Federico. You know quite well that Beatriz asked me to take her as my blood giver. As for Carla, you don’t have to worry: she doesn’t want my blood. You can ask her. When I’m gone.”

Setting his hands firmly on the sofa, Bécquer stood.

Federico blocked his way. “Where are you going?”

“To find Beatriz. I must stop her before she kills someone.”

“You are not serious. You cannot stop Beatriz. She’s stronger than you are right now. She will kill you.”

Bécquer groaned. “Thanks for your vote of confidence. But I’ve no choice.”

“Be my guest.” Bowing mockingly at him, Federico stepped aside.

I looked on, bemused by Federico’s reaction, for Bécquer was shaking badly and I couldn’t imagine how he was going to make it to the door, let alone confront Beatriz, this new immortal Beatriz who had lifted me with the ease of a tornado uprooting a tree.

As I feared, Bécquer didn’t make it far. He took a step, then stumbled and would have fallen if Federico had not held him and helped him back to the sofa.

“I need more blood,” Bécquer’s voice was low, demanding. “I must reach Beatriz tonight.”

“Beatriz is beyond your help, Bécquer. She stole immortality. The Elders will kill her. You know the law.”

“Yes, I know the law. I sired her, thus she is my responsibility. If she kills tonight, the Elders will blame me for her digressions and kill me too.”

Federico’s face turned ashen. “Then I’ll do it. I’ll find her and kill her before she kills somebody.”

“I don’t want her dead. I want to stop her before it’s too late.”

“You can’t, Bécquer. You have lost too much blood and she’s driven by the unquenchable thirst of the newborn. Even if I’d give you blood, you won’t be a match for her.”

After a rapid nod in my direction, Federico started toward the door. But before he reached it, I heard in my mind Bécquer’s voice calling his name. His silent cry, a compelling order that, even though it was not directed at me, overcame my will and sent me to my knees. Federico stopped.

Give me your blood. Again Bécquer’s voice boomed inside my head, a command too strong even for Federico to resist.

Through half closed eyes, I watched him walk back to Bécquer’s side, and sitting on the sofa pull down the collar of his shirt to reveal his naked throat. I looked away.

I could feel the battle raging between their minds, flashes of anger storming back and forth, hurting as if a hammer was pounding my brain.

“Enough,” I shouted, not really expecting them to hear me. But immediately the voices stopped and, for a moment, only Bécquer’s remained, a soothing whisper. Block your thoughts. Then their bickering returned.

I can’t, I called to him. I don’t know how.

Think of ice, Bécquer’s voice suggested. A wall of ice.

I tried and failed. I tried again, until the wall remained, cold and forbidding between their minds and mine. And there was silence. A silence broken soon by the steps of someone running, getting closer and closer. Behind the sofa to my left, a door I hadn’t noticed before opened and Matt stood in the doorway.

He was panting which didn’t surprise me for I had heard him running, but despite his obvious hurry, he stood on the threshold, blinking, and didn’t come in. The library, I realized then, was lit only by the moonlight coming through the glass wall, and for a human eye, the room would be almost in darkness. The fact that I could see clearly was, I guessed, another side effect of having taken Bécquer’s blood.

While Matt waited at the door, Bécquer came to my side and helped me to my feet. “Sorry, Carla,” he whispered, his fingers pushing back a stray lock of my hair. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

Before I could as much as nod, he had already reached the open door, and was inviting Matt to come inside.

Matt didn’t move. “Where is Federico?” he asked, and there was fear in his voice.

Bécquer pointed at the sofa. “Right there.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“My mother … She’s immortal.”

“Yes. I know.”

Bécquer’s voice was even. But Matt’s snapped. “Why? Why did you do it?”

“He didn’t,” Federico said, walking to them. “Your mother stole Bécquer’s blood.”

“You have to find her.”

“I was just going — ”

“To kill her,” Bécquer finished Federico’s sentence.

Matt stared at Federico, eyes open wide with horror. “You can’t kill her. She’s my mother.”

“He won’t,” Bécquer said while Federico glowered at him. “Federico is staying here. To attend to the party,” he added, shooting a warning look at his friend. Then he turned to Matt, “And I won’t harm your mother. You have my word. But you must tell me where she is.”

“I don’t know. She came to my room and demanded I go with her. When I refused, she got furious. We were still arguing when, without warning, she turned and exited through the window. I heard the screech of tires and when I looked down, I saw her standing before Ryan’s Prius. She moved as I watched, opened the driver’s door and dragged Ryan from inside. I didn’t see what happened next for I rushed down the stairs, but her car is gone and I couldn’t find Ryan.”

“She took Ryan?” I screamed and rushed to him. “Where did your mother go?”

“He doesn’t know,” Bécquer repeated. “But, don’t worry, I can track her.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Gently, Bécquer grabbed my arms. “No, Carla. Your presence will provoke Beatriz, make her still more unpredictable, and hinder me. Ask Matt to drive you home and wait for me there. I’ll bring Ryan back to you. I promise.”

He stared at me for a moment, his mind willfully dominating mine, while his fingers traced my cheek. Then he moved back, called his thanks to Federico for giving him the blood he had stolen, and left swiftly through the glass door.

Chapter Nine: Kidnapped

When I looked back into the room, my mind aflutter with feelings I had thought long dead, Matt was confronting Federico.

“Is it true you were going to kill my mother?” he asked, his voice raw with anger and fear.

Federico didn’t flinch. “Your mother stole Bécquer’s blood. Among immortals, that is an unforgivable crime. Even if I don’t kill her, the Elders will.”

“The Elders?”

“The Elders are our rulers. They implement the law and have the ultimate saying on who is to become immortal.”

As he spoke, Federico walked somewhat unsteadily to the sofa and sat down. Matt followed him. “But Bécquer promised not to kill her.”

“And he won’t, Matt. But if your mother kills tonight, not even Bécquer will be able to save her.”

Looming over Federico, Matt screamed, “My mother is not a killer!”

“Tonight, your mother has transcended her human nature. She has instincts she has yet to master and, until she does, her thirst for blood will dominate her actions. I’m sorry, Matt; but, tonight, your mother is a killer.”

Matt moaned.

Federico closed his eyes. I could feel the thirst in him, the urge to drink from Matt and his will fighting back.

Please, Carla, take Matt away, Federico’s voice spoke in my mind.

And you?

I’ll be all right. I just need blood.

How — ?

I have some in my room.

I flinched at the image of a human held prisoner in his room.

A quick smile twisted Federico’s lips. I don’t drink blood from humans. I buy it in bags.

I’ll help you to your room, then.

No. I need you to take Matt away.

I grabbed Matt’s arm and pulled at him. “Let’s go,” I said, cajoling him as I would one of Ryan’s friends. “Bécquer will bring Ryan to my house. Your mother may come with them.”

Matt didn’t move.

“Go,” Federico said. For a moment his eyes glowed red.

“What’s wrong?” Matt asked.

I sensed Federico’s reluctance to share with the young man his need for blood, and underneath an undercurrent of feelings quickly suppressed. I remembered how, earlier at the party, Bécquer had stopped Beatriz from calling Matt. His reasons were clear to me now. Matt couldn’t come, because he was with Federico.

Yes, Federico spoke in my mind. “Nothing,” he said to Matt. “I’m tired. That’s all.”

A light of understanding lit Matt’s eyes. “Did my mother steal your blood too?”

“No. Bécquer took it,” Federico said. “He needed his strength to find your mother.”

“I’m sorry.” Matt’s voice was soft now and the anger in his eyes was gone, replaced with concern.

Federico nodded. “I’m sorry, too, about your mother.”

I stepped back to give them privacy. Whatever had happened between them, it was obvious a new understanding had been reached. Federico had acknowledged Matt’s feelings for him. And, judging by his present reaction, he might return them as well.

“I’ll wait outside,” I told Matt. After nodding my goodbye to Federico, I walked to the glass door and slid it open.

I found myself in a graveled space between the back of the house and a stone barn. Light escaped through one of the windows on the first floor, which I guessed would be Matt’s room.

The white limousine Matt had driven before was parked to my right; on my left, Ryan’s red Prius blocked the access to the front of the house.

The driver door was wide open, I saw when I got nearer, which evoked in my mind the image of Beatriz stepping in front of the car as it turned the corner, of Ryan braking not to run her over, and of Beatriz forcing the door open and dragging him out.

I ducked my head and looked inside the car. Ryan’s guitar was on the back seat as was his blue and white duffel bag, both items sending the message no mother wants to hear: that her son is moving out. Ryan had returned home after our discussion to pack his guitar and his clothes. He was moving out, not because he was ready, but to be free of my interference. Moving where? To the couch in one of his friends’ apartments? Hopefully not Emily’s, for Emily, the Goth girl with whom he had been going out on and off for a year now, was still using. Or so Ryan had told me only the previous week when he’d also told me he was clean. If only I had believed him! Not that his moving out mattered at the moment. What mattered was that Bécquer reach Beatriz before she could hurt Ryan or kill him. Or make him one of them.

“Carla, my car is in the barn, would you come with me?”

Matt’s voice startled me, and as I turned to face him, I saw the car key still hanging in the ignition.

“Thanks, Matt. But that won’t be necessary. I’ll take Ryan’s car.”

Matt didn’t move. “May I go with you?” His reason for coming — I want to help my mother — hung unsaid between us.

I hesitated for a moment then nodded. “Of course.” Settling in the driver’s seat, I started the car.

We drove in silence at first, which suited me fine for my mind was going in a thousand directions at once covering all the possible outcomes of Beatriz’s kidnapping of Ryan.

Bécquer had said he could track Beatriz. But could he? Beatriz was immortal now, and immortals, Federico had told me, could block their thoughts, hide their presence from each other. And even if Bécquer found her, what were his chances of convincing her to let Ryan go? Beatriz had been raving mad even as a human; I couldn’t imagine how she would be now driven by the thirst of her newborn condition.

“I understand you hate my mother.” Surprised by his words, I said nothing. Matt continued, “I hate her too, most of the time. But for all her faults, she’s still my mother.”

He said this matter of factly, as if there was a bond between mother and son nothing could break. I didn’t argue, although in my case the duffel bag on the back seat said otherwise.

“You hate her,” I repeated to keep him talking, for I didn’t want to dwell on my fears.

“My mother didn’t raise me,” Matt said. “She left me with my dad when I was about two, while she went to pursue her career. She was a model, did you know?”

“No. I didn’t.” That didn’t mean she wasn’t famous. Unlike Madison, who studied fashion magazines with the intensity a scholar gives a rare manuscript, I had never been interested in couture.

“She was well known back then,” Matt said. “Made it to the magazine covers many times. I collected them all and hid them under my bed. If my dad saw them, he never mentioned it. We never discussed her. Then, when I was about ten, he got married again, and sent me to boarding school. Mother left modeling around that time and became Bécquer’s secretary. Lured by the promise of immortality, I guess. But not knowing who Bécquer was, her choice struck me as odd.”

“And Bécquer? When did you meet him?”

“I saw him when Mother took me from school, at Christmas or summer vacation. He spent more time with me than she ever did. I think he liked me and I liked him too. Mother seemed to resent that fact.”

“When did you learn he was immortal?”

“He told me last year when he bought his house in Bucks County. I had just finished college and was looking for a job. He offered me free room and board and a salary if I looked after the house and the grounds and drove his guests when needed. I agreed, of course. It’s a great arrangement for me. It allows me to pursue my music while I build my freelance business. And the pay is good. But living so close to him, he figured I would notice … ”

His words faded as if sucked into a vacuum that silenced the world around me and stole the air from my lungs. It was a sudden change that came and went too fast for me to understand. A second frozen in time, I would have probably dismissed as a product of my imagination, but for the image it left, burnt in my mind, of a body suspended in midair between a concrete walkway and a dark mass of water.

Come. Bécquer’s voice, distorted and unreal, resonated inside my head, a command I couldn’t ignore. And again a vision overtook me. This time I saw Ryan swimming, fighting the churning waters that rushed toward the opened gates of a dam.

I’ll get Ryan. But you must come. Again Bécquer’s voice, sounding far away yet pressing, was in my mind. Then nothing.

I swerved off the road, braking hard until the car came to a halt.

“What’s wrong?”

“Didn’t you feel it?”

Matt stared at me.

“Never mind,” I continued, for the answer was clear in the puzzled look in his blue eyes, which I noticed were the exact shade of Beatriz’s.

I returned to the road, made a U-turn, and headed northwest.

“Bécquer is at Peace Valley,” I explained to Matt.

“How do you know?”

“He just told me.” Showed me would have been more accurate for I had recognized the dam in the image Bécquer had sent me as the one closing the southwest side of Lake Galena. But I didn’t feel like explaining my vision of Ryan drowning, afraid, perhaps, that saying it aloud would make it real.

“Bécquer talked to you?”

“Yes.”

“You two are connected?”

I nodded.

“Is that why my mother took Ryan, to get back at you for taking her place?”

Like Federico had before meeting me, Matt concluded that I was to become Bécquer’s blood giver.

“No,” I said, too loud to sound convincing, for the assumption irked me more than it should have. “I don’t want to take your mother’s position.”

“But you’re connected to Bécquer,” he repeated.

“Yes and no. He gave me some of his blood today. The effects will wear off soon. There will be no further exchange between us. But you’re right,” I continued, feeling slightly guilty for screaming at him. “Your mother thought Bécquer meant to replace her.”

“Mother has big plans. She wants to help people. That is why she wants to be immortal.”

A part of me understood Matt’s need to excuse his mother’s behavior. But if the image I had seen was real, Ryan’s life was in danger at this very moment because of Beatriz, and that made her my enemy. So I kept my eyes on the road, luckily empty at this late hour, for I was going well over the speed limit, and didn’t answer.

We reached the lake by its southeastern shore and followed the road that surrounded the water. In the last parking lot, the closest to the dam, a car I recognized as Bécquer’s BMW stood dark and alone. And empty, I confirmed after getting out of mine. Where was Beatriz’s car? I wondered. Was she gone or was her car on the other side of the lake? I pushed the question from my mind. What mattered now was to find Bécquer and Ryan. I’d worry about Beatriz later.

“Let’s go,” I said. Without looking back to see if Matt was following, I ran toward the lake where I could see two figures emerging from the water. Two shadows in the moonlight, Bécquer and Ryan, both standing, both alive, I told myself to assuage my fears, even if one of them, the shortest one, stumbled as I watched and fell to his knees in the shallow water. The other, Ryan, stopped. Holding Bécquer by the waist, he helped him to his feet then dragged him further ashore.

Matt reached them first. He set Bécquer’s right arm over his shoulders, wrapped his left around Bécquer’s body, and after nodding to Ryan to indicate he could let go, started toward one of the wooden benches that dotted the lake.

I called out to Ryan, who looked up and came to me. I took him in my arms or, more accurately, he took me in his because he was almost two heads taller than I was now, which made it difficult for me to hug him.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“It’s all right,” I said, and meant it. Everything was all right, for he was alive.

“What happened?” I asked him as he pulled away. “Where is Beatriz?”

Ryan pointed at the upper ground that closed the lake. “She threw me in the water from up there. Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, because I didn’t, and because I didn’t know what else to say.

“Why did she take me? Why here?” he asked, question following question as if they were just crossing his mind. “She told me Bécquer was my father. Can you believe it? She must be mad,” he concluded. “For how could … ” He frowned. “He’s not.” A note of concern crept into his voice as he added, “Bécquer is not my father, is he Mom?”

My guess was that Beatriz had told Ryan Bécquer was his ancestor, but now was not the moment to explain.

I shook my head. “Of course not, Ryan. I only met Bécquer last week.”

Ryan sighed. “He saved my life,” he said, looking over my shoulder. “I have to thank him.”

Without waiting for me, he started toward the bench to our right, where Matt had taken Bécquer. I followed him.

When we reached them, I saw Bécquer sitting back, his eyes closed while Matt bent over him.

“Is he all right?” Ryan asked.

Matt’s back straightened and turning to face us he pointed at Bécquer’s neck. “Did my mother do this to him?” he asked me. His voice was close to panic.

“Yes. Back at the house. But, don’t worry. He’ll be all right,” I said. I lied to calm him down, for I had no idea what was wrong with Bécquer, and the fact that his mind was closed scared me.

Matt said nothing.

“Let me see him,” I said.

As Matt stepped back, I moved closer and sat by Bécquer’s side.

The blue scarf Federico had wrapped around the wound was gone and the glass left an ugly, swollen wound, clearly visible. It was not bleeding now, but the collar of Bécquer’s white shirt was stained with blood, as was probably his waistcoat also, although the blood was invisible against the vivid scarlet of his vest.

“Bécquer,” I whispered and took his hand. It was cold like winter rain. I shivered, not only because of the cold that settled on me now with the rush of adrenaline gone and I was not wearing a coat, but out of fear that he might be dying — “We call ourselves immortals, but that name is a misnomer,” Federico had told me. “We can die.”

The intensity of my fear must have reached his mind, because his eyes flickered open and his voice was in my mind. Tell them to leave.

“He’s all right,” I told the two young men staring at me, “but he needs a bandage. Ryan, do you have a clean shirt in your bag?”

Ryan frowned.

“I drove your car here. Can you bring me a clean shirt?”

“Sure.”

Ryan turned to go.

“Change into dry clothes, first, or you’ll catch a cold,” I called to his back.

“I’ll do it later.”

“No. Do it now. Matt can go with you and bring me the shirt.”

Matt hesitated for a moment, reluctant to leave Bécquer. But Bécquer nodded at him, flinched at the pain the movement must have caused him, and whispered, “Your mother is all right, Matt. Do as Carla says.”

Matt smiled, a quick smile of relief that make him look even younger. “I’ll be quick,” he said to me and started after Ryan.

Bécquer followed him with his eyes, and then winked at me. I thought they’d never leave.

Chapter Ten: Ryan

I felt relief at first upon hearing his voice. Relief that he was well enough to play games. But soon my relief gave way to anger, because I had been worried about him.

“So you were pretending,” I said aloud.

“Pretending I’m half dead? No. But I wanted them gone so I can talk with you alone.”

“About Beatriz?”

Your mother is all right, he had told Matt before dismissing him. Maybe Beatriz was badly hurt and Bécquer had not wanted to tell Matt.

Bécquer stalled. “Beatriz? What about her?”

“Did you ki — hurt her?”

“No. We talked. Then she left.”

“You let her go?” I asked in disbelief.

“I didn’t let her. She didn’t ask my permission.”

“You could have forced her to stay.”

“Force her? Beatriz is immortal, Carla. Probably stronger than I am right now. And she had Ryan. How on earth would I do that?”

I said nothing. I could see his point. Yet I was still upset that Beatriz was free.

Bécquer bent toward me. “Why are you so difficult to please? I promised you I’d get your son back. And I did. Could you at least be thankful for that.”

I blushed under his deep stare. And looked down, embarrassed at the truth I recognized in his words. “Thank you. I mean it, Bécquer. I’m grateful. Very, very grateful.”

Bécquer took my hands in his. I shivered at the contact for they were still cold, even colder than I remembered. “Yet you’re upset too. Why?”

“I thought you could read minds.”

“Feelings. I sense feelings. No motives. No reasons. And in your case, your feelings are puzzling. So please, explain.”

“Not now. You are not well,” I said for his face was pale in the moonlight. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

“Nothing, really. But I appreciate your asking.”

“Are you sure? You seem weaker than you were when Beatriz … Did she do it again? Did she take your blood?”

“Yes. But this time I offered. The change demands lots of blood. She was thirsty already, so I offered her mine. Enough to carry her through the night. That will give her time to get some from one of the blood banks that deals with us immortals.”

“And you trust she will.”

“I hope she does. For both of our sakes. If she kills, the Elders will hold me responsible. So you see, Carla, it would have been in my best interest to keep her close so I could supervise her. But she didn’t agree. She threw Ryan over the fence to make sure I didn’t follow her. I had to step us out of time to keep him safe while I gave her my blood.”

That explained the shock wave I felt on the road. It also explained why he had fainted. I remembered how weak he had been when I found him at the library. No wonder he was half dead now. I looked up the bank toward the parking lot. Matt was coming down already. But Ryan was not visible. He must have moved behind the car to change. He would not join us for a while. And Matt already knew Bécquer was immortal. He would not be surprised if he saw us. I turned to Bécquer.

“Take my blood,” I said quickly, afraid I would lose my nerve if I thought it over. “Take as much as you need.”

Bécquer smiled. “You said you didn’t want to exchange blood ever again.” As he spoke, he traced the veins of my right wrist with his long fingers. “What made you change your mind?”

“You saved my son’s life.”

His fingers stopped moving. “Is that why?” His smile was gone and his eyes were dead serious.

“Yes.”

He let go of my hand. “That is not how it works. I never take blood as payment.”

“But you need it.”

“Matt will drive me home,” Bécquer said curtly. And his words were final.

I should have felt relieved at his rejection for the idea of giving him my blood scared me more than I could acknowledge. Yet I wasn’t relieved, I realized, but hurt. I pushed back the unexpected feeling for I didn’t want him to sense it.

“As you wish.”

I got up to leave for Matt had already joined us.

“One more thing,” I heard myself saying. “I think it’s better if Ryan does not visit you any longer.”

“Why?” The hardness in his eyes remained, but there was a hint of hurt in his voice.

“Beatriz, of course.”

“Whether Ryan is in my house or in yours doesn’t matter. She knows where you live. She was my secretary, after all.”

“Among other things,” I wanted to say but didn’t, for Matt was listening. And although he probably suspected, or knew, his mother and Bécquer had been lovers, it was not right for me to mention it now. Besides, whatever Beatriz had been was irrelevant, compared with the threat she posed now. For if she knew where I lived that meant she could hurt Ryan any time. Or Madison.

Madison. I had to call her, tell her to stay indoors, not to let Beatriz in. Or did that matter? Did immortals, like the mythical vampires of lore, need permission to enter somebody’s house?

Instinctively, my hand reached for my cell, but I couldn’t find it. I had left it in my purse, and my purse was at Bécquer’s house.

“Madison is safe,” Bécquer said.

“How did you guess I was thinking of her?”

“And Ryan will be too,” Bécquer continued not bothering to answer a question that needed no answer. “I made a deal with Beatriz. If she ever touches you or your children, she is dead. Besides, she’s leaving Pennsylvania tonight, she promised.”

“And you believe her?”

“I do. Beatriz has risked a lot to become immortal. She won’t want to antagonize me further as I am the only one who can protect her from the Elders.”

“The Elders,” Matt repeated. “Federico said they will kill her for stealing your blood.”

“Don’t worry, Matt. I’ll speak in her defense. Let’s hope I’m convincing.” He turned to me, “As for Ryan, I’ll follow your request, Carla. I won’t contact him. But tell him that if he ever needs me, I will always be there for him. Or is that too much to ask of you?”

I considered retracting my request, for I could see in his dark stare the pain it had caused him to accept it and he had just saved Ryan’s life. But the incongruity of the implausible events of this long day had finally caught up with me, and I felt too weary to continue the discussion. So instead, I nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

• • •

I asked Ryan to call his sister as soon as I reached the car, for despite Bécquer’s words of reassurance, I needed to talk with Madison to believe she was all right. When Ryan’s cell didn’t work, which was not surprising after its immersion in the water, I drove us home dangerously fast along the narrow, winding road that left the lake.

The possibilities of Beatriz going after Madison were slim, I reminded myself. Besides, even if she had gone to my house looking for her after taking Bécquer’s blood, Madison would not have been there. Abby’s mother was supposed to pick her up at eight to drive her to her Halloween party. It was past ten now. Madison was at the party, she had to be, and Beatriz could not reach her there.

Immortals only sense humans when they are close, Federico had told me. Beatriz did not know where the party was, or that Madison was going to a party for that matter, and she couldn’t trace Madison’s mind, because she had never met her.

But no amount of reasoning could convince me Madison was safe, not even hearing her voice on the phone when we finally made it home. And so, despite her complaints that I had agreed to let her sleep over at Abby’s, I insisted on picking her up.

Madison was not happy to see me. And once the wave of relief at seeing she was unharmed wore off, I wasn’t happy to see her either, for I soon understood why she had been so upset by my change of plans. Madison was wearing the skimpy outfit that, earlier that day, I had strictly forbidden her to wear.

I shook my head in disbelief and motioned her to the car.

“It’s not what you think,” Madison told me after sulking for a while.

“And what’s that?”

“That I planned to wear this dress all along. I didn’t, really.”

“Why did you wear it then?”

“Courtney had the same cat costume I bought at the mall. She posted her picture on Facebook before the party. I couldn’t wear it after that.”

“Of course you couldn’t.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew you wouldn’t understand. Besides, you were not home so I couldn’t ask you, could I?”

“No. But you knew I would have said no. Yet, you ignored my wishes.”

“You mean I’m grounded?”

“Yes.”

She thought about it for a moment. “Could we do the grounding in two weeks?”

“Because … ”

“Isabel’s birthday party is next Saturday.”

“You should have thought about that before disobeying me.”

“Please, Mom. I’ll clean my room, I promise. And I’ll keep it clean, if you let me go to Isabel’s.”

We argued still, but we both knew she had won. There was little I wouldn’t trade for seeing the carpet of her room once again. I hadn’t for ages, as it was hidden under the piles of clothes and stuff that covered her floor.

Madison disappeared into her room as soon as we got home. I wished her goodnight through the closed door, and after getting a reluctant goodnight back, checked on Ryan. He was sleeping already in the shirt he had been wearing. His jeans lay in a heap next to the bed, as they frequently had since he was a little boy. I picked them up, out of habit, and set them on the chair.

Then I took the duffel bag downstairs and emptied it into the washing machine. As I suspected, Ryan had thrown his wet clothes in with the clean ones and they were all damp now. They could have waited till morning, I suppose, but I couldn’t. If I couldn’t make the events of the evening disappear, I could, at least, get rid of the mud and smell of the lake from Ryan’s clothes.

I sat in front of the blank TV screen while I waited for the cycle to finish, and revisited in my mind my conversation with Ryan in the car. To my relief, Ryan had not mentioned his intention of moving out and didn’t argue against coming home. Even better, his version of his kidnapping did not include any supernatural twist.

Beatriz had grabbed him from his seat as he arrived at Bécquer’s house, he had told me, and dragged him to her car. When he resisted she had knocked him unconscious.

By the time he came back to his senses, Beatriz was talking on her phone with Bécquer. Which was, I realized, what Bécquer had meant when he said he could track her. After a while, she hung up, turned the car around and, at neck-breaking speed, headed toward Peace Valley.

Once there, she had ordered him to get out of the car and forced him to follow her up the path to the walkway over the dam that runs along the west end of the lake. Bécquer had soon joined them, coming from the southeastern shore. There had been no exchange of words between them, Ryan told me, sounding puzzled. They had stood in silence, facing each other for a moment, and then Beatriz had lifted Ryan and thrown him over the rail. After the shock of the cold water wore off, Ryan had tried to swim ashore but the gates were open and the current pulled him toward the gap. His voice trembled as he told me how he had panicked when he realized he could not beat the pull of the water. Luckily, Bécquer had come to his aid and dragged him to the shore.

I told Ryan that Bécquer had fired Beatriz because she had stolen from him, and Beatriz had kidnapped Ryan to blackmail Bécquer out of telling the police.

I could see this explanation, as close to the truth as I could make it, didn’t convince Ryan entirely, but he had not argued. Not then anyway.

I had no idea what I would tell him if, after he had time to think it over, he was to question Beatriz’s or Bécquer’s impossible strength, apart from suggesting he ask Bécquer and trusting that Bécquer could charm his way out of Ryan’s doubts. Except that I couldn’t do that for I didn’t want Ryan to see Bécquer ever again, and that brought me to an impasse I had no clue how to overcome.

• • •

The next day started earlier as Madison missed her bus and I had to drive her to school. When I came back, I found the coat I had left at Bécquer’s house hanging from the coat rack and my purse and an envelope that had not been there before sat on the table by the front door. My heart skipped a beat when I noticed Ryan’s name on the envelope written in Bécquer’s ornate gothic style. Inside (yes, I looked) there was a check and a thank-you note, also handwritten. I put the envelope back and went to the kitchen where I could hear Ryan typing.

“Did Bécquer come?” I asked him, trying and failing to sound casual.

“No,” Ryan said, his eyes never leaving the screen of the laptop set before his bowl of cereal. “Matt did. He brought back your things and my check for last night.”

“Are you going to accept it?”

“Why not?”

“Because you didn’t play.” And the check is incredibly generous, I thought, but didn’t say for I couldn’t admit to having opened his correspondence.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Ryan said, crunching his cereal loudly. He swallowed. “Besides, Bécquer will be offended if I don’t.”

Something in the way he said Bécquer’s name, a note of respect and trust I had heard only rarely in the voice of my students over my many years of teaching, warned me Ryan would not take well to my request to stay away from Bécquer. Yet, I had to ask.

Ryan stopped his typing and met my stare. “Stay away from Bécquer? Why should I?”

“Because … ” Why indeed? Apart from the fact that Bécquer was immortal and could lose control and kill him without even trying, or that Beatriz had kidnapped him the previous night and could do it again, I had no reason. No reason at all to keep him from seeing Bécquer. And my real reasons I couldn’t share.

“Please, Ryan. Do as I say,” I finished lamely. “You don’t understand but — ”

“No, Mom. It’s you who doesn’t understand.” Ryan’s voice had the steel determination that over the years I had learned to recognize as the beginning of an impossible-to-win battle of wills.

“Listen to me, Ryan. You don’t know Bécquer. He — ”

“You’re wrong, Mom. I do know him. Bécquer is cool. He saved my life.”

“Yes. I was there last night, remember?”

“I’m not talking about last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Forget it.”

“Ryan. If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask him.”

“Oh, so it’s all right for you to talk to Bécquer, but not for me?”

“Don’t change the subject. What do you mean when you say he saved your life?”

“It’s no big deal. I OD’ed once, and he took me to the hospital.”

I dropped on a chair by his side, for my knees felt like rubber and I would have fallen otherwise. “You were using drugs in his house?” I asked in a voice so high-pitched I barely recognized it.

“No. Of course not. He wasn’t with me when I used. I was hanging out with friends.”

“Where?”

“What does it matter where? It was a party. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t remember much. I was high. We all were, I guess. The next thing I remember I was at the ER. And the doctor said I had OD’ed. And Bécquer was there. He was the one who took me to the hospital. He asked me not to tell you.”

“Great. And since when do you do what strangers ask?”

“Bécquer is not a stranger.”

“No, of course not. You have known him for how long? Five seconds?”

“He took me to NA meetings,” Ryan said, ignoring my sarcasm. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”

“He took you to … Why did you never tell me?”

“You never asked.”

I stopped arguing. I knew when I was beaten. Which was about every time I had had an argument with him since he turned five.

I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee. Caffeine was the last thing I needed at the moment, but I was not thinking straight. What other things was I not aware of that Bécquer had done for my son? Was Ryan moving in with him the previous night? Had Bécquer agreed to that, or was Ryan crashing with Matt? Probably, I would never know. I returned his duffel bag to his closet while he was sleeping and put his clothes back in the drawers. My guess was he had not noticed.

“Don’t worry,” Ryan said when I returned to the table. “I have so much homework, I won’t have time to practice with the band, so I won’t be seeing Bécquer for a while in any case.”

“You never told me you were in a band.”

“I did tell you. Shut up and listen.”

“Excuse me?”

Ryan looked up and frowned. “What did I do wrong now?”

“You just told me to shut up.”

“No, I didn’t. Shut Up and Listen is the name of the band.”

We sat in silence. The clicking of the keyboard the only sound punctuating my contradictory thoughts. After a while the sound stopped. Snapping his laptop shut, Ryan got up.

“I’ve to go. My first class starts in half an hour.”

I nodded.

Ryan bent over and kissed the top of my head. “It’s okay, Mom. Don’t worry. I still love you.”

“It’s good to know, baby, for I love you too.”

“I know,” he said.

And after hugging me with his free arm, he rushed to the door.

Chapter Eleven: Bécquer’s Request

I tried to write after Ryan left but couldn’t. The bizarre events of the last twenty-four hours continued to play in my mind — as they had through the long sleepless night I had endured — blocking my creativity. At times elated, at times overwhelmed by the memories, I found it impossible to concentrate on my writing. So, eventually I gave up and went for a ride.

That I ended up in the parking lot overlooking the dam in Lake Galena was not planned, yet it seemed inevitable. Two other cars were there when I arrived. But not Bécquer’s. My disappointment at Bécquer’s not surprising absence was all too real to ignore. Yet absurd.

I locked my car and went down the bank to the gravel strip by the water where Ryan and Bécquer had come ashore.

A heron, white and slender, walked the shore hunting for food. The heron I had described in the manuscript Bécquer had agreed to represent. Was it only the previous morning I had signed my contract with him?

But for the heron, the place was deserted. The boats and canoes that dotted the lake in summer were grounded ashore on the crescent-shaped inlet to my left. And the owners of the cars sitting by mine were nowhere in sight.

Turning my back to the lake, I walked to the bench Bécquer and I had shared the previous night and sat down.

The weather had been unusually mild this past October and the trees had just reached their full autumn colors, but the stunning beauty of my surroundings failed to impress me.

Maybe it was because the effect of Bécquer’s blood had worn off during the night, and after perceiving the world through immortal senses, it seemed dull now that I was seeing it with my human eyes. Maybe it was, plain and simply, because Bécquer was not with me and I wished he were.

Which, again, was absurd.

I barely knew Bécquer. I had met him only on three occasions and always at a professional level. Bécquer was my agent. Only as such had he invited me to his party. Yet, the intensity of his stare when he ordered me to drink his blood, back in his room was filled with the passion of a lover. Or was my memory deceiving me matching my own desires?

I got up abruptly and dashed up the path that led to the dam. The gates were closed now and, unlike the whirlwind of emotions fighting in my mind, the water was still. Neither down at ground level, nor up where I stood on the walkway, did I see any sign of Ryan’s brush with death, nor of Bécquer’s confrontation with Beatriz. As far as the world was concerned, it could all have been a dream.

But it had not been.

Ryan had almost died there the previous night, and I, after knowing Bécquer for less than a day, had become obsessed with him. How stupid could I be? Bécquer was a 200-year-old man who drank human blood and manipulated people’ wills. Yet, hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep his dark stare from my mind or his deep, beguiling voice from haunting my thoughts. And his smile kept coming back, threatening to destroy the barriers I had so carefully erected around my heart.

I had lost my heart once long ago when in my twenties. The irrational thinking that ensued had carried me into a marriage, followed by years of self-loathing, a direct result of my husband’s unrelenting mental abuse, and resulted in a bitter divorce.

I would not lose my heart again.

At least this time I knew I was not the only one to blame for my weakness. My infatuation with Bécquer was too sudden and intense to be real, which meant that, despite Federico’s reassurances to the contrary, Bécquer had charmed me. The solution to this unwanted situation was, thus obvious: I had to break all connections with him.

And the safety of my heart was not the only reason for doing so, for the more I dwelt on the events of the previous night, the more I realized that accepting Bécquer as my agent had been an invitation to disaster. What had happened with Beatriz had not been an isolated incident, an accident that would not be repeated, but a warning of worse things to come. A reminder that if you play with fire, you’re bound to be burned, or, in my case, that accepting Bécquer’s help to get my book published could get my children hurt.

And that was a price I was not willing to pay.

Bécquer, for all his charm and impeccable manners, lived on human blood. How could I ever justify this? And if I didn’t, I couldn’t justify using his non-humans abilities to my advantage, either. Federico had admitted Bécquer used his charm to push his authors. The look of adoration in Richard’s eyes the previous night at the party left me no doubt he was already half sold on buying my book. His reasons had nothing to do with the quality of my writing or the strength of my story, for he had not read my manuscript yet.

Yes, I believed my book was good and deserved to be published, but was I ready to compromise the safety of my children or my peace of mind for this to happen?

The answer was no. Absolutely no.

I had to call Bécquer and tell him I didn’t want him to be my agent, and hope he would agree to rescind our agreement on the basis that he had not played fair with me. The real me, the rational me, would have never signed, yet the previous day, I had done so, willingly, after a slight, almost nonexistent hesitation. This could only mean Bécquer had influenced my decision, and if he had, the contract was not valid.

But the logic of my reasoning was lost on Bécquer.

“I did not force you,” he told me, and, even though the phone I could sense the outrage in his voice at my suggestion. “You knew I was immortal when you signed.”

“I didn’t know you were drinking Beatriz’s blood. I didn’t know you fed on humans.”

“No, you didn’t,” he admitted. Then, after a pause, “Would you come over to discuss this further?”

So you can use your charm to change my mind? “I’d rather not.”

“Federico is here,” Bécquer insisted. “You can talk with him, as you seem to trust him while you don’t trust me.”

“No, Bécquer. I don’t think so.”

“What if we meet in a neutral place? Café Vienna tomorrow at ten o’clock?”

“Are you crazy?” Federico’s angry voice came through the receiver muted, then stronger as he addressed me directly, “Carla, would you mind waiting a couple of days to make your decision?”

I heard Bécquer swearing in the background, just before the line went dead.

I set the phone down, confused. I had practiced my conversation with Bécquer a thousand times while driving home. None of my imaginary exchanges had ended like this. Why had Federico interrupted Bécquer? Why did he want me to wait?

Before I could find an explanation for their strange behavior or gather the courage to call again to clarify my position, the phone rang, startling me.

“My deepest apologies,” Bécquer said after I picked it up. “Federico thought we were engaged for the next few days. He was mistaken. In fact we can meet tomorrow. Please say yes. I promise I won’t influence you, and, if after our conversation you still want to break our contract, I will abide by your decision.”

I said yes, of course. How could I not when he put it that way? Only to realize after I hung up that if I had so easily agreed to his request on the phone, my chance to deny him anything in person was close to nil.

• • •

I was early the next day for my meeting with Bécquer. It had been a conscious decision. Being first, I thought, would give me an advantage, or at least, save me the embarrassment of walking the length of the room under his stare.

The place was almost empty when I arrived — too late for the morning rush, too early for lunch — and in no time I was sitting at one of the tables by the window, my espresso forgotten in front of me, watching the door. As I waited, I questioned the wisdom of my decision for every time the door opened my heart jumped in my chest and the mantra I had chosen to repeat to keep me calm lost a little of its effect.

Somewhere outside the chimes of the town hall clock sounded the hour. Any moment now, I thought, but I was wrong. Bécquer was not the next person to come in, nor the following one. By ten thirty, my mantra had changed from “I’m in control” to “He’s not coming,” and my nerves stretched to the point of breaking.

I was considering leaving when the door opened, once again, and Federico appeared in the doorway. Federico, and not Bécquer, my mind registered, whether with disappointment or relief I was not sure.

My first thought was that Bécquer had sent Federico to drive me to his house and, bracing myself to resist such a request, I waited for him to come over. But Federico stalled by the door. Holding it open with his body, he was maneuvering a wheelchair through, when one of the baristas, a girl with ginger hair, as natural looking as Madison’s bleached blonde, rushed to his aid.

I imagined the man in the wheelchair to be an acquaintance of hers, for despite the long line that had formed by now to order, the girl didn’t return to her post behind the counter, but stayed by the door talking to him.

Across the room, Federico’s eyes met mine. He shrugged, and I nodded and looked away, embarrassed he had caught me watching. Out of the window, the cars coming down Main had stopped before the light. And again, like Sunday morning, a blue convertible was first in line. The roof was down, and I couldn’t see the driver, but the car I was certain was Bécquer’s.

“Sorry, I’m late.”

My heart stopped at the sound of his voice, Bécquer’s voice, inside the cafe, addressing me, while his car stood outside. I turned, startled, and met his eyes staring at me. His eyes, dark and serious, at a level with mine, because Bécquer was sitting. Sitting in the wheelchair Federico had pushed through the door.

Bécquer in a wheelchair?

“Bécquer,” I whispered, my voice entangled with too much feeling. “What happened?”

Bécquer shrugged, or tried to, for his neck was encased in a collar brace that limited his movements. “I fell down the stairs,” he said, a wink in his eyes belying his words.

His face, his handsome face, was criss-crossed with pale scars. And as I looked down to hide my shock at his condition, I noticed he held his right arm in a sling against his chest, and the right leg of his dark suit had been cut lengthwise to accommodate the cast.

“My apologies, Carla,” Federico said moving from behind Bécquer. “To get a wheelchair took us longer than anticipated.”

“And it was totally unnecessary,” Bécquer said. “I could have walked.”

“You could not,” Federico said, a note of frustration in his voice.

Are you crazy? Federico had asked Bécquer on the phone the previous day when he offered to meet with me. Now I understood why.

“I would have waited,” I told Federico, “had I known.”

Bécquer scowled. “No. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t have believed me had I told you. In fact, you still don’t believe me, and you are looking at me.”

He was right. While my eyes had taken in the details of Bécquer’s condition, my mind refused to admit it, for Bécquer was immortal and immortals heal immediately. Were Bécquer’s disabilities real or was he pretending to be disabled to manipulate me?

Bécquer swore, making no secret that he had read my thoughts. “Do you really think so poorly of me?”

He tried to stand as he spoke, but managed only to hit the cast against the floor before Federico stopped him. “If you don’t sit still, I’ll take you home.”

Bécquer moaned. “It’s not my fault. She doesn’t believe me.”

“Give her time,” Federico said, in Spanish now and somehow I knew he had checked to be certain nobody in the café could understand our mother tongue, before he added, “After all, for someone who is supposed to be all powerful, you are quite a sight.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” Bécquer answered in the same language. “Are you trying to cheer me up or push me to despair?”

“Neither. Just let Carla adjust, then ask her what we discussed at home and, please, be quick. Immortal or not, you should be lying down, not driving around.”

They stared at each other for a moment in silence and I knew they were talking mind to mind. But, to my regret, I could not hear them. I didn’t need any immortal’s powers, though, to feel Bécquer’s simmering anger and frustration with his condition. In the end, it was Bécquer who looked away, and Federico’s tight grip on the armrest of the chair eased.

With a sigh of relief, Federico turned to me. “Your espresso has grown cold,” he said unexpectedly. “And I blame myself for it. May I get you another one?”

I looked down at the cup, still full, in front of me, and shook my head. “It’s all right. I like it cold.”

Bécquer raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief, and I felt myself blushing at being caught in a lie.

Federico smiled. “Please, oblige me.” With a last, warning look at Bécquer, he went to join the line.

I followed him with my eyes, reluctant to face Bécquer just yet, this sulking, wounded Bécquer whose sorry state had already broken my defenses. How was I to deny him anything in his condition?

I shouldn’t have come, I thought for the thousandth time.

“Carla?”

Too late now. I turned to face him.

“Do you still want to terminate our contract?”

I nodded, not really listening, for my mind was still struggling to make sense of Bécquer’s situation. “How? I mean, who did this to you?”

Bécquer only stared.

“Beatriz,” I whispered.

It was the only explanation. But Bécquer denied it. “Beatriz is gone, Carla. You don’t have to worry. She won’t harm your children. And I assure you my present disability will not interfere with my role as your agent.”

“That’s not why I asked.”

“Out of pity then? Please don’t. I’m immortal remember? I will heal before the week is over. And, in the meantime, would you reconsider your position and give me a chance at being your agent?”

He raised his left hand as if to stop me from answering, while he continued, “I’ve already queried several of the editors as a follow-up to our conversations at the party. If I were to withdraw your manuscript now, it would be unprofessional on my part and awkward for you or another agent to resubmit to them. So before you decide to rescind our contract, please realize that doing so would harm my credibility and yours.

“As for your fears, I assure you they are unfounded. Beatriz is gone and I already gave you my word that I won’t talk with Ryan without your permission.”

“I’m afraid my permission is redundant. Ryan is eighteen and has a mind of his own. He has refused to stop seeing you.” And I don’t even know if I have the right to keep him from you. “You saved his life. Twice,” I said aloud. “And took him to NA meetings. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I should have told you,” Bécquer said and sounded contrite. “In fact, I should have asked your permission. I apologize for overstepping my boundaries. You are his mother. And I am no one to him.”

“That is not true. Ryan thinks highly of you.”

“He does?” For the first time, a smile touched his lips. But even then there was pain in his eyes. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, going back to the contract,” he continued after a moment. “Would you meet me half way? Would you agree to let me represent you until we get an answer from these editors? If one of them wants to buy your manuscript, I’ll represent you just this time. If nobody buys it, then you are free to contact other agents. Does this seem fair to you?”

Fair? Fair had nothing to do with my desire to part with him. But of my two reasons, the first one, my fear of Beatriz’s retaliation, he had refuted, and the second, my attraction to him, I couldn’t mention. I couldn’t even think about it, for if I did he would sense it in my mind and could use it to charm me even more. And “more” was the key word, for obviously his charm was working already.

I nodded. “All right.”

Bécquer beamed at me. “Great. I will tell Matt to type a contract with the new clause and fax it to you.”

“Matt is your secretary now?”

“And my driver.”

That explained my seeing Bécquer’s car at the light before. Matt must have dropped Federico and Bécquer then went to find a parking space. As for Matt being his secretary, did that mean he was giving him blood too?

“No,” Bécquer answered my thoughts. “Matt is not my blood giver. Funny that you’d think that when it was that same assumption on Federico’s part what brought me to my present state.”

“Matt did this to you?” Shocked at his words, I forgot to complain about his intrusion in my mind.

“No. Not Matt. Federico.”

“Federico?”

“That’s what I said.”

“But how? Why?”

“He found me drinking from Matt.”

I flinched, for if I had read the signs correctly Federico had more than a passing interest in Matt.

Bécquer nodded when I suggested it. “If I didn’t know then, my broken bones would have convinced me by now.”

“Why did you drink from Matt?”

“He offered.”

“You could have said no.”

“No. I couldn’t.” And as I looked at him unconvinced, he added, “I was unconscious.”

“Matt offered me his blood at Lake Galena,” Bécquer explained at my insistence, “and I said no. Then he helped me to his car and drove me back home. The guests were gone and the house empty when we arrived, Matt told me later for, by then, I had already passed out. Matt went in to get me some bags with blood from Federico’s room. When he didn’t find any, he panicked for he thought I was dying and decided to cut his wrists and give me his own.

“I drank from him, by instinct I guess, from his wrists first, then from his neck. When I came back to my senses Federico was looming over me shouting, and Matt lay unconscious in my arms.

“Before I had time to understand what was happening or make sense of it, Federico dragged me out of the car. I tried to explain but he wouldn’t listen. Instead, he hit me. My senses still dulled by my recent loss of blood, he caught me unaware and the force of his blow sent me flying against the library wall. My neck snapped when I hit one of the metal beams and severed my spine. Then the glass broke and fell on me.”

“Your face — ”

“My face, my arms, my body. I have more cuts than I can count, and broke more bones than I thought I had. Not to mention the fact that I was paralyzed from the neck down.”

“But your arms, your legs, you can move them now.”

“Sure. But it took me all night to regenerate my spine.”

I winced.

“Nothing to worry about, really, Carla. My bones are set now. The collar brace, the sling, the cast in my leg, they are just a precaution.”

“Federico seems to disagree.”

“Because he feels guilty and likes to keep me like this to order me about.”

“Federico loves you, Bécquer. He’s trying to help you.”

“He loved me, you mean. He loves Matt now. I’m no more than an inconvenience for him.”

“I don’t agree. Federico may not be in love with you anymore. But he still cares for you.”

“Why are you defending him, Carla? Federico is responsible for this.” He waved his hand as he spoke to cover his brace, his arm, and his leg. “You know, he overreacts when in the throes of passion. You were with him when he broke the steering wheel of my car. Yet you seem to think I’m the one to blame.”

“Sorry, Bécquer. I’m really sorry that you got hurt.”

“You’re sorry?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then, maybe there’s still hope for me.”

“Hope?”

“I was not totally forthcoming before when I said I’m all right. My bones may have mended already, but the cuts from the glass will take longer to heal for some were deep and traces of glass may still remain in others.”

He took my hand. A move I had not anticipated, and at his touch, a shiver ran down my spine. An unlikely reaction for his hand was warm.

“Federico swears the blood he buys in bags is all he needs,” Bécquer was saying. “But even he recognized human blood would help me heal faster and agreed to drive me here today so I could ask you.”

“Ask me — ?”

“Whether you’d be my blood giver.”

Chapter Twelve: Rachel

I stared at Bécquer in total shock. Was he serious? Did he really expect me to agree to be his blood-giver?

“I guess not,” he said when I didn’t answer. His eyes staring straight into mine were not pleading.

He let go of my hand and leaned back in his chair. He looked tired, exhausted even, the dark circles under his eyes ever so visible on his fair skin that was crisscrossed with pale scars.

“Does it hurt?” I asked him.

“Not at all.” A spark in his eyes, again he bent forward, and then winced — a sign of pain that negated his enthusiastic denial. But Bécquer, as if oblivious to his own discomfort, continued eagerly, “The interchange is quite pleasurable, in fact. And it doesn’t have to be for long. A week perhaps. I will not ask you to stay after I’m whole again, I promise. I will give some of mine in exchange. Taking immortal blood will make you stronger. It will also extend your life and — ”

“That is not what I meant.”

Bécquer frowned. Then, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips, he added, “So will you do it?”

Yes, my body screamed, with yearning for the power his blood had given me the previous evening.

“No,” my reason answered. “I told you I didn’t want to share blood with you.”

“Yes. You told me that before the party. But later you offered it to me.”

“And you refused.”

“And I would not be here begging, if I had accepted it. So, you see, we all make mistakes. I’m no hero, Carla. I want this to be over. But I’m no demon either. I have no devious plan for you afterward.”

The strangest thing of all was that I believed him. I believed he didn’t mean to force me to stay when he didn’t need me any longer. I believed him. It was me I didn’t trust.

I had tasted his blood only once and was already finding it almost impossible to resist its lure. How could I trust myself to give up drinking it after I had taken it for a week? And if I stayed longer as his giver, wouldn’t I end up like Beatriz, wanting its powers so badly I would steal it to become immortal?

“You are not like Beatriz,” Bécquer said. He was using his powers to sense my feelings so he could convince me to do his bidding. If I could, wouldn’t I use them too? To anticipate my children’s mistakes? To keep them safe? To be there when they got in trouble, like Bécquer had done the day he took Ryan to the ER?

“Beatriz had her agenda, her grandiloquent expectations of saving the world. You wouldn’t steal my blood.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I have had many blood givers. None of the others turned rogue.”

Could it be because you manipulated their minds like you are manipulating mine? I thought but didn’t say aloud because I was too busy fighting the urge to agree.

I pushed my chair back.

Every breath hurting as if the air had frozen inside me, I got up. “I’m sorry, Bécquer, but I can’t.”

I saw pain in his eyes, a flash of anger, before his features settled into a mask, a beautiful mask of cold disdain. “As you wish.”

Before I could answer, Federico’s deep voice came from behind. “Took forever but here I am.”

He came forward and set a tray with three cups on the table, three espressos black and steaming, while shooting a warning look at Bécquer. When he finished, he turned to me, “Carla, you’re not leaving now, are you?”

I nodded, for I didn’t trust my voice would not break were I to speak.

“But you can’t. You mustn’t,” Federico said, blocking my way.

I felt the undercurrent of a silent conversation going on between them and the sense of loss at not being able to hear their minds hurt almost like a physical wound. I had to go, I knew, or I would agree if only to stop that yearning.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” Federico continued. “And this may well be the last time we see each other. I would hate our acquaintance to end like this, in a hurried goodbye. Would you please humor me and take a seat?”

I found myself obeying his soothing voice. For a moment, I wondered whether he was using his charm on me, but rejected the idea. I genuinely liked Federico and wanted to talk with him. Besides, who in her right mind would say no to a chance to be with him?

Federico smiled and, after I moved aside my cold espresso, he handed me a new one.

“Where is my latte?” Bécquer asked, his sharp words covering my thanks.

Unperturbed by Bécquer’s demanding tone, Federico placed one of the cups in front of him. “You didn’t tell me you wanted a latte.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re right. I didn’t because you didn’t bother to ask.”

Federico sat down. “Gustavo, you don’t drink. So, really what does it matter which kind of coffee I brought you?”

Bécquer glared at him. “And that shows how much you know me. I don’t need to drink. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy drinking coffee. And when I do drink it, I like it with milk. So, I’d really appreciate it if you’d get me a latte. I’d go myself, except you have made it very difficult for me to do anything on my own just now.”

Federico’s eyes glowed red for a moment. Then, he turned and glanced at the counter where the line almost reached the door. When he looked back, his eyes were back to normal. “I’m sorry. But it would take me too long. Would you be so kind as to drink your coffee black just this time?”

“Fine.” Reaching forward, he lifted his cup.

Bécquer was right handed, I knew, and, his right arm being in a sling, he was using his left hand. Still, it seemed to me, he was inordinately inept with his left one. Or maybe he was weaker than his relaxed attitude had suggested for his hand was trembling, his movement so shaky, I had to stop myself from leaning forward to help him.

But if Bécquer needed help, I reasoned, Federico would have offered it. Federico shrugged when I looked at him, and, grabbing his cup abruptly, drank his coffee in one gulp.

The coffee had been too hot for me to take more than one sip, but Federico didn’t show any sign of distress. Unlike Bécquer who, as the rim of the cup touched his lips, winced. In Bécquer’s hand the cup trembled, the steaming liquid spilling over his fingers. Bécquer swore as the cup slipped from his grip and hit the table, coffee splashing in all directions.

Federico stood and wheeled Bécquer chair back. “Really, Bécquer. Was that necessary?”

Bécquer said nothing, but stared toward the counter while Federico offered him a white handkerchief he had produced from the pocket of his jacket to dry his hand.

I got up to fetch some napkins from the island by the door. When I came back, the girl with the ginger hair who had greeted Bécquer before was by his side. The nametag on her black top read Rachel.

I set the napkins on the table and sat down. The napkins were unnecessary for Rachel had already wiped the table with a cloth. She was fussing over Bécquer now, while Bécquer stared at her, at her cleavage more precisely, for the girl was leaning over him. Visibly upset, she gushed excuses and apologies as if she were the one to blame.

“Are you sure you didn’t burn yourself?” she asked.

Bécquer shook his head and smiled at her, with that maddening smile of his that could melt ice.

“Let me see.” She took his left hand in hers. “Oh no!” she said as she examined his fingers. “You did burn yourself. I’ll bring you some ice.”

“That won’t be necessary, Rachel.” He pronounced her name slowly, rolling the R so that he was almost purring. “It is just a small burn. In my circumstances,” he waved his hand slowly to include his broken leg, his arm held in a sling, and the collar brace around his neck, “it does not signify.”

The girl let out a nervous giggle. “May I at least bring you another coffee? Latte, isn’t it?”

Bécquer beamed at her. “That would be lovely.”

I followed Rachel with my eyes, frustrated at how much Bécquer’s flirting with her bothered me. Without making a conscious decision, I stood again.

“I have to go,” I said to no one in particular and, grabbing my coat from the windowsill, I started for the door.

This time, Federico did not try to stop me, but when I got to the parking lot he was waiting by my car.

“Other door,” he said, pointing at the front of the building. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I came to apologize for Bécquer’s behavior and beg you to reconsider his proposal of becoming his blood giver.”

“Did Bécquer send you?”

“No. He’s too proud or too stupid to do so. Probably both. But he’s hurting and he needs you, so I came in his stead.”

“You’re wrong. He doesn’t need me. Not anymore. He has found a new giver.”

Federico sighed. “Yes, I guess Rachel would do anything for him at this point.

“But don’t let his shameless flirting mislead you. I don’t think Bécquer cares for the girl. He’s probably charming her to cover his hurt at your rejection.”

“Are you saying he’s using her? And you are all right with that?”

“Don’t be so harsh on him, Carla. Bécquer was eleven the first time he tasted immortal blood. And although he remained human for many years, I think a part of him stopped growing that day. When he’s upset, he reverts to being that child.”

“To be hurt is not an excuse to hurt others. If he behaves like a child, you should treat him like one. Don’t defend him, Federico. Let him make his own mistakes so he learns from them. Maybe then, he will finally grow up.”

“You’re right, Carla. He needs to grow up. That’s why he needs you.” As if pre-empting my denial he hurried on, “Yes, I know Rachel would gladly give him her blood. But Bécquer needs someone like you who loves him for who he is, not a girl worshiping a god who doesn’t exist. Would you agree to come, if he promises not to charm her?”

Too tired to deny his assumption that it was because I loved Bécquer that I didn’t want to be around him, I shook my head.

“No. Even if he doesn’t charm this girl, there will be others. And I’m not you, Federico. I won’t accept that.”

Federico nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Your decision is wise and I’ll abide by it. Loving Bécquer was for me an agony I do not wish on anyone.”

“Take my card,” he added, offering me a card he had somehow magicked into his hand, “in case you ever need me.”

“Goodbye, Carla,” he continued after I took it. “I hope you find a new love soon. For only another love displaces — even if it does not erase — the previous one.”

I thanked him for I knew he meant well, even if another love was the last thing I wanted. As for forgetting Bécquer I was certain that, in my case, absence would do as well.

Chapter Thirteen: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

I dreamed of Bécquer that night. Dreams of wanting and desire that only increased my determination to stay away from him. If my subconscious was sending a hint, it wasn’t a very subtle one. But my waking self would have none of this nonsense. Determined to forget him, I forced myself to sit and started typing at the computer.

Not for long. The characters usually so eager to tell me their story were nothing but flat cutouts that morning, and the flow of words soon died on my fingertips.

I gave up after a while and googled Bécquer’s name: Bécquer, Gustavo Adolfo. I had studied his work at school back in Spain, and still knew some of his poems by heart, but if I had learned anything about his life, I had forgotten since. In my search, I found two or three pictures of him in old style suits, but neither these photographs, nor the romantic portrait his brother Valeriano had painted of him (the one printed on the Spanish currency of the twentieth century), bore but a faint resemblance to the man haunting my dreams. As for the biographies I found online, they were sketchy to say the least. They provided the bare facts, but no insight into his mind:

Bécquer was born in Sevilla in 1836 and lost his father when he was six. At eleven, after his mother’s death, he and his six brothers went to live with one of their mother’s sisters and several years later, he moved alone with his godmother.

Later he would reunite with one of them, Valeriano, when at fourteen, he joined his uncle Joaquin’s studio as an apprentice. Like their father, like their uncle, Valeriano chose painting as his profession. Bécquer, although talented as a painter, loved books more and dreamed of becoming a writer.

His dreams, and almost nothing else, he took with him when, at seventeen, he moved to Madrid with two of his friends. He survived, barely, by writing for newspapers and magazines, and coauthoring plays while working the odd clerical job he was ill-suited to maintain. At twenty-one, he fell sick with the first bout of the mysterious illness (TB was suspected) that would eventually kill him at thirty-four.

With the care of his friends and of his brother Valeriano, who by then had moved to Madrid, he recovered. After a chance encounter, he fell desperately in love with Julia Espín, a beautiful actress who would become his muse even after she rejected him and married another.

After another bout of illness, he married Casta Esteban, his physician’s daughter. A marriage, unexpected that, as Bécquer had told me, ended in separation.

I read on, devouring any information I found about him. And so I learned that Bécquer died in 1870 — stopped being human, that is. Before dying, he asked his friends to burn his letters, and publish his poems and stories because he was certain, he told them, he would be better known after his death than he had been in life. A presumption that turned out to be true. A presumption he could well make come true if, as an immortal, he supervised the success of his published work.

After a while all the information I found repeated these bare facts. I stopped reading and ordered all the biographies I could find about Bécquer, including one written by one of his friends and another by Julia, Valeriano’s daughter, named after Julia Espin, the beautiful girl who broke Bécquer’s heart and inspired his achingly beautiful poems of unrequited love.

I wrote nothing that first morning, which bothered me. My first book, a medieval fantasy — not surprising, considering I taught Medieval History at a private college — had taken me two years to write. When I finished my second book two years after that and realized that the end was not an ending but the beginning of a new story, I’d decided to take a sabbatical to finish my third book, for I was beyond tired of writing in stolen moments. My sabbatical had started in July; we were in November now. I had no time to waste.

What was even more frustrating was that, although my dream of getting successfully published was within my reach now that Bécquer was my agent, knowing he was immortal had stolen all pleasure from my accomplishment. Not to mention the fact that my infatuation with him was making it impossible for me to concentrate on my writing.

Still, I persevered. But after two days of wasting time rereading Bécquer’s Rhymes and Legends, or daydreaming in front of an empty screen, I gave up on writing my novel. Instead, I started an account of my encounter with Bécquer and the impossible events that followed.

I was aware that publishers take months to read a manuscript, yet knowing Bécquer’s powers of persuasion, I was not surprised when a week after our meeting in Café Vienna, he contacted me by e-mail.

Two of the editors who had read my novel were interested, he explained. One of them was, as I’d expected, Richard Malick, the editor impersonating Lord Byron I had met at Bécquer’s party. Bécquer attached the two proposals and discussed the pros and cons of the two offers and the reasons he recommended I sign with Richard.

Finding no fault with his decision, I wrote him back agreeing to his suggestion.

His next e-mail was short and to the point.

Dear Carla,

Richard will be at my house this Saturday for the purpose of signing your book contract. Would you kindly join us here at 3 P.M.?

As we discussed, this will terminate my representation of your work.

Sincerely yours,

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Although it was my understanding that most contracts are signed by mail, his tone, courteous and professional, gave me no reason to refuse his request. But my trust of his word was not the only reason I accepted. The truth was I wanted to see him.

His hold on me had increased, not decreased, as the week passed. Several times, I found myself driving toward his house while running an errand, or after dropping Madison at school or at one of her friend’s house. I had always stopped in time and turned around. I couldn’t start to imagine my embarrassment had I made it close enough for Bécquer to sense me and my pathetic crush. For crush was the only word to describe this yearning for a person I had met only four times. And having a crush at my age was ridiculous. Crushes were for teenagers, not for mothers of teens.

Madison might be only fifteen, but she, certainly, had more sense than I did.

“I don’t fall for guys who have no interest in me,” she had told me some weeks earlier. “What would be the point?”

“There is no point,” I’d told her. “But you don’t choose whom you love.”

“I do,” Madison said, so stubbornly certain that I gave up trying to explain.

But I knew by experience that reason had nothing to do with love. I had fallen for Bécquer against all common sense and, hard as I tried, had not been able to forget him. And against my better judgment, I wanted very much to see him again.

Besides, the meeting was to be the following Saturday, which was the weekend Madison would be grounded. And any excuse to leave the house was welcome, because nobody knows better than a grounded teenager how to make life miserable for everybody else.

Chapter Fourteen: The Contract

There were two cars already in the parking space in front of Bécquer’s house when I arrived. A yellow Jeep and a green Honda Civic.

Almost two weeks had passed since the Halloween party, which meant Federico would be gone by now and Matt, I knew, kept his car in the garage. My understanding was that only Richard would be there today. I remembered Richard had mentioned he didn’t own a car for he didn’t need one in Manhattan and had taken the train to Princeton to come to the party. Maybe he had rented one today. If he had, a Jeep seemed an unusual choice for a rental. Was his the Honda Civic then?

As for the other, it had to be Rachel’s, I thought with a pang of jealousy that had no reason to be there. Bécquer had asked me to be his blood giver and I had refused. That he had chosen somebody else was inevitable, that I hurt because he had was illogical.

My hurt also validated my decision. Even if I had agreed to give him my blood, he might have taken the girl as his lover, which would have been even more painful for me. I had done the right thing. By staying away from him I would eventually forget him. I just needed more time. I would have plenty of time from then on, considering I didn’t plan to see him again.

Yet this thought that was supposed to reassure me only added to my distress.

How had this happened? Since when had my desire to see Bécquer overcome my wish to sell my manuscript? Today my dream would come true. I was about to sign a two-book deal with one of the most prestigious publishing houses in the country. I should be elated, but I was not. I was upset and apparently jealous because a young, pretty girl had caught Bécquer’s attention.

I tore my eyes from the small sedan blurred by the raindrops streaming down my window and, forcing myself to bury this futile yearning for a man who was not human and thus forbidden, I turned off the ignition and stepped outside.

Behind the curtain of rain that fell unrelenting from an overcast sky, Bécquer’s house loomed in front of me, its impressive mixture of modern architecture and Pennsylvanian charm more apparent now without the orange lights that had framed it on Halloween night.

Holding my umbrella with both hands to fight the gusts of wind that threatened to yank it away, I dashed across the gravel expanse, and climbed the stairs to the porch. The door opened before I knocked and a young woman appeared in the opening. Although her face was in shadows, my suspicions were confirmed when I recognized Rachel, the red-haired girl from Café Vienna.

“Come in,” Rachel said, moving brusquely aside. “Bécquer is waiting.”

It sounded like a reproach the way she said it, as if she was accusing me of making him wait. But I wasn’t late, I knew, and as if to prove me right, the antique clock sitting in the hall sounded the hour.

Without glancing back, the girl disappeared into the great room. She obviously meant for me to follow but I hesitated as I considered the puddle forming in the wooden floor underneath my umbrella.

“Excuse me,” I called to her. “Could you tell me where to leave this?”

The girl stopped and turned and for the first time she met my eyes.

She was young. Younger than I remembered. Ryan’s age was my guess. Or maybe she seemed younger because, unlike at Café Vienna, she was wearing no make-up. And in her pale, freckled face her eyes showed red. Not flashing red that would have marked her as immortal, but red and swollen, as an indication that she had been crying. In fact, she seemed about to burst into tears at any moment as if my question had pushed her over her limit.

“It’s all right,” I hurried on, “I’ll leave my umbrella outside.”

I grabbed the doorknob but, before I could turn it, a young man materialized by my side.

“Please give it to me,” he said. His deep baritone voice was surprisingly gentle as he addressed the girl. “Don’t worry, Rachel. I’ll take care of this.”

He was young, mid-twenties probably, with broad shoulders and muscled forearms his tight sweater couldn’t conceal and, unlike Rachel who seemed overwhelmed by emotion, his manners were brisk and efficient.

After he relieved me of my coat and umbrella, he offered his hand. “I’m David,” he said.

“Carla Esteban.”

David smiled. “Rachel will take you to Bécquer’s office,” he told me. “And Rachel?” he called as the girl waited for me to join her. “Try to smile.”

If anything, Rachel seemed even more distressed by the young man’s attempt to lighten her mood. Tears welled in her eyes.

Had Bécquer tired of her already? But that didn’t seem right. If he had, he would have stopped charming her and she would have forgotten him. Bécquer was not cruel that way, or so Federico had led me to believe.

Not knowing what else to do, I offered the girl a tissue. She thanked me and, after drying her eyes, slid it into the pocket of her jeans and started again across the great room with the grand piano at one end, and through the door that led to the corridor where I had followed Beatriz after she injured Bécquer the night of the party. But instead of turning toward the library, Rachel stopped before the door directly across and knocked.

“Come in,” Bécquer called from inside. Bécquer’s beguiling voice invited me in. I felt like fleeing, but it was too late. It had been too late for a long time. Probably since the moment he had told me he liked my book the first time I ever met him.

In my struggle to keep my feelings at bay, I almost missed the quiver in the girl’s voice when she announced my arrival.

“Thank you, Rachel,” Bécquer said. “You may leave now. But please come back in half an hour for I will need you to make some copies.”

Rachel nodded, and then turned and left.

From behind the massive mahogany desk where he sat, Bécquer stared at me.

“Please come in,” he said and smiled. The smile lit his handsome face, which was paler than I remembered it and somehow thinner. But his eyes, dark on mine, did not smile.

I mumbled my welcome, and stepped forward toward the empty chair that Bécquer indicated with his hand. Before I reached it, I sensed a movement to my left and turned just in time to see Richard stand.

“You remember Richard?” Bécquer asked.

“Of course.”

I had been so intent on keeping my feelings blocked from Bécquer’s mind, I’d failed to notice the man who held my future in his hands. But Richard seemed undaunted by my omission, if anything he seemed nervous, for his voice was louder than necessary, his smile brighter than meeting me, an almost unknown author, would warrant.

“We just finished discussing the last points of your contract,” Bécquer said to me after we were all seated. “Do you want me to read it to you now?”

I shook my head. “Actually I’d rather read it on my own.”

Bécquer started.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to insult you in any way. But I find it difficult to follow when someone reads aloud.” Especially if it’s you, I thought but didn’t say.

“I understand.”

He didn’t carry his arm in a sling anymore, but as he handed me the document over his desk, I noticed several scars on his hand just before his fingers touched mine. I shivered.

“You can move closer to the fire,” Bécquer said, “if you are cold.”

I noticed then there were, indeed, some logs burning in the fireplace, which surprised me for I had assumed immortals didn’t feel hot or cold. Maybe I was wrong. Or maybe Bécquer had lit it for us.

I shook my head. “I’m fine,” I said, although I wasn’t. But it wasn’t the fire I wanted to get closer to. And I wasn’t cold either.

The contract was typed this time and simply written. It covered all the points I wanted covered and some I had not considered. I handed it back to him when I was finished and thanked him for his hard work for the contract was clearly in my favor.

“Shall we proceed then?” There was a hint of relief in his voice.

As I nodded, he produced a black fountain pen and signed first, above his printed name. Then Richard got up and, coming to the table, added his signature below.

“I hope our partnership continues,” Richard said handing me the pen, “after these two books are done and sold. And I hope — ”

What he hoped for I never knew, because just then, Bécquer reached forward to take the contract I had already signed, and as he did his pen rolled out of his reach. Richard jumped forward and grabbed it as it fell. His eyes on Bécquer, he set it on the table. Bécquer glowered at him.

Before any of them spoke, there was a knock at the door. Following Bécquer’s invitation, Rachel came in and, taking the contract from the table, moved to the copying machine by the farther wall.

Soon she was done and, after handing a copy to each of us in a black folder, she left as silently as she had come.

Richard looked at his watch. “I better go,” he said, getting up, “if I want to catch the five-thirty train.”

He bent over the desk as he spoke and shook Bécquer’s hand — with both of his — for a long time and with an eagerness that betrayed his deep affection for him and made their previous silent confrontation even more puzzling.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Richard said.

Bécquer nodded, his face unreadable, but when Richard asked me if I could give him a ride to the train station and I said yes, Bécquer’s eyes, once more, flared with anger.

“That won’t be necessary,” he told Richard. “Rachel will take you, as agreed.”

“I really don’t mind,” I said. Both because I had time to do so and because it was obvious to me that Rachel was too upset to drive. She had not uttered a word while she was in the room, and her hands had shaken when handing us the copies.

“But I do,” Bécquer said. And as I looked at him, nonplussed, he added, “I need you to stay a moment longer so we may discuss the termination of our contract.”

“Another time, then,” Richard said brightly, shaking my hand. He had turned his back to Bécquer so Bécquer couldn’t see his face, and, as he spoke, his eyes sent me a message I failed to understand. I frowned; Richard sighed in frustration, and turning toward Bécquer, repeated his goodbyes.

“Please, sit,” Bécquer told me as the door closed behind Richard.

“My job as your agent is done,” Bécquer continued after I complied. “I sold your manuscript. Our contract is now finished, and so according to your wishes I have prepared a termination clause to end our partnership. Just take your time to read it and let me know what you think.”

I swallowed hard and took the paper he offered. The clause was short and simple and took only two minutes to read. I looked up.

“Is everything as you expected it?” Bécquer’s eyes held mine, challenging me to argue. A challenge I didn’t take for there was nothing to argue.

“Yes,” I said, my mouth so dry that saying that single word hurt.

He handed me a golden pen. “Would you sign then?”

I didn’t move. Bécquer was right. It had been my wish to terminate the contract. And the reasons for my request were still as valid now as they had been a week past. Being around immortals will always pose a threat to my children. Yet, if I signed Bécquer would disappear from my life as though he had never existed. And I was not ready for that.

“Carla!”

I blinked and averted my eyes for I realized I had been staring at him.

“I’ve already signed,” he added.

Forcing myself to move, I took his pen and signed my name beside his.

“Great,” Bécquer said. Then he smiled sheepishly. “Would it be too much to ask that you make a copy for your records? Rachel is not here at the moment and I’m afraid modern technology eludes me.”

“My pleasure,” I said, trying hard not to roll my eyes in disbelief. I was by no means a technological genius, but being unable to make a copy sounded lame even by my standards.

“I took the liberty of contacting Sarah,” Bécquer said while I set the paper on the glass and pressed start.

“Sarah?”

“Sarah Lindberg,” Bécquer said. “She interned with me some years back. She runs her own agency, now. You may have met her at the party.”

I grabbed the original and the copy still warm from the printing and walked back to his desk.

“She was quite pregnant,” Bécquer continued, and when I nodded, he continued, “I thought she would be a good match for you and she agreed. If you want, I’ll give you her phone number so you may contact her at your convenience.”

Once more, I was having trouble concentrating under his stare and, again, I failed to answer.

Bécquer frowned. “Unless you have another agent already, of course.”

“Of course,” I repeated, then, realizing how little sense I was making, I quickly added. “No, I don’t. And thank you for talking to Ms. Lindberg on my behalf.”

Bécquer nodded. “Sarah will be on maternity leave for several months starting soon. If that is a problem I could suggest somebody else.”

I smiled. The idea I could finish another book in a couple of months was quite laughable considering I was still struggling with the sequel I had just agreed to produce for Richard, because my outline kept changing between the happy ending I had planned when I started and a darker apocalyptic one that fit my somber mood of late. As for the hypothetical novel Ms. Lindberg would be representing, I had not even started it.

“No, that won’t be necessary. I can wait.”

I grabbed my purse, readying myself to leave, but Bécquer didn’t move.

“One more thing,” he added, motioning me to sit again. “I would appreciate if you don’t mention to Sarah the real reasons for our parting.”

“Of course. I couldn’t possibly tell her that — ”

“That you mistrust me?”

I flinched at his directness. “Well, yes. No, I mean, what did you tell her?”

“The official story. That I’m retiring.”

“But it’s not true.”

“Actually, it is.”

“But you weren’t, were you, when you signed me?”

“Things have changed since.”

“Because of Beatriz?”

“Among other reasons.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have been an agent for over ten years. Ten great years. Good things are not meant to last forever.”

“What will you do now?”

“Something exciting, I’m sure,” he said lightly. But his eyes avoided mine.

I waited for he hesitated as if he were about to add something. But just then, the phone rang.

Bécquer looked at the number on the caller ID and scowled. “Would you mind?”

He grabbed the phone when I said no, and after the required greeting was over, put the caller on hold. “I apologize but I do have to take this. David will walk you to the door.”

As if on cue, there was a knock and David came in.

“It has been a pleasure working with you, Carla.”

His handshake was firm, his voice professional, and the mind behind his guarded stare already miles away.

“Likewise,” I said and meant it. For meeting him had been a pleasure, before the events that followed turned my life into a nightmare. And now our parting would put an end to the nightmare and things would return to normal. But, although I was perfectly aware that I was the one who had rejected him as my agent, the one who had refused to give him my blood, I didn’t want to leave. Only his casual dismissal, his unconcealed eagerness to return to his call stopped me from asking him to forget everything I had ever told him and begging him to take me back.

Instead, I tore my eyes from his perfect features, lit now by a smile that was not meant for me, and followed David to the hall.

Somehow I managed to stay still while I waited for David to bring me my coat and my umbrella. I even managed to thank him, and not to trip as I climbed down the stairs. and walked back to my car.

The Honda Civic was gone. Which meant it was Rachel’s car, I thought as I ran to mine, the rain pounding on my head because I had not bothered to open my umbrella. After unlocking the car door, I threw my purse and umbrella on the back seat and climbed inside. Finally safe from unwanted stares, I leaned back against my seat and let the sense of loss wash over me.

It was done. I had severed my connection with the immortals. My children were safe, and my life back to where it had been before meeting Bécquer.

Except it wasn’t. For I had met him and fallen for him. And, for all my reassurances that I would soon forget him, leaving still hurt.

A sharp knock startled me. But when I blinked my eyes open, the only sound I heard was that of the water hitting my windshield.

I reached forward to start the car. Again, I heard the sound, a persistent tap coming from my right. And as I turned toward the sound, I saw a face framed in the window. Richard’s face.

I was so surprised to see him there that I just stared. Then, before I could hit the button to lower the window, Richard opened the door and slid into the passenger’s seat.

“I hope you don’t mind my intruding,” he said, while my eyes took in his smart trench coat glistening with rain. “But you did say you could drive me to the station. Does your offer still stand?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“Good.” He shot a nervous look over his shoulder. “Then let’s get out of here before Bécquer sees us together and calls me back.”

Chapter Fifteen: Richard

“I was waiting for you in David’s car,” Richard explained as I put the car in reverse.

“Why? Why didn’t you leave with Rachel?”

“Because I wanted to talk to you.” His voice sounded tense, and a quick glance at him as I looked over my shoulder to make sure it was safe to back up my car, was met with a cold stare from his pale blue eyes.

My stomach sank with apprehension. Was Richard thinking of breaking his contract with me now that Bécquer didn’t represent me anymore? Despite my previous realization that my interest in Bécquer overruled my desire to get published, the thought hurt more that I cared to admit.

“About our contract?” I asked, glad that the sound of gravel cracking under the tires and the constant pelting of the rain had drowned the quiver in my voice.

Richard snorted. “The contract? Is that all you care about?”

Too shocked by the suppressed anger boiling in his questions, I said nothing.

“Could you at least pretend you care for Bécquer a little after all he has done for you?”

I stopped the car at the end of the driveway, and turned to him. “Would you please explain what this is about? You’re obviously upset with me and I’ve no idea why.”

Richard stared at me for a long time. Finally, he ran his fingers through his blonde curls that, wet with rain fell flat over his forehead, and shook his head. “You really don’t know?”

“Know what?” I was angry now because something in his expression had scared me, and anger seemed a better option than to follow up in that fear.

“I see you don’t,” Richard said. “Could you please drive on? I’ll tell you what I know, I promise. But I’ve already missed the five-thirty train and I’d like to get home before nine. I have to walk my dogs.”

I hesitated for a moment then nodded my agreement. After taking a deep breath to release the tension building in my muscles, I turned on to the road and headed toward Princeton.

“First, I want to apologize for my harsh words,” Richard started, his voice loud enough to be heard over the grating sound of the windshield wipers. “I assumed Bécquer had shared the news with you, and I was appalled by your lack of concern.”

“News? The only news Bécquer ever shared with me was in regard to my book. Bécquer is my agent, Richard. He does not discuss his personal life with me.”

“You mean, he never told you about his car accident on Halloween night? He did say he had been the only one hurt, but because you two left the party together, I thought you had been involved in the crash.”

A car accident on Halloween night? So that had been Bécquer’s official story. So that was why Richard was worried, because Bécquer had been hurt? He was right to be concerned, for his wounds had been serious, fatal even, had he been human. But Bécquer was immortal, and thus Richard’s concern, unwarranted.

Relieved that a simple misunderstanding was behind Richard’s fears, I loosened my grip on the wheel, and answered him lightly. “No, I wasn’t with him.”

“You don’t seem surprised, though.”

“I wasn’t with him when the accident happened. But I did know about it.”

“You knew?” Anger crawled back into his voice. “You knew and you don’t care? You knew and yet, today, you come to the meeting and act as if nothing has happened and never even ask him how he’s doing?”

“I — ” I started, then stopped, confused. Why was Richard mad at me? Bécquer had told me he was almost healed when we talked the previous Tuesday. And today he had looked perfectly all right.

But when I told Richard this, he was not appeased.

“Bécquer is not all right, Carla. He will never walk again.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in, then, when their meaning finally hit me, my mind went blank. My body reacted instinctively and my foot pushed hard on the brakes. The tires skidded on the wet road, causing the car to swerve in and out of the right lane.

Richard yelled and reached for the wheel. I pushed him hard, rejecting his help, rejecting his words. But his scream had broken the standstill in my mind and my brain was once again in charge of my body, and soon I had the car under control. Somehow I steered it into the shoulder and brought it to a halt.

For a moment we just sat there, side by side, the sound of the rain not covering, but underscoring, the silence that had fallen between us.

“What was that about?” Richard said at last, sounding more dazed than scared. “You could have gotten us killed.”

“I’m sorry. But, really, it was your fault. Why did you say that to me? Why did you make up such a horrible lie?”

Richard’s look of shock melted into something else, something like pity, which scared me even further. “So, Bécquer didn’t tell you.”

“No, of course not. Bécquer didn’t tell me because it is not true. You just made it up now to … to … ” But for all I wracked my brain to think of a reason I came up empty.

“I’m afraid I didn’t make it up, Carla. And, again, I apologize for misjudging you. Had I known you do care for him, I would have broken the news to you more gently.”

I braced myself against the wheel. “It’s too late to spare my feelings now. So please, just finish your story.”

“Do you want me to drive?”

“Drive?” I repeated, then, as I realized we were still on the shoulder when we were supposed to be driving to catch a train, I put the car in gear. But my movements were shaky, my vision blurred. I shifted again into park and nodded to him. “If you don’t mind.”

“Bécquer did not give me all the details,” Richard said after we’d exchanged seats. “All I know is that he was doing better after the accident. Then this past Monday, Rachel found him unconscious in his study. She called 9-1-1 when he didn’t respond to her attempts to revive him, and they rushed him to the hospital. Later that night, he came back to his senses. Apart from not remembering what had happened to bring him to that point, his mind suffered no damage, but his spine had been irreversibly broken. There is no doubt on his prognosis. He will never regain the use of his legs.”

I said nothing for I could not find my voice.

Bécquer is immortal. He’s not paralyzed, a part of my mind repeated, convinced perhaps that if I said it enough times it would be so. But another part of me was remembering my recent meeting with Bécquer, and, as it did, details I had ignored came to the foreground as if forced from my subconscious by Richard’s words.

Bécquer had been sitting when I came into the study and never got up during the meeting, not even to say goodbye. Conveniently, when I was ready to leave, somebody had called and prevented him from accompanying me.

As for his bizarre claim that he didn’t know how to make a copy, it made perfect sense now. It had been an excuse to avoid getting up. Bécquer was almost 200 years old. He had grown up in a world without technology, but he had learned how to drive, and knew how to use a computer for he had sent me e-mails. How could I have ever believed he was too stupid to know how to work a copy machine?

So, yes, it was possible that Bécquer was paralyzed and had tried to hide it from me. But that didn’t mean his condition was permanent. In fact, it couldn’t be, for Bécquer was immortal.

Then another detail came to my mind. His reaction when his pen rolled out of his reach had been slow. And losing it had been clumsy to start with. Bécquer, the immortal Bécquer I remembered from the party, from our meetings in Café Vienna would not have dropped it. I started to shake.

Richard released a hand from the wheel and touched my arm. “Carla. Are you all right?”

I started at his touch, but didn’t push his hand away. “Yes,” I lied and closed my eyes, overwhelmed by a sense of loss so intense I felt like drowning. Bécquer, the perfect immortal who had so impressed me, was gone, replaced by an injured man forever dependent on others.

No. My mind fought back. Bécquer could not be mortal and paralyzed. Federico would have told me. Federico knew I loved Bécquer. Why had he not contacted me?

According to Richard’s account, only Rachel had been with Bécquer at the time, which meant Federico had left before Bécquer was fully recovered. Did he even know about the accident?

“Who is Federico?” was Richard’s answer when I asked him. “Is he Bécquer’s friend?”

“Yes. They have been friends for many years. Just friends,” I hurried to add to quench the note of hope I had noticed in his voice. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to call him now.”

I was aware I couldn’t talk freely to Federico with Richard sitting next to me. But I needed Federico’s reassurance that Bécquer would be fine.

I reached back for my purse without waiting for Richard’s answer and grabbed the phone and Federico’s card. But when I punched his number on my cell, my call went directly to voice mail.

“Will this Federico come to stay with Bécquer?” Richard asked after I finished recording my message.

“I hope so.”

“Good,” Richard said, sounding relieved. “And until he does, would you agree to check on him?”

“You want me to check on Bécquer?”

“Yes. Actually it was because I wanted to ask you this that I waited for you. I don’t think it’s good for Bécquer to be alone right now.”

“But he’s not. Matt lives over the garage. And — ”

Richard shook his head. “Not anymore. Rachel told me Matt left last week.”

“What about Rachel?”

“Rachel doesn’t live with Bécquer.”

“They may not live together but they — ” I stopped, embarrassed when I noticed the trace of jealousy trailing in my voice.

Richard took his eyes from the road and shot a glance in my direction. “Lovers. Is that what you think? That Bécquer and Rachel are lovers?”

I nodded.

“You’re wrong. They are not lovers. I’m sure of it.”

I disagreed. Even if I had not seen them flirting in Café Vienna, Rachel’s behavior today was proof enough that her feelings for Bécquer went well beyond a simple boss-secretary relationship.

“If, as you say, they are not lovers, why was Rachel so upset today?”

“I didn’t say she didn’t care for him. The distress she showed today obviously suggests she does. But Bécquer does not care for her that way, or he would not have fired her. Today was her last day with him.”

I thought about it for a moment. I wasn’t convinced. “It may be her last day as his secretary. That does not mean she won’t continue seeing him.”

“Yes, it does. Rachel told me Bécquer was adamant. He strictly forbade her to come back any more, which means Bécquer will be on his own. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But he can’t be alone. Doesn’t he need help?”

“Yes, of course he needs help. That’s why he hired David and two other nurses who take shifts around the clock. I was talking about friends.”

“I don’t think Bécquer thinks of me as a friend. He didn’t even tell me he was incapacitated.”

“Maybe he didn’t tell you because he cared too much and didn’t want your pity.”

“He cares for you, Carla,” Richard told me when I said nothing. “I saw the way he looked at you at the party. I would have given my soul for him to look at me that way. And I was not the only one to notice. Beatriz was jealous of you, so jealous that she quit that very night. What more proof do you want, Carla?”

He had gotten it all wrong, but I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell him Bécquer only cared for me because I was the descendant of his wife’s third son. I couldn’t tell him Beatriz had left because she had stolen Bécquer’s blood and become immortal. And I was too ashamed to tell him that, regardless of the fact that Bécquer didn’t love me, I was in love with him.

“I don’t know what happened between you two that night that makes you doubt him so. But I know he still cares for you. He has never pushed me so hard to read a manuscript in the ten years I’ve known him.”

“That might have been because he wants to finish all his projects before retiring.”

“Retiring? Did he tell you he was retiring?”

“But he mustn’t,” he added frantically after I told him what Bécquer had said. “He shouldn’t make such a big decision right now. Bécquer loves being an agent and he’s good at it. Of course he’s upset now, but he won’t always feel that way. His clients would understand if he takes some time off. Losing the use of his legs and his career at the same time could be too much, even for someone as strong as he is.”

“Are you suggesting he may be thinking of killing himself?”

Richard remained silent for a moment as if considering my question. Then he shook his head. “No. Bécquer loves life too much for that. But he needs help to adapt to his new situation. He needs friends. Knowing he has decided to retire only makes my request more pressing.

“Please, Carla, promise me that you’ll check on him tomorrow and on the following days, as often as he will allow you to visit him. I don’t want him to be alone.”

I promised. Not only because he was right that Bécquer should not be alone, but also because I wanted to know the truth. Was Bécquer really human? And if he was, who had changed him and why? The only explanation I could think of was that the Elders had punished him for making Beatriz immortal. But if they had, where was Federico? And why hadn’t he told me?

Chapter Sixteen: The Consequence

After I dropped Richard at the station I called Madison to let her know I was coming home. The call was mainly for my own peace of mind, because, as usual, she didn’t seem to care whether I was in Princeton or being eaten by a shark, as long as I was back in time to chauffer her around. And right then, as she was grounded, she had no need for me.

I had just crossed the toll bridge over the Delaware and was back in Pennsylvania when my phone rang.

“Carla? Can you talk?” Federico’s voice broke through the speaker, his Spanish accent thicker than I remembered it.

“Bécquer is not answering his phone,” he continued, after I confirmed I was alone.

“Have you tried his cell?”

“Yes,” he said. Switching to Spanish, he rushed on, “Both his house and his cell. Have you seen him? Are you sure he can’t walk?”

I pulled to the shoulder because I didn’t trust myself to drive, and told him about our meeting, Bécquer’s confession that he was retiring, and Richard’s account of Bécquer’s accident and of his staying at the hospital.

“Hospital?” Federico interrupted me. “Bécquer was at the hospital?”

“He was unconscious when they found him. Rachel called an ambulance.”

“Don’t you see, Carla, if he is still immortal — ”

“ — they would have noticed he’s not human.”

“Exactly.”

“But he is immortal, isn’t he? He is still immortal.”

“I don’t know, Carla. Something is wrong.”

“You mean it’s possible for an immortal to become human again?”

“Sí,” Federico said after a slight hesitation. “Es posible. The Elders have the power to do so, and Bécquer did break the law by making Beatriz immortal, but even if they made him human, he shouldn’t be paralyzed. He was walking when I left him.”

“You knew the Elders could make him human and you left him alone? How could you? Why didn’t you wait until the Elders had passed their sentence?”

“I never thought they would apply such penalty given that it was Beatriz who stole his blood. Besides, why do you act so surprised that I left? You know I’m only allowed to be with Bécquer for a week and you were the one who told me I had to let him make his own mistakes, if I wanted him to stop acting like a child.”

Yes. I had said that. Maybe the fact that my children never followed my advice had pushed me to giving it too freely. If people were going to listen to me, I would have to be more careful, or more precise, when expressing my opinions.

“I didn’t mean it literally, Federico. I didn’t expect you to leave him when he was still in recovery.”

“He was doing much better when I left,” Federico insisted, “and he had Rachel to care for him. Obviously it wasn’t enough and now he’s in trouble. So, at the risk of eliciting his fury, I’m coming to check on him.”

“Do you want me to pick you up at the airport?”

“No. Matt will drive.”

So that’s why Matt was not with Bécquer anymore. I should have guessed they were together, for their mutual attraction had been evident last time I saw them, but somehow, the thought had not occurred to me.

“Matt — ” I stopped. Whether Matt and Federico were together was none of my business. “Where are you now, Federico?”

“Washington. Washington, D.C., which means we’ll be there later tonight, but until we arrive, could you please go back to Bécquer’s house, and stay with him?”

“I … I don’t think it’s a good idea. Bécquer chose not to tell me of his condition. I think he will hate to see me now.”

“I don’t care whether Bécquer hates it or not. I just don’t want him to be alone tonight.”

“David, his nurse, is with him,” I argued because I found the idea of intruding into Bécquer’s private life so late in the evening intimidating.

“A nurse? A nurse he could trick without even trying. You don’t know Bécquer as I do, Carla. It’s not like him to push a publisher to sign a book contract in such a hurry. That, and the fact that he’s retiring, troubles me.”

Federico sounded relieved when I told him I would stop at Bécquer’s on my way home. “I’ll take care of everything when I get there, I promise. But could you please contact me after you see him? Or better still, tell Bécquer to call me?”

I called Madison again after my talk with Federico, to let her know I might not come home until much later. When she didn’t pick up, I sent her a text message.

It was close to seven when I drove up the narrow driveway and into the expanse before the main entrance where I had parked in the afternoon. The Jeep was still there, which meant David was in the house. Or so I hoped, because, apart from the two lamps flanking the front door, the house stood in total darkness.

I turned off the engine and stepped outside. The bang of the door closing, the cracking of the gravel under my feet, the beep from my car lock, the snap of the doors locking, each and every sound came back eerily amplified against the black silence that surrounded me.

Somewhere along the way, the rain had stopped but the clouds still must have covered the sky, for I could not see a single star and the house loomed in front of me, an imposing shadow against the dark sky.

I hesitated as I reached the stairs. It was clear visitors were not expected at this time, or welcomed, and at the thought of facing Bécquer or, worse still, of having him refuse to see me, filled me with such dread, my whole body hurt with the urge to flee. But my promise to Federico bound me to at least try.

Forcing my legs to move, I climbed the steps to the porch and knocked. Nobody answered. I knocked again, slamming the iron knocker hard, then grabbed the knob and twisted it. To my surprise, it turned under my hand and the door opened.

I stood still, for a moment, straining my eyes to see. It was even darker inside, the only light being the one coming from the porch. No, not the only one, for, after a moment, I saw a faint glow to my right. Then, I heard a sound, the unexpected sound of someone cheering.

“Bécquer?” I called. When there was no answer, I crossed the hall into the great room, and then stopped.

The glow, I could see now, belonged to a game playing on a TV screen. On the sofa facing the screen, someone was sitting.

“Bécquer,” I repeated, louder this time. When he didn’t move, I turned the lights on to get his attention.

As the iron chandelier above us came to life, the person on the sofa jumped to his feet.

He’s standing, I thought. Bécquer is standing. Relief washed over me — relief and embarrassment. If Bécquer was all right, I had no reason to be there. But when he turned and I saw his face, I realized my relief had been premature, for it was David, not Bécquer who was looking at me. David holding the video game controller in his hand as if it were a weapon to fend off an intruder.

“Ms. Esteban?” Recognition replaced the surprise on his face. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer the door.”

“What?” he asked, loud enough to be heard a mile away.

I touched my ears and David dropped the remote in the sofa and jerked his headphones off. He smiled apologetically, “Sorry.”

Disappointment and anger fought in my mind because David’s presence reminded me that Bécquer was disabled and in need of help, help David could hardly provide if he was so intensely engaged in playing a game. “Aren’t you supposed to be attending to Mr. Bécquer?”

David raised his head defiantly at the accusation implied by my words. “Mr. Bécquer has already retired for the night.”

I glowered at him in disbelief. “That is no excuse. What if he needs you?”

“He would call me on my cell,” David said, producing a phone from his pocket.

“That’s not good enough. Bécquer’s not answering his phone. Maybe he dropped it and can’t reach it.”

“Or maybe he’s just sleeping.”

“Let’s hope that is the case. You didn’t hear me knocking or coming in, and, according to Federico, you didn’t answer the house phone either. A most irresponsible behavior. So, if you don’t want me to report you to your employer, I’d appreciate it if you checked on Mr. Bécquer right away and ask him if he would see me.”

“Now? But he’s probably sleeping.”

“It’s only eight o’clock. Isn’t it a little early?”

“He was tired after the meeting,” David said, his tone clearly stating this was none of my business. “He went directly to his room and asked me not to disturb him. He even canceled his dinner.”

Dinner? The image of Bécquer having dinner resonated strangely in my mind. Bécquer was an immortal and immortals do not eat. Not human food, anyway.

“Did he eat the other days?” I asked, before realizing how stupid I sounded.

David looked at me, nonplussed. “Yes, of course.”

Of course. I shivered with apprehension. Could Federico be right? Had the Elders changed Bécquer back to being human? The signs that this was true were becoming more difficult to ignore. And yet, I didn’t want to believe it because if Bécquer was, indeed, human, his retiring struck me as being as bad an omen as Richard had made it sound.

“I need to talk to Bécquer,” I insisted. “Either you go and ask him whether he’ll see me, or I’ll go to his room.”

I turned toward the stairs when David didn’t move. His voice stopped me. “Mr. Bécquer is not in his old room. It was not practical for him to live on the second floor.”

Too late, I realized that knowing where Bécquer’s bedroom was might have given David the wrong idea. Not that it really mattered, yet I found myself blushing.

“Then where is he?” I asked, as sternly as I could manage to hide my embarrassment.

David sighed. “The room next to his study.”

It made sense, I thought as I followed him. Yet it saddened me that Bécquer had had to give up the comfort of his own room.

“Would you please let me talk with him first?” David asked as we reached the corridor.

I nodded, somehow relieved. For all my bravado, I was not looking forward to confronting Bécquer. I was afraid, immortal or not, he would be able to see through me, to see how much I cared for him and how distressed I was at his current predicament.

My heart pounding, I leaned against the wall and tried to follow Bécquer’s advice on how to block my feelings, while David walked to the door beside the study and knocked twice. There was no answer.

David looked back at me. “I told you he’s sleeping,” he whispered.

Bécquer, a human Bécquer, would have heard us outside his door. Were he immortal he’d have sensed me coming, even before I’d reached the house. Was he immortal and avoiding me or was he human and sleeping? In either case, I should be leaving. But what if … ?

Call me when you see him, Federico had told me.

Ignoring David’s attempts to stop me, I grabbed the knob and pushed the door open.

Bécquer was sitting on his bed, propped against a pillow. Despite the darkness inside, I could tell he was wearing the dark shirt he had worn in the afternoon. Thus, I guessed, he was still fully dressed, although I couldn’t tell for sure because a dark comforter up to his waist concealed his legs. His arms fell lifeless by his side and, once I got closer, I saw his eyes were closed.

I called his name and, when he didn’t react, I took one of his hands in mine, and repeated his name louder and louder, until I was screaming.

“Ms. Esteban!”

David was by my side, pulling at my arm. I pushed him hard to free myself, and leaning over Bécquer, I shook him by his shoulders.

Again, David pulled me back. “Please, let me handle this.”

I turned. “What happened? What’s wrong with him?”

David picked up a prescription bottle from the bedspread, and showed it to me. “Sleeping pills,” he said, pointing at the label. “He took them all,” he added when shaking the bottle failed to produce a sound.

I gasped. “You left the pills within his reach?”

“Please move. I need to force him to get rid of them.”

David’s voice was calm where mine had been frantic and when I looked up at him, ready to argue, I met not the eyes of the careless boy I had found playing video games, but the pragmatic stare of a professional nurse.

“Call 9-1-1 and tell them what happened,” David prompted me. “Ask them to send an ambulance at once.”

He had unbuttoned Bécquer’s shirt while he talked and checked for a pulse on his neck where the scar from Beatriz’s vicious attack was still visible. Bécquer’s face was gaunt, his breathing, if he was breathing, too shallow for me to notice. Was he alive? Or were we already too late?

Fighting the panic that threatened to engulf me, I grabbed the phone from the bedside table and made the call.

Chapter Seventeen: Bécquer’s Letter

By the time the paramedics arrived, Bécquer was still unconscious, but at least his breathing was regular. David had forced him to empty his stomach. Whether we had gotten all the pills from his system in time was too early to say, we were told. Without further reassurance, we were asked to move aside while they connected the IV to his arm, transferred him to a stretcher, and hurried him to the ambulance.

When they told us only one person was allowed to drive with him, David nodded to me. “You go. I’ve done all I can. Besides, I’ve to get things ready here before Mr. Bécquer comes home.”

I doubted that would happen that night, but David felt it was his responsibility to clean up before the ten o’clock shift arrived. At least, that is what he told me. My guess was that allowing me to go with Bécquer was his way of thanking me for agreeing not to tell his employer he had been playing games when I came in.

Like Federico, I believed that if Bécquer wanted to die, he would have found a way. David did not know about the pills, he’d told me, and he had reacted well to the emergency. Guessing that Bécquer would not have wanted David punished for his decision, I chose not to say anything that could incriminate him.

Chris, the paramedic who was to ride with us, helped me into the back of the ambulance then motioned me to sit by Bécquer. I had barely done so when the strident sound of the siren broke into the night, drowning the roar of the engines as the vehicle started.

Despite David’s efforts, Bécquer had never been totally conscious back at the house. But now he opened his eyes.

“Bécquer,” I whispered and leaned closer in order to hear him over the blaring of the siren.

He stared at me for a moment then frowned. “Carla?” His voice was hoarse, almost inaudible. “What are you doing here?”

He tried to sit as he spoke, but his arms gave way and he fell back.

“Don’t move.”

Bécquer moaned. “What happened? Where am I?”

“There was an accident. We’re taking you to the hospital.”

“An accident?” For a moment he looked confused then, as understanding dawned in his eyes, he grabbed the tubing from the IV and yanked it from his arm.

Immediately Chris was upon him. Bécquer fought back with energy I didn’t imagine he could have. But the fight didn’t last long. Soon, the paramedic had him restrained and bound to the stretcher. Once the IV was again dripping in his arm, Chris moved back.

“Don’t get him excited,” he told me, as if I were the one responsible for Bécquer’s reaction. But seeing no point in arguing, I nodded and sat again by Bécquer’s side.

“You have to help me,” Bécquer asked me in Spanish now, to keep the paramedic from following our conversation, I guessed. “I was supposed to die tonight.”

“I won’t let you die.”

“Carla, please, don’t make this more difficult for me. I can’t live. I don’t want to live.”

“I’m sorry, Bécquer. I’m so sorry.”

“So you know?”

“Richard told me.”

“Richard? Oh! You mean he told you about my legs?”

I nodded. “Is it true, Bécquer? Are you human?”

He didn’t deny it. He just stared at me with his dark eyes that seemed even darker now, sunk so deep in his gaunt face.

“The Elders … ” I hesitated, “did they make you human?”

“Yes. My punishment for making Beatriz immortal.”

“But you didn’t change her. She stole your blood.”

“That’s a technicality, Carla. I sired her, and the sentence was that I should die. I begged Cesar, the Elder’s messenger, for a week to finish your contract. And when he agreed he asked for my word that after the week was over I’d kill myself. So, you see, I’ve no choice.”

“Yes, you have,” I bluffed. “Federico will talk to the Elders. He will convince them to change their sentence.”

“Federico knows?”

“He’s coming tonight.”

Bécquer groaned. “Why did you tell him? There’s nothing he can do. The Elders have already decided. You must let me be.”

I shook my head. “I won’t.”

“Why not? You broke your contract with me today. You were not to see me again. What difference does it make to you whether I live or die?”

“I ended my contract with you to keep my children safe. I don’t want you to die.”

“Do you hate me so much that you want me to live like this, broken and impotent, a shadow of the god I was?”

“You cannot really mean that. You’re still you, Bécquer. No matter what has happened. Taking your life is selfish.”

“Selfish?”

“Yes, selfish. Are you really so blind that you don’t know you have friends who care for you and would be devastated were you to die?”

“Do I really?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know that Richard is totally smitten with you. He’s certain your clients will wait if you decided to take a break. And Federico is worried sick about you. And Ryan looks up to you. You can’t let him down.”

Bécquer closed his eyes while I rambled on, as if embarrassed by my barely concealed distress. He opened them when I finished and fixed his dark stare on me.

“And you?” he whispered. “If I die, would you mourn me for a day?”

My vision blurred by tears. I was still struggling to find my voice when the ambulance came to a stop, and Chris asked me to move aside.

Powerless I watched, as they wheeled Bécquer away.

• • •

Rachel was talking with the receptionist when I came into the hospital.

Even though Richard had insisted that Rachel and Bécquer were not in a relationship, her distressed behavior that afternoon and her already being at the hospital seemed to suggest otherwise. Yet, on the list of people who cared for Bécquer that I had just enumerated for him I had forgotten to mention her. A simple mistake or an unconscious wish that Richard was right?

The girl turned from the desk as I came in, and as our eyes met, she rushed to my side. She was wearing a short plaid parka over tight black jeans, a yellow scarf around her neck. In her perfectly made-up face, her eyes were no longer red, but the tension was clear in her voice as she asked, “Where is Bécquer? Will he be all right?”

Her face relaxed a little when I told her Bécquer had been conscious when I left him.

“David called me,” she explained as we walked to the waiting area.

I had guessed that much.

“So, he’s conscious,” she repeated when we sat facing each other in a corner of an almost empty waiting room. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it? He’ll recover.”

“Yes. But … ” I couldn’t tell her Bécquer’s life was still in jeopardy because the Elders wanted him dead. Not without learning first how much she knew. “He seems depressed,” I continued watching for her reaction. “Not surprising, of course, given his recent prognosis after the accident.”

“It was not an accident.” Rachel’s voice that had been subdued before was now so loud several of the people scattered around the room looked up. “A man came to see Bécquer last Monday,” she continued in a lower tone. “A man, tall and dark. ‘Cesar,’ he said, when I asked him for his name. He didn’t wait for me to announce his arrival. As soon as I let him in, he dashed past me to Bécquer’s study as if he owned the house. So I assumed they were friends. But I was wrong. Bécquer was not happy to see him, that much was clear, although he smiled at me and told me I could take the afternoon off.”

“I thought it was you who found Bécquer.”

“I did,” Rachel said, her eyes somewhat unfocused. “I didn’t leave as he asked me to. Cesar made me uncomfortable, and I didn’t want Bécquer to be alone with him. So I waited. And waited. But he never came out of the study. When I gathered my courage and knocked at the door, nobody answered, so I went in. Bécquer was unconscious on the floor and Cesar was gone.

“Bécquer told the doctors he had fallen down the stairs, but that is impossible. He was nowhere near the stairs when I found him. I think Bécquer and Cesar fought and Cesar is responsible for his condition.”

“You don’t believe me?” Rachel asked when I said nothing. “I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why I brought this.” She reached into a canvas bag hanging from the back of her chair and produced a manila envelope. “Bécquer gave me this in the morning and asked me to mail it to you, even though you were coming in the afternoon.”

“It’s addressed to you,” she explained as I frowned. “My guess is that he wrote to you to explain what happened.”

I took the envelope she offered. Inside I found a leather-bound journal filled with Bécquer’s florid handwriting. A letter-size envelope was concealed among its pages.

My heart beating hard, I tore open the envelope, unfolded the letter, and started reading.

Dear Carla,

I’m writing this letter as I wait for you to come. When you read it, I’ll be dead.

Cesar, one of the Elders, came last Monday. His orders were to kill me, but I pleaded with him to let me live for a week longer so that I could finish my contract with you. He agreed after I promised I would take my own life afterward. As a precaution, he made me mortal and severed my spine so I would not escape.

Once I’m gone, the Elders will destroy any shred of evidence that would reveal their or my own existence as an immortal. I abided by their desires when I was first changed. I told my friends to burn my old journals and the letters to my brother where I mentioned my secret life, and I would have done the same today, except that, if I do, you would forget me. I’m fool enough to believe you care for me just a little, just enough to want to know who I really was.

Please believe me when I say I didn’t kill myself out of despair, nor because I am a coward and don’t want to face life in my present condition. I did it only because I promised Cesar I would do so.

My mortality has returned to me the gift of writing. Reason enough to make me want to live this mortal life. The other reason, I suppose you’ve already guessed, it’s you.

Alas, the choice has been taken from me, and so I will die tonight. But in my last act of defiance, I’m sending you this diary. Read it or burn it, as you please. But know, in either case, that my main regret as I prepare to die is that I did not have more time to be with you.

Goodbye Carla. I hope that, despite my many faults, you will remember me. And if you, I dare not hope, were to love me in return, know I will remain with you forever, made immortal by your love.

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

“Does he mention Cesar?”

Rachel’s voice startled me, bringing me back to the hospital room.

I nodded. “Yes, Cesar caused his ‘accident’ last Monday.”

“Then we have to tell the police. He must pay for what he did.”

“No. I don’t think we should interfere. The decision must be Bécquer’s.”

Rachel hesitated.

“Please wait, at least until we talk to him. There is no last name in the letter. No way to trace this Cesar, or prove he’s real. It’s our word against Bécquer’s.”

“And the notebook?” she said pointing at Bécquer’s diary sitting on my lap. “Maybe he tells more about Cesar there.”

I knew the diary would not help us locate Cesar either because Cesar was an immortal, thus beyond human reach. Yet, curious to know what Bécquer had written, I opened it to the first page.

I was eleven when I met Lucrezia on the patio of my aunt’s house. The year was 1847 and Sevilla was in spring, but not my heart, for my heart was still frozen in the winter morning, two months past, that had seen my mother die.

“She’s in heaven,” the priest had said, “because God had need of her.”

I nodded at him in fake assent, for the fear of the Church had been ingrained in me from the time I was a little boy and I knew better than to argue with my betters. But whatever need God had of Mother, I thought it was selfish of Him to take her from me and my seven brothers; God had the whole world to choose from and He had already taken Father from us.

Overwhelmed by my loss and unable to sleep, I took to wandering the silent house in the dark of night. My aunt’s house, like most houses in Sevilla at the time, was built around a patio, its walls washed white, an orange tree on a corner and in the middle a running fountain to help fight the unbearable heat that came with summer. And it was sitting on the low ridge of the stone basin I saw Lucrezia for the first time.

Bécquer’s words jumped at me from the page, kidnapping me against my will. I’d have continued reading, oblivious to Rachel and my foreign surroundings, if her voice had not interrupted me.

“Does he say who this Cesar is?”

I put the notebook down and, feeling strangely conscious as if I had been found peering through the window into somebody’s home, I shook my head. “No, he doesn’t. I don’t think we’ll find any clue about Cesar here.”

“Why?”

“It’s just a story. I think Bécquer meant for me to have it only after his death. I’m not sure I should read it while he’s still alive.”

“And is he? Is Bécquer alive?”

I looked up, startled by the familiar and unexpected voice.

From his six feet of height, Ryan looked down at me.

Chapter Eighteen: In the Hospital

“Ryan?” I half stood then sat back again, worn down by my son’s scowl. “What are you doing here?”

“Never mind that,” Ryan said, his voice cold. “Tell me about Bécquer.”

“The doctors are with him now. But how did you — ?”

“Madison told me you were at Bécquer’s. I thought it would be a good time to confront you two together and try to change your mind about my not seeing him, so I went there. David told me what happened.

“I’m going to see him,” he added lowering his lanky frame in the chair across from us. “Don’t try to stop me.”

“I won’t, Ryan. I think it would be good for him to see that you care.”

Ryan scowled as if ready to argue then frowned. “You mean you’re all right with that?”

“Yes, Ryan.” Turning toward the girl sitting by my side, I added, “And this is Rachel, by the way.”

Ryan looked at Rachel, as if he had just realized she was there, which knowing him, he probably had. Bending forward, he extended his hand to her. “I’m Ryan,” he said, reverting to his usual charming self. But when he turned to me, his voice was cold again. “It’s your fault. You know that, right?”

“Ryan, please. I wasn’t even there.”

“It’s your fault because you didn’t let me see him. If I had, I would have noticed Bécquer was depressed. I would have helped him.”

“It’s not so simple. Bécquer — ”

“ — can’t walk. I know. David told me. But you didn’t. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Don’t blame your mother,” Rachel said before I could answer. “I was with him every day this past week, and he never seemed depressed to me. So, actually, if someone is to blame it would be me.”

“Of course not,” Ryan told her. “How could you have known?”

By the eagerness of his voice, I knew the irony of his statement was lost on him.

“Thanks.” Rachel frowned, as her eyes focused on his face. “I know you, I think. Aren’t you the second guitar from Shut Up and Listen?”

“I am.” Ryan smiled, obviously pleased at being recognized. “Or was, I guess. I’m not sure if the band will hold together now that Matt’s gone.”

“Why not? You could take his place as leader.”

Ryan beamed at the girl.

His anger at me momentarily forgotten, he plunged into a technical discussion of his possible suitability for the job while Rachel smiled at him. Relieved at the respite this turn of the conversation provided, I slid Bécquer’s notebook and letter in my handbag and grabbed my phone.

I had called Federico from Bécquer’s house and, when I got no answer, left a message on his voice mail. He had not called me back. Or maybe he had, I thought as I realized my phone was dead. I threw it back in my purse and asked Ryan to lend me his.

“Why?” Ryan snapped.

Because I’m asking, I wanted to say, but that would have gotten us nowhere. “Because Federico and Matt are driving back tonight to be with Bécquer,” I said instead, “and they don’t know he’s here.”

Without a word, he took his cell phone from his pocket and handed it to me.

I was punching Federico’s number when the doors to the ER swung open and a nurse came through. I froze and watched as, after a brief interchange with the receptionist, she started toward the area where we were sitting. The three of us stood as one.

“How is he?” I asked, after the nurse confirmed we were waiting for him.

“His vitals are stable,” she informed us in a professional voice. “But we want to keep him through the night for observation.”

“I want to see him,” Ryan said.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” The nurse’s tone became imperious. “He has requested to be left alone. So you’ll have to wait until morning.”

He’s planning to do it again, I thought while Ryan insisted. “Bécquer doesn’t know I’m here. He would see me if he knew. I’m his nephew.”

The nurse shook her head, her annoyance unmistakable now. “Not tonight.”

I grabbed Ryan’s arm and pulled at him, afraid that if he continued pressing the nurse with his demands, he would ruin not only his, but also my chance of seeing Bécquer.

“It’s all right, Ryan. You’ll see him tomorrow,” I coaxed him.

He was about to argue when Rachel set her hand on his other arm. “Come on, Ryan. Your mother’s right. Let’s go. You can come back early in the morning.”

Ryan hesitated for a moment then nodded at Rachel and shaking himself free of my grasp, moved back.

I asked the nurse for more details about Bécquer’s condition while I waited for Rachel and Ryan to reach the exit doors. Then I steered the conversation back to the issue of seeing Bécquer.

“I won’t bother him,” I told her, trying to keep the anxiety from my voice. “But I would very much like to stay in the room with him tonight.” As she shook her head, I rushed in, “You must let me stay with him. He’ll try to kill himself again. He admitted that much to me.”

A flash of anger crossed the nurse’s eyes. “I assure you your brother will not hurt himself here. In this hospital, we observe the highest standards of safety.”

Turning her back on me, she disappeared through the swinging doors.

“He’s not my brother,” I said to no one in particular as I watched the door swing, alternately inviting and rejecting me. I considered following her, but glanced at the reception desk and noted the girl had followed our conversation and was watching me.

Frustrated, I went back to my seat and considered my possibilities. Going home was out of the question. Whatever high standards the hospital had, I knew Bécquer was not safe. I would wait for another nurse to come by and ask her to be taken to his room. In the meantime, I would pray the haughty nurse was right.

Lucky for me, Ryan had forgotten to ask for his phone back. This time Federico answered on the first ring.

“He got it wrong,” he said after I repeated what Bécquer had told me during the ambulance ride. “I just talked with the Elders. Their sentence was to make him human. ‘A life for a life,’ that is how they phrased it. He will die eventually, of course, as all humans do, but the messenger was not supposed to kill him. He’s not supposed to be paralyzed either.”

“Bécquer said that Cesar did it so he could not flee.”

Federico swore. “Cesar? No wonder. I should have guessed.”

“Guessed what?”

“Cesar hates Bécquer. So he obviously twisted the Elders’ words to push Bécquer to kill himself, then paralyzed him just for his enjoyment. It fits just perfectly with his treacherous mind. His immortality has only increased the thirst for blood and depravity that made him infamous when he was human.”

“Who was he as human?”

“He was Cesar Borgia. The one who inspired Machiavelli to write The Prince. The bastard son of that other Alexander, the Renaissance pope who ruled the Church with the libertinism and nepotism of an absolute king.”

“Oh!” I said. For what else can you say when history, the history you studied at school becomes alive on a Saturday evening in, of all unlikely places, the waiting room of a hospital?

“Listen, Carla. I have to hang up now. I need to talk with the Elders again. They forbade me to help Bécquer before, claiming that his paralysis had happened after he became human. But if Cesar caused it — ”

“Then you can heal him?”

“I hope so. As I hope they will send somebody to talk to Bécquer. He needs to explain to them that Beatriz stole his blood for they believe he changed her on purpose. Once this point is clarified, they may even revert their sentence. In the meantime, you keep Bécquer safe, all right?”

“Of course,” I said, as if I could.

A thousand times more eager to see Bécquer now that I knew the Elders did not want him dead for I hoped knowing this would stop him from trying to kill himself, I walked to the desk. Unlike the nurse, the receptionist seemed sympathetic to my request, or maybe she was just bored and glad to have something to do.

“I’ll check with the nurse,” she told me.

She punched a number on the phone and conveyed my request. “I’ll tell her,” she said shortly.

“What is wrong?” I asked prompted by the note of concern I had noticed in her voice.

“Probably nothing,” she said lightly, but her eyes did not meet mine as she gestured toward the elevator. “They want you upstairs. Third floor. A nurse will meet you there.”

Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I ran up the stairs, arriving at the third floor flushed and out of breath. But it was fear, and not the running, that made my heart pump faster.

The nurse who had talked with us before was waiting for me by the elevator. Her haughty look, I noticed, was gone.

“I apologize,” she said when I joined her. “You were right, about your brother. He tried again.”

“Did he? Is he — ”

“He’s all right. We got him in time. But I believe it would be better if you stayed with him.”

“Did he swallow more pills?” I asked as I followed her down the corridor.

“No. He charmed one of the nurses into bringing him flowers. We always have extras from the maternity ward. New parents are too busy with their babies to carry all the bouquets they get. He smashed the vase and tried to cut his wrist with the broken glass.

“You have to give him points for ingenuity,” she continued. But the image her words evoked of the blood spilling from Bécquer’s veins was so vivid in my mind that I felt dizzy, and for a moment I saw black.

“Are you all right?”

I opened my eyes. The nurse had grabbed my arm. I was glad she had, because my knees had grown weak. I took a deep breath. “Yes, of course.”

“He’s not your brother, is he?”

I shook my head. “No. He’s not.”

“I didn’t think so.” I blushed — was my attraction to him so obvious? — “He was pretty vocal about not having any sisters. And also about not wanting anybody with him.”

“Yet, you let me come,” I said as we resumed walking.

Her smile disappeared. “In my experience, a suicide attempt is a cry for help. A disability is tough on a relationship. Until he has come to accept his condition, my advice is that you tell him that you love him. Unconditionally.”

As I struggled with my reply, she stopped and knocked briefly on a closed door and, without waiting for a response, entered the room.

Chapter Nineteen: The Pact

Bécquer was lying back on a half-raised bed. His hair, tousled and matted with sweat, framed a face so white it could have been a sculpture.

I stood by the door, not sure how to proceed while the nurse checked his IV and took his vitals. Ignoring her, Bécquer stared at me with his dark, sunken eyes. Still totally still, and silent. That he was still was not surprising as his arms, set parallel to his body, were strapped to the bed. The silence he broke at last, when the nurse left closing the door. Polite and distant, he thanked me for coming and asked me to take a seat next to his bed.

“So, it’s you,” he said when I did. “The mysterious sister I never had.”

Afraid my voice would break if I spoke, I only nodded. His wrists, I noticed as I looked down to avoid his stare, were bandaged.

“Is that how you think of me?” he continued. “As the brother you must keep from harm?”

I swallowed hard. “Ryan claimed to be your nephew. The nurse assumed — ”

“Ryan is here?”

He struggled to sit up as he spoke, the muscles on his naked arms flexed under the straps binding him to the bed.

“Please don’t let him come,” he said as, defeated, he fell back. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

You should have thought of that before, I thought. But he looked so hurt and dejected I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“He left already,” I said instead. “When the nurse told him he couldn’t see you until tomorrow.”

Bécquer sighed in relief, then again his face tightened. “Does he think I’m a coward?”

“No. He blames me.”

“You?” Bécquer frowned, then nodded when I told him why. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Of course, you will,” I said, frustration and despair spilling into my voice. “And when do you plan to do that, before or after you kill yourself?”

“Touché. I’m sorry, Carla. I really am. But I told you, I have no choice.”

“Yes, you have. Federico spoke to the Elders tonight. Cesar lied to you. The Elders sentenced you to be human, not to death. To be human, not paralyzed.”

He closed his eyes.

I touched his hand with my fingers. “Bécquer — ” I started. Whatever I was about to tell him I forgot when I met his eyes for there was so much hope in them. So much despair. I leaned down and kissed his lips.

Bécquer did not respond. I moved back.

“Don’t play with me, Carla.” His voice was cold. His face unreadable.

“I’m not playing.”

“I overheard the nurse talking to you. I heard her asking you to pretend you love me.”

“You think my kiss was a lie?”

Bécquer said nothing.

“You’re wrong, Bécquer. Besides, what the nurse said does not apply anymore. You will not be paralyzed for long. Nor human for that matter. Once you tell the Elders what really happened the day Beatriz became immortal, Federico is certain the Elders will reverse your sentence.”

“They won’t. Because I did change her, and I’m taking full responsibility for it.”

I frowned. “But that’s not true. Why should you — ”

Bécquer’s face hardened into a mask, but for a brief moment his eyes met mine, and, as they did, an image jumped to my conscious mind: the image of Beatriz holding Ryan over the dam and of Bécquer facing her. And I knew, as clearly as if I had heard their words what the pact between them had been.

“You promised her,” I said, and my voice came out broken, almost unrecognizable. “You promised Beatriz you’d take responsibility for her change if she let Ryan go.”

It wasn’t a question. Had it been, his silence would have been answer enough.

“I cannot, I will not, let you take the blame.”

“I’m afraid it’s not your decision, Carla. You were not there. You have no proof.”

“I may not have proof, but now that you’re human you cannot lie to the immortals anymore, for they don’t need your permission to search your mind. Federico we’ll have no problem learning the truth.”

Bécquer swore and I knew I had won because he changed his tactic.

“Carla, you don’t understand.” His voice that had been hard before was now pleading. “I gave her my word. If I break it, Beatriz will not abide by her promise and Ryan will be in danger again. Not only him, your daughter — ”

“Madison,” I supplied my daughter’s name automatically.

“Madison will be in danger too.”

I hesitated for a moment. Fear for my children weighed against my responsibility to make things right for Bécquer.

“I have to tell the truth. I can’t let you take the blame for something you didn’t do.”

“You said your kiss was not a lie, Carla. This is your test. If you care for me you will respect my wish.”

“I can’t.”

“So I was right. You don’t care for me. Or maybe you did. You cared for me when I was immortal. Not for this broken human I have become.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Prove it to me then. Stand by me. Don’t tell Federico about my pact with Beatriz. Convince him he can’t tell the Elders what happened between us.”

“But — ”

“Carla, listen. I’ve lived for a long time. Your children haven’t. They deserve to live more than I do. Besides, you saved my life. I owe you.”

I sighed.

“All right, I’ll support your decision.”

“Thank you, Carla. So maybe it’s true you care for me a little.”

His voice was light and teasing and his eyes were asking me to come closer. But I couldn’t move. I felt dirty. I had agreed to Bécquer’s request in order to save my children’s lives, but, deep down, I knew it was wrong. If the Elders knew the truth they would allow Bécquer to be immortal. But if I didn’t tell them, he would remain human and, maybe even, paralyzed.

“It’s all right.” Bécquer said, serious now. “I understand you won’t want to stay with me under these circumstances.” Briefly, his eyes moved to his legs, then without a hint of self-pity, held mine again. “You owe me no explanation.”

“Of course I want to stay with you,” I said, angry for letting my silence give him the wrong impression. “I love you, Bécquer. Your present circumstances are of no importance to me. I’ll stay with you as long as you’ll have me.”

Bécquer stared at me for a long time. “Do you really mean it?”

“I do.”

Bending over, I kissed him again.

This time his lips opened as they touched mine, and, just before I closed my eyes, I saw myself on his black pupils, dark mirrors reflecting my soul as it met his own. His lips were soft and warm, inviting yet demanding, his kiss both pleasure and pain. I wanted to scream and I wanted to die. I wanted this kiss never to end and I wanted to flee for I was scared of losing myself, of forgetting everything I’d ever been, or was, or planned to be. Yet, I didn’t mind. I didn’t care if I ever had a thought but this: That he was mine and I, his, this moment and every moment. He and I but one, a single soul. Forever.

“Carla” he said when we at last parted. “Could you — ?”

“Kiss you once more?”

He smiled. “That too. But first could you untie me?”

I considered his request. They had bound him so he would not kill himself, but now that he knew the Elders didn’t want him dead, he wouldn’t try again, would he?

“Should I trust you?”

Bécquer smile widened. “I’ll be a gentleman. I promise.” The mischief he infused into his words, made me believe, at last, that he would fight to stay alive.

Bécquer flexed his arms when I finished, disregarding the UV tubing attached to his left hand.

“Be careful.” I reached over the bed to stay the tubing that swung wildly.

Bécquer winced.

“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

He lay back and shook his head.

But I knew he was lying because his eyes were full of pain. “Seriously, Bécquer, how do you feel?”

Bécquer shrugged. “The truth?”

I nodded.

“If you were not with me,” he said, with a deprecatory smile, “I would think I had died and gone to hell.”

“Maybe you have,” I teased him. “Maybe, like Sartre claimed, L’enfer c’est les autres. Hell is other people. And I am yours.”

“No. You’re not, that I know for certain. Although, once upon a time, my private hell did have a woman’s name.”

“Lucrezia.”

I said the name without thinking, the name of the woman he mentioned in his diary.

Bécquer frowned and, as I blushed under his dark stare, he sighed. “You read my diary.”

“Only the first page. Rachel wanted me to read it to prove Cesar was real, although you had denied it. She thought you might mention him in your diary.”

“Did she read it too?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Nothing happened between us.”

“Rachel or Lucrezia?”

“I meant Rachel. As for Lucrezia — ”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

He smiled ruefully. “Come,” he asked me and when following his suggestion I sat by his side, he took my hand. “Yes. I have to tell you about Lucrezia. But I fear that when I do, I’ll lose your respect. And your love.”

“Because you still love her?”

“No, Carla. I don’t love her. That’s not why. I’m afraid that you’ll think poorly of me because I’m ashamed of who I was and how I lived my life when I was human.”

“You were Bécquer, when you were human. Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer. How can you be ashamed? You’re admired, adored by legions of fans that have read your poetry, your legends, your letters.”

Bécquer laughed. “My fans, as you call them, do not love me. They love the myth I created after my death. My so-called death, anyway. During my life, I was an unknown, a failure as a writer, a dilettante of sorts, working clerk jobs I couldn’t keep, writing pieces for newspapers, articles nobody read, searching all the time for that elusive perfect nirvana Lucrezia gave me when I was a child.”

“So you loved her back then?”

“If you call that love. What I felt for her was more like an addiction, a disease that stole my soul and poisoned my mind. And because in my ignorance I called that love, I spent my life searching for the intangible — a silver moon ray, a pair of green eyes, the impossible I could never have.”

“Did Lucrezia love you?”

“I doubt Lucrezia was capable of love. Besides, I was eleven when I met her, a boy still grieving the death of his mother. How could she love me? I was her human pet, nothing more. Later, maybe she coveted my young body and the adoration she saw in my eyes. And so for a while, we were lovers drinking in each other: me in her beauty, she in the glow of my love for her.

“Until one day, she left me, without explanation, without saying goodbye. I spent the rest of my life longing for her, while she in turn took me as her lover or rejected me, only to taunt me again when I fell in love with someone else.

“And, all the time, Cesar watched us — either jealous or amused, I do not know — biding his time to avenge himself for the few moments of bliss Lucrezia gave me.”

“Cesar? The same Cesar who ordered you to kill yourself?”

“The very same. Cesar was Lucrezia’s lover and her brother. In life and after death.”

Of course. Cesar was Cesar Borgia, Federico had told me. Which made Lucrezia the infamously beautiful Lucrezia Borgia.

“Cesar made her immortal against the Elder’s wishes,” Bécquer explained. “Apart from beauty, she had no merits of her own. She was not artistically, nor scientifically gifted, and thus by the Elder’s rules, she did not qualify to become immortal. But Alexander, the Elders’ leader, loved Cesar at the time and allowed Cesar’s defiance to go unchallenged. Eventually Alexander moved on to other lovers, and Cesar continued his affair with Lucrezia. They were still together when I met her in Sevilla.”

“Is that why he hates you? Because once upon a time you and Lucrezia were lovers?”

“He hates me because Lucrezia made me an immortal against his wishes and, in his wrath at her defiance, Cesar killed her. He blames me for his actions.”

“If you knew he hates you, how could you believe him when he told you the Elders had sentenced you to death?”

“He believed me because I said the truth,” A deep, sarcastic voice answered from the door.

Letting go of my hands, Bécquer leaned forward, his body tense as if preparing for a fight. A fight he couldn’t win, even if he were not bedridden, because the man standing by the door, dark and beautiful like an angel fallen from grace, was Cesar.

And Cesar was immortal.

Chapter Twenty: Cesar

“The Elders want you dead,” the man said in heavily accented English as he stepped into the room. “I should know for I am one of them.”

“You want me dead, Cesar, not the Elders. Their sentence was to make me mortal.”

“And so you are, my dear Gustavo, quite mortal indeed. Unfortunately, mortals have a nasty habit of dying and so it is that a sentence to be mortal is equivalent, in my opinion, to one of death.”

With a speed that would have betrayed him as being immortal had I not already known, Cesar reached his side then turned to me. “But I see you have company,” he said, appraising me. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“You must leave.” Where Cesar’s voice had been sarcastic, Bécquer’s was cold. “The Elders are aware that you manipulated me, bending their sentence with your lies so I would agree to end my life. If I die today, they will hold you responsible. And if you hurt Carla, I will haunt you for all eternity.”

Cesar laughed. “Would you really haunt me for all eternity? How poetic. But, of course, you always had a way with words. While I was more of a man of action. As for your lady, Carla did you say?” He turned again to me. “I’m Cesar. Cesar Borgia, at your service.”

Grabbing my hand, he bent to kiss it. The chivalrous gesture an ominous sign, a warning that he set the rules.

Bécquer swore and yanked the IV tubing from his arm. I held my breath, expecting the alarm to go off. But it didn’t. The numbers in the machine were frozen, which meant we had once more stepped out of time. Nobody would come to help us now. Which really made no difference as no human would stand a chance against an immortal. At the thought, the fear inside me grew exponentially.

Unlike me, Bécquer didn’t seem surprised when his action had no effect. His eyes on Cesar, he ordered him to leave once more.

Cesar nodded. “I will,” he said as if he meant it. “As soon as you confirm that you’ll keep your promise to take your own life before Monday.”

“I won’t. You lied to me, Cesar, which means my word is not binding, for it was given under a false premise.”

“Isn’t it?” A triumphant smile curved Cesar’s pale lips as he turned toward the door. “Now you believe me? Now you believe your reluctant sire is an oath breaker?”

At Cesar’s words, a second visitor materialized by the door. It was Beatriz, I realized, as she glided forward and came to stand by Bécquer’s side.

I took a step back for nothing human remained in her face, the beautiful face of a vengeful goddess. But Bécquer, unperturbed as though he had expected her, returned her stare.

Gracefully, Beatriz sat on his bed and bent forward until their faces almost touched. When she spoke, her perfectly modulated voice was that of a lover. But her words were not of love.

“And what excuse do you have to break the oath you gave to me?” she asked him.

“I did not break my oath to you.” Bécquer’s voice was even and, although not loud, it broke the intimacy she had established between them. And so it was Cesar who answered. “No. You didn’t. You sent your lap dog to do it in your stead.”

“Is that so?” Beatriz asked.

“No,” Bécquer said. “I did not send Federico.”

“Liar.” Cupping Bécquer’s face in her hands, Beatriz forced him to look at her. Bécquer’s eyes turned vacant under her stare, then his arms grew limp.

“Stop it! He’s telling the truth.”

I reached for her as I screamed. Without looking, Beatriz swung her right arm and hit me hard on the chest, sending me crashing to the floor.

Fighting the blackness that threatened to engulf me, I opened my eyes. Cesar was looking down on me, his hand extended. He shrugged when I refused it and watched as I scrambled to my feet.

“No. You didn’t tell Federico.” Beatriz released Bécquer, who fell back against the pillow. Blinking repeatedly, Bécquer sat up. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when he met my eyes.

“You didn’t tell him,” Beatriz repeated staring at me. “But you told her.”

“He didn’t. I guessed it on my own.” I took a step forward, but Cesar grabbed my arm, holding me back.

Ignoring me, Beatriz bent over Bécquer and pinned him to the bed. “What else did you tell her?” she whispered, her voice tense with hate. “Did you tell her that you loved her?”

“Let Carla go,” Bécquer said, addressing Cesar. “She has nothing to do with us.”

“You’re right. She hasn’t. But I can’t let her go. She knows too much.”

“Cesar is right,” Beatriz added. “And anyway, why would you care what is to become of her?”

“Oh, I see,” she continued when he said nothing. “You think you’re in love with her, don’t you?” She laughed. “You are pathetic. After all the women you have seduced over the years, after all your broken promises, you still believe you are capable of love?”

“Come on, Beatriz. Kill him already. We’re wasting time.” Cesar sounded bored.

“Don’t listen to him,” Bécquer spoke, his voice even. “I have told the Elders that I changed you, as I promised, so they will let you live. But if you kill me — ”

“What about her?” Beatriz asked. “Will she lie for me too?”

No, the answer came to my mind unbidden. Anger spilling over the walls I was trying to erect to keep Beatriz from reading my feelings.

Remember, it was you who condemned him. As her voice yelled in my mind, she bent over Bécquer and sank her long canines into his unprotected neck.

I screamed and fought the tight grip of Cesar’s arms around me. As if in answer to my plea, the loud, jarring playing of an electric guitar filled the room, drowning my cries and Cesar’s laughter.

Beatriz looked up toward the chair, toward the sound of Ryan’s phone coming from my handbag. Bécquer’s arm shot forward and struck her neck. As her blood splattered over the white sheets, he drew her to him.

Releasing me, Cesar bolted and pulled Beatriz from Bécquer.

Her hands clapping her neck where blood still poured out, Beatriz staggered against the chair where she collapsed.

Sitting up, Bécquer challenged Cesar with his stare. In his hands, he held a shard of glass stained in blood. A piece of the vase he must have hidden before the nurses came to stop his last attempt to end his life.

Cesar laughed. “A piece of glass? Do you really think you can stop me with that, you pathetic mortal?”

His arm lashed as he spoke. But Bécquer blocked his attack and when Cesar moved back, his hand was bleeding.

Cesar swore. “You bastard. You drank from her.”

Bécquer said nothing. On his face, as pale as marble, only his eyes seemed alive, intent on Cesar. One moment passed, then his arm shook, and I knew his strength was wavering.

I called to Cesar to distract him and rushed toward Bécquer. But before I could reach him, I felt the pressure of Cesar’s mind on mine, willing me to stop. Unable to move, I watched as Cesar grabbed Bécquer’s arm. I heard the cracking sound of the bone breaking, and then saw Bécquer’s hand open, releasing the shard.

Cesar snarled. “Tell me Bécquer, do you prefer to die now or should I kill your ladylove first?”

Cradling his broken arm, Bécquer said nothing.

“This is not how it was supposed to be.” Cesar pointed at Beatriz, who was slumped on the chair, unconscious or dead I was not sure. “She was supposed to kill you.”

“Let me guess,” Bécquer said, the effort to speak showing in the way his words came out, one by one and broken. “You will kill me now, but she will take the blame when you tell the Elders. In your version, Beatriz attacked me. You tried to stop her but were too late to save me, and in the fight that ensued, you killed Beatriz unwillingly. A dead Beatriz suits you fine because, dead, she cannot confess she stole my blood or that it was you who asked her to kill me.”

“Precisely.”

Cesar raised his arm once more, his flat hand a mortal weapon aimed at Bécquer’s chest, and I could do nothing but watch and wait for the fatal blow that would stop his heart. Only it never happened because someone else entered the room, too fast for me to see, and grabbed Cesar’s arm as it struck.

Cesar turned. His eyes widened when he saw the man holding him. “Alexander,” he said, his voice slightly off.

“You have disobeyed our orders,” the man said, “thus you will answer to us now.”

The metallic edge of his voice broke the wall that immobilized me. Barely aware of the two immortals dressed in black who had materialized in the room and were carrying Cesar away, I ran to Bécquer’s side calling his name. But Bécquer, pale and still, didn’t stir.

“Bécquer is not dead,” Alexander’s voice came from behind. “Just unconscious.”

I turned. Over his shoulder, I saw two different men, also in black, carrying Beatriz out of the room. Cesar was nowhere in sight.

“You must leave now, Carla,” Alexander said, not unkindly.

I didn’t move. “You saved Bécquer’s life, and I’m grateful. But I won’t leave him.”

“You must,” he insisted and his voice had the authority of an ancient king’s. “Bécquer’s sentence has been revoked for we are aware that Beatriz stole Bécquer’s blood. He’s safe with us.”

With the uncanny speed immortals moved, he rushed by me. Sitting by Bécquer’s side, grabbed his broken arm, and snapped the bone in place. Then he bent over and kissed him on the lips.

He’s changing him. He’s making him an immortal. The thought startled me. If Bécquer became an immortal, I could not be with him, I could not even talk to him because I wouldn’t trust him.

I jumped forward. “No.”

I grabbed Alexander’s arm. A lame attempt on my part, for his muscles felt like iron under my hand. Yet Alexander did stop and turned to face me. The drop of blood glowing bright red on his lips confirmed my suspicion.

“May I talk with him first?” My voice, weak with wanting, was barely audible.

Alexander shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend waking him up. His body is healing too fast for a mortal’s consciousness to endure.”

“So, he’s mortal still?”

“For now. But if you excuse me — ”

“Please, don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because … ” Desperate, I looked around, and my eyes met the machine that was supposed to read Bécquer’s vitals but that was now frozen displaying the numbers of its last reading. The numbers of a mortal Bécquer. What would they read, I wondered, after he was no longer human? And that gave me the answer I was looking for. “Because if you do, Bécquer would be miraculously healed by morning and that would have the doctors wondering.”

Alexander laughed. “They won’t ask any questions, believe me. I will see to it.”

If I had considered seeing Bécquer after his change, Alexander’s casual acceptance that he manipulated humans’ minds reaffirmed my decision to stay away from immortals. If I wanted to say goodbye to Bécquer, the only way to do so was to postpone his change.

“What about the charts,” I improvised, “the medical records?” Had any immortal ever been at the hospital? Did the Elders have a protocol to deal with a situation such as this one?

Apparently not, because for the first time Alexander hesitated. “It could be arranged for new records to be made. But maybe it would be better if we wait to change him until he’s home.”

His eyes narrowed on me. “Talking to Bécquer will change nothing,” he said, his words confirming my suspicion that he had sensed my feelings. “Bécquer will choose to be immortal.”

“I only want to say goodbye while he is still human.”

“I’ll let him know. But you must promise you won’t wake him up tonight.”

I swallowed hard. “I promise.”

“All right, then. I’ll leave now. When Federico comes, tell him we’ll reconvene at Bécquer’s house by noon tomorrow.”

I nodded, a useless gesture because Alexander was already gone. The pressing beeping of the machine announcing it had been disconnected told me time had resumed its course for us.

Soon a nurse came in — the night nurse I had not met before. I told her Bécquer had broken his arm struggling against the straps that bound him to his bed. The fact that she didn’t question the unlikeness of my explanation, nor argue when I told her he didn’t need a cast, just to have his arm set, made me guess Alexander was controlling her mind.

When Federico arrived later that night, Bécquer was still unconscious. The immortal blood healing his body had raised his temperature so that his skin was hot to the touch, and the few times he opened his eyes, he had not recognized me. But Federico reassured me Bécquer would be better by morning.

“You should go now,” he insisted. “You shouldn’t be present when I talk to them.”

He didn’t explain further and I didn’t ask. Instead, I asked him to tell Bécquer that I wanted to talk with him before he became immortal.

Federico promised and, out of excuses to stay, I left.

I left, reluctantly, because I knew quite well as I closed the door that Bécquer would be immortal the next day and I would never see him again.

It hurt to walk.

Chapter Twenty-One: Red Roses

I called Ryan from the hospital. He was home, I knew, because he had left a voice message before, telling me so and demanding to know whether I had stayed at the hospital. For once, I didn’t resent his challenging me, because his call had distracted Beatriz and saved Bécquer’s life and mine.

It was after midnight by the time Ryan arrived to pick me up. Exhausted physically and mentally, I wanted nothing more than to go home. But my car was at Bécquer’s and if I didn’t retrieve it now, I risked running into the Elders the next day. I didn’t want to meet the Elders nor Bécquer unless he asked for me before being turned immortal. I had no choice but to get the car now.

Ryan frowned when I asked him to drive me to Bécquer’s house. “We can go together to see him tomorrow. Your car will be safe there till then.”

I shook my head. “I’d rather go now.”

“Why?”

I recognized the tension in his voice, a clear warning that he was ready to fight were I to forbid him to see Bécquer. I was too tired to argue with him. So I didn’t. I didn’t tell him he couldn’t see Bécquer. I told him the truth instead.

Yes, I still believed any relationship between humans and immortals was unwise, dangerous even, but Ryan was eighteen, no longer a baby for me to cradle and protect. And if I couldn’t stop him from seeing Bécquer, I owed him the truth so he could make a more informed decision on his own. So, on the way to Bécquer’s house, I told him what I knew about the immortals.

“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” Ryan asked me when I finished.

I shrugged. “It’s the truth.”

“It’s absurd.” With the same determination he had shown at six when he argued that Santa Claus did not exist, he argued now that immortals did not, could not be. But the very fact that he was arguing told me a part of him believed already. The part that questioned my explanation of what had happened when Beatriz kidnapped him on Halloween.

By the time we reached Bécquer’s house, he had run out of questions.

“Drive safe,” I told him as he stopped the car. Ryan didn’t answer and when I bent to kiss him, he withdrew his face from me. By the time I reached my car, the screech of tires on gravel had faded away.

• • •

Bécquer didn’t call the next day, or the following, and my hope of seeing him before he became immortal dissipated as the days passed. On Tuesday, when I was certain he would not call, I took his diary out of the envelope and read it in one sitting. Based on the dates of his entries, he had written it the previous week, when he was human.

It was the Bécquer of his Rhymes and Legends, the one who came through his writing, a Bécquer curious and naive, and terribly romantic. In his unaffected style, he described his obsession with Lucrezia, his love for Julia — the girl Cesar drove away from him with lies, and later married — his acceptance of a marriage of convenience with Casta, imposed on them by her father’s knowledge of the immortals and his threat to expose Bécquer to the Bishop. Bécquer had accepted mainly out of hope that a marriage blessed by the Church would put an end to his curse. He was wrong: his attraction to Lucrezia did not go away, but with time, Bécquer grew fond of his wife and very much in love with his children, including Emilio, my ancestor.

His love for this baby who was not his and must have been for him a constant reminder of his failure as a husband, underscored a gentleness of his character that only enhanced my feelings for him. Feelings I knew I had to push out of my mind for Bécquer was immortal once more, and I could not see him again.

Although it hurt, I had to accept that Bécquer was gone from my life. The only palpable proof he had ever existed was my two-book deal and the name of an agent I had yet to contact.

That, and a distraught Ryan, still upset with me because Bécquer was immortal. As if it was my fault.

But it was I who’d told him, and so he blamed me as he had blamed me for his father’s leaving when he was eight. I understood his anger at me was his defense against the pain of finding out Bécquer had lied to him and knew he would eventually work through his pain and forgive me. But not just yet.

I had not asked Ryan if he had seen Bécquer and he had not volunteered any information. My guess was that he had tried and Bécquer had rejected him. I also noticed his showers had gotten longer, an indication that he was dating a new girl. A girl that was not Emily, Madison told me one day out of the blue. “Because I know you don’t like Emily and you’ll be happy they have broken up.”

She was partially right. I liked Emily, but not the fact that she was still doing drugs.

Madison didn’t tell me who Ryan’s new girl was and I didn’t ask. It was an unspoken understanding between us that her first loyalty was to her brother and I knew it would have been useless to challenge that.

• • •

A week had passed since Bécquer’s suicide attempt, when the doorbell rang.

Abby’s mother was supposed to pick Madison up and drive both girls to the movies, so I assumed it was Abby at the door. I called to Madison from my study and, when she didn’t answer — not surprisingly because I could hear her up in her room, arguing fast and furious on her phone — I got up and opened the door.

It wasn’t Abby, but Bécquer who stood outside. Bécquer with a bouquet of roses in one hand and a smile upon his lips.

“Carla,” he said and bowed slightly.

“Bécquer?”

“I thought you’d refuse to see me if I called first, so I just came. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

I swallowed hard. “No,” I mumbled, not sure what his question had been.

“I brought you flowers.” His smile had spread over his face now, so his eyes twinkled with mischief.

I looked at the flowers to hide my discomfort at his sudden appearance. They were roses, red roses in a sea of green.

“Roses?”

His smile disappeared. “You don’t like roses?”

“Yes, I do.”

Bécquer brought the bouquet forward and as I, instinctively, took it from him, a door slammed upstairs and Madison came rushing down calling to me in the hurried voice that announced yet another crisis in her life.

“Mom. Can you drive us? Abby’s mom can’t take us to the movies — ” She stopped as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Wow! Those are nice! What’s the occasion?”

“An excuse to come and see your mother,” Bécquer said.

Madison turned to me. “Does that mean you cannot drive me?”

“Actually, I can. Bécquer is leaving.”

“Bécquer?” Madison’s eyes swept over him with interest. “Ryan’s Bécquer?”

“I guess so,” Bécquer said, looking amused.

“Ryan’s upstairs. Do you want me to get him?”

“No,” Bécquer and I said at the same time.

But Madison was already half way upstairs screaming at her brother that Bécquer was waiting for him.

I turned toward Bécquer. “Why have you come?” I asked, risking his stare. “You know it’s not safe.”

“Please, Carla. Let me talk to you.”

“Not now. Not while my children are home.”

“Ryan’s coming,” Madison said joining us again, and, oblivious to my warning stare, invited Bécquer in.

Bécquer shook his head. “Actually, I was leaving.”

Madison looked past him to the driveway where his blue BMW was parked. “Is that your car?”

“Yes, it is.”

“That is soo cool!”

Bécquer smiled at her. “I can take you and your friend to the movies if you want.”

“If your mother agrees,” he added as I glowered at him.

“Are you serious? Can I drive?”

“Madison!” I said. “You’re fifteen. Of course you cannot drive.”

Madison sulked. “I don’t know why not. Ryan does.”

“Ryan is eighteen and already has his driver’s license.”

“So what? I know how to drive too and I’m much more mature than him.”

“Sorry, Madison. But your mother is right. I’ll do the driving.” And before I could argue, he took the keys from his pocket and threw them at her. “Wait for me in the car. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You can’t take Madison,” I told him after she dashed out, already punching numbers on her cell “I don’t want you to be around my children.”

“Because I’m immortal?”

He smiled as I nodded. “Then, there is no problem, because I’m not.”

“You are … not?”

“No. I’ll show you.”

Without further invitation, Bécquer came into the house and pulled one rose free from the bouquet I had set upon the table. He winced, set the rose down, and presented his hand to me. A single drop of blood had formed on his thumb.

“You’ll see,” he said brightly. “I heal slowly, as humans do.”

To take this as proof that he was human was ridiculous, but his eagerness had convinced me he was telling the truth. Or was it my own desire blinding me into believing?

“Alexander said your sentence had been revoked,” I argued faintly.

Bécquer brought his finger to his lips to stop the blood from spilling, then nodded. “And it has. But I chose to remain human.”

“Why?”

The shrill sound of a horn blowing covered his answer.

“I’ll tell you later,” Bécquer said after the noise stopped. “If you let me come back.”

“Are you leaving?”

Ryan’s voice startled me. But Bécquer, who had been facing the stairs and must have seen him coming down, only nodded. “I promised to drive your sister to the movies. Unless … unless you would drive her for me?”

“Sorry, I don’t have time. I have to pick up Rachel in half an hour.”

“If you drive your sister, you can borrow my car.”

“Really?”

Bécquer nodded. “If your mother would give me a ride home, that is.”

Ryan smiled blissfully, and then turned to me. “Thanks, Mom,” he said with a quick hug that silenced my complaints.

“You don’t mind?” I asked as I watched Ryan disappear inside Bécquer’s car.

Bécquer closed the door. “Why? Is he a bad driver?”

“I meant that he’s going out with Rachel.”

“Why should I? Oh!” He blushed. With a swift movement he grabbed my hands. “What can I do to make you forget my childish behavior of that day? I asked Rachel to be my blood giver only to prove to you that I didn’t need you. I never cared for her.”

“You used her,” I said, releasing my hands from his. “And you hurt her.”

“No. I did not. I did not encourage her after that day. I was hurting for you, Carla. I wanted you. I had no desire to seduce her.”

“But she cried after you fired her.”

“She must have guessed I wanted to kill myself and felt frustrated that she could not help me.” He smiled coyly. “Give me some credit, would she have forgotten me already had we been lovers only last week?”

“So irresistible, do you think you are?” I teased him.

“I was, when I was immortal,” Bécquer said, serious now. “I am not proud of it. I know my behavior was often selfish and immature. But I’ve changed since I met you.”

“You have?”

“Yes. I brought you flowers.”

I frowned. “What is that supposed to prove?”

“It proves I care for you.”

“How so?”

“You know how embarrassing it would be for me if you rejected me after I told Ryan that I love you?”

“You told Ryan?”

“Yes. He gave me his permission to ask you out.”

“I see,” I said. Although in truth, I found the idea of Bécquer asking Ryan’s approval beyond ridiculous.

“Ryan loves you,” Bécquer said when I didn’t elaborate.

“Did he tell you that?”

“No. He mainly complained that you were crazy when he came to see me last Sunday. And by the way, you were not supposed to tell anybody about the immortals, you know? The Elders were not pleased.”

“Sorry. Is that why you’re still human?”

“No. I told you. That was my choice. I chose to have a human life.”

“You had one already.”

“Not really. Meeting Lucrezia when I was eleven spoiled it for me. I was her puppet. Or so I used to think. I’m not sure anymore. Maybe I was weak. Maybe things would have been different had I fought her harder. I’m not proud of who I was or what I did during my first human life.”

“I think you were brave.”

Bécquer frowned.

“I read your journal. I think you were pretty decent as a human. I’m not so sure how I feel about your behavior when you were immortal, though.”

“Because of what Beatriz said?”

I shrugged. “And Federico.”

Bécquer started. “You discussed my life with Federico?” He seemed dismay.

I nodded.

“Then, there’s no hope for me, is there?”

“If I say there is not, would you leave?”

Bécquer stared at me, a deep frown in his forehead. Finally he shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t leave. I love you.”

“So you said to every one of your many lovers.”

“So I may have,” Bécquer agreed, then continued eagerly, “I’m sorry, Carla. I can’t change the past, but, please, don’t reject me just now. I only ask that you give me a chance to show you that I really care.”

“What if it doesn’t work? What if our relationship ends? Wouldn’t you regret then giving up immortality for nothing?”

“It wouldn’t have been for nothing. Have you forgotten I wrote my best poems when my love went unrequited. You are my muse, Carla. Thanks to you, my mind is full of stories once again. You have given me a gift more precious than immortality. You will be my muse even if you get tired of me.”

“No pressure, then?”

His eyes lit up as a lazy smile curved his lips. “No pressure.”

“I suppose, in that case, I could give you a chance. You brought me roses, after all, so it’s fair that I let you stay. At least until they wilt.”

“And when they wilt, I’ll replace them,” Bécquer said wrapping his arms around my waist. “And you’ll pretend you haven’t noticed and let me stay a little longer because, by then, you’ll be crazy about me.”

“And I’ll pretend I’ve not noticed,” I repeated tracing with my fingers the red scar on his neck. “Because I’m crazy about you.”

Bécquer took my hand and kissed my fingers one by one.

“Is that human enough for you?” he whispered as another drop of blood welled in his thumb. Without waiting for my answer, he pulled me to him and stole the yes from my lips.

About the Author

I was born in Galicia (northern Spain) and went to college in Madrid, where I finished my Ph.D. in Biology. For the next ten years, I worked as a researcher both in Madrid and at the University of Davis in California.

My writing career started when I came to live in Pennsylvania in the 1990s. Following my first sale, a magazine article on latex allergy, I published four nonfiction books for Chelsea House (Facts on File).

My Young Adult novel, Two Moon Princess (the story of a discontented medieval princess, eager to live life on her own terms, who lands in modern day California) was published in 2007 by Tanglewood Press. It was recognized with the bronze award by the ForeWord Magazine in the Juvenile fiction category.

Immortal Love is my first adult novel. The Spanish version, Bécquer eterno, was included in the Exhibition, Bécquer tan Cerca … A través del Arte (Sevilla, May-June 2012).

You can visit me at my blog: http://carmenferreiroesteban.wordpress.com/ or at my website: www.carmenferreiroesteban.com.

For information about my writing/editing/translating services, please go to www.WriteEditPublish.com.

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
A Demon Bewitched by Holley Trent

If Claude Fortier had been a typical man, he wouldn’t have seen the punches and slaps coming.

A typical man wouldn’t have lost count way back in the 1860s of how many fights he’d had to carefully extricate himself from. Fighting men was too easy. Hurting them was too easy, and he didn’t even have to use his magic to do it. He could probably put a fist through his opponent’s skull without too much effort.

He wasn’t fighting a man this time, though.

The angry witch boldly swinging at his head was very much a woman. To the best of his recollection, he’d never tussled with a woman. For that matter, he’d never come to blows in a country-western bar’s parking lot, either. He was far more likely to be found haunting one of North Carolina’s few strip clubs. The music tended to be much better than the “I love God, America, my truck, and beer (in that order)” tunes played at joints like Rooster’s. However, strip club patrons had a higher-than-average tendency to pick a fight when Claude suggested that they should, perhaps, keep their fucking hands to themselves. The dancers didn’t like being touched.

The irony wasn’t lost on him that it was the incubus in the audience cautioning restraint. Honor wasn’t a catalogued sex demon trait, but a few had consciences. Claude was one of those few.

He laughed and leaned back to avoid a wild punch. “Well, goddamn, chéri. You’re really trying to lay it on me, huh?”

She growled.

“Save it for the bedroom.”

She swung again, grunting as she missed. “You wish. How about you stand still and make it easier for me?”

“Not today.” He stepped sideways and narrowly avoided her sweeping kick, whistling low. “Damn. I bet you could have me black and blue in all the ways I like. Just ask nicely, chéri. Maybe I’ll oblige you.”

She froze, and the creases in her forehead deepened slightly. “What?”

Thirty. She had to be around there. He’d been following her for weeks, from the time his prescient brother Charles had told him, “She’s back,” but this was the first time he’d seen her up close. Well, this version of her. The last time he’d known her, she’d been a young Creole woman named Laurette and they’d shared a home in 1843 New Orleans. Their love had been passionate, but far too short. He’d thought with her back that they had another chance—but this woman obviously wasn’t his Laurette. Sweet Laurette hadn’t been a witch, and she sure as shit hadn’t had a swing like a prizefighter.

Laurette hadn’t been a fighter of any sort, to tell the truth, and his inner caveman had liked that about her. This chick, though? She wouldn’t know sweet if it bit her on her well-apportioned ass.

Tuning back into the here and now, he shrugged in response. “I believe in being up front.” She didn’t look like his Laurette, but shit, the body she was in was fine. The way she pursed her full lips as she considered him made a certain neglected body part of his stand up and wave. He said a silent prayer of thanks to the gods for steering him clear of the skinny jeans trend. His junk had already endured enough torture. Celibacy was a bitch.

“You crept up so you could make a crude pass at me?”

He tried to smooth his expression into a mask of trustworthiness. He’d had a lot of practice at that in the past two hundred-something years. Demons, or half-demons in his case, weren’t generally trustworthy sorts. Add his witch half to the mix, and he should have been born with a Caution blinker installed in his forehead. Instead, he’d gotten blue eyes that turned red when he drew on his magic. He was pretty sure they were blue at the moment. He hadn’t wanted to ensorcell her, just talk to her. That talking thing was going so well.

“I didn’t creep up on you. In fact, I very audibly said excuse me.” He leaned in and flicked at the small headphones dangling from her neck. He pulled his hand away before her swat could connect. Scrappy little—

He ground his teeth. “Maybe you shouldn’t walk into dark parking lots with your earbuds in. You should be able to hear what’s going on around you.”

Her dark eyes narrowed. “Maybe I wear them to discourage strangers from initiating unwelcome conversation. Some men just won’t take the hint. You think I haven’t noticed you’ve been here every night for weeks? Creepy.”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and stared at her. Apparently, his slow and gentle tactic had backfired. His plan was to reveal his witch magic to her gradually so she’d approach him, curious but comfortable. She seemed blind to it—or maybe she didn’t give a shit. He could take a hint.

“Okay,” he said, taking a step back in concession. He was growing weary of the whole exchange. Whatever curiosity he’d had about not-Laurette was waning by the second. She couldn’t possibly be his mate. Charles had gotten it wrong. “You don’t want to have a conversation? Suit yourself.”

“Really?” She packed a shitload of incredulity into those two—no, three—flat syllables.

He barely managed to suppress his snort. The accents in North Carolina were so different from region to region. He’d heard a lot of them during his decades in the state, but he couldn’t quite peg hers beyond the fact she wasn’t from the mountains.

“Bullshit.” She reached into her purse, and all he needed was a glimpse of the plastic to know her intent. Shy of decapitation, she couldn’t do him any major harm, but if he were going to be forced to inhale chemicals, he’d at least like a nice contact buzz or nicotine hit. Pepper spray, unfortunately, wasn’t formulated to have that side effect.

She aimed it square at his face, and he feinted left, weaved right, grabbed her around the generous thighs he’d been ogling for the better part of the evening, and hauled her up to his left shoulder.

“I was going to walk away, chéri,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was going to go and let your attitude keep you company, but you need to learn to save the fighting for when it counts.”

“Pride wounded? Poor baby.” She brought her elbow down hard on his back.

The blow knocked the wind out of his lungs, and he stumbled as he gasped for air, but somehow managed not to drop her.

Grunting, he started toward the back of the country-western bar’s parking lot, swerving a bit with each step as she flailed atop him.

“Put me down, or so help me, God, I’ll—” She shifted on his shoulder again, but this time he anticipated the blow and tossed her onto the grassy strip between the deep ditch that acted as a barrier between the bar and the sorghum field next door, and the concrete of the parking lot.

She fell with an oomph, and scrambled onto all fours as he backed up, predicting the offensive strategy she’d take next. Sure enough, she jumped to her feet, swiped her hands through the, air and pushed magic at him.

It was probably meant to hurt, at least a little. He feigned a yawn, patting his mouth, as she groaned and tried that little trick again.

His skin tickled where her magic touched, and he should have been angry that her reflex had been to fight and not talk. She’d come after him like a wildcat on the offensive, and all this time he’d been trying to be a fucking gentleman. He’d given her space, hadn’t stalked her.

At least, not closely.

He wasn’t angry, though. He’d never stopped loving her, even after her death all those years ago. In fact, he’d never forgiven himself for how she’d died.

He’d been back in New Orleans after traveling for several weeks and as was her custom, she’d taken him to her bed to welcome him home. The next morning he’d stepped out, intending to fetch news and breakfast, and when he returned, her blood had turned the white featherbed red. His father, the demon Gulielmus, had been standing in the dark corner, wiping blood off the sword he’d had from his old angel days.

“Get back to work, Scout,” Papa had said in an even, calm voice before he disappeared, the way he was prone to.

He’d left Claude the mess to clean up, but Claude couldn’t. He’d sat there on the bed, moaning and rocking, his own clothes soaked through with his lover’s blood, until his mother arrived.

Maman had led him away, saying nothing, and then set fire to Laurette’s little house while the neighbors watched, waiting with buckets of water in case the fire tried to jump. The fire was part of the magic. What it was supposed to do, Claude didn’t know, and Maman had refused to say.

It was only after the embers stopped glowing and Claude had stopped raging and bellowing that his mother said in the French she adored so much, “People who die like this don’t always stay dead, boy.”

At the time, that hadn’t helped. The only woman he’d ever loved was dead, and he’d had no choice but to toe the line for his father. He’d seduce women and taint souls for Hell, because what choice did he really have? Who would Papa kill next to make his point?

Claude had enough guilt, and he didn’t want more.

“You should have felt that,” the woman in front of him said now, drawing his attention back to her. She stared down at her shaking hands and then up at Claude again. “That wasn’t just a warning shot.”

He shrugged again and, taking a few slow, cautious steps forward, he kept his gaze locked on her tormented face. She may have been trying to be brave, but the roundness of her dark eyes and her ragged breaths through parted lips projected her fear of him. There it was. He knew there had to be some vulnerability in there somewhere.

“Your magic won’t work against me,” he said. “I’m generally immune to it.”

Unfortunately for her, the reverse didn’t apply. He was too strong. He could shuck off most minor magic without thought. Now that she was up close, he had a better reading of her capabilities. She possessed quite a bit of power for a natural witch.

“You … you know about magic?” She swallowed and then pushed to standing. She moved sideways, keeping her front to Claude but moving away from him. “My grandmother told me this would happen one day. She warned me. Said there were people in the world who could kill me without even touching me, and I didn’t believe her. When I was a kid, I thought she was just trying to scare me and my sister into keeping our guards up. I never fell for it, but why do I get the sneaking suspicion now that you’re one of those people?”

His mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? You don’t know a witch when you see one?” He’d been putting out subtle tendrils of magic for weeks, and she hadn’t noticed it? He felt hers. It seemed to crackle under her skin, compelling him to touch her—to know her. But that’d be a dangerous thing for a woman he had no intention of keeping. This woman may have had Laurette's soul, but she obviously wasn’t for him.

“Um, no. Kind of like I can’t tell whether someone’s straight or gay just by seeing them.” She kept moving, muttering her disbelief under her breath, but he didn’t follow. Her words had been seriously jarring. Like recognized like. She should have recognized the witches around her and felt magic coming off other paranormal types, too, even if she couldn’t categorize it at first.

“Merde.”

She held a key fob up and pressed a button. Across the lot, a tinny horn honked and the lights on a silver convertible flashed. She gave him one long, assessing look, and turned her back to him to walk the diagonal toward the little vehicle.

Now he followed, putting about ten feet between him and her back.

“Look, I wanted to say hello because you’re a natural witch. There aren’t too many of us. Most mortal magic users get their power from practice.”

“Or making deals?” She tugged on the driver’s door and raised one well-groomed eyebrow at him.

“Yes.” He knew a little something about making deals. He’d made a few himself because he had the power to do it. He’d been born with his magic, and what he loaned out, he always got back. But when people made deals to glean magic for specific acts, the magic faded over time, and usually whatever his customers paid wasn’t worth the price.

Claude had to make a living somehow, though. It wasn’t like he could hold down a nine-to-five, not with his father on his ass nagging about incubus quotas and threatening to rend his soul from his body so Claude could witness his physical form’s obliteration.

Gentle and devoted, Papa was.

“How did you know I was a witch? And is that why you’ve been here all month? The food here is good, and I should know because I’m the one who cooks it, but there are other places around Robbins to get a fried chicken sandwich.”

“But you make it so well,” he said, deadpan. What the fuck was up with her magic? He was damned good at disguising his, and did so regularly, but he’d made himself a beacon for her. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d put a flashing neon sign to his head. He stopped near the left taillight and stuffed his hands into his pockets. First, a reincarnated love who’s not who I expected, and now a witch with clogged power? He looked to the heavens. Surely this is a test.

She fidgeted her key ring in her right hand and pulled her full bottom lip between her teeth. A red bloom appeared in her cheeks and she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

Suddenly shy? Why?

Fuck. He was too curious to leave her alone now. He had to at least troubleshoot why she hadn’t recognized his magic. The open-ended problem would drive a man like him nuts. Loose ends annoyed him to distraction. “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“What do you put in the mayo?” he asked. “I couldn’t figure it out. That’s why I kept ordering the sandwich.”

Her eyes widened. “The mayo? It’s …” She groaned and shook her head.

“Tell me. It can’t be that bad. And don’t worry about me stealing your recipe. I can’t cook worth a damn, and even if I could, I’m far too lazy.” Lately, his sort-of grandmother-in-law had been providing the bulk of his sustenance.

“It’s just a little embarrassing. I graduated from cooking school, and I don’t mean community college classes. I mean a highly competitive, very expensive program that should have landed me a job where I’d wear a white chef’s coat, not a greasy apron that has Rooster’s screen-printed on it. I’m still paying off that white-coat education.”

“What are you doing working at a country-western bar, then?”

She scoffed. “This is only one of my jobs. On Sundays and Mondays, I work at a strip club out in Fayetteville.”

The grin Claude had been failing to suppress pulled in at that bit of news. He knew Fayetteville’s strip clubs.

Her laugh pealed through the night air, and the tense shoulders that had been nearly up at her ears relaxed down to their natural position. “Oh, the look on your face. What is it?” She waved her free hand over her full breasts and chuckled. “Tits not big enough for the stage?”

At his age, he knew damn well there was no good answer to that question, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Oh, your face.” She sighed and shook her head. “It’s not what you think. I’m the little worker bee that keeps those sticky tables full of hot wings and steak fries for the lechers.” She shrugged. “They’re closed for renovations right now so I haven’t been in for a few weeks. A vengeful pole dancer tampered with the sprinklers and the county shut the place down until the owner replaces the entire system.”

The thought of her on a stage, showing off what should have been his, made his blood boil. It was irrational and he knew it, because he didn’t want her as his mate. He wanted Laurette back, but rationale seemed to have flown the coop. He was acting on instinct, which sometimes fought mightily with tact and won. He took a deep, calming inhalation and let it out. “If you’ve got such good training, what are you doing working in places like these?”

“Well …” She sighed and brushed a hand over her unruly hair. It’d been in a single braid earlier that she’d had tucked beneath her hairnet, but her rubber band must have popped during their scuffle.

Her unrestrained tresses lent a certain wildness to her that balanced a pretty face that might have almost been too sweet—too young for her years. Maybe she was thirty, but her soul felt ancient. He could feel it in his bones that she’d been around before, and not just this last time. Some people kept coming back that way, returning until they got what they were looking for. Whatever she was looking for—whatever lesson she needed to learn—she obviously hadn’t found it.

“My father got sick,” she said. “Right after I graduated. He was uninsured and the medical bills piled up. My mother had two choices, really. Bankruptcy or selling the house to cover the expenses. My sister and I decided that neither were good options, so we both came home and pitched in. Finally got it all paid off, but now, well, there aren’t a whole lot of four- and five-star restaurants in North Carolina. I’ve been offered a few jobs, but I’d have to pay my own relocation expenses. I’m still saving up, and … I have no idea why I’m telling you this. Seems like once people get me started, I can’t shut my damned mouth.”

That didn’t surprise him. She kept to herself. He never saw her interacting with her coworkers other than sharing a few words here and there. She’d just kept her head down and did her job, and when it was time to leave, she didn’t linger. She went home to her apartment, and stayed there until work the next day. If she were anything like Claude, she probably felt a desperate craving for companionship, but was picky about whom she gave it to.

It wasn’t that Claude was ever truly lonely. He really wasn’t. His merry band of supernatural rebels, including his favorite half-demon half-siblings, never let him go into isolation for too long. That made doing some of his jobs that required long trances and astral projection difficult, though he’d never had the heart to ask them to leave him alone. What’d they think he’d do to himself, anyway? Sure, he got lonely, but he liked life too much to end it.

He slipped a soft pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and tapped it against his palm.

He’d been a part of this ragtag family for less than two years, just since his brother John—a brand-new incubus at the time—had reached out to him. John had been the linchpin. The snowflake to cause the avalanche. He’d defied their father and chosen love over power. That act of naive bravery made others defect from the Hellish ranks, too. Some quietly, some kicking and screaming. Now John and their brother Charles were married to a pair of sisters, and try as they might to make Claude feel included, he knew he was the odd man out.

He wanted more than massive family dinners on Sundays and supernatural adventuring with his brothers. That camaraderie was nice, but it was nothing like being one half of a pair.

He missed belonging to someone, and wanted another chance with his girl. But this wasn’t her.

“Well, I guess I’ll get on home,” she said, jostling him from his thoughts. “I’ve got a ton of laundry to catch up on. My entire closet smells like a deep-fryer.”

“Oh.” Claude pulled the plastic tab around the cigarette pack and crumpled the wrapper in his palm. “You didn’t tell me what you put in the mayo, though.”

“And you didn’t tell me how you knew I was a witch when I couldn’t tell you were, so we’re even.”

He clamped a cigarette between his teeth and patted his pockets for his lighter. Maybe having something between his lips would keep his mouth from running in the wrong direction. Now that he understood why she’d been so quick to fight him, he could hardly be angry. She wasn’t his mate, but he didn’t wish to offend her. He owed her a professional courtesy as a witch, even if she was a clueless one.

She cocked her head to the side and tapped her index finger to her chin. “Where are you from?”

“Everywhere and nowhere.”

Her lips sputtered and eyes rolled. “Ask a simple question, get a riddle for an answer.”

He curled his fingers around his metal lighter and pulled it free of his back pocket, smiling at her.

She smiled back and he nearly dropped the lighter. He’d never seen her smile. It reached her eyes and lent a familiarity to her face that temporarily froze him in place. She didn’t look like Laurette, but for the first time, he saw the proof that she was still in there. In this woman named Gail.

“What’s your name, guy?” She swatted a hand in front of her face as his cigarette smoke wafted on the wind. “You know about half of my deepest, darkest secrets, so you could at least tell me your name.”

“Claude.” He returned his lighter to its pocket and extended his right hand. “Claude Fortier.”

She stared at the hand for a few seconds, then took it. “Fort-yay, and not four-tee-ur, huh? You must be French-Canadian. No, Haitian.”

About half, but he’d never seen Haiti, and his Haitian maternal grandparents had fled to New Orleans years before the revolution.

“You interested in names?” he asked, not letting go of her hand.

“I’m a bit of a genealogist and I encounter a lot of French-sounding names in my family tree. My family name was Colvert before it somehow got bastardized into Colvard.”

It’d been Brouard before, Laurette Brouard.

“I’m Gail,” she said, crinkling her nose at the second-hand smoke enfolding them. She coughed. “Sorry. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, given where I work.”

“I apologize. It’s a vice I’ve had too long and can’t break. Sometimes I don’t even realize I’ve lit one. My family is trying to get me to quit. My grandmother-in-law won’t let me into the house if she smells it on my clothes.”

Gail laughed and sank onto the driver’s seat, her hand still clenched in his. “That’s hardcore, but I don’t blame her. I had the displeasure of kissing a man who smoked, and that, amongst other reasons, contributed to our very messy divorce.”

Claude let go of her hand. “You’ve been married?” He’d gone into the search for her knowing very little—only her name and that she was in his area. One of his brother Charles’s gifts was having a direct line to The Fates when it came to matters of love. He played Cupid and made matches. He’d told Claude that Laurette was back now as Gail, and he’d cautioned him that she might be a very different woman. He’d told him to approach her with no expectations.

Claude hadn’t listened. And obviously, he hadn’t done enough research. He’d been keeping an eye on her for the past few weeks, but he hadn’t thought to check into her past. He’d been so expectant and eager that the only past worth considering was her past with him.

She nodded in response to his question, smiled serenely, and pulled her seatbelt across her torso. “Married and divorced. The relationship was a short three years and messy, and all I got out of that unholy union was this car. One of these days, I’ll sell it and get something respectable.”

“Like a minivan?” he asked through clamped teeth.

“No, like a Harley. I gotta run, but listen. The secret to the sauce is pickle juice. My signature dish is due to a dill pickle juice spill. Humiliating, given my education. I should be more intentional, right?”

“Nothing wrong with accidents, assuming you learn from them.” He counted her marriage as one of those accidents. He felt like she’d cheated, but that wasn’t fair. For starters, he wanted Laurette, and Gail wasn’t her. Second, she didn’t remember him, and it wasn’t like Claude had been completely chaste in all those years. His job description required the exact opposite, though he had ways of skirting those rules when he wanted to.

“You’re right. So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow? I’ll have a sandwich ready for you.”

He didn’t know what he wanted from her, but felt their night together hadn’t quite started yet. He just couldn’t let her go so soon. He’d waited so long for her to come back. What was a little while longer? He needed proof it was time to move on from Laurette. Gail was the best person to dispense it.

“Don’t you want to know how I knew you were a witch, yet you couldn’t tell I was one?”

Her mouth opened, closed, and her forehead furrowed. “I assumed it’s because I’m not particularly powerful.”

Bullshit. He somehow managed to keep his incredulity from registering in his expression. He’d pat himself on the back later. “I’ll tell you over drinks. Got anything good at your place?”

“Cute.” She stabbed her key into the ignition. “You’ve got huge balls, don’t you?”

“Lots of huge things.”

Her eyes widened again, and she pressed a hand to her chest before the guffaw escaped. “You are a hot mess.”

It wasn’t a lie, so he just shrugged. “Drinks?”

“I’ve got bottled water, skim milk, and Cheerwine.” She said “Cheerwine” with a devilish grin as if she thought the offering would be an absolute deal breaker. For some people, it might have been. That stuff could put a lesser man into a coma in two liters or less.

He smiled right back. “I may have a bottle of gin in my Jeep. It’d cut the sweetness of that stuff.”

“You don’t like sweet things?”

“I prefer them, but I seem to be barking up your tree, anyway.” That elbow of hers had probably left a nasty knot on his back.

Her grin broadened. Evil little witch.

“Should I get the gin?”

“Hmm.” She tapped that index finger some more. “Okay. How about you follow me home? I’m actually looking forward to that gin. It’ll make doing laundry that much more exciting.” She closed the door and winked at him.

He didn’t wait around for her to change her mind.